Category: Paintings

Portrait of An African American Life & AIDS 22 Years Ago

8/4/2013

This is a drawing I did in NYC in 1991.

“It’s in ma blood.”

“Be nothin’ to tell ya ‘bout ma childhood. Ah hated being a kid. Pa said HELL NO to me becomin’ artist. Ah wuz accepted in best art school, but Pa made me go to high school he chose. That was that! Ah dropped out of schoolin’, worked here n’ there, n’ got married. Pa destroyed ma dream. Ah hated Pa, n’ hated maself. Ah had the blues so bad it pushed me downhill....’till crashed to the bottom...endin’ up in jail.

“ ‘bout a year ago, somethin’ cracked in ma heart. Took a piece o’ paper n’ drew horse on it. Ma favorite animal. Ah liked it, n’ Ah drew another one n’ another. Even thought ‘bout goin’ back to school, but....

“God is fair, ah guess. He di’n’t want me to come out of the hell because of all what ah’ve done. Ah developed pneumonia, n’ doctor told me....ah have it.”

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Caring without Borders: What I Witnessed in Abkhazia

7/25/2013

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In black long dress with no makeup and her white hair covered by a black scarf, Lamara told me she had stopped dressing up since her only son was killed in a war against Georgians 11 years prior. Bitterness toward the former enemy continued to kindle within her. However, at her clinic where she had been serving without payment, the nurse practitioner did not segregate Georgian repartriates from Abkhaz. Her home was always open for anyone to walk in for emergency care.

Lamara inspired me to create the following image and the story.

For Their Sons and Daughters

The young man waited eagerly for civil war to ignite. When it did at last, he jumped at the opportunity to fight for the freedom of his people. His mother knew she could not stop him. She could only pray - pray for his safe return. It did not matter to her which side would win, as long as her son came home.

“A bullet went through his heart. There was nothing we could do to save him.” The news penetrated her heart as if her life also had ended. Yet another dawn seeped into her room through the closed curtain. A tractor stopped at her door as usual to take her to the hospital where she worked. Along the road, she saw decaying corpses of enemy soldiers. At the hospital, crippled or wounded young men looked at her through their agony and despair. They all reminded her of her son - the waste of life, inevitable byproducts of war.

One evening the fighting came closer to her home. After the shooting had long ceased, she dared look outside. In the twilight, she saw the vague shadow of a fresh enemy corpse. Soon the darkness engulfed it, but the image remained vivid in her eyes. She cried for her son again.

At dawn her lone figure, illuminated only by candlelight, approached the corpse.

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What I learned while serving as a hospice nurse in the poorest region in the US.

7/23/2013

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I volunteered for a hospice in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, South Dakota in the late 1990s. The image originated from the priceless experience.

End and Beginning of Cycle

When death is near, loved ones, long dead, sometimes appear to escort the dying one. There may be a long, dark tunnel with bright light, calmness, and tranquility at the very end. It is beauty beyond description.

The phenomenon happens to some people regardless of religion, race, class, or age; no matter how spiritual or agnostic they have been; or how fulfilling or pitiful their lives have been.

Beauty and peace await us at the end of our journey. Through the brief experience of dying, isn’t the Creator showing us how nonjudgmentally He loves us?

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Hear the Voice of the Voiceless 2

12/29/2012

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He did not want to shame his family. That was the only reason he obeyed the draft order. When he joined veteran soldiers at a mass execution site for the first time, he was horror-stricken by his fellow countrymen’s bearing. They were snickering at the prisoners. Their eyes shone like tigers, as if thirsting for more blood. Suddenly, someone pushed him forward. Now he had to kill the enemy civilian in front of him. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. His arms and legs shook convulsively. The tigers’ eyes were ridiculing him. His stomach clenched and he vomited. The tigers’ laughter roared over him. Feeling faint and defeated, he aimed the rifle at the motionless victim, and pulled the trigger.

Killing got easier. He had been transformed into a killing machine. At the bottom of his heart, he still detested merciless killing, but he became used to it and laughed at those who showed signs of cowardice. He said to himself, “This is war.”

In deep mountains, he was finally captured by a guerilla band. As the bearded men dragged him onto bloodstained soil, he showed them a photo of his children and pled for their mercy. Panic-stricken, he failed to see that his effort was in vain. Their eyes, too, were like those of tigers. Their hearts had long ceased to hear the cry of their captives.

Japan at War by Theodore and Haruko Cook, Pearl Bucks' fictions, and NPR reports from Iraq inspired the above story of a man's transformation.

As the above image was not satisfactory, I sculpted the left. It does not portray the transformation that the man went through. I am contemplating how I can combine 2D and 3D images in order to make the composition talk the story to the viewers.

The sculptures composed under the theme "Hear the Voice of the Voiceless" will be pitfired. If I am successful, smoke imprints should make the images more grotesque. The finished pieces will be placed on a blood-colored velvet.

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Forward>>

Portrait of An African American Life & AIDS 22 Years Ago

Caring without Borders: What I Witnessed in Abkhazia

What I learned while serving as a hospice nurse in the poorest region in the US.

Hear the Voice of the Voiceless 2

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Portrait of An African American Life & AIDS 22 Years Ago

Caring without Borders: What I Witnessed in Abkhazia

What I learned while serving as a hospice nurse in the poorest region in the US.

Hear the Voice of the Voiceless 2

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