Glimmer, We Saw
(1989 - 1992)

These are a selection from my first series that I produced in New York in the early 1990's. Acquiring AIDS then meant a death sentence. 
Click an image below to enlarge it.

#076 Never Warm, 1991, pastel & watercolor on paper, 31x28", 79x71cm

Never Warm

People in business suits have been passing unaware. His eyes are set on a spot in the air. His mouth slightly open, his back hunched, this gray-haired middle-aged man has not budged from the awkward position for hours. Only his shaking hand hints to passersby that he is a living being.

“I’m a Vietnam veteran. I have AIDS.” Inscribed on an old piece of cardboard, his tragedy sits on his lap. A war medal, a token of his glorious youth, still glimmers on a pocket of his worn-out jacket.

The war wrecked his mind. The disease tore his health. Finished fighting... his soul hollow... the flame of his life extinguished.

#079 "It's in Ma Blood," 1991, pastel & watercolor on paper, 52x28", 132x71cm

“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.”

#075 Expecting a Hope, 1989, graphite on paper, 25x19", 64x48cm

Expecting a Hope    

In a subway tunnel, sitting on the dingy concrete in the drifting smell of rotten food and urine, the pregnant woman hums a song of life. The seed of hope echoes in the stillness.

#085 Pleasure and Responsibility, 1992, oil on paper, 35x33", 89x84cm

Pleasure and Responsibility

At home, nobody minds what she does. She is free and alone. Reaching her physical maturity, her body begins to enchant boys’ curiosity, and for the first time, she relishes the pleasure of being the center of attention.

“Come on! I’m young and healthy. Nothing will happen to me.”

She never stops to think.

#067 Alienated, 1990, watercolor & color pencil on paper, 21x15.5", 53x39cm

Alienated

We sing Jingle Bells and then Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Everybody, everywhere, laughing, jumping, and dancing with the music. Joy is bouncing in every face of more than 200 participants.

In a corner, as if forgotten, the girl has been sitting silently in a wheelchair. She does not sing. She can run no longer. Even smile seems to have left her behind. She just watches the buoyant surroundings in sad sad eyes.

#072 Last Moment, 1992, pastel on paper, 25x19.5", 64x50cm

Last Moment

“I love you, my boy,” the young mother says timidly. She has been holding the frail toddler at her bosom, touching her cheek to his. She does not move as if she lost herself in the world of just two of them. Again her lips form the three words, and time stops in their world.

Half a year later, I heard from a nurse about the baby’s death. Is it a devil or an angel that took the love away from the mother?

#069 Her Hallucination, 1989, graphite & color pencil on paper, 32x26", 81x66cm

Her Hallucination    

The mother has started to hallucinate. Lying flat on her back, with her eyes half open, she shouts “Come!” to the white wall and stretches her arms toward it, as if trying to grasp something that is floating away from her. All day long she continues.

“Can we be reborn?” The words, she asked me time and again before her hospitalization, flushes back in my mind. She wanted to reincarnate, so that she could be with her children again.

“Yes, you could.” Sitting by her bed with her children, my mind repeats the answer.

#087 "Mom, I wish you were here," 1991, graphite on paper, 36x25", 91x64cm

“Mom, I wish you were here.”

The 10-year-old girl never showed me tears while her mother was rapidly declining into a dying skeleton. When the girl was told of her mother’s death, she collapsed into wailing. However, she was again smiling when I saw her at the awake.

Now, two months have passed. The girl has become a strict mother for her little brother and a responsible helper for her grandmother. Only when she is alone at home, she allows herself to cry for her mother.

#095 Sleeping with Death, 1991, charcoal & pastel on paper, 24x32", 61x81cm

Sleeping with Death

I hear about an artist with AIDS.

For the first several months after the diagnosis, she did nothing but waited for death in fear. However, when her heart accepted to live with AIDS, her life began to blossom again. She relearned to care for herself well and love her family and friends. She expressed, in her art, her love, fear, and appreciation for life.

Even with death in our hand, we can come out into the light. I believe we are stronger than AIDS.