Love Me, Love the Art PT.2

My friend Jocelyn has reservations about what she calls my "blue period" paintings (and I'm not even a huge Picasso fan!). That's quite fine by me. I just love her for her banana bread and big warm heart--not necessarily in that order. Besides, I have a coterie of artist friends and colleagues who do recognize and extoll the merits of those dark works. Some even agree with her (damn their eyes). By the time I lived in an artist community, joined art groups, met and made friends with other artists at shows, the limited support from those who were unable or didn't know how to provide it, mattered less and less. Ironically, I was able to relate to them in ways that made me appreciate and enjoy what I liked most about them in the first place. I know the reverse also happens. Some artists, who find sustenance for themselves and their work, notice the acute absence in other parts of their lives. They consider distance, withdrawl, or termination of formerly significant relationships. Energy spent towards justification, defense and explanation of choices made to facilitate art, is met with constant belligerence, undermining or opposition; the contrast hard to ignore. But then, I also remember one artist who finally broke down and revealed to her husband how she struggled to define her own personal vision while living with his attitude. A previously reluctant support, his genuine love and concern won out in unexpected displays of compassion and respect. I think he builds her shipping crates...

I used a "list" of people I contacted in order of preferential treatment. Number 1 was always my sister. Any luck, no matter how puny--from a small exhibition grant or artist fee, to the sale of my first large painting--she was well worth the long distance call to Vancouver, just to guarantee myself a positive reaction. When I reached the unavoidable person whose words said "congratulations" but voice betrayed scepticism about how much work had to be done for so little gain--it was okay. I was simply giving news. They could still have doubts, projections or unresolved issues that had little to do with me. Except by then, I was bundled in a nice, fat, wad of joyful reception I could carry on with, now that all the people before them already gave me what I wanted and needed.

Fast forward to my parents who arrive at my present apartment, to bring receipts so I can fill out their income taxes. A large painting in progress, of birds flying past a bonsai, rests on the wall I use for workspace. My mum looks at it thoughtfully, then sits on the stool in front of it, facing the room. My Dad enters, stamps on the rug and goes straight to a table. He dumps papers, bills. We talk about the taxes. I rise to fetch stamps from the bedroom. Dad turns and notices the painting. "Hey!" he exclaims, "this is pretty good." Mum, still gazing ahead, replies "Of course" like she knew all along something my father only discovered now. This, from the woman, who at my first solo show, stood in front of a 4 x 6ft. canvas and earnestly suggested the following:

"If somebody only wants this part of your painting, you could just take scissors and cut a piece out for them. They can pay you, fold it in half, and stick it under their armpit when they leave. Easy."

Both my poor, bewildered parents have been rich sources of validation without even trying. I just love it when they holler at each other in Chinese over who knew I had talent first, despite years of covert hints about secretarial school. I recall fondly my mother's toothache expressions whenever I'd visit them to use their shower. Once, when I was twelve, she came into my room and noticed my drawing tacked above the bed. "Ah!" she cried. "That really looks like a lobster--I'd eat it!" In spite of their dismay and sincere alarm at my baffling predilection for hovels, neither of my parents ever stood in the way of my development as an artist. I am more grateful to them for this than they will ever know. Last year, my father in a reflective mood, pondered aloud, his children's future. He discussed each of us, our prospects for survival, after his "immigration" (his euphemism for death). He decided he wasn't too worried about me because he thought I could take care of myself. "Even though I'm an artist?" I teased. "No, but you're happy," he shrugged and mimed his own version of the toothache. (Mum's is better; she holds it longer.)