Big and Small

Professor Will Rogers introduced himself to the advanced painting class as a cowboy ready for a showdown at a bar. He flung the doors wide open, his eyes panning the studio for a boule while buoying his shoulders as if he had a lion mane to show off. Before I could tell whether I was hearing my own heart beat or the stomps of a sumo wrestler rumbling towards me, he plopped himself on a high chair and screeched it to the wall with thin little me in between.

“Sit down,” he said, smirking at the absurdity of me standing there like a waitress. “Tell me about your art.”

For an eternity I sat tongue tied, like a guilty suspect before a prosecuting attorney. All I could do was look into his eyes. His eyes were so big, staring deep into black space. In it I could see hollow waves spiraling to no end. They reminded me of the crimson apocalyptic clouds of the Scream, by painter Edward Munch. Then there was something behind those eyes I cannot see. Finally I shuddered and drew myself back, realizing that I must speak

“My art is about being aware… like, being aware that you’re here…um… yeah. That’s it.”

How I wanted to sprint out of that chair. I felt so small I was about to shrivel and pop into non-existence.

“WHAT?” he thundered. He must have been truly upset. I didn’t know if he was angry because I’m stupid or because he felt stupefied in my presence.

“Well, it’s about being aware of your being…being present, in this time and space… it’s kind of like consciousness…”

“YOU MEAN EXISTENCE?” he snapped.

“Yes, yes! That’s it.”

He nodded as his brows and buff arms folded in thought.

“Do you know about existentialism? Angst? Hermeneutics? Søren Kierkegaard?”

“Sorry, you said Egg-za what?”

“You were never taught that?” he stormed, his eyes rolling in disbelief,

“What do they teach you in art theory class! Research all that and we’ll talk it over next class.”

“Sure, I’ll do just that.” I’m still staring into those eyes. Suddenly I busted out to say:

“Thank you…. I learnt so much from our conversation.”

For a split of a second I caught a glimpse of a shivering in the blackness.
“Of course.” he smiled, not at me, but to himself, incredibly pleased that he is evidently a worthy teacher.

Through out the semester I observed that he genuinely cared about his students’ work. He was so absorbed as a teacher that his ups and downs, his being, his joy and anger would entwine with a student’s painting, an appraising word or a deviating comment. Indeed he proved himself to be a great teacher. He taught me to see that he is big and I am small. He gave me a reason to paint little people, for little people. He taught me how to look at my dinky paintings in light of the all-engulfing futility.

Under Will’s supervision, I began to paint about existence – about the search of meaning and the fear of loosing it. Or more specifically, I painted portraits of Professor Will. I studied existentialism – the conviction that life is ultimately absurd, a massive black hole of meaninglessness. Above all I studied him. I have never met someone so wedded to the object of their fear, so assured of his convictions yet so famished for a concurring voice.

At the end of that semester he asked me, “Do you know what you are doing after this?” I gave a vague answer, thinking that he meant to find out about my next project or my career path. But it wasn’t information he was looking for. What he was really asking was:

“Do you know how to make meaning?”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Do you know why we are alive?”

Looking a little sad, yet somewhat comforted by my answer, he said, “See, no one really knows. We’re all on the same boat, aren’t we?”

I wouldn’t say I was in his boat by then, but I do remember living in a similar sadness. To me it looked like this:

I am in a pitch-black room in the middle of the night with nothing but a light box, a few comic pens, a tall stack of blank paper and a burning desire to be famous. And it isn’t just a desire – it was the only desire, for every other desire – friendships, faith, romance – is long dead. I am a machine, slaving away for the same perfect pointy faced grown-up comic character, copying, tracing, copying, tracing - over and over again. I am in a vacuum, protected from all memory of anyone. There is no pain or joy except for the joy of forgetting pain. There is no present, just timelessness. There is no need for anyone’s existence – not even mine. I am totally immersed, unconscious, dead and happy.

My hand jolts, the perfect black line quakes and soon I am fumed with anger, now fully aware that I am here again and imperfection has returned as well. This cycle - immersion, disillusionment, immersion, disillusionment - repeats over and over again until I feel utterly wasted and overwhelmed by angst. It wasn’t just a matter of imperfect skill, a minor failure. For life has become a matter of transforming this despicable me into something greater, and so weakness translates as a failure at life. Weakness wedges with an acute consciousness that I am replaceable – that there is someone out there that is already greater and better. Dejected is the word that comes to mind. It isn’t even about feeling forgotten. You just never came to mind – you weren’t ever noticed at all.

Art became a heart-wrenching drug to abstain from for years, until my freshman year of college. I vividly remember the moments that escorted me to be lit with desire – including a desire to paint again.

I was standing before a vast field of cut grass at the edge of the campus. It was still and quiet when a gentle wind blew across the field. I heard a voice telling me to walk to the dandelion. Where? Which one? I thought. I looked and spotted the little dab of yellow hiding in sea of green. Slowly I walked towards it, not knowing what to do next. When I crouched down to the flower, it gazed straight into my eyes, its petals bursting at the sight of me. Pick it up, the voice said. I plucked it from the ground. It was so miniature in my hands, and yet it stayed locked in my gaze. I delighted at how intricate and bright it was. And who would know if this little yellow wonder was here but me?

There I enjoyed a moment with the dandelion. I felt comforted. And then I realized a smiling presence around me.
I am more than noticed.

We are little invisible dots on planet earth, and earth is an invisible dot in the universe. So how is meaning objective? From which perspective is it objective? I believe deep down inside we want to feel we matter. Maybe if we grow bigger – get a Ph.D, get a professor’s title, rewrite the philosophy of life, change the environment, change the universe… somehow the world would feel more of our presence. Maybe then someone would care. Maybe then we would be -completely, objectively, without doubt - important.

But this is the real picture of existence I see: I am one of many in a crowd of little “me”s. In the midst of this lively crowd of little “me”s running around, there is that little boy with short stubby legs playing the violin ever so softly. Giant hands reach over to this little boy and lift him onto its palm. He is not alarmed or surprised by where he is, but continues to play his lovely tune, knowing his listener was always there.

Eventually I painted this picture and placed it in a gallery in downtown. A homeless man kept lingering outside the gallery staring at it. I tried to approach him and he ran away. I learnt later from a friend that the man returned, stood before the painting for a long time and finally said with wet eyes, “I needed to see that just now.”

No one will know if he played the violin. No one will know if inside he is that little boy. But I know for a fact that someone else sees, knows and feels what I cannot. I learnt to paint for one little me at a time and paint what I am given. Sometimes I draw these miniature people on a massive canvas and I ask, is that really what we look like? Aren’t life sized people a lot bigger? But really, which one is more accurate – a me filling up the whole space, or a me in a universe billions and billions of light years wide?

Size doesn’t matter. I feel small, and it’s lovely that way.