preserving space.
A month ago, I fell into an audiobook phase, which expanded into an actual-book phase.
After browsing through various books, I discovered that I'm drawn to authors with a gentle but firm writing voice, marinated with years of knowledge and research. Extra points if the writing is garnished with a pinch of self-awareness.
I wound up purchasing four books I really liked to populate my manga-filled bookshelf.
I've picked out one quote from each book. The invisible thread that connects them should present itself as I go through them one by one.
(Just pretend that the blog title isn't there.)
"Space makes the reader feel cared for, even if she can't put her finger on why."
- pg.190 from First You Write a Sentence by Joe Moran
I always thought space was something that needed to be filled. I couldn't stand the space between conversations, the space on the page, the space in my schedule, or the space between my thoughts.
Silence and stillness foretold failure. The failure to express myself, the failure to seize opportunity, the failure contribute to society.
The failure to exist.
I tried to fill every space I could, while being afraid of taking up too much. If I couldn't fit, I tried my best to contort my form. Too bad I'm not very flexible.
But space (here on Earth) is finite as it cannot be created. With the growing population, I doubt I'm the only one struggling to find a space to exist comfortably.
Do I really need to fill every space I see?
Moran's quote made me realise the insecurities that distort my art practice, thus my life.
Space felt shameful.
I scrambled to fill every corner the canvas with proof of my proficiency. I hoped to spoil the viewer with a visual feast. I hoped they would stay.
No matter how good the dishes are, a table with no room to even rest your hands is unpleasant to dine at.
Preserving space is a quiet kindness.
Alot of the time, it means not being able to say everything I want to say. It also means accepting that my efforts could amount to nothing. It's always heartbreaking when I realise that a finished illustration looks better cropped.
Now, space is a priority in my work.
Even this blog post, I try to keep the paragraphs short and the side margins massive.
Maybe space is more inviting than surplus.
Maybe this time, they'll stay a little longer.
“It's always worth checking in with ourselves whether we are offering solutions to help alleviate the pain in others or, underneath it, whether we are looking to alleviate a discomfort that has appeared in ourselves.”
- pg.251 in 5 Minute Therapy by Sarah Crosby
"Treat others how you want to be treated" is a tantalisingly simple principle to live by. I mean, what could be clearer than my own preferences?
Yet I struggle with how this phrase assumes that everybody wants to be treated in a similar way.
I like being left alone.
When I have a problem, I only want to receive help when I ask for it. It feels demeaning getting fussed over, which happens quite often.
In turn, when I see someone with a dour expression, I suddenly feel this responsibility and pressure to make them feel better.
What if they are unable to ask for help?
What if they feel like no one cares?
What if I become one of the cold, uncaring masses?
Crosby’s quote forces me to confront my ugly saviour complex.
Who the hell do I think I am?!
There is value in simply listening and holding space for other people to express themselves.
A daily reminder to myself, lest I become the very type of person I despise.
“For I came to recognise that it often took the first hour or so in front of a painting for stray associations or motivated misperceptions to settle down, and it was only then, with the same amount of time or more to spend looking at it, that the picture could be relied upon to disclose itself as it was.”
- pg.57 in how to look at a painting by Justin Patton (author is quoting Richard Wollheim)
Two weeks ago, I attended a curator's tour of the exhibition 'concre[ā]te' at Depot Artspace. The artists were Tui Kayoko Hirabayashi and Marie Hemo Titi Mapa.
I arrived five minutes late and the tour had started. As the curator explained the inspirations and intent behind the works, my mind raced to piece together a narrative through context clues. Each revelation from the curator was applauded by hums of "ooh"s and "ahh"s.
By the end of the tour, I was mentally exhausted.
It think it was about gentrification? Of Queen Street? And also propaganda??
It was like I failed some invisible test.
I cultivated a distaste for art galleries and museums during my time at art school.
Whenever I went to exhibitions with a group, artworks were treated like puzzles to solve. The solutions were on the plaque next to it. After everyone was satisfied with the answer, the group moved on to the next one.
I always felt sorry for the artwork. The plaque asserts its will, taking advantage of the artwork’s inability to speak.
In defiance, I tried to resist the plaque, fixing my gaze on the work. But in absence of the plaque's voice, the silence in the gallery was deafening.
The ticking of the group's patience.
The foreign whispers of the white walls.
I was faced with test questions I was woefully unprepared for.
I'm going to fail.
I can never be a real artis-
Footsteps interrupted my focus.
The group was moving to the neighboring artwork.
And I followed, leaving behind my unfinished exam paper.
After the curator tour, I visited the works on my own.
The works, fusions of both painting and sculpture, towered over me. Made out of construction materials and donning a rough aesthetic, they weren't the most inviting-looking hosts.
I decided to spend time with the pitchfork one (I couldn't find the name) and 'Zealandia' (the one with the lady pointing).
I thought about Wollheim's quote.
I stood in front of the works for as long as possible.
As notions on gentrification and propaganda melted away, I started to notice traces of the artist's hand. Like the scratches on the lady's back in 'Zealandia', or the ghostly aura created by the underpainting in the pitchfork one.
I don't remember everything I noticed, but I remember having fun.
For the first time, the silence felt inviting.
I didn't have to answer any questions.
I just held space for the work to "disclose itself as it was".
Turns out it had alot to say.
"Then you can employ the three steps involved in the maturity awareness approach: expressing yourself and then letting go; focusing on the outcome rather than the relationship; and managing the interaction rather than engaging emotionally."
- pg.157 from Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents by Lindsay C. Gibson
I have emotionally immature parents.
It's a painful fact that I had to accept at the end of last year.
It's not their fault. They just don't know how to deal with strong emotions and resolve conflict head-on. I, in turn, had projected unrealistic ideals onto them.
Family worries plague my mind daily.
We don't know how to talk to each other.
Suspected transgressions lead to self-flagellating mental turmoil.
I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't enjoy things.
And it all happens in silence.
Dictating how others should act or think would only make me a tyrant. I only have sovereign over myself.
The previous three quotes were all about preserving space for others. But this one, by Gibson, teaches me to extend the same courtesy to myself.
I can't keep letting other people live rent-free in my mind. Making myself miserable won't change anything.
Ever since I started consciously keeping space between myself and others, I feel much lighter.
Like a burden has been lifted.
I've been setting rigid boundaries in regards to time spent on other people.
In Joe Moran's words, "Something only exists in relation to nothing".
The space between interactions make me feel cared for.
And I know why.
Because there is space for me to feel alive.