Blog by Mei Selvage - Mei Selvage

Solo Exhibition at 3fish Gallery, Portland, Maine, May 1 to 29

4/12/2015

(Portland, ME): Portland-based artist Mei Selvage is exhibiting her contemporary Chinese art at 3fish gallery from May 1-29, 2015. For Mei, art making is an active discovery of the Zen mind, and art is a path of joy, hope and sanity. Through art, Mei embodies and expresses Dharma (wisdom). The results are visual narratives on both personal and universal levels.

“When we create art, we awaken to our own lives,” explains Mei. “We slow down enough to experience our lives with more curiosity. And because we are able to discover our hidden narratives and rewrite them during the creative process, art becomes a safe space in which to heal and grow.”

In a recent interview, the Bangor Daily News called Mei one of the area’s “fastest rising artists” and described her artistic style as the following: “She blends her contemporary state of mind with somewhat romanticized versions of old Chinese culture to create themed printings, paintings and shadowboxes.”

About Mei Selvage:
Mei is a visual artist who was born in Sichuan, China, and migrated to the U.S. in 1997 in her twenties. Creating artworks in acrylic painting and mixed media, she takes her inspiration from Chinese artistic, cultural and spiritual traditions. She is also one of the three co-founders of the new arts series Yaji: East/West Cultural Gatherings, an East/West creative hub in New England. Mei spends her days as a research director at Gartner and has co-invented more than 30 patents during her twelve-year career at IBM. For more, please visit www.meiselvage.com

About 3fish Gallery
In 1997, Ron and Christine Spinella opened 3fish gallery, which has hosted a variety of visual and performance artists as well as showing their own artwork. The gallery is located at 377 Cumberland Ave, Portland, Maine. It is open from Thursday to Saturday: 1–4 pm. Phone: (207) 773-4773.

Four Zen Koans for My Art Creative Cycle

3/27/2015

Zen koans provide me endless art inspirations. They have greatly influenced not only my spiritual practice but also my creative practice. Among them, four koans have been instrumental to cut through my creative blocks and propel my art creation moving from start to finish. Four koans for my art creative cycle are:

Concept: “Why did Buddhidharma come from the West?”
Execute: “Go to the places without hotness and coldness.”
Finish: “Pass through the window swiftly.”
Restart: “Step off a one-hundred-foot pole.”

Stage one: Why did Budhidharma come from the West?

The first stage is often the most challenging for me. An innocent idea can lead me astray into a meaningless task of capturing a moment like a camera, often stems from wanting to grasp on a fleeting moment. Brainstorming can paralyze me from doing anything at all. And perfection is the enemy of actions! Whenever I set out to make “great art,” every action seems to be insurmountable. Despite my skills steadily improve over the years, I am forever climbing the next hill: a new series, a new media, or a new story... At this stage, I often feel like an ant that is about to climb a one-hundred-foot pole, feeling daunted and full of self-doubt but determined to plod upward.

“Why did Budhidharma come from the West?” is an enlightening koan to turn the wheels of motion. Budhidharma came from India and started zen lineage in China about 1,500 years ago.

When I still lived in Idaho, I felt restless with my IBM job so I asked my zen teacher: “Should I leave or stay? What is the meaning of the job?” He simply replied, “Why did Budhidharma come from the West?” In other words, we are constantly divided and wrestling with meanings of this and that. In reality, meaning can only be found and given from within and by actions.

Smearing paints and composing mixed media—things that I’m so passionate about only has meaning because I give it a meaning. I can give a rational on art creations, but ultimately “whys” can only be embodies and experienced. No matter how daunted I feel about my new art, the starting point always lies within me: Perhaps it’s a phase of a Tang poem, the dancing of the orchid, or the gentle breeze on a hot summer day. They lead to an intention, a few ideas and further experiments. The first thought—not the second or third one—is often the best idea and can shed light on the darkness.

In addition, friendliness is the fire to warm and lighten the dark unknown place. Sometimes, it means to me to change my actions—walk, write, or dance—to reconnect with the original intention. Sometimes, it means to flip through the Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting or a Chinese literature classics to dig into my roots. When I am willing to dive into the unknown and unseen world, stories unfold and the faint message becomes unmistakably clear.

Stage two: Go to the places without hotness and coldnes

The main obstacle in the second stage deals with elements in this fleeting world—Japanese call it the “floating world” for its dream-like quality. Flowers—the frequent object of my artwork—fade so fast that sometimes it’s unbearable to witness their beauty. The mockups look absurdly different from actual painting on the canvas. The weather is getting hotter or cold. Did I forget that my full-time job and other parts of my life require my attention too?

Once a student asked his zen teacher: “How can I get away from hotness and coldness?” The teacher responded: “why not go to the place without hotness and coldness?” This means that we don’t get caught up in our wishes and preferences. I’ve lived in Montana and now live in Maine. Both places have long, bitter cold winter. Although I still dislike cold weather, I’ve learned that the winter goes by faster if I don’t resist it. If I dress properly and meet friends at a coffeehouse, it actually can be quite pleasant.

Letting go of our fixed preferences and relaxing in the creative tension require a large dose of tolerance for messiness. I create quickly most of time, but some paintings are more stubborn than others. For example, the “Fortune-Misfortune” painting took me a year to complete. While I was working on other pieces, I stared at it once a while and didn’t know what to do about its messiness: object dimensions, clashing colors, and unclear treatment on perspectives. Then, on a cold winter day, I finally found solutions to complete this painting. It’s so obvious when it’s done. Why did it take me so long? Perhaps I am not ready to meet my creation yet. But I always remember one phase from I-Ching’s first hexagram: “Perseverance brings favorable results to those who are firm and unyielding.”

At some point in the second stage, my artworks are graced by a visible break-through. Colors harmonize. Energy flows smoothly. The message of the painting speaks loudly. I feel relieved and assured about the direction.

Stage three: Pass through the window swiftly.

I may still get distracted or lose momentum before I finish the piece. Again, perfection is a seductive devil that really covers up our fear of success. The turning koan on the third stage is “Pass through the window swiftly.”

Once a zen teacher asked his student, “Why is it that the body of a buffalo can pass through the window, but its tail gets stuck?” Passing through the window here means liberation. Why does the buffalo’s last tiny body part get stuck? This koan pokes us let go of anything holding us back: fear, arrogance, or perfectionist. As soon as I can reconnect with my initial intention, the tail of my artwork passes through the window swiftly.

Eventually, my artwork speaks for itself that it needs no more dabbling. I put down the brush and step back. I have no more doubt, only peace and satisfaction. With my best effort, this artwork is deeply personal and meaningful, no matter what the critics say—not even the critic within.

Stage four: Step off a hundred-foot pole.

The fourth koan for the final stage is to step off a one-hundred-foot pole and start over again. Lingering on the top of the pole—a glorious place—attracts only arrogance. Muses live at another end of the pole: the solid ground.

When I step off a hundred-foot pole, I start integrating my experience. If I take time to reflect and renew, life reveals her innermost secret: Art is life, and life is art.

The end

The creative process continuously challenges and humbles me. As much as I wish I had nailed down the process, life happens: I got sick; trips pop up; and the seasons change. Still, these four koans give me a framework for tackling my next art project, and the next. After all, it’s not about how much I have control over the creative process; rather, it’s about listening and following the creative voice.

I create the art, and the art equally creates me, which is the whole point of art making.

Manifesto on Creativity

3/1/2015

“Creative works sublime success. Perseverance brings favorable results to those who are firm and unyielding,” says I-Ching’s first hexagram, the most powerful among 64 hexagrams. The artwork below is my visual interpretation of the first chapter of I-Ching (Book of Changes). Associated with the first hexagram, the Chinese word “Qian (乾)”, originally meant that plants crookedly grow upward Sun, which is the source for all creativity. Dragon, the son of heaven, represents our primordial creative power.

I-Ching Creative Hexgram, 2014, Mei Selvage

Creativity is just as intuitive as eating or napping. If you can speak, you have creative power. Although it’s not a big deal, social conventions often prevent us from accessing this birthright. More than ever, we have been outsourcing our creative power, in addition to manufacture and software. Without thinking in any depth, we can access creative output from the most talented people—designers, artists, writers, and musicians. With easy access to TV, Internet, and smartphones, we often fall into passive consumers.

My husband, a neuroscientist, told me that few people realize that creativity requires dedication. It may not be easy to break through the mode of passive consumers. But once we step into the river of creative flow, we’d realize that nothing can substitute for our own creativity.

As an artist and writer, I have many rituals and habits to nurture my creativity: I cook, exercise, walk in nature, soak in an outdoor hot tub, walk the labyrinth, visit museums, meet good friends for coffee… Unplugging is essential. Through solitude and companions, we find the essence of creativity and live life in its purest form: creation.

Reading helps me unleash my creativity too. For me, reading is a dialogue as opposed to a monologue or an escape. I’d often read a couple of chapters from good-read, and then start writing on my own. This process feels like a virtual dialogue between myself and other wise souls, transcending space and time.

Without my virtual dialogues, reading can stay on an intellectual level for me. Grand, abstract concepts may sound impressive, but they alone are insufficient for unleashing a creative, satisfying live. We must experience creativity first-hand by giving it a form, through pens, paint brushes, or movement. Penetrating a specific form—“to know the cold or the warm of the water like fish,” —is to reach to the heart of creativity.

Muses demand sacrifices. I used to spend my vacations traveling afar for escape. Now I often choose to paint or write at my home studio during those blessedly large chunks of time. Stephen Covey, who wrote The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People, said, “You have to decide what your highest priorities are and have the courage—pleasantly, smilingly, non-apologetically, to say ‘no’ to other things. And the way you do that is by having a bigger ‘yes’ burning inside.” Sadly, many of us live through our lives without discovering what our bigger “yes” might be.

Above all, releasing creativity requires space and time. A crowded mind and schedule are the worst enemies of creativity.

It’s because of time that a grain of sand becomes a pearl, new wood acquires its mellowed sheen, and a seed sprouts into a full tree. In the nurturing womb of time, we discover our creative rhythm, which is like seasonal cycles. It can’t be forced or measured by manmade clocks, but it can found in perseverance. I-Ching says: “Perseverance brings favorable results to those who are firm and unyielding.”

Similar to time, a physical space is another womb for creativity. The space doesn’t need to be large: a desk next to the window, a corner of the attic or the basement. The important thing is to infuse your energy into that physical space. When you step in it, you naturally perform the role of creator-- whether you’re painting, dancing, or writing. I took over our living room as my art studio because it’s easy to access and costs nothing extra. I can easily evaluate my work or pick up the brush after work.

Creativity is life affirming. Embracing our creativity is to embrace our lives. In a Buddhist myth, immediately after Shakyamuni Buddha was born, he walked seven steps and declared, “On heaven above and earth below, I am the One.” This story affirms our inherent wholesome nature, contrary to popular believe of our inherent sins. Creativity is a part of our wholesome nature. We can do better than outsourcing it entirely.

News Release for "Art Exhibition at Joanne Waxman Library of MECA"

2/22/2015

(PORTLAND, MAINE) Portland-based artist Mei Selvage is exhibiting her recent acrylic and mixed-media art at Joanne Waxman Library of Maine College of Art (MECA) Feb. 23 through March 14, 2015.

Through art, Mei Selvage embodies and expresses Dharma (wisdom). The results are narratives on personal and universal levels.

“Art is my way to tell stories,” she says. “I love to use words, colors, and images to reveal the interplay of hidden and perceived realities. Art empowers me and enables me express the ancient wisdom.” In February’s Maine Natural Awakening Magazine, Amy Paradysz--a writer based in Scarborough, ME--highlights Mei’s embrace of Chinese “accent” in her work.

The exhibition marks a celebration of Chinese New Year, which officially begins Feb. 19. Moira Steven, Library Director at MECA Library, is pleased to promote cross-cultural exchanges. MECA kicked off several important partnerships with Chinese art academies and cultural institutions in 2014.

About Mei Selvage:
Mei is a visual artist who was born in Sichuan, China, and moved to the U.S. in 1997. She creates artworks in acrylic painting and mixed-media. Her inspirations come from classical Chinese art, literature, and philosophy. As a co-founder and curator of Ya Ji East/West Cultural Gatherings, Mei brings a genuine artist spirit and her vision for an East/West creative hub in the New England. Mei spends her days as a research director at Gartner and co-invented more than 30 patents during her twelve-year career at IBM. For more artist information, visit www.meiselvage.com

About MECA Joanne Waxman Library:
Maine College of Art’s library is located on the second floor of the Porteous Building in downtown Portland, Maine. As a full-service library, it serves as the main research center for the college community and the general public, as well as providing exhibition space for student and faculty work. It collects over 40,000 books and subscribes to 108 print magazines. For more information, visit library.meca.edu

Art and Writing: Gemini Sisters

2/13/2015

I was born in early June, so Gemini is my astrological sign. Gemini lives with many opposites. Among them, art and writing are twin sisters living within me, often with conflicting needs and emotions. This tug-of-war started at elementary school close to forty years ago in China.

Tranquility in Motion, 6 x 6 inches, Mei Selvage, 2015

My parents needed to enroll me in one of the two classes with different emphases. One class was led by an energetic, lively young woman with curly hair, who liked teaching singing and dancing. Her class was always full of laughter. Another one was led by teacher Zhou, a serious, middle-aged woman with short, stiff hair. She didn’t smile much, nor give complements easily. She was known for her devotion to strict education.

My mum enrolled me in teacher Zhou’s class. In her class, we read aloud a lot to memorize text, and our hands were folded behind our backs to show our obedience.

I don’t remember much about elementary school except my love for reading and writing. But I do remember a fine spring day. Teacher Zhou asked us to write an essay about spring. When it was my turn to read my piece aloud, I reached the sentence, “Spring has bloomed as smiles on people’s faces.” Teacher Zhou gestured me to pause and turned to the boy sitting next to me, “Did she cheat on writing?” “No, she didn’t,” said the boy. She then gestured me to finish the reading. I could detect a hint of grin on her face.

From that moment on, I validated my existence through writing. I was not pretty nor popular at school. My parents didn’t show much affection towards my brother and me at home so I just thought I was unworthy of love. But I knew it since that spring day: I could write and, through my writing, I could be heard.

Decades later, I paint the same way I write. In the early spring of 2013, I created an ink painting titled “Spring is here.” It’s a simple picture of daffodils blooming in a Chinese vase and beaming like sunshine. As soon as I hanged it up in Yordprom coffeehouse, it was snatched by a customer.

At the time, I was equally passionate about painting. I’d secretly draw and paint during nap time. Both writing and painting were escapes from my gloomy childhood, barely passed Cultural Revolution.

As middle school approached, my parents advised me to focus on academic excellence because it meant everything to them. My dad became an orphan at the age of six and taught himself how to read. My mum delayed her college dream because of pneumonia and the misfortunate association with a “dangerous” adult. During Cultural Revolution, any imperfect political record could prevent a college admission. Early on, I carried my parents’ dream, and it was just as heavy as my backpack stuffed with textbooks.
Naturally, my parents didn’t encourage me to create art. They came from a humble background, and I didn’t have anyone in my bloodline to look to as a role model. Like most families at the time, my parents were poor with a combined monthly income of 60 Yuan, equivalent to 10 US dollars today. I’d save my little spare money to buy tiny glass animals. That’s my way of art appreciation, which was met with my parents’ disdain because they thought it wasted money.

On my own in early teenage, I evaluated pros and cons to pursuing art or writing. This was one of the most difficult and memorable decisions that I’ve made. Writing seemed most logical: It didn’t cost much money, measured in school and can lead to a stable living as a teacher. And so, I let go of my art dream after starting the middle school.

Since then, I’ve always hung out with artists. My two college boyfriends in China were artists. My best friends are artists too. Only after recently listening to an interview podcast with Julia Cameron, the author of “The Artist’s Way”, I discovered I had a “shadow artist” syndrome, meaning that we hang out with other artists to compensate for our unfulfilled creative dreams.

Still, I am grateful that my writing has been a good, faithful friend for nearly thirty years. I’ve filled dozens of diaries in various shapes and colors. Diaries accompanied me when I dropped out college; when I traveled alone in China to find inner peace; when I worked for a German construction company in a remote Himalaya region after my first divorce; when I came to America to finish my bachelor’s degree; when I found my first real job in the high-tech industry—and my second; and when I returned to my passion of art after a perfect storm.

But, back in China, writing also brought me heaps of troubles with authorities. In middle school, a Chinese literature teacher handed my writing to the school principal and reported it as “dangerous” and “anti-revolutionist.” This could have meant a permanent black mark on my student record, enough to prevent my college admission. But, luckily, the principal had suffered from punishment as a “dangerous right element.” He dismissed the charge. I only found out the incidence from my mum years later.

In my high school, my mum discovered that I was dating a classmate. Dating in high school was forbidden in 1980s of China. My mum furiously demanded me stop seeing him immediately. All my diaries were gone in flame.

In 1989, I was accepted by ChongQin Normal University, where I majored in Chinese Language and Literature. Right after our mandatory military training, I submitted an article reflecting on our experience to the university newspaper. The editor called me to his office and told me that he would publish my article—if I could put a positive spin on it. I refused. But disillusion wrapped me like constant fog in ChongQin. After I dropped out college in my junior year, I stopped creative writing except my diary, which I’ve kept going till today.

Susan Sontag, an American writer and filmmaker, said, “In the journal I do not just express myself more openly than I could do to any person; I create myself. The journal is a vehicle for my sense of selfhood.” Similarly, my diary writing has helped me digest my experiences and create myself today—“fearless”, commented by my friends.

Art, the twin sister of my writing, finally graced my life again after I moved to Portland in 2010. Not knowing anyone in the new city and dealing with many changes at once, I took an evening art class in Southern Maine Community College. Since then, art offered me another way to express my voice.

Comparing with writing, art is more intuitive and sensory oriented. It opens up mental space. Because of its indirect approach, sometimes it’s more effective to process emotions through art making than budding head with challenges through writing. The downside of art making: it can degenerate into sensory chaos. That’s when writing is helpful for me to drill deep on certain thoughts. Naturally, writing blog helps me integrate my Gemini sisters: I can use my own artworks and write back stories behind them.

Not only art and writing balance each other, they also take forms of each other. As I keep creating art, I found myself tell stories and connect with literature visually. I recently finished an artwork called “Fortune-Misfortune”, which tells an old Chinese story “The Old Man and Horse (塞翁失馬).” In the story, the old man remains centered as the horses come and go, despite his neighbors consider these events as “fortunate” or “misfortunate”.

An ancient Chinese book says: “It can be difficult to foresee the twists and turns which compel misfortune to beget fortune, and vice versa.” Indeed, I still don’t know if my decision three decades ago is fortunate or misfortunate. What I do know is to keep channeling my creative urge in one way or another. If nothing else, three-decade of diary-writing give me courage to stay true to myself, which surely gives a leg-up to my art.

If I could advise my twelve-year-old self, I’d tell her that art and writing aren’t really in conflict. They come from the same source: the Tao. Seek for it. Once found, it will sustain whatever you do.

Art heals. Writing also heals.

Zen Mind, Artist Mind

1/28/2015

Art today, is often mystified and reverenced like a religion. And so, when asked why they create art, many artists say only that they must create. To me, this seems to be a cop-out or a participation in further mystifying art.

Red Ocean, 6 x 6 Inches, Mixed Media, Mei Selvage, 2015

As a committed artist, I know well that I don’t have to create art. Nobody forces me pick up a brush, smear paint on canvas or compose a visual story with mixed media.

I choose to create art because art communicates beyond words and across borders. We don’t have to understand Dutch to feel the tender love of Van Gogh, even though he died more than a century ago. Likewise, we also don’t have to speak Chinese to feel the tranquility rendered by a Song-dynasty painter a millennia ago.

Art is as universal as human emotions: love, grief, peace, shame, holy, and mundane. Art came into our existence before our written history. In fact, Chinese written language can be directly traced to the cavemen drawing, thus unlocks the door to understand the early human consciousness. Art and languages root from one common desire of communication.

For me, art is to serve life, not other way around. Sometimes I choose to slow down or pause art making: when I get thrown off-course, when my full-time job demands more of my energy or when my creative intentions are stained by grasping. I give myself this grace of space because I don’t want to walk down on a dark path of self-destruction. Art, for me, is a path of joy, hope and sanity. Without the nagging mandates of “must”, my life is lighter, and my art is more meaningful.

This attitude doesn’t mean that I’m uncommitted to art. On the contrary, a rare day passes without practicing art. When I root my art in (almost) daily rituals—starting and ending my day in my studio—I don’t need to decide if or when to create art. I just do it. If I haven’t been in my studio for a few days, I feel that physical itch like a runner would when missing her regular runs. There are physical withdrawal symptoms: irritable, restless, or dull.

When I travel, I always carry some Crayola pens and a glue stick. In times of creative emergency, I can always tear up pictures from magazines and make a collage. The point is simple: art making depends on actions, not external conditions.

In my studio, I don’t create “Art.” I doodle, and I learn. Pablo Picasso famously said: “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” Good artists (and lasting ones) always keep a sense of wonder and playfulness like a child.

Creating “Art” is an unbearable burden that can suck the joy out of the process. Fear and self-doubt have crashed many artists because they feel compelled to create great art so they can’t bear to create anything less than perfect. When I tell myself I am just doodling, there are no fixed expectations, no deadlines and no right or wrong. There are also no one else to please except me, which is the whole point of holding a full-time job!

Art is an active discovery of our inner and material worlds. So-called mistakes often teach us more than “correct” execution in “expected” result. Once, I was experimenting with printing my very first stencil, which was cut out from a sheet protector. I smear some plaster on top of a wood panel, and then press the stencil sheet on plaster to make an imprint. Plaster stuck on the stencil sheet and didn’t give me result I was aiming for. Instead, the wood panel was left with the plaster looking like waves. Ah-ha, I learned to mode waves by this unexpected result.

My lack of formal art education turns out to be my best advantage in art making, allowing room for playfulness and unexpectedness. Zen master Shunryu Suzuki once said: “In the beginner’s mind, there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.” The beginner mind is to be maintained years after years, no matter how long you have been practicing your craft: meditation, chanting, writing, or art making.

Often relaxed in the beginner mind, I just cut, paint, and paste. My hands, arms and the whole body become one with the process. The recursive chatters in my mind stop; only physical action remains. I often realize it only when cleaning my brushes. Looking back – I was in a flow state, except “I” was not even present to approve or to criticize.

Hash critics still speak once a while, but at least I know they are nothing but internalized voices. When we hear these voices, we don’t suppress or argue with them because attentions only strengthen their energy. Instead, we make tea and offer cookie to them and ourselves. When tea time is over, we head back to our studio. Our critic guests, mostly likely, have left quietly during the tea time. Yes, this process requires trust, and it develops through our repeated actions like muscle memory.

Natalie Goldberg, an American writer, says writers live their lives twice. Artists also live their lives twice. We live our lives like everyone else the first time around, often harrying through the days semiconsciously. But when we create art, we awake to our own lives. We slow down and experience our lives with more curiosity and intensity. We digest our life experience using paint brushes and palate knives. We discover our hidden narratives and have power to edit them during art making. Shedding layers of self-protection, we discover our tender, warm hearts. Art creates a safe space to explore our feelings.

If you ask what motivates me create art, my short answer is that art awakens me. By having a love affair with art, I am able to love my life for all its texture, colors, and patterns. And so, I keep doodling.

"Expressing Archetypes and Visual Poetry" Exhibit News Release

1/19/2015

Prayer of Mind-Heart, 8 x 10 Inches, Mei Selvage 2014

Two women from Maine are exhibiting their mixed media art at the lakes gallery at chi-lin in Meredith, New Hampshire. The show, titled “Expressing Archetypes and Visual Poetry”, will be on view through February 15.

Visual Poetry Using Motifs to Express Emotion Artist Mei Selvage of Portland composes visual poetry bridging East and West, ancient and contemporary, and Patricia Wheeler of Deer Isle expresses archetypes. Both artists intuitively use motifs, symbols and languages from both Eastern and Western cultures to express emotion and invoke memories. The results are narratives on personal and universal levels. Their mixed-media artworks affirm authentic female voices that are tender and caring yet often unheard.

“Art is my way to tell stories and compose visual poetry,” says Mei. “I love to use words, colors and images to reveal the interplay of hidden and perceived realities. I use art creation to embody and express the ancient wisdom.”

Similarly, Patricia Wheeler views herself as a translator, “As I work, I must surrender to forces unseen and allow the work to unfold,” she says. “Although they are abstract, narratives emerge in my paintings, opening the door to archetypal energies. Expressing Archetypes changes us.”

The Koans of My Life

1/13/2015

My introduction to traditional koan practice was, oddly enough, through a Dutch-born Zen teacher in Pocatello, Idaho, from 2004 to 2010.

In Chinese, the word “Koans (公案)” originally meant “public court cases.” But Zen Buddhism borrowed this term and refers to cases of enlightenment. By using a story-telling method to capture enlightened moments in the past, koans are effective ways for us to wake up from inertia. Koans as a spiritual practice became popular during the Song dynasty (960–1279). Classic Zen literature published thousands of koans, forming the foundation for Zen Buddhism and greatly influencing Asian culture.

When I was in Idaho, I would enter a small room where my zen teacher would sit like a furious Buddha who was ready to smash any dilutions—often at unguarded moments. I would nervously recite a koan and present my embodiment of that koan. It felt like taking a college entry exam, again and again... Since I had a perfectionist tendency, any hints of failures or disapproval appeared disastrous. I dreaded the interviews and the sheer number of koans. In the traditional Zen training, you need to pass close to a thousand koans before getting the stamp of the approval. It took my zen teacher more than 20 years to get his stamp of the approval.

At the same time, I was intrigued by koan’s diamond-like edge that cut through layers of my social identities: a misfit in youth, a dropout at college, a Chinese immigrate, an IBMer, and a wife of a white American… I remember a koan helped me a lot to untie my close identification as an IBMer. It says, “What is your original face before your parents were born?” In other words, it asks me: who am I before I was born? Who am I before all these social identities have piled up on me? As time passed on, koans accompanied me when I was mediating, walking or even sleeping.

Koans also connect me with a bigger family: zen ancestry. Coming from a humble family background, the upper part of my family tree disappeared in the clouds of wars, famines, and other ravages of life. My dad became an orphan when he was six, and I only met my grandpa on my mother side when I was young. The stories about past zen teachers become my old family stories—initially subconsciously, and then later happily embraced.

I didn’t care that they were all men. I was just happy to belong to a lineage. And little I realized at the time that zen lineage traditionally only passed onto men because women were unfit for spiritual practice. Even in zen communities in the United States today, most of lineage holders are still men, surrounded by followers who were enchanted by their leaders’ charisma.

Still, when the scandals of the teacher of my Zen teacher broke out in 2012, I felt betrayed and fell in despair. He had received his stamp of the approval decades ago by Maezumi Roshi and taught koan practice to thousands of people all over the world. Why would he not practice his preaching? With time, I realized that the koan of life is the most difficult one to pass, just as the koan about the buffalo that can go through a window with only its smallest part—its tail—getting stuck. If zen teachers believe they are above ordinary people, that little arrogance would prevent them go through the window of liberation.

In addition, Koans can fall into formulated answers or become “Kou-Tou Zen” (sound bites). Students can just talk about zen, but not follow its spirit in life. I ran into a small Koan handbook at a used bookstore at Portland. It is worn-out and looks innocent. But it spells out how to respond to koans as zen students and how to check out a student’s answers as zen teachers. Disgusted, I pushed the book back on the shelf. Koan practice is about Self-discovery, not reciting the sound bits. Although we can fake our understanding by saying all the “right” things, we’d only cheat our own existence.

After a string of Buddhist scandals in 2012, I left Buddhist groups and went through a long grieving period on losing my connections with my adopted zen family. Since then, creating art became my main spiritual practice. Thankfully, I have found profound peace and dived deep into the flow through my creative process. A wide, tender spot is uncovered in my heart when I pinch the clay, splash colorful paints on canvas and transfer old-wisdom text onto wood boards.

Interestingly, koans stay with me and are tightly interwoven with my art and life now. When I start a new art piece, I often ask myself what my life needs most at the moment. Balance? Courage? Connection? I then choose appropriate objects, techniques, materials, or styles. My intentions become my koans of life. Creating art transforms me like koans.

Sometimes I’d work on existing koans or sometimes invent new ones. For example, there is a famous koan: “Is there still sound when trees fall in a deep forest when no one is around?” When I feel pressured for time, I would think about my personal adaptation of that koan: “Does the clock still tick in a deep forest when no one is around?” This thought helps me slow down and notice things around me.

Art creation become gateless gates[1] to enter the vast space of life. Once going through these invisible gates, I have been transformed into a powerful dragon or a graceful crane. Then, there are more gates to go through, to stay forever present, to let go of perfectionism. Moreover, no answers to koans of life can be wrong if I come from pure intention of spiritual growth. My creative process is to answer the koan of life—the most difficult kind.

End notes:
[1] “The Gateless Gate” (WuMenGuan) is a classic Koan book compiled by WuMen (1183–1260). The book title implies that there are ways to realize our true nature, despite their invisible nature.

Dialogues with ‘The Mustard Seed Garden’ (芥子園畫傳)

1/2/2015

Being a self-taught artist, I learn mostly from books and practice. The book that has influenced me the most is The Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting (芥子園畫傳), first published in the 17th century to preserve Chinese artistic tradition in a troubled time.

Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting

Traditionally, art students learned painting through apprenticeship, and artist techniques were guarded as trade secrets by teachers. But due to foreign invasion at the time, Chinese artists and scholars were sharing trade secrets openly. Consequently, this unprecedented painting book was enriched and reprinted many times over several centuries.

I first encountered The Mustard Seed Garden at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston after I moved to Portland, Maine, in 2010. Printed by woodblock, it quietly sit in the Scholar Room of the Chinese Section as if it had been patiently waiting for our encounter. The book’s edges have been yellowed and wrinkled with age. Countless artists must have read it and then carried its messages. Above all, I was fascinated by the book’s format of intermixing images and Chinese text.

Then, I ran into The Mustard Seed Garden again in the “Fresh Ink” exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston in 2011. A prominent Chinese artist Xu Bing composed a long landscape scroll by carving and printing images from The Mustard Seed Garden. Bing’s creation awakened a lost ancient memory and touched something deep within me. I was captivated by its relevancy to modern life. We, too, are compelled to preserve traditions under threat—this time under threat of consumerism culture homogenizing world cultures.

And so, from 2011 to 2013, I used Chinese ink, brush, and rice paper to create artworks based on The Mustard Seed Garden, and my first solo art exhibit, “Tao-Seeker,” was the result. All this work and practice taught me not only the brush stroke and compositions, but also how to think Chinese in terms of creation. For instance, regarding to the plum painting, The Mustard Seed Garden says: “The symbolism of the plum tree is determined by its chi’i. The blossoms are of the Yang principle, that of Heaven. The wood of its trunk and branches are of the Yin principle, that of Earth.”[1]

As time went on, traditional Chinese art mediums—ink, brush and rick paper—started to feel constraining. “Tao-Seeker” exhibit didn’t provide much feedback or dialogues that I was hoping for. Perhaps this is because I am not living in a vibrant community that practices and appreciates traditional Chinese artwork. If I were in China, it would be much easier to connect with artist communities based on traditional forms. In Maine, I couldn’t even find a framer to frame my ink paintings. Suddenly, I realized that art creation is never a solo act. It takes a village to nurture an artist, ranging from providing art materials, offering framing to setting up art shows.

Of course I could have buckled up and forged on a lone path of traditional Chinese art in Maine, but it would be monologues, not dialogues. It’s not what I am looking forward after a long work day of telecommute.

Besides, I wondered, what does it mean to be a Chinese immigrant who lives in Maine, one of America’s least diverse states? How does my full-time job in the high-tech industry impact my art? How does my marriage with a white American influence my creation? And so another rounds of dialogues with The Mustard Seed Garden began. This time, it’s about connecting the ancient with the contemporary.

Over the past couple of years, I have been consciously adopting modern media while maintaining a strong Chinese accent in art creation. Modern media—such as acrylic, canvas, and mixed media—connects me directly to a modern age and my immediate surroundings. I can exchange creative experience with my fellow artists in person. I can ask questions to working artists at “Artists and Craftsman” store. My artworks fit nicely with other artists in a group show. The conversations on my artwork become more lively and real. In the meantime, one thing remains--Chinese accent. It’s about my deep connection with Chinese history and culture, about telling my stories in the context of Chinese mythology and literature, about capturing the spirit of objects beyond the superficial likeliness…

While I am continuously integrating a diverse range of techniques and materials in my artwork, The Mustard Seed Garden still plays a key role for me artistically and spiritually. It’s my home base where I always feel safe and welcomed after venturing out to the wild world.

In the end, what I create becomes a dialogue between the East and the West, the ancient and the contemporary, just as a Chinese abstract painter Zhao Wou-ki said: “Everybody is bound by a tradition. I am bound by two.”

End notes:
[1] Page 404: Mai-mai Sze translation

Cool Breeze from Longmen 龙门清凉

12/13/2014

Dated back to 493 AD, the Longmen Caves (龙门石窟) are one of the finest examples of Chinese Buddhist art. Longmen Caves housed more than 100,000 Buddhist statues ranging from 1 inch to 57 feet in height. Sadly, many of the statues were stolen or destroyed during the second Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945). The remaining statues offer witness of impermanence. They also bestow comfort and hope, just like the cool breeze on a hot summer day.

My friend Paula Jull, an art professor at Idaho State University, took this photograph when she visited Longmen years ago. I transferred her image onto a canvas board, then added a bamboo branch from The Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting. The flowers are colored from one of my black-and-white photos.

By adding the flowers and the bamboo branch in the front, I communicate my intention to transform history through our current actions. Although we can’t change the past, we can learn from it and create a brighter “history” for tomorrow.

The lakes gallery at Chi-Lin in New Hampshire is showing this artwork along with my 5 other pieces now.

Cool Breeze from Longmen. Mixed media. 10x8 inches. © Mei Selvage 2014