Category — CYKim

One of the things I fantasized about American culture was definitely Halloween: children in their cute costumes walking door to door, shouting “trick or treat!” and collecting bags of candies that would last for a year. In my first year in the States, my aunt and uncle were reluctant toward my participation in trick or treating because of my Christian belief. Also, I was in eighth grade by that time and they thought I was too “old” for such a “baby thing.” When my friends wore their costumes going door to door, I pretended that I was “too cool and mature” to join the crowd. Actually, I was secretly jealous.

In Korea, I never celebrated Halloween. Koreans have two annual –not like as big as national holiday- rituals throughout the year that are based on the similar concept of Halloween. One is Jung Wall Dae Bo Rum, or sometimes interpreted as the Full Moon Festival, and the other one is Dongji. The full moon festival is around November, and Koreans eat nuts and peanuts on that day. In our tradition, the cracking sound of nutshell is believed to scare bad spirits away and bring fortune and health. Dongji is usually around the end of December; it is a day when the duration of night is the longest throughout the year. As a celebration, Koreans eat sweet red bean soup, Patjook, which has the brownish red color that is –again– believed to scare off the bad spirits.

After I came to the states, I could not find Patjook easily. The cooking process was rather time-consuming and the ingredients were hard to find.  Also, it was so difficult to figure out the exact dates for those traditional rituals because they were changed every year according to the lunar calendar. I did not celebrate Halloween for a while. It was evident that I could never join the march of children for trick or treating anymore.  However, I’m thinking about giving out almond chocolate and Crunch to my friends next year to introduce them about my Korean culture. Want some Crunch, guys?

Quality of Life. 5:45PM

The Quality of Life Task Force: a bunch of college kids in their washed jeans and heavy black coats sat on the sturdy, cold metal chairs while nervously staring at the clock until they could see Richard Price, the author of Lush Life, on the 7^th floor of the Newman library building at Baruch college. Their mantra: focus, do not fall asleep, and get out of here early; their motto: Everyone’s got something to gain.

“Is dead tonight,” when Richard Price started to read this line, I instantly realize that all those expectations that I had before were useless. Focusing and not falling asleep were no longer my mantra. I was immediately drawn to Richard Price’s Lush Life.

I always loved reading, but I hated when the author himself read off his book to people. I subconsciously felt some sort of pressure in the author’s tone at the latest reading I went: “This is my book. Since I wrote this , you must understand this in my way.” Especially, I disliked the question and answer that followed the reading. The author was giving away all the sources of his inspiration and conveying the deeper meaning. The author interpreted the book for me. There was no place for my imagination. However, Richard Price was not the author but a storyteller who made extraordinary out of the ordinary. His reading changed my initial preconception on the unappealing nature of author readings.

Richard Price was a writer like a projector at the theater, which enlarges the tiny still-cuts of the movie into the lively scenes on the huge screen. The reading started with a night fishing on Delaney street, where used to be known as the center of Heroine and other illegal drug smuggling. However, if you are making hasty presumption, “Yah Yah Yah, that is how it is for all NYC based novels: Cops, Pots, and Gun,” you got it very wrong. The vivid description and speedy progress of the story itself would prove that every point of your generalization is wrong. Richard Price was an author who only writes about what he knows. Thus, he is not afraid to question back to the readers “how do I possibly know everything?” Furthermore, his story flowed with the dialogue between the characters that further empowered the realistic tone.

For about two hours, he guided us through the sneaky backstreets in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. With slightly shaky voice and humor, he made us imagine the incident of that night. We were welcomed to make gasps and laughs at every little thing that was projected in image of the street from his book without feeling any pressure. Price’s philosophy toward diversity provided an entirely different scope of our city lives. He started questioning how everyone -Jews, Catholics, Asians, Blacks, Republicans and Democrats- all can mingle and ignore each other at the same time in New York City.  Eventually he ended up figuring out nothing about the cause of such collision. Maybe he simply regarded such a job is for some super smart physician, but not a cool writer like him. Truly, his free and easy-going personality made myself to acknowledge newly found pleasure of listening and imagining.

On October 19^th, I fulfilled all my required task forces. I could never allow myself dare to fall asleep or lose focus. However, my mantra had to change five seconds after Richard Price started his reading. “Tell me more!” became my new mantra for the next one-hour and half. My mind is still chanting that mantra while I am trying to read the hard copy of Lush Life in my dorm room. I’ll be gladly chanting this mantra more than a thousand times until his new book comes out. “Tell me just a little bit more, Mr. Price!”

The image was taken from <http://frazeurphotography.com/portfolio/source/lower_east_side_nyc.htm>

I used to know someone who joked around with a mischievous smile that “Everybody loves you when you’re six foot in the ground.” He was the godfather of hippies who used to sing “All you need is love!” with his old guitar. The sincere philanthropist, environmentalist, and musician, John Lennon has been under the ground for few decades now. However, his songs are still echoing in people’s mind in the name of peace and love. I visited Strawberry Fields, the heart of the culture that John Lennon created, on the day after his seventieth birthday.

At first, my day started out as an ordinary Sunday evening. After coming back from church, my cousin’s family and I sat in front of the dinner table, casually joking around whose life was more miserable. This typical dinner conversation was dramatically changed when my cousin-in-law brought John Lennon to our table. My cousin-in-law, who has been playing guitar for more than 30 years, told us that yesterday was John Lennon’s birthday. John Lennon from the Beatles, of course I knew him. Once the main singer-songwriter for the world’s famous band the Beatles, met Yoko Ono, fell madly in love with her, abandoned everything that appeared profitable in his life, ditched the Beatles, and decided to live his remaining life as a happy hippie in Manhattan instead. Or at least, that was all what I knew about him.

I always had a tendency of separating music from art. I often introduced myself as an artist, but music was something totally outside of my sphere of interest. Furthermore, I had a cheesy taste as a listener. I was born and raised in the 90s, growing up listening to all that “pop-sick-cle” music featured by the Backstreet boys and Britney Spears.  Then, there came the 21^st century and I danced to the “Boom Boom Pow” flow with obnoxiously loud bass sound and incomprehensible rap.  When my cousin-in-law asked me if I want to visit Strawberry Fields, I thought why not- I love strawberries. He kindly informed me that we’re going to Strawberry Fields not strawberry picking. It was the little portion of Central Park that was dedicated to the memories of John Lennon. Oh, okay, I thought, still why not. At least, there should be one strawberry if they named after it like that.

When we finally arrived at the 72^nd street, west side of Central Park, we could hear a band playing Lennon’s song “Imagine” from a distance. My family and I walked faster and faster as if we are drawn to a magnetic field. In the middle everyone -hippies, non-hippies, musicians, and non-musicians- we finally stopped. I had no idea how that happened, but I started to sing along with them. I didn’t even know that I knew the lyrics. We sang and sang in complete circles, looking and smiling at each other and the strangers, as if we’ve known each other for a long time.

As to what my kindly cousin-in-law said, there was not even a single strawberry at Strawberry Fields. However, I was able to pick something sweeter than strawberries. It was the seed of culture that John Lennon strived to cultivate throughout his life that eventually grew up into a fruit and ripened in the people’s mind. It was also the power of his culture that made me start imagining a world without religion, possession, greed, and hunger, but only filled with peace and love. Everyone thought he was a dreamer, but he was not the only one. And today, I’m joining this circle of life because I am simply curious- what color is the sky in his heaven?

The image was taken from <http://www.nycgovparks.org/sub_about/parks_history/strawberry_field_images/large/Strawberry_Fields_Forever.jpg>

I’m in the New York State of Mind.

“La donna è mobile, Qual piuma al vento…”

As soon as the Duke of Mantua started to sing the first line of one of the most famous arias of all times, my heart began to flutter. I usually can’t stand narcissists, but Rigoletto forced me to make this time an exception. When the Duke’s deep, charismatic voice merged into Giuseppe Verdi’s dynamic melody, I gradually became a capricious woman like “a feather in the wind.” This was my first time watching an opera, and I was glad that it was Rigoletto. Verdi inspired every character from Rigoletto to come to life with his magical touch. The ensemble of the unique voices of the singers and the instruments of the orchestra revived Verdi’s spirit on the stage, and further enhanced the dramatic progression of Rigoletto.

Rigoletto is a tragic opera named after the hunchback protagonist who tried to escape from the curse on him. Revenge and curse have long been a trivial theme in theater. I had seen a lot of performances deriving from the same origin, yet ended up losing its originality and dampened with dullness. However, Verdi was not only an excellent composer, but a playwright as well. The three acts were carefully divided according to the progression of the story.  Verdi did not lose his focus on the storyline while portraying Rigoletto’s destructive cycle of escaping from the curse and seeking for revenge. At the same time, he maintained a sharp intricacy for tracing and depicting each and every character’s slight emotional change and cleverly weaved it to the lyrics and melody. Verdi successfully fulfilled his role as a storyteller by carefully juxtaposing the emphasis on the emotional climax immediately followed by the witty moment.

Since this was my first time watching an opera, I didn’t have a solid guideline for evaluating the quality of the performance. Nonetheless, the one thing I noticed was that the opera was a composite art. It was a derivative of the sum of every aspect of theatrical art.  The singers had to sing along with the orchestra, the orchestra had to play accordingly to the conductor, and the conductor had to interpret the composer’s intuition.  If anything got disconnected in this chain, the entire performance might automatically have become a composite failure. In Rigoletto, every component was intertwined with each other while preserving its uniqueness. When Christine Schafer, who played Gilda, sang with her soft voice, the entire stage transformed into a pure watercolor painting. Few minutes later, Rigoletto’s outcry immediately recoated that tranquil painting with thick blobs of oil paints. These changes in mood didn’t feel abrupt at all because every component blended in harmony.

I am a firm believer in happy endings. Therefore, the only thing I disliked about this opera was the conclusion. Verdi’s magic lost its effect soon after it set up the atmosphere of the opera. I appreciated that Verdi was trying to avoid conveying the repetitive notion of “the good triumphing over the evil.” However, this was only valid when he could effectively convince the audience of why the evil won over the good. Rigoletto, who was conscious of his wrongdoings, could never escape from the curse on him. On the other hand, the duke who was lacking both consciousness and regret saved himself from being punished. If we looked into the scope of life–or I should say reality–this situation could make sense. However, I had a hard time figuring out Verdi’s intention.

Overall, my impression on Rigoletto was like going on a walk in the forest. As soon as I stepped outside of my door, I could open my senses to perceive the beauty of each element through an unexpected encounter on the street. It could be an encounter with a wild flower or a funny looking tree. Like collecting the scattered wild flowers on the side of the street, Rigoletto taught me the joy of exploring each element of opera.  In the end, all of these little components were combined into beautiful scenery. If other operas are as delightful as this, then I definitely would like to go again.

The image was taken from <http://www.nashvilleopera.org/Rigoletto_files/droppedImage_1.jpg>

< http://sparkplugged.net/wp-content/uploads/nw2.jpg>

“Where was I now? … All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this pace that was no place.” – Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

My first encounter of a different culture came when I was about 8 years old. I invaded my best friend’s house almost everyday. I justified my forceful invasion as showing a sign of affection toward my poor, lonely friend who had to wait for her working parents by herself until the evening. As soon as I entered the house, I took off my shoes and ran straight into my friend’s father’s small library. His shelves were filled with thick books covered with leather and exotic prints. Some of them were in different languages. However, even the ones written in Korean were too long and complicated for me.

Amongst  the books, there were a lot of works of Japanese literature. After coming back from work, my friends’ father often told me about his grand collection of Japanese books. One of his favorites was Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. While he was describing the book, he would mention something about loss, agony, despair and confusion. I had no idea what he was saying. As he delved more deeply into the meaning of those words, I would get terribly lost. The thickness of the book and the smallness of the font made me literally run away from him for the entire day. By that time, I hardly experienced any loss in my life. Nothing was yet confusing or frustrating. I wasn’t happy all the time, but satisfied most of the times.

I started reading Murakami’s novels when I entered middle school. So many things happened to me over the five years. I had to overcome countless losses, including my beloved family member’s death, which brought great frustration and confusion in  life. It was then when I thought of what my friend’s father had told me. I borrowed the book from library and started to read it. As I flipped one page to the other, I was able to understand and even perceive the truthful meaning of those words. Without even noticing it, I myself was maturing as an adult.

Murakami’s books are solely based on the adult’s culture. How do adults define their lives? How do they see themselves? Why do they exist that way?  These are Murakami’s favorite questions for adults.  Through my own experience, I was able to broaden my viewpoint on various aspects of life.  Murakami’s insight guided me to answer those questions thoughtfully. he never defines life with the exact words from the dictionary; from the most atypical environment, he looks out  for ordinary people. From insanity, he defines rationality. I love Murakami’s writing not only for his delicate writing style or narrative skills. I love him because he’s one of the few authors who actually makes me think. By encountering new culture, I was able to perceive my life in an entirely different perspective.

The image was taken from: <http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/30/arts/dance/30fall.html?_r=1>

As the curtain was pulled away, two expressionless dancers in white unitard started dancing on the empty stage without music in Fall For Dance. As the light got brighter, the heavy metallic noises and ambiguous mumbles were coated on the dancers’ slow motions. XOVER started. There was neither rhythm nor liaison. When a group of identical looking dancers came out on the stage, a single word came across my mind:       “momentum.” I couldn’t understand why this clumsy and distasteful word, which retrieved the forgotten memories of my hateful high school physics class, kept entering my head while I was watching the modern dance performance.

The description of XOVER on the program booklet was “the final reunion of the “original collaborators”- Cunningham, Cage, and Rauschenberg- bringing together a beautiful assemblage of their individual mediums.” Certainly those three directors’ components were put together and lively appearing on the stage: Cunningham’s choreography, Cage’s music, and Rauschenberg’s décor and costume. What else was needed ?  However, the entire performance was like gobbling a whole pie of greasy pizza without drinking a sip of soda. There were too many things, so I couldn’t digest them all at once. All I needed was the moment that I could feel a sense of union, harmony, and ensemble. I didn’t feel like all three components were equally emphasized. When one component was strong, the other one was stronger.

As the performance was drawing to an end, I could finally understand why that clumsy physics word kept blinking above my head. Each individual dancer’s uniqueness was entirely eradicated. Without showing any sense of emotion, they were jumping up and down, flying over each other. Doing all those intricate acrobatic movements with their expressionless faces made me to question what they were dancing for. Are they enjoying their own performance? In my eyes, they were simply turning round and round, hand in hand rather than dancing. I could not see any attempt of communication between the dancers nor between the dancers and audiences. I had no idea whether they were actually understanding and interpreting the director’s intention or just doing it because they were asked to do so.

Let me put it into a simpler form: I felt like I was observing a massive atomic collision through a microscope. Since each dancer’s individuality was lost and his potentials were locked, I could see him as a hardened atom with heavy momentum rather than a dance performer. Such collision was eventually sublimated into an unidentified juxtaposition of harsh noises as musical accompaniment. It was ironic that the background painting, originally drawn by Rauschenberg, resembled a stop sign and bar in front of the train rails. Without reviving each dancer’s individuality, this performance would go on and on without having a definite end. Overall, it was a certainly something radically new, yet not enough to be a revolution.

“Ensemble in NYC,” 9″X12″, Acrylic painting on canvas board

With the shuddering sound of window, another symphony of exotic languages flowed into my ears. I suddenly realized that there were twenty people on the bus using twenty different languages, but all heading toward one direction. I was in the middle of New York City, the salad bowl of cultures. I could see “India” from a colorful Kurta of a lady in front of me. I could hear “China” from two Chinese guys on the left. All different cultures blended into this city and created something new and sensational: the New York style.

Becoming a part of this vibrant community for five years, I always enjoyed the richness of cultural diversity. Interacting with the people out of my culture and learning how to respect theirs became a vital learning experience. However, as much as I loved the positive energy from the exchanges of thoughts and cultures every day, I could also witness so many collisions of different ideas and opinions. On the bus, at school, at home, I thought hard on this undefined society where numerous hidden conflicts and misconception reside as much as the cultural diversity itself.  When my thoughts reached the idea of social discord, I was finally came to realization about the significance of maintaining social harmony.

I decided to express an “ensemble” through my collage. All of us, the New Yorkers, are the instruments of a symphonic orchestra. Everyday, we run into a variety of random situations as if we are improvising a song on the stage. Each one of us has a distinctive voice and feelings. We are already aware that our voices are different from each other and do not instantly blend into a harmony due to our differences in political view, religious belief, or cultural background. Amazingly, somehow all those social discords are accepted and ultimately transformed into the harmony in New York City. I would like to express such transformation, the moment when “You” and “I” become “We.”  This idea may seem trite and futile. Nonetheless, we should consider why it became so worn-out: it is because we haven’t witnessed the truthful moment of “ensemble” yet.

In order to convey this thought in my collage, I used old, yet analog approach: cutting and pasting photos, painting, and drawing. I’m a firm believer in the old school. Most importantly, I believe in the power of analog sentimentalism. I cut and pasted various types of two dimensional art works on a piece of paper including photos of the city’s skyline, paintings, and drawings. Torn paper edges and carelessly painted ambiguous figures may be seen as out-of-style and even irrational to the chic New Yorkers. The night-view of a busy highway became the head part of a cello and Times Square became the tailpiece. The acute lines of computer graphics cannot easily replace the warm and unique atmosphere of a two dimensional artwork created by the rough brush touches and dramatic colors.

I personally consider creating a collage as a process of gathering and organizing my own ideas into a clearer form. The scattered blobs of thoughts, which might have been nothing significant, can transform into an entirely different creation. For this elaborate process requiring both creativity and novelty, I believe traditional style of “cutting and pasting” is more suitable than just “copying and pasting” the image digitally.

There are certain things that I always say when I have to introduce myself to other people. One of them is the fact that I came from South Korea about five years ago. Because of that, I had to overcome some hardships to fit myself into this society. The most noticeable challenges were language and communication. I wasn’t able to understand English that well when I first got here. I felt like everybody was making fun of my accent. Thankfully, that was the time when I started taking art classes. Some Korean girl, who was always in the corner of the English classroom due to her lack of English speaking skills, was now placed in the spotlight of attention during the art class. I was able to build a lot of self-confidence, and this eventually became the motivation for my studies.

Art class was like a window that opened my mind to the American culture. Through this window, I was able to look and step forward in the American culture and perceive it with heart. I didn’t judge other cultures through my own cultural perspective. Meanwhile, I tried to reach out my Korean culture to my American friends. I made several attempts to make my projects to be related to the Korean culture. Once, the Korean traditional costume called Hanbok inspired my sculpting project. I built a basic shape of a vase and decorated its exterior with ruffle-like clays, which looked exactly the same as the dress. After a few days of research, I was able to accentuate the dress with other traditional Korean jewelry in my own design. I chose all the colors that might blend into a beautiful ensemble of traditional and modern aspects of beauty.

The art class was a great relief for me. It also made me think about what I really want to do and where I am heading in my life. The canvas always reflected my question attentively and somehow gave me the answer. That is the reason why I am  still facing the white canvas: to find answers to my questions.

“So I guess you’ve grown taller? Did you change?”

Over the phone, I could hear my best friend’s funny giggles.
“Change? What do you mean by that?” I teased her.

“I mean did your face get changed as you grew up?”

“Nope, not really. This is just same old I.” Even before I finished my sentence, she was laughing – out very loud. Yae Seul, my best friend whom I have known for more than 15 years, was absolutely enjoying this conversation.

“I mean it has been almost 3 years that you didn’t come back to Korea. Shouldn’t there be at least some change?”

Her question was both yes and no. Yes, my personality definitely has changed over the course of years I spent in American high school. However, my physical appearance, especially my face, did not change that much.

When we finally met each other, her hysterical laughs followed us the whole time. “Wow, your face hasn’t changed at all! You just look like the same Renee three years ago.” I couldn’t figure out whether that was a good or bad thing.

A day passed by like an hour with her. We were talking non-stop for hours about everything: our shared memories of the past, our own lives and the future.

Before we said Good Bye, Yae seul said, “Renee, actually you’ve changed. You became colorful.” Colorful? What’s behind that this time? With a sweet smile, Yae seul hugged me who was miserably puzzled in the middle of the busy street. “Your physical appearance didn’t change. However, I can see that you’re adding some interesting colors to your personality.”

“You’re colorful.” I never heard this kind of compliment before. However, that was definitely one of favorite compliments that I’ve ever heard in my life.  I joked her that I’ll be a “colorfull” person next time. It is sincerely one of the hardest promises to keep.