Song of myself

Jiayin Sun

May 3, 2014 ~ Jun 2

People view the world through their windows. Yet, whatever it is, whether it is beautiful or ugly, the view has already been restricted by the square grid. Jacy Sun said this exactly mirrored the days that she was away from her paintbrush.

During those monotonous and mindless days when she carries the video camera to and from her studio, regardless of being exposed to the wind and rain, the “Triangle Window” inside of her is always firm. In front of the same lattice, but at various latitudes, her heart is like a wasteland, with weeds overgrown. She dreams of herself being Edward Scissorhands, by continually weeding and activating this land, she has her heart liberated, transformed, sprouted, grown with the plants. The softer and softer wood core and the tenacious textures, all those signs of growth have been captured by her brush which is as meticulous and acute as in traditional Chinese paintings. Frame by frame, she separates the movie stream. The tempo and the gesture she does it, neither too hasty nor too slow, neither heavy nor light – echoes the growth in her intimate and independent garden of art. There, things are covered by moss, with nobody around. Alone they grow, but occasionally sprout some dark green leaves of joy. The leaves hop out vividly and make sounds on Sun’s drawing board. And in Mustard Seed, a space that also witnesses the birth and growth of seeds, photosynthesis of the leaves occurs.

As Whitman has once sung in the Song of Myself – Leaves of Grass:

“I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.”

We would like to dedicate this leaf to the spring,

When the heart is slow and firm enough

When the tree leaves extend, the grass grow

Then the future is right here in front of you

While the past is creeping onto the branches

In the dreams, my wild garden was toned with burning rose

And the weed grows wild

So discursively yet breath-taking