03/27/2026 Friday 41-69F Cloudy
Since last September, I have been doing at least one painting a week—sometimes it took me two days to finish, sometimes three days. Then the rest of the week, and while I was waiting for the painting to dry before I could finish it, I did all my other work.
When I was a little kid, I loved drawing. Flowers, pretty ladies were my expertise. My friends always came to my house on weekends begging me to give them my newest drawings, and I did. I never even kept one for myself. I still remember that I once pencil sketched “Mona Lisa” and Mulan, actually they were pretty good. But since my best friend Juan admired these two sketches so much, I generously gave them to her. Now when I told my husband that my first “Mona Lisa” was finished at the age of thirteen, he couldn’t believe that, and I had no evidence to prove it. What a pity! I want to see it again myself very much. (I have lost Juan’s contact for decades.)
I loved my art classes very much at school. Not only because I could do them well and effortlessly for which I got high praise from my teachers, but also because I could enjoy the beautiful art of various masters all over the world from my art text books. There was no internet at that time; and as an “obedient” child, I never asked my parents to buy me any art books to read since I knew they had no money. So my art text books were my only source to see a wonderful world, and I day dreamed often: In a Chinese water ink landscape silk scroll, I imagined I was that man who was crossing a little stone bridge over a creek and under a pine heading for the deep mountains; while in an impressionistic painting, I strolled along a meadow, holding a parasol, my ears were filled with bird chirps and the air flower scents… My material life was very scarce, but the inside of me was rich and splendid. After all my homework, I could sit in my room the entire day on weekends exploring and wondering. I enjoyed it.
My art exploration stopped when I was fourteen, one year before entering high school. My father said that 99% of artists would starve, and I wouldn’t be that lucky to be the 1%. Without any struggles or even an argument, I gave up because I was “obedient”; perhaps because in my mind I believed what my parents said as well.
When I picked up my pencil again, it was sixteen years later. I had worked in Shanghai for years, and my long-forgotten dream finally evoked after repeatedly visiting Shanghai Art Museum. One day, I stared at the two silk scrolls hanging on the wall that were purchased by my husband (then my boyfriend); being half-joking half-serious, I said to him “Do you know that I can draw better ladies that these two on the scrolls?”
“Really?” My husband was surprised. We had known each other for one and a half years but he never heard me talking about drawing by myself. “Yes, I did a lot when I was a kid.” I continued staring at the scrolls, “But I haven’t done it for many years. Do you think I can start it over again? I want to learn oil paintings.”
“Why not?” As usual, my husband encouraged.
I must give the credit to him. Had he said anything similar to my father, I would have given up my idea again. Instead, he supported it, which gave me strength to take serious action. I right away searched online, found an art studio located in Zhabei district, and enrolled in it as a weekend student.
The course started from pencil sketches. Drawing lines first, then simple objects, then plaster statues. The sketching procedure took more than 90% of the whole course; finally one day my sketching teacher told me that I could start oils.
I took five oil classes in total. The day when my oil painting teacher told me that I could paint whatever I wanted (mainly because she was busy that day with dozens of middle school teenagers who needed more guidance from her to enroll in high school as art students), I selected a picture and started to paint it. “This picture is hard to paint. You can choose another one,” The teacher happened to pass by and suggested.
But I liked that picture; somehow it caught my eye at first glance. So I didn’t take her advice and continued to paint. It was my fourth painting, still life—a glass and a metal plate; I left it in my sister’s house before I moved to the USA two years later. Even now, when I look at the picture of my work, I still like it.
Then next day when I knew I could choose anything to paint again, I painted a Qipao lady. My new painting caused a sensation that day in the studio. A lot of people stopped their work and came to see me painting. I was surrounded by a big crowd, including the teacher. Two hours later when I finished it, she praised: “No doubt you can sell this painting!”
I was thrilled. That moment was one of the few moments I really felt proud of myself. That was my last class--I had finished my beginner’s course. Since the students outnumbered the teachers by almost twenty to one, and I only took oil paint as my hobby, I decided not to pay for more classes and paint alone at home.
Since then, until now, I have painted one hundred twenty paintings. Not that many considering I have been on my art journey for eleven years. Even after I had stopped working and started my garment business, I didn’t paint often. In early September of last year, I met an artist in his gallery in Lambertville, he gave me a very valuable advice: “Keep painting!”. And I took it. I purposely began to practice more, systematically; and tried to explore and challenge more possibilities. Now I no more think about what art can bring me, I just simply focus on what I should paint next, what exactly my style is, and how I can improve how I express my thoughts through my paints.
I am very glad at where I am now. I create beauties, no matter whether through garments, art, gardening, or cooking. The journey is extremely long and bumpy; I focus on exploring the world, and myself, and the connections between the two. I accept all the facts; I keep walking toward my dreams. All is for the best; I feel I am blessed.
By the way, recently I painted a lot of pigs. When I painted them, especially the little ones, I couldn’t help salivating—their little pink noses and ears, their cute little back ribs—how wonderful they would be on the grill! I swallowed my saliva and felt guilty. They are really cute pigs! Heart melting!
