I Love the Color of the Natural World, and Try to Recreate It in My Painting

YUMAN ZENG

I love the color of the natural world, and try to recreate it in my painting .

For me , the task of an true Artist is not just express oneself, but also contribute something which is good for humanity.

As God’s gift, the beauty of nature is linked to our souls, however in the art world , we often desert, lose, or devastate it carelessly, even deliberately …….I am exerting myself to keep it with my painting, to be exact.

I paint to create a place for my soul and other’s to dwell in.

I was born in Guang Dong, China. My father was a school teacher and my mother an accountant. There were three of us children, my brother, my younger sister and me. We spent our childhood in the beautiful scenic campus of the First Middle School of Foshan, a small city with two thousand years of history and culture and famous for her textiles, castings and fine ceramics.
My father was a straightforward man but his honesty led to his separation from his family. The government decided he was ‘right wing’ and sent him to work in the countryside. Fortunately my aunty in England helped him go abroad . With no warning, he took my sister and moved to Hong Kong, leaving the rest of us alone. I would not see him again till I was twenty-four. Our world of games, music, literature and poetry was abruptly shattered. With my father gone, people soon began to treat us differently. One day the school authorities told us to leave our home.
The home we moved to was in a small alley that was clean, quiet and paved with marble stones. Around the street corner, there was a square with a big well, where women came to collect water. We became accustomed to our new home and made new friends. But so much did I miss my old home and my school that a feeling of homesickness has never left me.
Our education was interrupted by the Cultural Revolution when the older students fought the teachers and school authorities. We youngsters joined the “Propaganda team” and gave performances of song and dance in public. I saw people being beaten by the Red Guards in the street and many ‘right wing’ teachers in my father’s old school were put in jail where some of them committed suicide. My father was extremely lucky to avoid such a fate.
In those days of turmoil it was common for hand-written posters to appear overnight. One morning such a poster appeared on the front wall of our home. It demanded that my brother report on our father’s ‘counterrevolutionary’ activities in Hong Kong. We suspected that it had been put there by students at the school but we were terrified and could only wait for disaster to fall. Luckily for us, nothing more happened.
My passion for art still lay in the future; at this time my passion was for dancing. I was selected to play the principal role in the dance/drama ‘The White Haired Girl’, which was presented by a full-scale adult propaganda team. The music, the costumes and the rapturous applause of the audience convinced me that my only goal in life was to become a dancer. Soon after this production the Guangdong provincial Troupe invited me so join them but when they learned of my father’s political views the invitation was quickly withdrawn.
Later on, while I was in senior high school, my brother obtained foreign and prohibited literature which he let me read. I have no idea how he got them but I read them with great interest. From them I learned of a world so different from the one of political obedience in which we lived. Perhaps foolishly I recorded my doubts, fears and questions in my personal diary. Perhaps inevitably a classmate found out about the things I had written and reported me to the authorities at the school.
One day, after severe questioning, I was escorted to my home by two of the “Workers of Propaganda team”, who confiscated my diary. Trembling with fear, I was placed in a small room behind the school theatre, where I was ordered to write my confession of disobedience. I was kept there for two days. Later my teacher warned my classmates to be careful of me and stay away from me as I would have a bad influence on them.
Being isolated, I found comfort in drawing and would sketch dancing figures which I would display on the walls of our home. One day a young man came to see my brother, who, as it happened, had been sent by the government to work for eight years as a farmer. Seeing my work, the young man said to me “If you put your mind to it, I’m sure you’ll become an artist.” The following day he brought me several of his own drawings which I studied and practised copying. So he was the first person to point me down the road I have followed ever since.
After completing my high school studies, I was assigned to a textile factory as an operator maintaining spinning machines. It was a nightmare that lasted for six years. Still in my dreams I recall the seemingly endless hours of labour, the exhaustion, my tired face tortured under the fluorescent lights and my hair and clothes covered with dust and cotton pieces. Often I would labour over the roaring spinning machines through the night emerging at last into the new dawn. Arriving at home, tired though I was, I would many times practise my drawing and painting rather than going immediately to sleep. Because of heavy work and the heat and dust of the factory I was often sick with asthma. My mother also, weak from constant work, poor nutrition, missing my father and suffering insomnia was often unwell. Yet she spent her limited energy to support and care for me as well as herself. Had she not done so I do not think I would be an artist today.
I continued to read all kinds of books in what little spare time I had. This I managed by always hiding a book by some great author (such as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Lermontov, Jack London, Stendalh, Victor Hugo) in a box into which were sucked the stray cotton pieces. I would take out the book, steal a few glances and then, when work demanded it or if people came into the area I would throw the book back into the cotton. In this way I continued by education in literature. It helped me to later become a writer myself.
One day I fell from the attic where I slept and injured my back. The doctor advised that I was no longer fit for heavy work duties and I was transferred from the spinning workshop to the factory’s kindergarten to become a babysitter. I liked the children and my new work and never tired of teaching them drawing, singing and dance. Often I would snatch a few moments to sketch them both at rest and play. They loved being my models and would try very hard to remain still as I sketched. At the kindergarten there was a woman named ‘Aunt Beauty’. If she caught me sketching the children, Aunt Beauty would scold me and threaten to report me. Seeing this the children would warn me of Aunt Beauty’s approach by shouting “She’s coming!” or they would gather around me to stop her seeing what I was doing. This wonderful period in my life with my lovely children gave me time for my back to mend and for me to continue developing my artistic style.

During this time, my brother would occasionally visit us from the countryside. A few young men who loved art would gather in our place to discuss poetry, philosophy and politics. At the time, the spirit of the people was strained and stifled by the surrounding atmosphere of political tension and intrigue, whilst our little group brimmed with the warmth of human nature, the vigour of life and the air of freedom. One of the group, an outstanding young painter and the best friend of my brother, had a great influence on my life. This was Li Dechi, the son of a brigadier under Chiang Kai Chek. When he was 17, Li shocked the art world in Guang Dong province by his oil painting “The Tear of Qingming” , but despite his talent and fame he was still sent to the countryside to be a farmer for ten years like the others. He had a brilliant mind, could catch the essence of the object immediately, and was able to look deeply into the nature of human thinking . He naturally became my mentor. He analysed the ancient masterpieces for me and guided me on my artistic pathway. His encouragement gave me the confidence to pursue the difficult and challenging road I had chosen.

When my brother and I went abroad, Li was deeply saddened. This loss was made even worse by the death of his friend, a poet, Li Guojun, who was depressed by the reality of life and died from alcoholism. Bottom of Form

In 1980, the combination of hard study and lack of nutrition made me extremely ill, so ill, in fact, that I was permitted to resign from the kindergarten so that I could have time to convalesce – I was finally free! Soon after this my mother was granted approval to join my father in Hong Kong where, with the help of an old friend, she ran a small retail business and became able to support me during my recovery. Now I was able to devote my life to my one consuming passion – I was finally a full time artist!
I often travelled to the outskirts of the city to breathe the fresh country air, make sketches and wander between the bamboo trees, fishponds and vegetable gardens. One day I noticed two boys, who were the farmer’s sons, catching fish in a small stream. I joined them, and soon we became firm friends, regularly meeting at the brook. One of these boys, Qiu, now owns the printing factory where my painting book has been produced.
The first time I encountered Van Gogh was in a small book, from my sister Vanessa, who lived in Hong Kong. I was deeply moved by Van Gogh’s paintings and stories. This great master filled my soul with his solitude, his ecstatic joy, his devotion and his inevitable tragic destiny. From this moment on, I painted with Van Gogh in my heart. I remember the days when I rode on a bicycle, carrying my heavy paint box on the back, pedalling along the meandering country roads. The fields were scattered with small white farm houses, weeds and flowers danced in the wind. In the distance the blue haze of the mountains shimmered and sparkled; still further in the distance, roared the ocean surrounding the quaint fishing village where I intended to paint.
At sunset, I painted the vegetable gardens and the farmers’ houses. I loved to see the last beam of sunshine shining on the roof of the small thatched cottage, and the purple clouds as they were slowly illumined by the rays of the rising moon. They shared the evening sky and lit the fields.
It was just another ordinary autumn day when I received a letter from my cousin in New York. He had taken photographs of my paintings to the head of the Art College of New York. Enclosed with his letter was an enrolment form from the President of the College! With a light head I jumped on to my bicycle and pedalled through our town shouting “Goodbye” to people I knew .
The American counselor looked up from the desk and said in an unemotional voice, “Application denied”. “Denied?”, I almost cried. “How can you deny my application when I’ve been invited to study in the USA by the President of the New York College of Art?” This fact totally failed to impress him. I begged him to look at my paintings, but he merely said “You are not an art student” then turned away and called for the next applicant.
The rain descended in a blue grey curtain as I made my sad way home. It was only then that I remembered that I had left my front door key on the table in the excitement of the morning. Cold, dejected and wet and unable to get into the warmth of the house, I sat alone on the doorstep with tears mixing with the icy rain as it fell across my face. Far away in Hong Kong, my dear mother waited for the good news that would never come. Just then Li Dechi appeared beside me. Our door was old and he was able to remove it to let me in. Still he could see my tears and feel my sadness. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s have some noodles”, he said quietly. We walked down the street together; maybe life in China was not so bad, after all I would always be able to paint.

In 1989, With my sister's financial support, I and my brother come to Australia to study English . Then in 1991, I was able to travel to Europe to explore and study. In the museum there I saw the works of Pissarro and Cezanne , especially Miro and Chagall. Absorbing these influences I continued to develop my style and technique and gave two exhibitions, one in The Hague and later, one in Rotterdam.

Back in Australia, my career was given a push by my son's kindergarten teacher, Susan Byers, who registered me for the Portuguese Memorial Award. Twice my works were selected to appear in their national exhibition. Later, during a second trip to Europe a very good gallery in Paris wanted to promote me in an exhibition. Unfortunately it never happened. I suffered a form of eye strain and intense colours caused me pain and nausea. For six years I could not paint at all.

Feeling compelled to create, I turned to literature and wrote a long semi-biographical novel called 'The Bird of Paradise' which was funded by the Ming Nang Australian-Chinese Association and published by the Shanghai Publishing House. Happily, it was well received.

Now I lived in Australia for over 20 years , this beautiful country with her beautiful , warm and broad minded people had renewed me , made me an optimist , healthier person . I love Australia and as well as Australian who gave me a sweat new home .
The first time I returned to China I found Li Dechi in very bad condition . His own drinking problem had become more serious. The upheaval and traumas of life had driven him to alcohol. He had stopped painting. The excellent paintings of his early days gradually disappeared. Some were given away as gifts and others were sold for very little money. The remainder were stored in an old dark and leaky attic, where the effects of sun, rain, wind and moisture sealed their destruction. But ten years latter he had given up alcohol and started to paint again . To my surprise he had retained his wisdom and still could still guide me in many ways. We stayed in contact through letters and phonecalls and continued our conversation about art, life and even literature when I started to write my novel. In 2005 Li Dechi died as a result of a medical accident during an operation for lung cancer. Just two days before he had been talking to me by phone about the book I was then writing. Neither of us knew it was to be our last conversation.

About 2008, my eyes had recovered and I again took up my brushes with a new intensity. This, I believe, came from the time I spent painting pictures not with colours but with words. Certainly I experience a new depth, a new level, as I try to achieve the mastery of colour and composition.

A painting is a testament of an artist’s feeling and responses to the world and it is spoken through the layering, texturing and juxtaposition of colours. One has only to think of Monet to realize that an artist can spend a lifetime examining the suitability and effects of different colours.

My painting stems from a visualization of the scene and during the process of creation I feel a bonding between us develop.

My paintings are built from observed elements of the world and colors which allow me to reconstruct a completely new world stretched by new colors and light---- a play of my imagination. It is an inner, an emotional view of the world, one that I hope sings of the harmony, the poetry, and the vibrancy between people and nature.