Weeping in Art Museums

This weekend I had the honor of going to the North Carolina Museum of Art.

It is a lovely, smallish museum with a very strong collection.

My husband and I were celebrating our belated five year anniversary. We had lingered over lunch and were meandering through the art work. We turned a corner and I saw it.

“Tim!” I whispered/shouted (as one does in a museum) “It’s a Hung Liu!!!”

Hung Liu, ""Captured", Oil on Canvas, 66" x 66". 2005

Hung Liu. She is a Chinese painter working in the States, and has been my greatest inspiration for my artistic life. She paints in large scale, working with the figure, using loose, gestural marks that sing.

This was my first time seeing her work in person.

It is large. Thick. Dripping with so much paint that I had the inclination to run my fingers across it to feel the texture. (This, by the way, is frowned upon. Thus, I kept my hands in my pockets.) There was so much more than I ever expected beneath each layer. Every inch of it was lovingly worked, rich.

Hung Liu, "Richter Scale," oil on canvas, 2009

She can say, much more than I, what her work is about. Read more here. (Visiting this site is worth it. The images here are small, but her work is large and complex and worth investigating.)

What I can say is why, on a normal Saturday in an art museum, I stood weeping in front of a painting.

Imagine if you will, that you had spent your life studying classical music. And one day, very unexpectedly, you wander into a place where Beethoven himself is playing. The truth is that reproduction, copies, images, echoes….can only take you so far. Good music, good art needs to be experienced. Breathed in. There is something powerful about hearing or seeing an original.

Hung Liu’s work is very sad. Much of her imagery is that of oppression, hunger and war. Yet it is infused with images of birds, flowers, fruit, abundance. It is achingly and terrifyingly beautiful. When I see her work, I see a snapshot of the human story, fraught with heartache and awe, all in one breath.

Hung Liu, I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles, 2001, oil on canvas, 80 x 80 inches

And paintings, very much like music, can move through you and change you, if you let them. Not every painting–actually very few paintings. But if you look hard enough, and for long enough, there can be moments where to look at a piece of art can be a very spiritual experience. It is a different painting for different people. It’s a subtle moment and has to happen in the exact right way. But for me, standing in front of Hung Liu’s work, I was reminded of one of the reasons I think art matters.

Hung Liu, "Great Leap", Oil on Canvas, 78"x114", 2003

I paint for the act of painting. Painting for me is a meditation, a way of life. Yet I was reminded in that museum how a painting can reach across miles and miles, and literally hundreds of years. It can take the thoughts and experiences of one individual, and in a moment, impact another individual without ever meeting.

Hung Liu’s work means something different to her than it does to me. But the fact that it means SOMETHING to me is a profound truth of the human experience. She paints for herself in her studio.

Years later, what she has done reverberates in me, a stranger.

Thank you Hung Liu. Keep painting for us all.



This entry was posted in Inspiration and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Weeping in Art Museums

  1. Way cool and such an unexpected blessing!

  2. If artists only knew the gifts of heart & soul they pour into others….they would be lifted up on the most difficult day of creating. You do that too, you just don’t know it…..yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s