Laura Bui come back!

Today the new couch my mom and I ordered finally came. But I am not here to talk about the couch. In fact, I'm not even sure if mentioning the couch bears any relevance to what I'm about to tell you, but now that I think about it, it's worth mentioning that the new couch came in today, because many years later, I can look back at this day, April third, and remember that it was this day that we finally got rid of those two stupid massage chairs and finally got a real couch for the family room.

As usual, I have strayed too far from what I intended to write about. Where were we? Ah! Yes. Today I cleaned up the room next door. Next to my bedroom that is. I'm not sure how to describe that room. Is it an entertainment room? Is it a guest room? Even I'm not sure after all these years of living here. But the best way to describe it, is that it is embarrassingly, one of several storage points in the house which resides culmination of years of crap. This room in particular houses aside from many of things, the paintings that I have worked on over the years, primarily from the college days back when I was at the University of California Irvine. I was a Studio Art Major. Being a Studio Art major, was something that was quite frustrating. Frustrating in the fact that it was never easy to specifically pinpoint the exact meaning of what it is to be a Studio Art Major.

Whenever I was asked what major I was, I would tell them Studio Art. Half ashamed because hearing the words come out of my lips never sounded as confidant as telling someone I was a Bio major, or Computer Science major. No... letting people know that I was an Art major was the equivalent of telling someone you were going to make it big rapping. Nobody really takes you seriously. Especially being asian. The other thing worse than that, was that it was a STUDIO ART major. What the fuck did studio mean? I mean... I know the definition of studio, but was that really necessary? To make a  rarely lucrative major even more ambiguous by slapping on that word "Studio". Why couldn't it be something that was already impressive sounding like "Premed Bio Major" and not some bullshit title that falls into the same category of crappy jobs with fancy titles like "Executive Assistant Coordinator of Important Stuff".

Perhaps it was my initial shock of not getting into UCLA's design program, or my laziness for not completing my USC application to Film School, but I attributed my failure, that being a second rate University of California Irvine student, to a combination of lack of guidance during the application process (I had no idea what the hell a portfolio was prior to applications), and most of all laziness. I was frustrated. And I'll admit it. I was frustrated throughout. And I am frustrated to this very day.

But looking back, and shuffling through all my artwork over the years in this very room-of-crap, I was shocked to see how bad I was. Bad... at what I specialized in that is: Painting. I saw my very first project painting from beginners painting class. It was of the Devil in Hell. I wanted to make it a subtle painting of the implied presence of Lucifer. But looking at it today, I realized why my teacher, who made me felt as if I had so much promise in the future, was so disappointed that day I turned that painting in. I was looking at the painting today, and I realized that I have always suffered from the problem of falling in love with my own work, so much so, that I cannot see the many reasons why my work is crap.

So I did the only thing I could do in a situation like this. I picked up the canvas... walked with it outside, Threw the painting onto the front lawn and pulled out my bottle of gesso (White base paint for those of you non art-literate) and covered the dark painting with gesso until it was all white again. It was better as a blank canvas than a filled piece of crap that took away space from my home. Very valuable space. After doing so, without remorse, I felt free again. It felt like I was starting over. Perhaps it was learning recently that one of my mentors recently passed away, or the fact that home hasn't been home for more than a decade, but this impulsive act was a moment of clarity for myself. Despite the fact that I had a crappy painting, I failed to realize that over the years, I have shown improvement. To what end, I'm not sure, because I no longer trust my own opinions on my own work. But I was pleased to see that I improved over the years. And that simple fact alone somewhat put me to ease.

I don't intend to put that canvas to waste, and I already have some ideas on what to put on it, but most importantly, I will pick up my brush and paint again.