Kohl - Painting Chinese: a lifelong teacher gains the wisdom of youth

A LIFELONG TEACHER
GAINS THE WISDOM OF YOUTH

HERBERT KOHL

To Joseph Zhuoqing Yan, Janny Xiao Qin Huang,
and the Joseph Fine Arts School

Trust your heart,
And your brush will be inspired.
Writing and painting have the same intent,
The revelation of innate goodness.
Here are two companions,
An aged tree and a tall bamboo,
Transformed by his brush,
Finished in an instant.
The embodiment of a moment
Is the treasure of hundreds of years,
And one feels, unrolling it, recognition,
As if seeing the man himself.

TANG HOU (ACTIVE FOURTEENTH CENTURY)

My journey into painting Chinese was unanticipated. It began with discovering that I was becoming an old man. About four years ago, my wife, Judy, and I were in a local market buying food for dinner. As usual, I wandered off to the little section where they sold cheap toys and games and chose a bag of small plastic firefighters and policemen billed as a 9/11 Heroes kit to add to my collection of painted Dungeons & Dragons figurines, nativity scenes, action figures, and other miscellaneous tchotchkes. At the checkout counter, the cashier rang up the food and the figures and asked, in a very pleasant voice, if the playthings were for my grandchildren. I was surprised.

Those days I was feeling young and creative, very much the middle-aged guy who was trying to preserve the child in himself. However, she saw me as a grandfather. I had never seen myself that way, and her casual comment troubled me.

I never experienced anxiety when I passed thirty-five, never had a middle-age crisis in my forties or fifties. I just kept on working on external things: working with children, writing, and advocating for social justice. The work I did was a source of energy and strength, and I always felt I could continue doing it at the same level and with the same intensity as long as I desired. But as I was approaching seventy, there were times when I felt old, tired, and vulnerable. After a twelve-hour day, my hip hurt and I limped. I can trace that back to an auto injury when I was twenty-seven, though Id been pain-free for over thirty years. It was not just the pain and fatigue that led me to feel old. My wife and I had lost our parents when in our sixties and had witnessed their aging and dying. That witness was painful, and as we inherit the role of family elders, we now both see ourselves moving along the same slow path.

Recently, aging has come closer to center stage as a number of old friends have become very ill, a few have died, and a few are tenuously but stubbornly holding on to life. I see myself in them and on occasion am overwhelmed by the sense of my finitude. Sometimes I find myself surveying my toys and books and plants and wonder what will happen when Im no longer around to care for them. The possibility that the whole fabric of my life, memories, friendships, and the working environment I have shaped so carefully over the past fifty years can dissolve in a moment is distressing.

My own children joke about my concerns about aging and, I believe, see me as I was when they were younger, just as I still see them as they were as children even though they are in their mid-and late thirties.

For the five years before I turned seventy, I created and directed a teacher education program at the University of San Francisco based on the idea of integrating issues of social justice throughout the curriculum, hoping to bring young idealistic people into public school teaching and to fortify them with the skills and stamina to make their dreams practical realities. I succeeded in recruiting thirty students to the program each year, most of them students of color, and had a wonderful time with them. We created the curriculum together, studied issues of social justice as they applied to the classroom, and experimented with specific ways of teaching and learning through the arts, music, dance, and literature. The program ended bitterly in the fourth year when the university cut it after the funding I had raised ran out. I had put an enormous energy into developing and teaching in the program and during my last year there felt worn down physically and emotionally, not from the teaching, but from constant harassment by the administration.

During the last year of the program, I took to walking randomly around the neighborhoods near the university: wandering into stores, listening to conversations in restaurants, seeking some new focus or adventure, looking for something to seize my heart and inspire me.

I gravitated toward Clement Street, a predominantly Chinese commercial street in western San Francisco. The Clement neighborhood is home to working- and middle-class people, mostly Mainland and Taiwanese Chinese and Koreans with a mix of Asian Americans and a small number of white people who are moving in as the neighborhood begins to gentrify.

Clement is not a tourist destination, but a vibrant community with Chinese, Japanese, and Korean restaurants; vegetable, fish, poultry, and meat markets; pastry shops; teahouses; kitchen-ware and hardware stores; and the occasional Middle East market. There are a number of tea and coffee bars where older Chinese men play cards, dominoes, and Chinese chess throughout the day. Theres even an Irish pub, a wonderful new- and used-book store, and several rock clubs, as well as the usual commerce of an American street: cell phone and computer stores and small markets (marquetas) that sell everything from newspapers and candy to cans of soup and lottery tickets.

I struck up a casual friendship with the owner of one of the marquetas I frequented. During one of our brief conversations, a policeman came into the store, looked around, and left. As soon as he was out of sight, the owner said that the cop wasnt real Chinese. I asked him what was real Chinese, and he said with pride that it was someone who had come from the Mainland. The others in the neighborhood were just Taiwanese. So much for my image of a peaceful diverse community; old scars had been transported across the Pacific.

I had developed the habit of going to lunch one day at Taiwan Restaurant, and then the next day I went to a restaurant diagonally across the street called China First. I didnt really understand until this conversation that every other day I crossed the Strait of Formosa from China to Taiwan and back.

I loved being a stranger on Clement.

On one of my random walks, I encountered a storefront with the sign JOSEPH FINE ARTS SCHOOL. There was a poster in the window that stated that classes in painting, drawing, calligraphy, and sculpture were available. Also on display were samples of students work and small Chinese sculptured stone figures and painted glass bottles that were for sale. I wondered who Joseph Fine was and decided to go in and look around. For years, I had played around with painting when I was bored, in need of some physical form of meditation. My work was a combination of action painting, abstract expressionism, finger paintingall with no training, grace, or talent. Stumbling upon that school on Clement reminded me of the times Id promised myself to take painting lessons one day. I decided to enroll in a class whatever the school was like and turn casual painting into an integral part of my new life. It would also bind me in a specific way to the Clement world I was beginning to create as a way of providing some transition to my indefinite future. And it was a way to jump into an arena where I could once more encounter the freshness and excitement of learning things I knew nothing about. It would be new, not a renewal, a childlike pleasure. My current journeys goal was not to regain energy to enter the same old frustrating struggles with renewed energy, but to find a new way to grow and be useful without bringing along the old baggage. I was beginning to admit to myself that many of my theories about educating children were neither relevant nor effective anymore.