I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [25]
cross in foregrounds crossing out whatever else.
Black cross in backgrounds or upper
corners, a coming menace. The New China
still hung up on Christianity.
Let it go already. But look,
we’re painting exactly what we see
before our very eyes. There, above
your head—the stovepipes, one up through
the roof, and 2 arms out the walls.
Like the number 10. We are painting
hearth and home. The world will see Crucifix.
Chinese viewers will read personal
messages, and political messages. And the government
read forbidden messages, and the artists get
into trouble. And what is that above the door,
the kiva, hogan door? Eagle, you are here.
Bear, you are here. Bear, protector
of journeys west. Dragonfly, you
here too. And Snake. And Coyote, you,
here. And Zia, sun and sipapu.
Kokopelli on flute. Whirling Logs,
like Buddha’s hairs, like swastikas.
All bordered by beansprouts, river
waves, whirlwind. And the threshold
lintelpiece itself border, land
bridge, rainbow. “Nicolai Fechin,”
say the artists. “Nicolai Ivanovich Fechin.”
They name the woodcarver who made this icon,
and placed it at this threshold, that we be
aware coming in and going out that
we, people and animals, migrated across the top
of the world. They came our way; we
went their way. All connected with all,
all related. The rain stops. The painter
with the purple beard motions Come come,
and leads the way through the mud to his home
and studio. “Nicolai Ivanovich Fechin.…”
They stand before a wet oil. The paint
wet but also a river rushing, mud, and men,
men drowning? mouths wide open
crying Help? No, they are cheering and
laughing—Eureka! The pan is full of gold!
They—Chinese American Forty-Niners—
fall into the gold-giving water,
and roll in it. In joy. In fear. O,
Comrade of Californians! You we left
behind know and care what became of us
who went to Gold Mountain and never returned.
O, Artist. Draw me. See me.
Show me beautiful, old. “Draw you,”
says Purple Beard. Dui. Dui. Dui.
So, for long sessions of time, the wanderer
holds still as the artist draws and paints him.
The artist looks and looks, squinting his eyes,
to see everything, what’s there, the visible,
and what’s not visible, only he can see.
Suddenly, at a break, at a meal, Purple Beard’s
face comes up close to Wittman’s
face. He’s studying my profile.
Tonight by electric light, the left profile;
this morning the right profile, the 3
quarters profile, the angles the eyelids
open and shut, the ear, the other ear,
the hairline, the texture and many colors
of hair and skin, the lines, the creases. Eyes
asquinch, he’s studying me, breathing, smelling me.
He hasn’t begun the actual painting, won’t
begin until he’s made studies and decisions.
Here, let’s work in the courtyard,
the light from the north. No, let’s go
indoors, this house, the light
from the south. The artist faces the sitter,
looks and draws, draws and looks, and one
day decides: Fullface. Good.
The face I myself looked at every
morning first thing back in the life
where bathrooms had mirrors. Full on. I, the writer,
look in the mirror more than the normal person.
To know my mien. Mien same-same
Chinese, English. To track and trace
momently changes. That’s me, still good-
looking. But can’t hold any one
expression for long. Hold it, and you freeze up.
Think upon looks, and that vanity shows.
Try method acting. For lovingkindness
in the eyes, look upon the other lovingly,
kindly. Purple Beard works without
talk, can’t understand him anyway,
makes you quiet down yourself, likewise
be without talk. Be Nobody. He’s
making an idol of me, admiring, adoring me so.
Lately, Taña doesn’t draw her husband,
doesn’t use her art on him. Doesn’t give him
her artist’s interest, regard him, record him, behold
him, find beauty in him. She disdains “narration.”
She paints lines and spaces like calligraphy
that’s not words. She can’t stand Frida Kahlo—
“Too much narrative. Too much pain.”
All the way to China to get appreciation.
Taña would love