I am often surprised by artists who complain that they've run out of inspiration for their art. I have a great deal of sympathy for them. It's really is a source of the greatest frustration to find oneself sitting in front of a canvas or a piece of paper or a computer screen with a blank mind. Perhaps such artists have certain very specific notions about what constitutes "art' and what not. To me, art does not reside in certain objects or subject matter conventionally considered as "artistic" e.g. some flowers, landscape, peoples etc. or some particular medium in which the artists work e.g. paint, wood, steel, marble, stone, alabaster, bronze, crystal, cloth or other materials but resides more in the manner such objects, subjects etc are treated, worked on, presented etc. If so, then anything even something otherwise most trivial, uninteresting and unattractive can be so treated. What is important is to draw our attention to certain aspects in them which we would otherwise ignore and which looks to us "interesting" and which suggests some kind of "order" or balance" or "contrast" so that there would be some kind of unity in variety and some sort of variety in unity..
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Just went to Yim Tin Chai on Sunday and found these colorful chairs piled one on top of another which look to me rather like an abstract painting.
And this colorful block of wood lying on the ground
This broken bowl against the peeling paint off the wall of a deserted house
and this white wall with dusty rusted window bars
These window panes with peeled off paint look to me more like so many frames of naturally formed paintings
and of course, Nature seems like an exquisite artist: always unpredictable in the way it can unwittingly create quite delicate pictures with incredible textures and patterns
This looks to me to be another abstract painting
This looks like another one, except that in this case, the sun had a hand in it
And here's another one crafted by Nature on man's handiwork
and here's one in which the artificial simplicity of man contrasts with the roughness of Nature
I like the sharpness of lines and the light and shade of this one
I like the "period" feel of the tiles and the window frame which contrasts with the texture of the wood right next to it. I wonder who lived in there? The sun seems about to set and it's all dark inside. What mysteries lie hidden within that darkness? What kind of family drama had taken place there at the dinner table? Where are its owners now? America? Canada? Australia? New Zealand? England? Holland? Germany? Italy" France? South America? I hasten to add that I am not suggesting in any way that I am any kind of artist. But I do enjoy art. If I have anything to do with "art" , I would like to think that I could regard myself an "artist" of life itself.
