Terry Chun

How do I start?  Do I just put down words? 

My uncle was a writer.  He told me his secret to writing …. Shh…. He Made A list.

Is it that simple?

Thrift store graffiti art like cattle. In quiet isolation, I find comfort in simple things. As day turns to night, my shadow fades. I dream of floating down from speckled darkness, like a fluid that’s static in atmosphere or in time yet malleable to the touch. Something you can shape and mold. You can add to it or chip away in relief. Work until petrified.  Add the ingredient of fire and fossilize. It’s unlike anything I’ve known.

Reflections are a dream. Early memories of coloring delicately within the line. When the teacher sat me on her knee and I squeamishly took in praise for a job well done.  First sculpture of note was a simple wooden alligator head with hardened marshmallow teeth. I ate the teeth.A well composed cut out of California condors in the sun followed.  A fruitful adolescence was spent sketching and would earn me A+s as-well as the jealous scorn from my best friend. 

More paint the teacher told me, gobs of paint. Don’t worry about that. No outline. Is it supposed to be muddy like that?

Towards the end of university, Japanese wood-fired ceramics consumed my being. Little else mattered. Where wabi Sabi wares and pokemon-like vessels made my finger bleed. When youth allowed me to give more freely. When subjection overruled objection.  

My hometown gazette got wind of my high marks. That one’s going on the refrigerator.  Hold on to your drawings. They’ll be worth money someday. It’s waiting in the basement.

In midlife, I have found personal satisfaction in showing large nonrepresentational paintings.

Thank you for looking.

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