• Anonymous asked, “What is the saddest song you've ever heard?”

    Wong Chia Chi’s Theme is, I believe, my favorite song.  It’s an instrumental but it certainly has a melancholy tone to it.  I can’t say that it makes me overwhelmingly sad, but I have a visceral reaction to it each time it plays and sadness is an aspect of that experience.

    It can be streamed on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/chi-yin-cheung/wong-chia-chis-theme-2007

  • Anonymous asked, “who is ur least fav artist?”

    At the moment George H. W. Bush and James Franco are sharing that special honor.

  • Anonymous asked, “Are you currently in a relationship?”

    No.  Unless Netflix and episodes of Battlestar Galactica counts…

  • One of the most transformative experiences of my life was standing close enough to a Roy Lichtenstein painting to see the hand-made imperfections of his trademark hard edges.

    I don’t mean to wax poetic here—it wasn’t an emotional or spiritual transformation, per se—but that experience involved the gradual realization that technical and, I supposed, intellectual perfection (like the perfection of a perfectly straight edge) is both unattainable and unnecessary for artists, or anyone, to attempt and to achieve.

    At the time I wasn’t, what I would describe, an artist; I was quite young but I was totally absorbed in the idea of art.  So this experience, which began as a superficial observation, increasingly found application in the way I proceeded to receive the world around me and my potential role in it—despite art, but because of art.

    In hindsight, realizing that Lichtenstein’s lines weren’t perfect meant that I could try anything without the weight of my unrealistic expectations obstructing my attempt, and, furthermore, that other people might end up really loving what I do despite the insecurities inherent in my ridiculously close perspective.

    I don’t mean to imply, by noticing the minuscule deviations of the lines, that I became in any way disillusioned with Lichtenstein and his work; quite the contrary.  I came away from that experience understanding that the artistic “giants” who I admire are not, in fact, precision machines and I was doing everyone a disservice by believing as much.  Once I realized this, once I realized everyone is in the same boat, at least two things seemed to happen: 1) I gained practically unconditional compassion for everyone else; and 2) I gained compassion for myself.