dear dead arts

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by EUNJAE KIM

layout KELLY KIM photographer GRACE ALEXANDER stylists ANDREA MAURI & JILLIAN SCHWARTZ hmua BASIL MONTEMAYOR & LANE RICE models KRISTEN GUILLEN & JACOB TRAN

In the midst of the Renaissance, an artist poured his soul into his palette of colors and whispered a prayer with every stroke of his paintbrush. A poet stepped outside to meet dawn’s chilly embrace, her feet bare and mind eased, drawing inspiration from the distant sun that gleamed like a candle flame in the dark. They shared their art with the world, and the world received them with open arms and lips that whispered praises of their genius. However, when the Renaissance reached its end, the spirit of the arts died with it, leaving artists with only echoes of when they were celebrated by all.

In the last year of the 20th century, I was dressed in my multicolored hanbok to commemorate my first birthday with dol, a Korean tradition. The curious gazes of a hundred guests followed me as I was seated in front of a rosewood table, covered from corner to corner with a collection of trinkets that would foretell my future. Would I pick up a piece of string, which meant a long life? A set of bow and arrows that prophesied my destiny as a warrior? Sticky sweet rice cakes, which symbolized good fortune for eternity?

Perhaps by fate or chance, my hands clasped clumsily around the shaft of a pencil that my parents had purchased

from the local stationery shop the night before. It seemed meaningless at the time, a tradition carried out just for fun and tradition’s sake. But, looking back, it seemed to be an early proclamation: I was meant to be a writer.

It seemed like my destiny was inevitable, a fate etched into stone lifetimes ago by ancient hands, courtesy of my grandma with whom I had spent much of my first six years of life with. Though her limbs were stiff and still as the wooden chair she often sat on, she had a way of spinning beautiful stories and legendary epics out of thin air. Her infinite imagination was one of the few things left untouched by Parkinson’s, so we built our relationship on storytelling — brick by brick, story by story. She fed me tale after tale, which I absorbed fervorously, always asking for more, more, more, much like a sailor enchanted by the enthralling lull of a siren’s song. She was the Daedalus to my Icarus — my mentor, my inspiration, the one who gifted me the skies — except she kept me sheltered from the sun. My grandma and her stories are what I remember most about my childhood. In truth, they were my childhood.

When I flew across the world to America, I was not ready to say goodbye to my muse. However, with her stories, I felt well equipped for my new life; grandma had planted a seed in my spirit that would continue to grow and connect us even when we were apart. I tended to that seed well, watched it sprout and grow, watered it with more stories and words until its roots firmly gripped my heart and spanned across my limbs, intertwining with my veins. It served me well, as it was like a comforting embrace in a lonely country whose sounds I couldn’t make out into words. I loved the arts then, and they seemed to love me back.

I love the arts still, but what once was so pure turned into a rude awakening. I can’t help that every time I introduce myself, there’s a slight smile of embarrassment that always accompa-

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Initially, I wasn’t sure what had strained my relationship with the arts, but it became painstakingly clearer as time passed. To me, today’s world seems to be one that celebrates numbers. A world of maths and symbols and formulas and science. A world wanting to go, go, go, and reach beyond the natural realm into something more. A blur of cold steel, the constant whirr of machines, and dimly lit computer screens reflected on thick-rimmed glasses.

In this newfound chase to discover, the arts appear to be getting left behind in dust and factory exhaust fumes. As buildings pierce the skyline and conglomerates dominate, libraries dwindle; books are kept as dust-collecting decorations, and art is nothing more than a hobby for many. The language of the machines has become the new currency of communication, while the language of the human tongue seems to be fading in importance. This is perhaps why all creatives ask themselves the same dreaded question: What good am I in a culture that doesn’t see me?

However, it’s times like these when I must once again remind myself that, despite all the factors that seem to be pointing otherwise, we are not so different after all. The sciences are not the only ones improving and powering forward — we are, too. We continue the great legacies of Leonardo da Vinci, Michaelangelo, and so many more through contemporary movements. With the passing years, we find new mediums and fresh insights on life that come with adjusting to an entirely unique time period.

More importantly, both the arts and sciences serve as a means for us to understand the im

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possible puzzle that humanity has been trying to decode since the beginning of time: life itself. Some interpret the complexity of this world through the lens of maths and the sciences, which can complete their logical understanding of the mechanisms of the cosmos, like a final puzzle piece that unveils the big picture. Some interpret it through the arts, finding meaning and beauty in being alive. Who is to say that one is better than the other, especially if they give you a sense of purpose and joy?

For me, the arts are the home I revisit to recover after a long, tiring day. They are a gift given to me by the Heavens — one that allows me to appreciate the life I was given and to form a tight bond with my grandma and other creatives. Through the arts, one soul can show itself raw and unapologetic; to heal others and be healed by others. It is the one thing we can truly call our own, as our arts are carefully crafted with our own experiences, thoughts, and lessons learned. It is our way of presenting our deepest and truest selves to the world, leaving a piece of us behind for the world to remember when we are long gone. There is no right or wrong because to invalidate one’s art is almost to invalidate one’s existence.

If the sciences keep the world moving forward, the arts keep us here in the now, what makes us human through the experience of sharing emotions, stories, and pieces of ourselves. The arts and sciences are yin and yang, the alpha and omega, two flip sides of a coin. One cannot exist without the other, for there is science in art and art in science.

Dear Dead Arts: I breathe life into you once again, just as you have poured life unto me. Breathe again. Reclaim your power. Live another Renaissance. May you forever paint in color, sing in crescendoing harmony, dance with the flow of poetry and hymns, write with magic and spirit. All things must come to an end, but you live so long as we breathe. ■