Don't worry, I feel full when you eat
Rice bags, newspaper stuffing, recycled wool, ceramic bowl, rice
In any culture, in any loving relationship, we naturally become selfless. Like many 2nd generation immigrants, I am constantly reminded of my privilege through the history of the generations directly before me. The generations which travelled to unknown lands, hoping to find better opportunities away from home which would enable them to improve the quality of their own life and their living and future families. Of course, I could not have known true scarcity and hunger like them, I have only benefitted from their past courage to seek greener pastures.
Growing up to know food as their love language - expressed most clearly when you are gifted with the tastiest, most expensive, most-difficult-to-come-by piece, at the expense of their restraint. A great sacrifice, rewarded with my inadequate mix of gratitude and guilt. How could I possibly be grateful enough, knowing that theirs was the days of scarcity, rationing and the great famine. A scar that is still newly pink, one whose origin I have to learn about from the dramatic accounts of the few that make it into books, because most families refuse to talk about it. They'll brush you off; what's the point of digging up painful history, when things are so much better now? The only thing worth talking about is the present, constantly geared towards the future. But as always, I remain divided.
Nowadays, comfortably settled in our developed country ways, we view white rice as cheap and abundant - a quick shop at the local grocery store that you can always depend on for plenty. But you'd be wrong, our lives are so oversaturated with abundance that we have to actively remind ourselves that most of our food would have much greater impact far away from this entitled country. Am I being oversensitive when I see strangers, acquaintances, friends, family thoughtlessly send half of their food to the bin? How can they not see the incredible fortune in their bowl, the incomprehensible value?
The body of the piece is formed by rice bags which have been emptied and consumed by my family. It's worth noting that I did not have to specifically buy rice for this work; these sacks had always been carefully kept and stored by my father over the years. Whether his frugality is a personality trait or a leftover survival mechanism is not for me to know, but the result is the same. These hollow husks, removed of the once abundant rice, has now replaced with crumpled newspapers and air. Fed with the temporary substance of constant change, supposedly urgent but empty words. However, what could be more urgent than the task of feeding this ravenous body? Instead, this weak body that can no longer support itself, offers its own rice in a bowl, to you, the loved ones, the future. The standing chopsticks, a classic faux-pas, is just a fleeting symbol for you - the 3 sticks of incense to honour the dead.
2024
