Free I Love a Broad Margin to My Life by Maxine Hong Kingston Page A

Crucifix.
    Chinese viewers will read personal
    messages, and political messages. And the government
    read forbidden messages, and the artists get
    into trouble. And what is that above the door,
    the kiva, hogan door? Eagle, you are here.
    Bear, you are here. Bear, protector
    of journeys west. Dragonfly, you
    here too. And Snake. And Coyote, you,
    here. And Zia, sun and sipapu.
    Kokopelli on flute. Whirling Logs,
    like Buddha’s hairs, like swastikas.
    All bordered by beansprouts, river
    waves, whirlwind. And the threshold
    lintelpiece itself border, land
    bridge, rainbow. “Nicolai Fechin,”
    say the artists. “Nicolai Ivanovich Fechin.”
    They name the woodcarver who made this icon,
    and placed it at this threshold, that we be
    aware coming in and going out that
    we, people and animals, migrated across the top
    of the world. They came our way; we
    went their way. All connected with all,
    all related. The rain stops. The painter
    with the purple beard motions Come come,
    and leads the way through the mud to his home
    and studio. “Nicolai Ivanovich Fechin.…”
    They stand before a wet oil. The paint
    wet but also a river rushing, mud, and men,
    men drowning? mouths wide open
    crying Help? No, they are cheering and
    laughing—Eureka! The pan is full of gold!
    They—Chinese American Forty-Niners—
    fall into the gold-giving water,
    and roll in it. In joy. In fear. O,
    Comrade of Californians! You we left
    behind know and care what became of us
    who went to Gold Mountain and never returned.
    O, Artist. Draw
me. See
me.
    Show me beautiful, old. “Draw
you
,”
    says Purple Beard. Dui. Dui. Dui.
    So, for long sessions of time, the wanderer
    holds still as the artist draws and paints him.
    The artist looks and looks, squinting his eyes,
    to see everything, what’s there, the visible,
    and what’s not visible, only he can see.
    Suddenly, at a break, at a meal, Purple Beard’s
    face comes up close to Wittman’s
    face. He’s studying my profile.
    Tonight by electric light, the left profile;
    this morning the right profile, the 3
    quarters profile, the angles the eyelids
    open and shut, the ear, the other ear,
    the hairline, the texture and many colors
    of hair and skin, the lines, the creases. Eyes
    asquinch, he’s studying me, breathing, smelling me.
    He hasn’t begun the actual painting, won’t
    begin until he’s made studies and decisions.
    Here, let’s work in the courtyard,
    the light from the north. No, let’s go
    indoors, this house, the light
    from the south. The artist faces the sitter,
    looks and draws, draws and looks, and one
    day decides: Fullface. Good.
    The face I myself looked at every
    morning first thing back in the life
    where bathrooms had mirrors. Full on. I, the writer,
    look in the mirror more than the normal person.
    To know my mien.
Mien
same-same
    Chinese, English. To track and trace
    momently changes. That’s me, still good-
    looking. But can’t hold any one
    expression for long. Hold it, and you freeze up.
    Think upon looks, and that vanity shows.
    Try method acting. For lovingkindness
    in the eyes, look upon the other lovingly,
    kindly. Purple Beard works without
    talk, can’t understand him anyway,
    makes you quiet down yourself, likewise
    be without talk. Be Nobody. He’s
    making an idol of me, admiring, adoring me so.
    Lately, Taña doesn’t draw her husband,
    doesn’t use her art on him. Doesn’t give him
    her artist’s interest, regard him, record him, behold
    him, find beauty in him. She disdains “narration.”
    She paints lines and spaces like calligraphy
    that’s not words. She can’t stand Frida Kahlo—
    “Too much narrative. Too much pain.”
    All the way to China to get appreciation.
    Taña would love it here, among this commune
    of artists. No, no, she wouldn’t. She
    wouldn’t live like these girls. Bicycling
    away rain or shine to run an errand
    for her artist. Coming back with cigarettes, food
    supplies, art supplies, coal, wood,
    money. They aren’t so