When the airplane which started from Beijing was landing at Kennedy International airport as the sun set, I realized that I had arrived at a very new place -- totally different from the places I had ever known before. Here, I would start my new life, almost like a child, from the beginning. At Alfred, I have had to learn many things for the first time. At the university, the faculty has different ideas and advice for graduate students; sometimes, these made me confused. It felt as if I were steering my ship in the ocean – so easy to be lost, by myself. But all the faculty here at Alfred have one thing in common----they all try their best to help me see my road ahead, while at the same time teaching me how to steer my own ship in the billowy ocean; they are dedicated to teaching me how to get where I want to go.

　　When I first arrived in this new environment of Alfred, I felt that every thing was different from what I was used to before. Because of our different cultural paradigms, my fellow students, faculty, even townspeople, and I could not understand each other in depth at all. This particular, and often frustrating, situation turned out to have two positive results. First, I put more energy and hope into my work, and I worked consciously very hard to use my work to better communicate with other people. In other words, the limitations I experienced with the spoken language helped me get a better understanding of the language of materials, such as textures and forms. Second, the cultural and linguistic shocks I experienced became my inspiration. Unable to blend comfortably with the American culture, I was easily distracted, and I daydreamed instead of engaging with others. Sometimes, I watched everything that was happening outside my window: the blue sky, clouds, trees, birds, buildings, people walking down the street, and so on. Gradually, I lost myself in this kind of intense observation; I forgot the time and everything else around me as I became totally immersed in my wild imagination where so many things unrelated to each other, even in conflict with each other, came together. I know these imaginary thoughts are not true, but they present themselves as beautiful images and fantastic, exciting stories present in my mind at the moment. My work, my conscious art work, is a response to my intuition and my imagination which live beyond my conscious thinking—and which do not conform to a narrative design or descriptive analysis. I try to create work that will hold on to these intuitive feelings – my desire, tensions, happiness – feelings that happen at the moment, that express things not really real in the physical world known through the senses, but real in my imagination.

　　In certain ways, my work makes references to architecture. When I was a child, I liked drawing architectural designs, but mostly, I drew our house over and over. When I moved later to go to school in Beijing and now in Alfred, I always keep the memory of the physical places where I lived foremost in my memory – places that signify home, safety, warmth. I’ve never stopped drawing the places where I live, each one different in its own way. When I see architectural features that I have known before, I immediately recall those memory-filled places where I’ve lived. Architectural elements in my sculptures speak about home and memory.

　　Figure exists in my work by means of symbols. My work is constructed using human heads and shoulders that resemble busts. In a way, these works still bring to mind the self-portraits I did first, but it is not important whether they refer to me or not. I try to bring feelings into these human heads, feelings that suggest intelligence and a long history of connection to human history. I make heads and shoulders stacked on top of each other to suggest the thread of civilization, the course of human history in time, the way things develop and change – these heads, in fact, represent growth and change over time.

　　In my work, I try to capture the look and feel of the landscape in the misty time just before sunrise. I like walking between trees when the fog makes the scene very blurry and indistinct. I can feel the mystery, deep enough to make the whole world feel transformed. It feels as if the trees are breathing too. I am inspired by that feeling at that moment and try to capture it in my work. I give up trying to make every detail perfectly clear, while purposely not revealing too much. That feeling of breathability, of air passing through and around things, is important to me.

　　There are four basic characteristics embedded in my work. The first is form or shape -- in other words, the most basic sense of shape which constructs the sculpture. Different shapes have particular meanings and feelings. For example, a ball gives us the feeling of softness, roundness, sensuousness. A box, in contrast, gives us a feeling of hardness, sharp angles, and so on. I try to make the basic shapes of my work simple and clear. The head, for example, is a sphere, a round form; the shoulder is an angular shape, a triangle. There is a conflict between the soft curves of the head and the angularity of the shoulders. I make these different shapes in order to create a tension between soft and hard. I simultaneously try to make my work give a feeling of rhythmic movement, like music, related to the different sizes of the heads.

　　The entire piece, taken as a whole, is symmetrical. I think of symmetry as a means to bring an aesthetic to the viewer and also as a way to express balance and harmony. These tensions between soft and hard, smooth and angular, are parts of the language of 3-dimensionality that speak of balance and harmony.

　　Second in importance is space. Space reveals how the piece occupies multiple spatial dimensions. In my work, I always try to create a feeling of space -- big space. For example, the shoulder of the head I am working on extends transversely, so a large space is created “reading” from left to right on both sides of the head itself. At the same time, I compress certain spaces such as that between the nose and the mouth so that the form can be seen more easily as a whole. I also actively make interesting the negative or “empty” space around the ceramic forms stacked vertically starting from large forms at the base to small ones at the top. This positive/negative, yin/yang arrangement suggests two pieces rather than one, which creates more visually stimulating, dramatic patterns – and a way for the work to breathe.

　　Third, weight is a very important factor in my work. Weight suggests power, strength, durability. I like marble figures which are so heavy and impossible to move easily. Although my sculptures are hollow inside, I want them to convey that feeling of weight, like solid stone.

　　Finally, I pay close attention to the contours – profile and outline – in my work. When we see something far away or in the dark or fog, we can’t see details, but we can get information about the form from its contour lines which express a kind of feeling-of-the-whole. These contours, both around the clay and around the air, create shapes of their own which are meaningful to me as I try to create a connection with architecture.

　　The material I choose to work with is low-fired earthenware, a clay body that suggests the softness and warmth of earth. My work is slab-built with textures I make to refer to those found in nature. After I have formed the head or shoulders, I use my hand to push hard on the inside of the slab in order to make cracks similar in appearance to the bark of an old tree, a tree that has known time, had a lot of experience, and held onto its power and strength. Such dry, rough, and deep corrugations also suggest the texture of roof tiles which I know from China and also now from Alfred.

　　Scale is important to my work, which I want to have a monumental, yet approachable feeling. The height of the stack is usually taller than humans, but not by too much. The heads, for instance, taper from larger-than-life sized to smaller which, I hope, encourages the viewer to communicate with the piece without being overwhelmed. Stacking creates the idea of certain architectural forms such as a pagoda or the triangular gabled roofs of Alfred.

　　For me, raku firing is the most exciting part of the process – the part that makes clay become ceramics. I love the uncertainty of it. The colors are never flat or monochrome, but rather soft, rough, and dry. I love the immediacy of raku which gives results so quickly. I work fast and am eager to see what the fire contributes. Impossible to control precisely, raku creates colors, streaks, and variations that I always find exciting. I never tire of raku which inspires hope and fantasy.

　　The process of raku firing is thrilling too: I hug the big, hot piece and lift it from the kiln and then put it into a big bucket. It is dangerous, I know, but I feel a sense of adventure. I am in close contact with the fire and the good-smelling smoke. I can fire several kilns in a day which is exhausting but exhilarating at the same time.

　　Raku is both common and grand. Some feel it is simple, even easy: just fire the piece in an oxidizing atmosphere, take it out when it reaches a certain temperature, and then put it into reduction. Actually, raku is difficult and complicated. There are many variables that can affect the outcome. These factors may look simple and unimportant, but in reality, they are essential to know and well worth learning.

　　Most of my work is bisqued at cone 08, then glazed, and fired in a pure oxidation atmosphere. Wearing gloves, I lift out the piece by hand and put it into the reducing atmosphere of the bucket. I use hay or a mix of damp hay and newspaper for reduction. My work requires a heavy reduction in order for a lot of smoke to be sucked into the deep surface cracks in the clay. I need to control time as much as possible in every step of the raku process. Temperatures inside and out of the kiln are also important as is the amount of water needed to cool the piece down. Raku requires experimentation and trying to get better and better control over small matters, not big ones. Raku reminds me of a Chinese story that says a novice uses a very sharp sword at first, but as he gains mastery, he is able to use just his hands.

　　Glaze colors have special meaning to me. I use the colors of autumn in Alfred, my favorite season, full of color memories. When the leaves turn from green to red and yellow, I like to drive on country roads to admire the landscape. I arrived in Alfred in the fall, so my first impression includes the colors of the leaves and hillsides. When I began using raku, I was astonished and thrilled to see the colors on my work reflecting the colors of the autumn scenery all around me in my new home.

　　Time has moved on so quickly! Now, I have almost graduated; very soon, I will walk out of the door of graduate school. I will steer my ship of dreams toward new oceans, as I face more long journeys. Then, no faculty will be here to help me any more, but I have learned how to navigate on my own during the past two years. It is time now to face new challenges. No matter how difficult and dangerous the ocean ahead, I will try my best to steer my ship of dreams with confidence -- full speed ahead.

Hongwei write in Alfred

March, 2007