Guest Post, Matthew Felix Sun: Unlikely (Anti-)Heroes as Artists

As an artist, I am naturally drawn to literature depicting artists: historical or fictional, painters, sculptors, composers, writers, and craftsmen of all trades. I am drawn to their struggles for inspiration and perfection of execution, to their achievements or failures, and to their intriguing techniques.

There have been some fine examples of fiction that depicts the foremost artists of their time. Perhaps the best known, recent novel in this category is Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier, on the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer. Other works in this vein include As Above, So Below by Rudy Rucker (Pieter Brueghel), Rembrandt: A Novel by Gladys Schmitt, and The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone (Michelangelo).

Opening windows to fascinating worlds or processes of beloved artists, these fictions prove endlessly engaging; if there are any shortcomings, perhaps they lie in the authors’ attempts to present the broad historical fabric in which an artist was active, which sometimes interferes with dramatic arc or character development.

Those who seek more uninhibited imaginations might turn to novels on fictional creative characters, especially those engaged in unique and unforgettable trades; or even more fascinating, to books on well-known real-life or mythical figures not previously associated with any artistic ambitions or endeavors.

Recently, I have read several books in that last category, which have inspired this post. They were Oedipus on the Road by Henry Bauchau, Darker Muses: The Poet Nero by Dezső Kosztolányi, and Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind.

In Bauchau’s retelling, the exiled, blind Oedipus, accompanied by his daughter Antigone, embarks on a spiritual cleansing and a journey in pursuit of self-discovery. Oedipus launches an improbable career as a sculptor, culminating in sculpting a huge relief of wave on a cliff.

Oedipus started modestly by moulding clay figures or carving branches, giving his creations poetic names such as “The Stone’s First Smile” or “There is a Spring”. He soon fixated on a cliff and was determined to reveal the waves that he perceived, despite or perhaps because of his blindness, beneath the stone surface.  He installed himself “at the top of the headland,” listened to “the waves crashing against the cliffs and the cry of the seabirds. … something has begun to open up inside him and periodically the sea appears in all its fullness, yearning for him to abandon himself to it or be consumed by it.”

“Sometimes he slips and cuts his hands. It is almost a pleasure to mark the cliff with his blood for the wave is there as well as within him.”

He carved one oarswoman, modeled on his daughter Antigone “how Oedipus sees her, how he wants her to see herself”, “a vibrant, determined beauty, suffused with confidence,” while Antigone carved another oarsman as Oedipus, “as he was before that time, the savage boy – conqueror and victor”, without blemish and relieved of his fate.

His struggle was mighty and meaningful.

On the overhanging rock the wave curves back, twisting under the pressure of its own weight and falls, as Oedipus wanted it to, plunging back into the sea.

The wave, dark at its base, becoming lighter as it rises, spring up out of the sea. … Nothing can stand up to it. It is about to fall back into the vast trough but the boat gets there first and uses the power of the wave and the gap it has created to project itself forwards … guided towards the port by the blind man of the sea, … sending out a message of hope to all sailors.

Kosztolányi’s Nero, soon after his ascendency to the Roman throne, suffered from a feeling of purposelessness in life. His mentor, the poet Seneca, unwisely turned his attention to poetry. Consequently, the talentless yet committed young emperor “himself had no idea how or why it happened, but suddenly he began to write. Line after line he wrote, Greek hexameters which flowed precisely. But upon reading them aloud, he began to feel less confident. He weighed the lines in his mind, tested them, made corrections. Now his mood was black and desperate like that of a murderer aiming himself for an ominous deed for which, should he fail, he must pay with his life.”

He wrote and re-wrote and invited critiques from Seneca, a seasoned courtier, who praised Nero’s efforts and cemented the emperor’s ambition and self-confidence, which outstripped his artistic self-doubt. Eventually, however, the populace came to see Nero’s banal efforts as buffoonery and travesty, the insecure poet-emperor became intolerant, and so commenced his downfall.

In contrast to the sculptor-king and the poet-emperor, the protagonist in Süskind’s Perfume was an orphan without status, but engaged in an unusual artistic career. The young Grenouille, endowed with extraordinary olfactory sense, installed himself in a struggling Parisian master-perfumer’s workshop, and invented countless superior perfumes for his master while perfecting his own skills.

The scent of his first perfume for the master, “was so heavenly fine that tears welled into Baldini’s eyes. He did not have to test it, he simply stood at the table in front of the mixing bottle and breathed. The perfume was glorious. … It was something completely new, capable of creating a whole world, a magical, rich world, and in an instant you forgot all the loathsomeness around you and felt so rich, as at ease, so free, so fine. …”

Grenouille’s dream was to capture and preserve a most glorious scent of a young girl he encountered. “But of course this unique scent could not be used in a raw state. He must set it like the most precious gemstone. He must design a diadem of scent, and at its sublime acme, intertwined with the other scents and yet ruling over them, his scent would gleam. He would make a perfume using all the precepts of the art, and the scent of the girl behind the wall would be the very soul of it.”

In his obsessive efforts to obtain similar scents, he would steal toward a series of muses/victims and hammer them to death, suddenly and instantaneously, before fear could interfere with their wondrous virginal scents.

Then, he would seal the body with scent-absorbing oiled-linen, “not a slit, not a hole, not one bulging pleat was left through which the girl’s scent could have escaped. She was perfectly packed. There was nothing to do but wait, for six hours, until the gray of dawn.”

Grenouille fulfilled his artistic dream, creating the most glorious scent out of his fine, gruesome collections. Yet, due to his personal flaw — he was without a scent himself, therefore, in his own mind, without any presence, and meaningless — he used the angelic scent he created to lure a crowd of people, in a fit of mad love, to consume him — literally, in a horrifying orgy of cannibalism.

These fables demonstrate artistic struggle in multiple ways, with successfully realized art or not. All point to the conclusion that abandonment, total commitment, obsession, and being possessed — even bleeding for one’s art — is the prerequisite for artistic fulfillment.

As a painter, I have experience many artistic struggles: for inspiration, to execute my ideas, to succeed in the frustrating business of marketing. I have also worked on pieces featuring creative characters — painters, musicians, dancers, or sculptors — finding myself drawn to sympathize with these characters, and to empathize with their struggle as my own. But to do justice to my figures’ inspirations and struggles has not been easy. Due to the limitations of painting and drawing media, my works were the visualization of only momentary snapshots of artistic processes, without the deep analyses and temporal unfolding that novels are able to render.

One of my paintings, titled Encounter, is an interesting case in point. It depicts a young man, in a nocturnal light, meeting a bronze bust of a young boy. A wave of emotions reveal themselves through the young man’s posture and facial expressions. The subject can be seen as a sculptor who unexpectedly sees his creation in a new light, or the Muse facing a creation he inspired. In the single moment depicted in the painting, the artist/muse was possessed by the creation.

Indeed, the key for an artist to succeed is to be possessed!

Encounter Oil on Canvas 36" x 48" Completed in 2001 © Matthew Felix Sun
Oil on Canvas
36″ x 48″
Completed in 2001
© Matthew Felix Sun

Guest Post, Matthew Felix Sun: Literature Inspired Paintings

The creative worlds of words and images, though not mutually exclusive, are distinct enough to form two vastly different domains. Most artists would not dip into both pools. But with equal passion for images and for words, I have often oscillated between these two modes of expression. At the same time, understanding that the era of Renaissance Men is long past, I knew I must choose between them. I have been gratified to discover how, even in choosing the visual arts, the boundary painting and literature is not absolute. I have often found that these two worlds rub against each other in surprising ways.

I am drawn as a fine artist to peer over the fence into the literary world by discontent with my medium of choice, or with my ability to utilize it to express myself fully. The medium or media we choose to convey our deepest feelings and expressions, however rich, can never fully convey the mystery of our imagination. Hence the endless striving to develop and grow as an artist, be it visual, musical, or in the medium of words.

The Known World

One form of artistic creation often inspires re-interpretation in another medium, perhaps of a whole story, perhaps of a fleeting moment. The motivation is not necessarily to prove a better job of expression can be done; rather, it is to add another dimension to the engaging concept, in hope of complementing the original.

I have been stimulated sometimes by the whole atmosphere of a novel, such as Blindness by José Saramago; other times by a specific passage which may not even be pivotal in the larger scheme of a narrative, such as my newly completed oil painting, Arabesque, inspired by a passage from The Known World by Edward P. Jones:  … looked over at the open chiffarobe [sic], whose door was broken and so would never close properly, looked at the black dress hanging there. It seemed to have its own life, so much life that it could have come down and walked over and placed itself over her body. Fastened itself.

Matthew Felix Sun

 Arabesque, Oil on Canvas, 28″x22″, 2013

I was stirred by the passage and the image I painted soon after reading it flooded into my mind. Incidentally, this painting also fell into a long-developing scheme of mine: I have been working on a series of “White Dresses“, which I see as both liberated and restricted objects, at once individual and impersonal, simultaneously beautiful and sinister. Now I have been inspired to start a companion series of “Black Dresses“.


The Tin Drum

Looking back to my paintings inspired by literature, Grandma (2003) remains my most powerful creation. This canvas was inspired by a few scattered descriptions in The Tin Drum (Die Blechtrommel) by Günter Grass, of the protagonist’s peasant grandmother at various phases of her long life: her many layers of skirts, her peeling potatoes, the heated bricks she used to keep warm by placing them, again, underneath her layers of skirts.

Grandma by Matthew Felix Sun

 Grandma, Oil on Canvas, 40″x30″, 2003

The Tin Drum also moved me to create another painting with his depiction of a nightmarish book burning by the Nazis. In this painting, The Devil’s Dance, the archaic scroll with the proclamation of “Faith, Hope, and Love” is intended to echo the perverse scene in the book.

Devils' Dance

The Devils’ Dance, Oil on Canvas, 30″x48″, 2004


My painting Blindness, based on José Saramago’s eponymous masterpiece, (originally in Portuguese: Ensaio sobre a cegueira, directly translated as Essay on Blindness), didn’t depict any particular passage of the book; rather, I tried to capture a sense of displacement and bewilderment that pervades Saramago’s novel.Blindness by Matthew Felix Sun

Blindness, Oil on Canvas, 36″x48″, 2006


Similarly, the atmospheric novel, The Bells of Bruges (Le Carillonneur) by George Rodenbach led me through the unforgettable medieval city of Bruges, Belgium, enriched by my wonderful memory of meandering through the narrow cobblestone streets several years before I read Rodenbach’s book. Revisiting Bruges through this novel moved me to try to capture the stillness of a city frozen in the past, while underneath its calm, as in any living place, the unquenchable quest for  life’s essence  surged.   Nothing was more present than the lifeblood of history.

Bruges by Matthew Felix Sun

Bruges, Impression, Oil on Canvas, 24″x30″, 2009


Now, back to the specific. I responded strongly to a passage in Europe Central by William T. Vollmann:

Have you ever seen an injured bird at the seashore? Here come crabs from nowhere – they wait under the sand – and ring it round, cautiously at first, before you know it, the first crab has leapt onto the broken wing and pinched off a morsel. The bird struggles, but here come other crabs in a rush.

For me, this passage summarized the helplessness of Europe during World War II, which, viewed through a historical magnifier, distilled the essence of human suffering.

Siege by Matthew Felix Sun

Siege, Oil on Canvas, 18″x24″, 2010

Below is a video compilation of these paintings and their respective inspirations: