Little Bits of Tenderness

Little bits of tenderness by Jake Yang- Catalogue writing by Chris Jaksa

 

This is Jake Yang’s world. We’re just living in it.“Attention is the beginning of devotion”, writes Mary Oliver in her collection of essays, Upstream. I’m probably more qualified to comment on literary art than visual, but what I do know is that Jake’s artistic practice is grounded in the art of attention. Attention to detail, to light and shadow. Attention to the world around him, and to the world inside of him. His practice is often centred on the intersection between aspects of his identity — blending elements of Chinese and queer cultures. In this exhibition, we see that play out in familiar imagery from Chinese art traditions, modified to evoke a certain femininity: clouds, rendered delicately in pink, puffy fabric. In his still life painting, depicting a cluttered nightstand, we catch an intimate glimpse into the artist’s inner world, laying bare his private space in its raw, unposed authenticity.

 

Through his portrait work, we are invited to witness the fabric of a queer relationship through the artist’s perspective. We see the subject from his profile, from above, from behind, from a distance. There is an intimacy, a vulnerability, to this perspective, and something of a spontaneity — indicative of those small, ordinary moments spent with someone you love. Stepping back for a moment, observing them in their candidness, their everyday beauty. One of Jake’s strongest capabilities as an artist is to capture this moment — and more than that, this feeling, this intimacy — to pin it down, to seal it in oil paint, to preserve it.

 

The natural world is also integral to the texture of Jake’s world — evoking a sense of tranquillity, of nature as a safe space, a sacred space, where tenderness can blossom like wildflowers.

 

But what I think is most interesting about this exhibition is the question of framing — how our world is framed by these little bits of tenderness. Arrows pin a canvas to the wall, eliciting images of cupid, and a pink ribbon frames the subject’s head — both further nods to femininity and tenderness in queer male culture. The subject, elsewhere, surrounded by the lush green of a field; elsewhere, a forest — the painting overflowing onto the frame that contains it, covering the hard edges with soft brush strokes. And isn’t that what tenderness does? Paints over the hard edges of our days with its softness. Encompasses the people we love. Pins us to this world, to each other. Wraps itself around us, like a ribbon.

 

It is through the art of attention that we notice these little details, these little bits of tenderness — like finding tiny, delicate wildflowers in a field, crouching to pick them. And if you’re like Jake, or Mary — if the work of your life is rooted in this noticing, this paying attention — eventually, I think, you end up devoting yourself to it, and it becomes the framework of your life. And your life, in turn, just grows even more tender. As tender as the cushions of clouds. As tender as the green field, the safe space. As tender as the face of someone you love.

 

Chris Jaksa