The Wuwei Mind of Ink - Greenwald Reception

Last Saturday, May 29, Wayne and I went to a café in Arlington to get some

work done. After ordering and sitting down, Wayne asked me for the

restroom code. Without thinking, I blurted out "1024" The coffee shop had

installed a lock a few months earlier, and we had only used it once before.

As Wayne walked away, I pulled out my memoir that I had recently written

and turned to the section where October 24 was printed in black ink (p9).

When Wayne returned to the table, I turned my laptop screen toward him. I

had typed in a single word: synchronicity. The term was coined by Carl

Jung, the legendary psychiatrist who bridged science and spirituality

through his deep studies of dreams and human archetypes. Synchronicity,

in short, is the idea that two completely unrelated events can collide in time,

carrying a profound, symbolic meaning for the person experiencing them.

Out of curiosity, I googled Carl Jung’s profile. He was born in 1875 and died

on June 6, 1961, which means... today, at this exact moment, marks the

65th anniversary of his passing.

The realization hit me like a wave. Weeks ago, when Steve—and thank

you, Steve, for your incredible help—asked me what date I wanted to host

the reception for this show... out of all the possibilities on the calendar, I

chose June 6th.

Sitting in that café, typing away, I suddenly felt the air fill with the presence

of my father. You literally cannot make this up. If you wrote this into a

fiction, critics would laugh you out of the room. But Carl Jung didn't call it

fiction. He called it a “meaningful coincidence”

In contrast, the world-renowned Vietnamese spiritual leader, Thích Nhất

Hạnh, challenged this. He warned against trying to assign “superstitious

and cosmic” meanings to random, daily occurrences. He believed we

should just accept things as they are. But sometimes... I find these

incidents simply too telling to ignore.

The artworks exhibited at the Metal Museum in Memphis last year left a

profound impression on me. I found the most impactful pieces were those

that completely abandoned realism—though I cannot deny the beauty of

the realistic crane, or how life-like and intimidating the lion was. Still, it was

the sheer weightiness and darkness of the metal that spoke to me,

prompting me to rekindle the ink experiments of my high school days. This

exhibition marked the exact moment I began to explore abstractionism

seriously. And that brings me to my book. I'd like to read a short section

about how my father influenced me (p6-7).

When my “Wuwei” mind inspired me to create these unusual images on

paper, they came out looking quite unconventional—completely “out of

line.” For a short time, I felt uncomfortable in this new artistic territory, even

thinking to myself, “I must be the crazy one.”

But then, Wayne and I stayed at an elegant hotel in the heart of Alexandria,

Virginia. There, carefully curated ink artworks formed the very soul of the

space. The sheer fluidity of those pieces captured the hotel's essence—a

continuous loop where intangible culture and tangible professionalism

meet. Those artworks spoke to me like a long-lost zhījǐ—a true kindred

spirit. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t crazy after all. It was the best

validation I could find.

Physical things have rigid boundaries. For them to interact, they require

strict physical parameters and direct, enabling connections. By those laws,

it would be impossible for my dad to be all over a café setting tens of

thousands of miles away, forty-two years after his death. Only the mind can

conceptualize and bridge that immense physical gap. As you look around

this gallery today, you will notice that some of the exhibited pieces do not

dictate a specific scene. Instead, they hold a space and purposefully avoid

literal forms to allow your mind to wander freely—inviting you to search

your own memory for your own unique version of what the titles suggest,

such as Summer and Autumn.

To share another example of these “meaningful coincidences,” I’ll read a

short passage about my maternal grandmother, looking back to 1970 when

she took my brother and me under her wings. (p13-14).

And finally, I’d like to show you a scene from Lifeline Sweet Potatoes,

where members of the production team distributed their harvested crop. It

offers a brief glimpse into the power of improvisation and survival during

the hardest of times. (p64-65).

Humans began making art in caves and on cliffs tens of thousands of years

ago. The early artists were safe and idle enough to record their lives using

the rocks and clay offered by their immediate surroundings, all while being

protected by their tribe. The tribe that provides me with that same

protection is my spouse, and the family he brought into my life. Without

them, it would not have been possible for me to pick up a brush, to write, to

sharpen my skills, and to create the work I show you today. Thank you for

being here today! -KWS