Like most people I was curious about the artwork so I visited the Fuhong Society. The artwork there was incredibly honest. Their creations filled me with a real sense of joy. I was almost taken aback at how easily they allowed me to see their heart of hearts. Since that first visit, I have been returning, and each time with more and more friends.

Of all the people there, one person stands out in my mind. Y is an autistic savant. He can write large phrases of hollowed text incredibly quickly without lifting the pen and can hastily memorize songs he likes. He can answer questions like, "what day of the week was the 20th of June in 1993?" "Sunday!” His answers are fast and accurate. "How about the 1st of August, 1979?", "Wednesday," he responds without the need to think or calculate.

There is another boy named L, who sits in the same place everyday and works quietly with clay to sculpt Fuhong’s mascot "Ah Hong". Each of his hand-made clay works is no bigger than my little finger. “Ah Hong” has seven strands of hair which represent the colors of the rainbow. Each strand is the same thickness and length. L has created hundreds, possibly thousands, of "Ah Hong" clay dolls. Some have heart-shaped mouths, some are smiling and some wink at you... each one with a different personality.

There are many others at Fuhong, most of which work contently at their own desk. Sometimes, they look at me curiously. When we make eye contact, they laugh and wave. When we respond with a nod, they react very cheerfully and although only at a table’s distance away, they’re very friendly and keep on waving. Some of the artists were enthusiastic to show us their hand-made crafts. And although a barrier may sometimes impede their words, their sincerity is crystal clear and very touching.

Here in Macau, we, as the so-called “normal” people, are living a life more comfortable and convenient than any neighboring city. However, every day we compete over vanities like materialistic gain, social ranking, salaries, superfluous desires and other meaningless things.
This small workshop, much like a hidden paradise, revealed to us the existence of wonderfully talented and dedicated people. They are pushed to their potential without struggle, but instead with gentle encouragement and warmth.

The Fuhong Society of Macau established the "Creative Corner" in September of 2010. This centre is designed for the mentally handicapped and those that have overcome mental illness. It provides art and music lessons to encourage self-expression. Here, the simple yet uninhibited artwork will amaze you. Simply writing about this institute however does not do it justice. Please support Fuhong and experience its uplifting environment for yourself.

Once, I curiously asked how the instructors teach at Fuhong. An instructor replied tersely: "Give them pens, colors and paper, or the photos and pictures to imitate, and let them interpret the drawing in their own way. What they draw is certainly out of our imagination! The most important thing is that their attitudes are really much better than before. "

One of the artworks was painted according to a photo of Mattis. When I saw it, I couldn’t help but crack a knowing smile: Mattis’ face was composed by contrasting pink, green and dark brown; a blue and dark green background with a red plaid jacket. Lastly, the painter used black to outline the blocks of color to complete the painting. Ironically, this use of color and layout was just like Mattis’ style. In his lifetime, he tried to pursue the innocence and directness of painting. I believe this programs has helped expose the talents of those at the Fuhong Society, letting them show their hidden skills to the world. Through their efforts, they have made their own music group, produced some beautiful art, and even hosted their own exhibition.

Some people say: "When God closes a door, he opens a window." In our society, we live an increasingly mechanized urban lifestyle. We are losing the patience to tolerate difference. Every day we rush from one doorway to another, and when we can no longer see an open passage we feel trapped at the road’s end, but this is not the case. The people of the Fuhong Society, like a mirror, reflect the strength and tenacity of the human spirit.

May proposed that I visit the exhibit on the second floor of the Ox-warehouse. It was a solo exhibition of a Korean artist named Kim Soo Nim. Actually the exhibition space was very small, but its size did not take away from the “Stone” themed atmosphere. The room contained a great stone surround that encompassed whomever stepped inside. They graduated towards rays of light that shined in through a window. One by one, the stones were gently placed in descending order of its size and as I drew closer, I began to understand the artist’s motivation. Each stone was tied to a rope hung from the ceiling. The placement of the stones seemed random but gave the impression of fated entropy. Some laid peacefully on the floor, some as if ready to sprint; charged with potential motion. There were stones which rested in stasis, hovering in the air as if trying to escape the world’s grip. It reminded me of the vexing intricacy of a loom. It was as if the stones were trapped within a mesh of lines and each line was of Kim Soo Nim’s palm. This beauty lied in subtlety… and even for a man deaf to the world’s nuances, this dialogue of nature could be heard.

I slowly sat down. The setting sun combined my shadow with those of the stones and lines… we sat silently in the breeze, listening tentatively. Silence truly was golden.
 

Every day at twelve noon sharp, everybody sat around the radio waiting for the upcoming program – a story-telling program featuring just one man. It was a one-man show, in which classical Chinese novels were related. One followed after the other.

In those days, this was a very popular program for both children and adults as we lived in an era with few resources and a lack of varied entertainment. This was our greatest amusement before our afternoon siesta. Under the burning sunshine, the voice of the story teller would flutter onto the street, accompanied, meanwhile, by one or two ringing bells from passing bicycles. Among all of the ancient novels, “Journey to the West” impressed me the most, as it was the one I could really understand.

At that time, the story teller was the big star for us, although no-one saw him personally. He was just a voice. Of course, it was not a simple task for him as he had to play many roles but somehow he could pretend to be Tang monk (Tripitaka), then Sun Wu-k'ung (The monkey king), Chu Pa-chieh (Pigsy) and Sha Wu-ching (Friar Sandy), and later, he would become the Buddha, afterwards the Bodhisattva Guānyīn, of course, and the images of numerous sprites, elves and goblins were also provided by his lone voice. Paying attention for a whole hour to so many different voices, the audience could not count the times he must have gone through schizophrenia. All of a sudden, at the finish of every program, people were awoken by his real voice, which always asked us: “Want to know what’s going to happen next?” And then it told us “Please listen to the next chapter.”

We grew up unconsciously with this extraordinary voice: suddenly high, suddenly low, sometimes as a man but later as a lady. On our own road now, things no longer happen like other people’s stories which we simply listened to as children. During this present journey, we have to experience and appreciate the differences in the life by ourselves, regardless of the consequences.

Now I have met “Journey to the West” again in written form. It is delightful to encounter these favorable characters again in the ancient novels. We recognize each other as old friends and it has disclosed its best kept secrets as well as its more obvious characteristics.

Want to know what is going to happen next? Please read “On the road to Tianzhu”.
 

Apart from illustrations, Scarabottolo’s works include sculptures and a rare selection of daily accessories. An interesting piece of work that has people talking is his skull shaped grill plate. Fiery flames burst from numerous cracks on the face of the skull to grill the food slowly and the name of the product is “A Waste of Time”. This piece depicts his humor; a subtle commentary portrayed by using amusing outlets

Scarabottolo is very friendly. Although we’ve never met in person, he was kind enough to send me some pictures and a calendar from great distance away because he knew that I liked his work. In November of 2010, he was invited to come to Macau for his first solo exhibition in Asia entitled “Desenhar Desenhos”.

The exhibition included sculptures, installations and illustrations etc. When I visited the exhibition, I had a first hand opportunity to observe many creations with his signature angelic theme. The “Angels” that arrived in Macau were at least 3 meters tall, stout, had disproportional necks on broad shoulders and of course a set of two wings. Some proudly stood in the garden, some slipped out from heaven but fell trapped into trees, some broke their wings and others were curiously exploring the homes of ordinary people. The “goddess of spring” took the form of a doe. Dressed mysteriously in black, it stood beside the Angels with wanting arms outstretched, slowly creeping forwards. And nestled in her entanglement of antlers, hosted a modest flock of singing birds. 

Not to talk about with creatures of flesh and blood, even with pieces of tough hard wood, after the touch of the skillful hands of the artist, an oriental lady was sitting on a teak wood chair. Way down her elegant cheongsam were her slim ankles with her small shy little feet slightly pointing inwards. Looking closely, they were just an ordinary pair of brushes. At the same time, “she” could be used as a bookshelf. Looking at the works of Scarabottolo, I was surprised to learn that “All things have souls and all living creatures have feelings.” Whether human beings, animals, spirits, rivers, seas, trees, fish, desks and chairs or even balled up wastepaper. Anything can be furnished with a soul and emotions by the passionate creation of an artist. As follows, even a painter’s rendition of the humble tree may conjure the essence of life and breath. 

Scarabottolo is a trained professional architect. His works looked like doodles but in fact are pensively drawn and are so arranged for the telling of a story. One body of work really stands out in my mind and illustrates this point best. At the exhibition there was a wall covered in dozens of sketches. From a prosaic and intimate inspection, the lines could be considered simplistic and coarse, with wide and random stretches. But after taking a few steps back and carrying a more insightful point of view, the so-called “monologue” of each page could be heard. The capable and confident lines arbitrarily interweaved into infinite possibilities like objects, people, events, scenery, space and time etc. I think this collection of work most aptly expressed the feeling of “Composition”.

At this point, I can not help but think that the word “Civilization” describes our departure from nature. The more civilized people are, the more is lost from the mind’s identity. Fortunately, heaven still has not found the way to civilize the primitive mind. The mind is the only hope for humans to survive.” However, the utter innocence of Scarabottolo was not burned down by the normative cage of civilization and his loyalty still flashed naturally with the light of purity.

With the crowd gradually leaving the exhibition, I finally had the chance to meet this great master under the introduction of my friend, Professor Marco Imperadori. I could not hold my excitement and asked him a silly question, “How exactly do you conceive these works?” Scarabottolo gave a serious thought for a moment and raised his head giving me a sincere answer in the Zhuangzi way, “I don’t know.”

Today is the Winter Solstice in 2010.

Chinese people say, "Winter Solstice is more important than Lunar New Year." Looking back over this year, it seems to do a lot of things, it seems nothing has been done. Reviewing the past, the following script comes to my mind:

One human being used to tell me that,  without   dreams, life is like an anchovy.  As one of the anchovies, I must speak out against this discrimination, for I am exactly that. However, I am an ambitious anchovy and my mighty dream is to live again. So let me live once more.

The Year 2010 about to end, wish you get nearer to your  dreams, or start to have one at least. Happy Holidays.

Hin-Io Chan’s lens actually had the penetrating power of unveiling intrinsic truth to the spectators one by one. Was it because there was a magic wand installed in his lens? Of course not! It was the tranquillity and passion inside the photographer. These two elements, though they seemed to be incompatible, told us, through these pictures, that they are good friends.

When the night came, the Ruins of St. Paul and the Monte Forte were outlined by a sacred orange yellow and stood far opposite from each other in this piece of grayish- blue modern buildings; the sunset placed a red veil over the Dom Pedro V Theatre; the shadows of the buildings gradually lengthened. Looking intently for a while, classical music could be heard drawing nearer and nearer; a dog contentedly basked in the sun beside the mottled old wall; the church blessed the lovers who were kissing at it doors; the pious old lady offered incense at the Sam Kai Vui Kun Temple. If there had not been tranquility in mind, who would have noticed these inconspicuous scenes and moments in such a hectic city. His work vividly reflected the core value of the historic city of Macau as a world cultural heritage – Snippets of Life.

The proud history of Macau was built brick by brick by its people over many years and what moved the people was the mellowness of life that penetrated piece by piece over this tiny morsel of land and nourished these age-old buildings. The renowned works of Hin-Io Chan made us realize that he really lived and breathed along with this city. Regardless of whether they were scenery or portraits, under his lens, they all revealed their emotions of laughter, anger, sorrow or happiness.