Art – Binh Siu

Ever since I could hold a pencil, not a single sheet of paper in the house was spared from my signature scribbles. Although I am pretty aware of my progression as an artist, I somehow missed one obvious and key motivator: my father. A recent interview with my dad, coupled with intrapersonal excavation and research revealed how pivotal his encouragement of illustration influenced my affinity for art.

I remember late night art projects in high school often left my hand cramped and back sore, my eyes dry and head throbbing. Just as I felt like giving up and piercing my canvas with a palette knife, my dad would wander over and offer suggestions or ask how my project was coming along. His curiosity and calm presence, intentional or not, helped me through grueling art courses. Growing up, he never emphasized his history as an artist. I am now old enough to label myself an adult, and in turn, my dad divulges more details about his past, especially his time as a prisoner-of-war.

He was imprisoned in 1977 for serving as a South Vietnamese Army Ranger during the Vietnam War. He described the hierarchy of the POW camp as loosely structured. Ranks and titles were unchallenged, but rules seemed flexible and arbitrary. On the first day of camp, prisoners were singled out for specific skill sets, such as mechanics, artists, doctors, etc. I know what you’re thinking: One of these is not like the other. Well, photos were a rarity after the war. Pocket-sized, black and white, and tattered photos usually needed restoration, so my dad was tasked with recreating large portraits of communist members, as he was the better of two artists in the camp.

The head of several POW camps in the area was a Viet Cong by the name of Mr. Coi, who procured favors in exchange for portraits from my dad. In his weekly or monthly visits, Mr. Coi would often make a point to check on my dad. If my dad was discovered to be sick or ailing, Mr. Coi would find a prisoner with Western connections to retrieve medicine. Once, my dad witnessed Mr. Coi beat a guard unconscious for no particular reason. They formed an unlikely and tense bond through long bouts of portrait sessions.

My dad described a time when he was harassed by a particularly malicious guard. The guard dangled a club from his hand, toying with it as his gaze dared my dad to challenge him. “If you hit me, I warn you, I will fight back,” my dad declared. The man smirked and ordered another guard to beat my dad behind the building. My dad said sternly, “If I have done something wrong, you can confine me or lengthen my sentence, but you have no right to beat me.” Ignoring all protest, the guard motioned for him to be taken away. Once out back, my dad pleaded with the other guard to be reasonable, there was no sense in doing this, and Mr. Coi would be upset. The guard told my dad to sit down and be quiet. The two sat together for nearly half an hour before my dad was allowed to return to his cell. He believes the weight of Mr. Coi’s name was enough to dissuade the guard from harming him.

Ten years passed. Towards the end of 1987, one week prior to his release, my dad was called to the filing office. The prison guards were, not surprisingly, corrupt. A popular scheme to increase profits involved altering the dates of when prisoners began serving time. When my dad reviewed his prison terms, he noticed they changed his date of entry from 1977 to 1979. The guards informed him he still needed to complete two more years in prison. Both my father and the guards knew the exchange that was to take place. The guards would give my dad one week to go home, “gather his things,” and return with a bribe for the guards to correct the date. Determined, my dad marched to Mr. Coi’s office and explained the situation.

With a cigarette poised between two fingers, Mr. Coi said, “And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’? This is terrible! I have served my time!”

“Fine, fine,” said Mr. Coi as he fished a pen from my dad’s shirt pocket. He corrected the date with a swish of his pen and motioned for the guard at the door to accompany my dad back to the filing office. “You tell them this date is final.”

My dad fondly recalled Mr. Coi as, “…a fierce man who would often beat his prisoners and guards, but he took a liking to me. If not for him, I would not have lasted very long in there. For that, I am grateful.”

dad 12 — Papa Siu with his youngest granddaughter.

Nowadays, his reluctance to draw again is understandable, but sometimes I see a twinkle in his eyes when he watches me paint. I notice his fingers twitch and his hands curl reflexively. I watch as the hard lines in his cheeks melt into a prideful smile.

Art is not simply an outlet for creativity and expression, sometimes it is a flotation device that connects us to humanity. I know my love of art and illustration stems from my father’s encouragement as certain as I know his life was saved through his drawing sessions with Mr. Coi. For that, I am grateful.

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to attend a Digital Marketing workshop in Austin, Texas, a city I had never visited before. My colleague and I trekked four miles to the popular Off the Wall Graffiti Park on our first day of landing. The Park, which resembled an urban jungle of cement panels stacked and covered from top to bottom in murals, colors, obscenities, landscapes, faces, eyes, symbols, and words.

Off The Wall Graffiti | Austin, TX

It was beautiful. Beauty sprung not only from the paintings themselves but also from the idea of an open canvas space free to the public and artists alike. While inspecting each painting, I began questioning the lack of such spaces in Atlanta—mainly OTP.

Throughout history, governments and local authorities vilified graffiti as vandalism and a nuisance to cities and neighborhoods. Penalties for vandalism range anywhere from a few hundred dollars to $25,000, or a few days in jail to several years in prison depending on which state the “crime” occurred. Of course, the definition of vandalism is as broad as its penalties.

Today, I ask you to consider whether graffiti is an art or a nuisance.
I don’t believe graffiti to be a problem, but rather, can help us personalize our public spaces and make art accessible again.

My first example may not be considered art, but shows creativity in using public space. Earlier this year, a man tired of his city’s neglected roads, spray-painted penises around potholes throughout the city. However, problematic potholes, once ignored for years, were patched within 48-hours. The anonymous citizen goes by the name Wanksy, a play on the name of the street artist Banksy.

Wanksy tags neglected potholes around his hometown.

Problematic potholes, once ignored for years, were patched within 48-hours after Wanksy circles the hole with a penis.

We cannot discuss the impact of graffiti without mentioning Banksy, the world-famous graffiti artist, activist, and director. Banksy began tagging public spaces over 20 years ago in his hometown of Bristol, UK. Since then, Banksy has traveled the world and gained renown and respect through his political and social commentary pieces and distinctive stencil style. The identity of Banksy remains relatively unknown. Actually, anonymity heightens his work, allowing him to create large-scale pieces and still evade authorities.

Banksy stated:

This is the first time the essentially bourgeois world of art has belonged to the people. We need to make it count.

Ironically, opportunists have carved out Banksy’s work and auctioned them for hundreds of thousands of dollars without his consent. In fact, anywhere Banksy pieces are found, the property value of the area soars. Just watch what happens when Banksy visits New York.

Banksy maintains that his work should remain free to the public and even provides high-quality images on his site, but that hasn’t staved off the greed.

Therein lies the beauty and tragedy of it all. Graffiti is an outpour of low-level dissent, screaming against the commodification of art and urging us to put down our phones and look up once in a while. To have public art plucked and sold to the highest bidder contradicts what the street art movement stands for: art accessible and appreciated by everyone.

To accept a baroque framed painting hung high in a museum yet reject a laborious and masterful piece behind an alley would mean denying ourselves the fundamental experience of art. A brick wall does not have to be relegated to one of many sides of a building just as a bridge can provide more than passage over a road.