nightmarish image with obvious pride. “This made it past the censors, into an exhibition abroad.”
The baseball-cap painter asks me, “How do you make a living?”
“Some money comes from my books, some from teaching. And grants.”
Saya leans his painting, face out, against the pile and sits down again. “We have heard of grants from a Dutch painter. The government gives artists money to do their art—is this really true?”
“Yes, it’s true.” Blessings and a long life to the Canada Council!
“You can do anything you want?” As Saya opens his bony hands wide, his mouth opens, too, and this time it is his long, thin face that reminds me of
The Scream
. The young painters talk excitedly among themselves. It is a bizarre reversal for them, to hear of governments that actively support artists and make their lives easier.
“We’re not allowed to do
anything,”
I explain. “You need to fill in a lot of forms, and have a project. And you describe the project you want to do.”
“And then the government lets you do it,” one of the young painters says.
“And gives you money,” adds another.
In this instant, all my past complaints about the odious task of applying for grants become pathetic. “You have to explain what the project is, and then a jury, a group of other artists, chooses which projects to support. Sometimes you don’t get the grant because there’s not enough money for all the artists.”
Saya nods and leans back in the rattan chair. “There is not enough money. This is the normal problem for the artist. Do you also write for magazines?”
The question leads to talk of censorship. When the censors don’t like something in one of the popular journals, they paint over each copy of the offending line or article with silver or black ink. Saya picks up a magazine and shows me what he means. Above an article about a drug runnerin South America, the popular Burmese proverb “No one escapes from his own crimes” has been silvered out. He holds the page up to the light and points out the words.
One of the young men explains, “On the bus, you know who is trying to read the censored articles because they hold the pages up to the windows. But if the ink is black this trick doesn’t work.”
San Aung explains the context of the article. “It’s about a South American criminal, but it will remind readers of a famous Burmese one, Khun Sa, the Shan drug lord. He made a deal with the SLORC and is now a free man. He lives in a big house here in Rangoon. The U.S. wants to arrest him for heroin trafficking, but the generals take care of him. He has a swimming pool.” *
The baseball-cap painter says, “Stupid to paint over the proverb. We all know it very well. They’re not hiding anything from us.”
One of the other young men adds, “The generals know it, too. They can’t escape their crimes, either. They feel guilty.”
Saya relights his cheroot. Before inhaling, he says, “They are very crude. But more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“That is what gives us hope.” This comment comes from the third young man, who has not made a sound until now.
Saya explains how difficult it is to receive permission for public shows. The Censorship Board has to review the paintings, and the censors can take as long as they want before making a decision. Sometimes paintings go missing. “Two years ago, I was lucky,” he says. “A gallery in Bangkok asked me to join a group show of artists. And it took many months of visitingpeople at the Censorship Board, but finally I could send the paintings. And I was permitted to go to Bangkok.”
“Did you go?”
“I went.”
I wait. I incline my head, lean forward a little. “And?”
“And I showed the paintings there.” He looks at San Aung and asks something in Burmese.
“Ya-deh,”
replies San Aung. This important little word, which the foreigner learns quickly, means “All right” or “Go ahead.”
“And a journalist interviewed
The baseball-cap painter asks me, “How do you make a living?”
“Some money comes from my books, some from teaching. And grants.”
Saya leans his painting, face out, against the pile and sits down again. “We have heard of grants from a Dutch painter. The government gives artists money to do their art—is this really true?”
“Yes, it’s true.” Blessings and a long life to the Canada Council!
“You can do anything you want?” As Saya opens his bony hands wide, his mouth opens, too, and this time it is his long, thin face that reminds me of
The Scream
. The young painters talk excitedly among themselves. It is a bizarre reversal for them, to hear of governments that actively support artists and make their lives easier.
“We’re not allowed to do
anything,”
I explain. “You need to fill in a lot of forms, and have a project. And you describe the project you want to do.”
“And then the government lets you do it,” one of the young painters says.
“And gives you money,” adds another.
In this instant, all my past complaints about the odious task of applying for grants become pathetic. “You have to explain what the project is, and then a jury, a group of other artists, chooses which projects to support. Sometimes you don’t get the grant because there’s not enough money for all the artists.”
Saya nods and leans back in the rattan chair. “There is not enough money. This is the normal problem for the artist. Do you also write for magazines?”
The question leads to talk of censorship. When the censors don’t like something in one of the popular journals, they paint over each copy of the offending line or article with silver or black ink. Saya picks up a magazine and shows me what he means. Above an article about a drug runnerin South America, the popular Burmese proverb “No one escapes from his own crimes” has been silvered out. He holds the page up to the light and points out the words.
One of the young men explains, “On the bus, you know who is trying to read the censored articles because they hold the pages up to the windows. But if the ink is black this trick doesn’t work.”
San Aung explains the context of the article. “It’s about a South American criminal, but it will remind readers of a famous Burmese one, Khun Sa, the Shan drug lord. He made a deal with the SLORC and is now a free man. He lives in a big house here in Rangoon. The U.S. wants to arrest him for heroin trafficking, but the generals take care of him. He has a swimming pool.” *
The baseball-cap painter says, “Stupid to paint over the proverb. We all know it very well. They’re not hiding anything from us.”
One of the other young men adds, “The generals know it, too. They can’t escape their crimes, either. They feel guilty.”
Saya relights his cheroot. Before inhaling, he says, “They are very crude. But more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“That is what gives us hope.” This comment comes from the third young man, who has not made a sound until now.
Saya explains how difficult it is to receive permission for public shows. The Censorship Board has to review the paintings, and the censors can take as long as they want before making a decision. Sometimes paintings go missing. “Two years ago, I was lucky,” he says. “A gallery in Bangkok asked me to join a group show of artists. And it took many months of visitingpeople at the Censorship Board, but finally I could send the paintings. And I was permitted to go to Bangkok.”
“Did you go?”
“I went.”
I wait. I incline my head, lean forward a little. “And?”
“And I showed the paintings there.” He looks at San Aung and asks something in Burmese.
“Ya-deh,”
replies San Aung. This important little word, which the foreigner learns quickly, means “All right” or “Go ahead.”
“And a journalist interviewed
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