http://drawger.com/marcoschin/ Thu, 09 Feb 2012 09:41:54 EST FeedCreator 1.7.2 http://drawger.com/_images/drawger_leo_logo.gif http://drawger.com/marcoschin http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=13096

For the past two months I've been interning with the fashion designer Gemma Kahng, in New York. She's been designing for twenty years and was huge in the nineties, alongside designers such as Marc Jacobs and Anna Sui (see Stylecaster and Cool Hunting for more info). Although I was still a teenager then, I remember some of the fashion photos of her work, particularly one that sticks in my mind was a Vogue cover of Christy Turlington wearing one of Gemma Kahng's shirts. Her work is mix of beauty and melancholy, strength and delicateness; it's the dialogue of opposites, the attention to detail, the clothing's refinement and the way that her work hinges on fine art, that inspired me to contact her to ask if she would be open to having an intern, who had little-to-no sewing, or pattern-making experience.

If you listened to my interview with Sam Weber, on his radio show Your Dreams My Nightmares,  I mentioned that I continually expand creatively outside of my discipline. I take night classes, and summer classes, I try to learn more about other things on my down time, whether it's cooking, playing the guitar, or creative writing. None of this means that I'm segueing out of, and into another profession or discipline - it only describes the way that I work; regardless of its perceived schizophrenic quality, it feels as though I'm playing. In addition to the learning component I think it also helps to pull me outside of myself, and nurtures a kind of humility that I believe is important if I want to achieve longevity and success in my personal and professional life. Recently, I've been using fashion to express my ideas alongside illustration. My friend and fellow illustrator Victo (what a talent!) asked me several months ago why I've chosen to sew T-shirts for example, and then print on them, rather than buying generic ones, and printing on those. Gurl has a point After ruminating over this for some time, I realized that it was because I intended on one day being able to affect the overall design of the shirt, and possibly venturing into new territory mixing illustration with clothing construction, or even using fabric as the surface to carry my illustration work. I don't know Just sayin'... I've had an affinity towards it since I was very young, remembering clearly a particular runway show that I saw on television when I was probably ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen years old, of the designer Patrick Kelly. His work for me was playful and cheeky, and colourful and graphic, and as I write this, I wonder if some of his aesthetics trickled into my inspiration pot?

I've never worked as an intern before - well, let me rephrase, I haven't worked as an intern in the past eighteen years, and I haven't had a boss in about eleven years. Yes, I teach at SVA, and so technically there is a kind of work hierarchy which exists (i.e. I do have a boss); as it happens in freelance illustration as well, my work needs to be approved by someone higher up than me, but there isn't this feeling that I'm "less-than" someone else in any way, but moreso that I'm a collaborative partner who is hired to work on a project with someone else, instead of for them. Interning at Gemma Kahng's studio feels very much the same. I don't believe that I could have been more fortunate than to expand my knowledge of fashion through someone so kind and generous and artistic. She has allowed for me to participate in her collection development and I couldn't feel more grateful for that opportunity.

The photos that are shown in this post are of me creating some tank tops (sewn, silkscreened, and hand-dyed) for her collection which will be previewed tonight at her runway show. She's making a come-back on Day One of New York's Fashion Week, and I am so excited to be involved. She took me to task and had me cutting and sewing from the onset, helping me along the way (as did her sewers, who are all such amazing teachers!) to bring a new understanding to materials and equipment that I've rarely touched.

]]> Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:41:53 EST http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=13062

I recently went to get more (tattoo) work done at Invisible, in New York City's Lower Eastside. I've been humming and hawing about getting another sleeve done; it's been about 6 or 7 years, I think, since I got my last one, but it's because I've been waiting for the just the right occasion. I currently have 2 pieces that form a full sleeve and chest panel on my left-side, not including the one that is now being worked on by Kiku. His drawings are sumptuous - an economy of line, that marry into bold and graphic shapes; his pictures are entirely beautiful, and so I knew immediately that I wanted for him to be the person to create my next sleeve. My friend Shawn Barber, who is an extraordinary painter, and passionate lover of tattoos, recommended that I take a look at his work -- and so I did. Soon enough, I was already feeling the sharp drag of the needle beneath my skin. For anyone who has gotten work done before, it can be incredibly painful at some points, and during other times can feel less so, to where your body becomes used to the heat and grinding of the needle. My tattoos carry with them, a story, and meaning; they represent moments in time, and changes that have occurred in my life which have been so profound that it inspires me to record these experiences as marks on my skin. I know that for someone like my mother, it makes very little sense why I would do such a thing - to ruin my body; however, it feels right, and is proper for me, and has evolved perhaps into my own personal ritual that announces the various coming-of-ages in my life.

]]> Sat, 28 Jan 2012 23:14:04 EST http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=12811

I stand alone on grass of green And poppies coloured red Among the men who lived but once Through armies they have led. The crosses stand up proud and still In cool crisp morning air And hold with them both peace and love Two treasures, so dear. A sense of happiness prevails Yet still, I grieve for many. I gracefully float through the air As leaves on autumn's day And silently pass through unseen worlds Though many only say Have I forgotten times of peace, Or remembered times of death, Kept hidden how this life became Let free of all the rest. I am to live with no fear nor fright Of what the world has brought A feeling of sorrow is found Within the shell of I For our homeland is the grave For many that have died. Yet gratitude stands side by side With that of deep sadness Our land is now and forever ours For these men have let it live. For I am but one Who stands alone On grass of green And poppies red. ~ I wrote this poem when I was 13 years old. It was for a poetry competition during Remembrance Day, sponsored by The Royal Canadian Legion. The drawing at the top of the page had nothing to do with it, I just found it in a folder that I unearthed from a box in my parents basement. I assume it was done when I was between 9-13 years old. I go back that far because there was a period when I was very young when all I drew were animals in charcoal pencil; strange, but true. I have always enjoyed writing, and in the past year or so have uncovered piles of stories that I wrote in elementary school. For years, I never paid them much attention, though neither did any of my instructors. They were merely assignments to all of us; assignments given, and assignments received. Projects completed, and projects graded. Still, I wonder had I nurtured my craft of writing further, if I would be doing a different kind of work nowadays. Oftentimes I look to the past for inspiration, my own past. I get this question a lot: "What inspires you?" As an illustrator, as someone who works in a creative and visual profession, such works that fall into a similar discipline seem to naturally influence and fuel my imagination. But over the past few years, I've become much more interested in seeking out areas outside of my illustration discipline to rouse my creativity. I've even included thumbing through work that I've done when I was kid because that work (some of which were done as school assignments) carried with it a kind of honesty and goodness in way of process and intention. The stories that I wrote, the clothing that I designed, the pictures that I drew and painted when I was 10, 11, 12 and 13 years old have gradually become bellwethers for how I've chosen to work nowadays, playfully expressively freely.

]]> Fri, 11 Nov 2011 14:39:46 EST http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=12622

My friend and I tried building a go-cart when I was about eight years old. He was a year older than me, if I remember correctly, and a pretty smart guy. I thought this because he talked a lot about things that I didn't know much about, like sex and computers. He told me that I was born because my parents had sex. I said that if that's the case, then his parents must have had sex too. He said that they didn't. The go-cart we were making was laid out on his driveway and front lawn as pieces of scrap wood, nuts and bolts, some other tools, and some wheels from a skateboard. I sat there and mostly watched my smart friend piece the random parts together. In my mind I imagined a wooden-box-shaped tub-on-wheels, coasting down Shady Hollow Drive like some episode of "The Little Rascals," or a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting, but with me in it. ~ Today, I said out loud, "I want for it to change my life." Those are strong words filled with so many expectations. I've enrolled in three night classes this semester; two are in computing, and the third is in basic sewing techniques. Sometimes when I tell people that I'm taking such courses, they ask if I want to become whatever professional person is assigned to that particular specialty. Do you want to become and animator? Do you want to become a fashion designer? No. None of the above. I just want to expand as person, learn more, and live a full life. I think I've been coasting on auto-pilot for some time now. This is not to sound aloof or arrogant, or even ungrateful, but it's the truth. Why do you want to become an animator? Why do you want to become a fashion designer? I told you. I don't. Well not entirely, that is. I've always believed that one's art and craft are extensions of themselves, whether aesthetically or conceptually, and so as a person changes, it makes sense for their work to do so as well. Within the medium that I have been working in (Adobe Illustrator) my work has changed considerably; however, I find that the more time that I spend using this material (because the software is the material and tool that I choose to use) I'm becoming less surprised by what this medium can do for me. Today I used "code" or "coding" (gosh, I don't even know the proper jargon to use) to create a digital brush from an online open source, I assume that's what it was - a brush tool? - and I also learned how to create a circuit and then program the board to turn an LED light on. I have no idea how this is related to illustration, but I can tell you that the kid inside of me is skipping right now. I feel like a character in Dave Hickey's book "Air Guitar," the kind of person who can talk incessantly about things in their life that they love: like books, and surfing, and music to others. I met one of these people once at a framing shop in Manhattan, who moved to New York City during the early eighties from India. He was the son of Master Printmaker, who learned about this artform from his father. When he moved to New York City as a young adult, he continued to work in this field through some chance encounter with a stranger who also happened to work in a printmaking studio. That's a terrible and anticlimactic short version of the story, but more than anything, I recall the life in his voice, and the excitement in his gestures. That's what it feels like when I'm learning how to code. That's what it feels like when I'm learning how to sew. That's what it feels like when I'm learning how to animate. ~ We never did complete the go-cart. I think in our heads we imagined it would be done in an afternoon, and maybe it would've been if we had the help of an adult, but it was just the two of us mining through the supplies in front of us that we didn't know how to use, nor how to piece together. Still, it was a good day to have our imaginations fueled and sparked by the possibility of trying something new, trying and failing and then trying again. * The image above was created using "Processing," a free and open source software that can be found online at http://processing.org

]]> Sun, 04 Sep 2011 20:44:04 EST http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=12502

When I was young I would stare into the mirror at myself and imagine what I would look like when I grew up. I was a chubby kid with a black bowl cut and soft effeminate features. My ear lobes were fleshy and hung down away from the sides of my face, like pieces of gum stuck to the edge of a desk. “It was lucky,” my aunt would say. My ear lobes were a sign of luck. I looked at the roundness of my face and judged it against the faces of the actors who I saw on television who had light skin with slim and chiseled features, deep set eyes shielded beneath a prominent brow; their rectangular faces framed by soft wavy brown hair. I tugged at certain parts of my face, and sucked in other areas to try to find these qualities within myself. "Not so lucky at all," I thought. My lips were too pink, my cheeks too portly, my eyes too bulging and creased at the corners. I looked down at my belly which stuck out past the waistline of my pants, and then I pulled  my shoulders back and stretched the fabric up over this soft hump of mine. Sometimes very early in the mornings, while the rest of the world was still asleep, I would climb up the stairs to meet my mother outside of the bathroom. It was barely 5:30am, the time when she would awake to get ready for work. She stood with her back to me, arms in the air, flicking her wrists about her head, teasing and scraping down and then up against the locks of her black hair that grew fuller and softer with each wrist snap. I don’t remember exactly what we spoke about, except that I was curious and mesmerized by her actions. My mother is a simple woman. To some this may sound insulting - who would want to be described as simple? To be simple means being obvious, plain, and boring. There is so much complexity within the world that we live in; so many choices and options available to advise the ways for us to live, the foods we eat, the way that we look, and the opinions we should have. We can become thin if we believe that we’re too thick and we can look strong, and even feel stronger, if we’re too skinny and weak. We can become anyone. So how could anyone be described as simple? And how dare I use this word to describe somebody, especially my mother? I grew up in a very modest home, with modest parents, who raised modest children. When we moved to Canada all we had was each other, the help of our extended family who sponsored us to live there, and the clothing on our back and whatever money we were permitted to carry away with us. My entire family was born in Mozambique, Africa: my parents, myself, and my older brother and sister. We left in the mid 1970s because the country was on the brink of civil war. For centuries, Mozambique was a Portuguese colony, but in 1976 the country gained back its independence. News spread via word of mouth that the government was subverted, which inspired a mass exodus of individuals who moved to Portugal and other parts of the world, and civil war ensued until the 90's. My family was one of the fortunate ones who were able to leave the country traveling to Lisbon, and then to Toronto through the sponsorship of my aunt and uncle. But this was all at a cost. My parents’ banks accounts were frozen, their home terrorized by the police, and so whatever they could take out of the country with them, they could carry in their hands within a limited number of suitcases, and on their backs.   In photos, my mother wears thick-framed Nana Muskouri glasses to match her dark hair, cut short, which tapers towards a fine and delicate neck. She dresses in a sixties style American bandstand shift that falls so softly against her, accentuating the slimness of her shoulders, and the length and leanness of her body in a self-effacing way. Sometimes she is standing in front of a wall of flowers, and other times in a random city setting, with suggestions of a building behind her, or off to the side. I imagine it’s my father who is taking the photos of her. There’s a kind of care about how the picture is delicately composed as if it’s been taken by someone who loves her dearly, who wants to show the rest of the world how beautiful she is.  There is no indication of impending war; there are no signs of trouble. These photos lay bare a playful side of my parents’ youth. My mother doesn’t talk much about her past very much. For as long as I have known her she has never remembered out loud, nor has she fondly dreamt to us about any past moments in her life when memories can blur softly into the next, and then the next, and then the next again. ~ I would sometimes crawl into the bathroom near my mother’s feet and sit beside the box of coloured pencils and blushes and lipsticks that rested on the edge of the open cupboard underneath the sink, where she kept her makeup. I examined each one, attentive to their opalescent brilliance mottled against each other on the floor and insides of this box like romantic graffiti; the coloured pencil tips mixing together to create new colours and new qualities about them.  Sometimes I sharpened these pencils, and studied the iridescent shavings that curled out from the sharpener’s blade and into my hands leaving entrails of colours along the edges of my fingers. My mother carefully lined her eyes with these pencils and I gazed, and wondered about whether it hurt her to do this or not. This lasted for about forty-five minutes or so, and in my mind, it was mother putting on her lipstick that marked the end of this ritual. She stood like a movie star bathed in Edward Hopper lighting, her hair brushed into soft curls that kissed the tops of her shoulders, her cheeks slightly blushed, wearing an almost sheer grey blouse marked with pretty floral shapes of colour, tapered and tucked neatly into a narrow navy skirt, which grazed just above her knees.  She left the house every morning going to a job that required her to enter numbers into a computer repeatedly; a task that sounded deadening to me, and I wonder if it was the same to her as well. My mother did this for over thirty years, and I’m curious now, about whether her morning transformation ritual was actually a glimpse into her thoughts, or even a means to take her, if only for a few minutes, out of a world of expected modesty and into a place of fantasy.     * the illustration at the top of the page was commissioned by Jason Treat from "The Atlantic" in the 2011 Spring Fiction Issue, for a story entitled, "Scars."

]]> Thu, 14 Jul 2011 18:30:17 EST http://drawger.com/marcoschin/index.php?section=articles&article_id=12394





I still have a moment of thrill when I see my work in public unexpectedly. I believe this a good sign because it means that I'm still engaged and excited by what I do. I remember years ago in Toronto, I walked by a local clothing store and saw a series of illustrated figures that I had done for a fashion magazine, enlarged, redrawn and traced (without permission) onto foam core, acting as their display window. It was very comical to me because I was still young then (although I would argue that I am still young-ish now) having had recently graduated from art college with my nose to the computer screen, drawing pictures and disseminating them into the commercial world, not knowing who was looking at them, what they were thinking of, or if anyone was paying attention. Part of me felt like a fraud, curious as to why my work was being published, and fearful of when my luck would run out. I would admit to having been self-deprecating, not so much now, but definitely growing up (the fat-fag jokes I endured for decades were probably the cause of this) and so the reverence that I kept for realistically drawn or painted work - the kinds of images that I loved, but could not create - became the measure of the worth for my pictures. Viewing my drawings alongside those photo realistic images transformed my own into childish marks, and made them less in some ways, or as one client put it, my illustrations were "a glorification of The Jetsons." But this psychosis of mine existed in the past, and although I still sometimes feel unsure about whether the next mark that I make will be the right one, I have softened to the notion that these uneasy feelings come with Illustration as a practice, and so, I let them be, instead of allowing them to fracture my confidence. The brain and heart are very different, and just because one speaks louder than the other doesn't mean that it is more correct than the other. At the time, my feelings told me that my drawings were less than. It felt this way because I measured them against the realism of the pictures that I judged which were greater than my own. There is nothing wrong with comparing one's own work to someone else's; in truth, I believe it's important to do so as long as one understands the reasons behind why a particular piece of work holds meaning to oneself, and why it has garnered recognition from others (even if I might agree or not agree with the opinions associated with the latter). Competition has always been an important factor within my upbringing. Knowing who is ahead and along side of me keeps me moving forward. That said, the issue that I had for years was that I kept my focus too much on my position within the pack, rather than on the experience of running. And so many moments were spent and lost in the obsession about the uncertainty of the quality of my work, rather than taking in a few breaths to record my achievements.

]]> Thu, 09 Jun 2011 15:04:35 EST