I never thought I could be an artist
a common struggle of being an immigrant child - a deeper dive into pivotal moments of my childhood
Initially I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tackle this subject on the substack and had it in drafts for a while, because I honestly believe - there’s an artist in each and every one of us. We all have the potential to create and make something that is sincerely a reflection of who we are and who we want to be. Full stop. No buts and ifs about it. We all have the potential to be artists.
But for almost all my life, I didn’t believe I could be one of those people. So many of the established artists we’ve come to know and love typically either come from pedigree or a prestigious art school. I hold none of those titles.
I think to truly grasp and understand what I mean by this, we have to go back in time. I grew up in a working class family. We had freshly arrived from Hong Kong and first settled in Chinatown Los Angeles toward the end of 1994. Like most immigrant families, I grew up feeling extremely inept. It’s a consequence of being in a traditional Chinese household where nothing you do is quite good enough. Where the arts are looked upon as a low class occupation. Where only the starving artist myth lived.
My sisters and I were all latchkey kids - after school, we’d come home to an empty house full of chores to tackle. Both of my parents worked in clothing production but on the lower rungs of the industry. My mom worked as a seamstress, while my dad opened up shop to make custom tailored suits. After moving to Monterey Park into my uncle’s guest house, he had a modest shop tucked right next to an old Chinese restaurant in Sherman Oaks. He held a steady base of clientele, even though he didn’t speak a lick of English. He also couldn’t drive, so the only option was to take 5 busses from Monterey Park to Sherman Oaks. The total commute could be anywhere from 1.5 to 2 hours each way.
My dad was a tailor for most of his professional life — he studied and apprenticed for the very best in Hong Kong. His custom made suits were so precise it rivaled ones you can find in Saville Row, London. The shop in Sherman Oaks stayed in operation for a few more years until I got into middle school, when my dad found a more suitable space that didn’t require 5 or more bus rides. My dad barely made ends meet; he was lucky to break even.
I remember “staffing” the shops on some weekends with him, serving as his translator. To save money, we brought in a cheap rice cooker that my mom prepacked with already washed rice, dried lap cheong (which is a Cantonese sweet sausage) and some salted eggs. Sometimes it came with a side of steamed Chinese broccoli or Taishanese cauliflower (trust me they are both very different). I remember resenting this time in my life - I resented the fact that my dad couldn’t speak basic English to handle simple tailoring requests, I resented spending weekends working instead of playing in the yard or attending birthday parties (not that I was invited to begin with) like most of my peers would, I resented being raised in a working class family where my parents couldn’t afford even the simplest of toys that I could bring to my 2nd grade show and tell.
During those years of hardship my dad discouraged me from doing anything creative because he didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps. He claimed that only an office and corporate job would provide me with a generous and comfortable lifestyle. He truly wanted us to believe in the American dream where anything and everything was possible. I believed in it, too. That alone compelled me to apply and enroll into a four year university. I graduated with a degree that got me into the halls of MTV Networks in New York where I first learned to hone my marketing chops in social media. This would later lead me into working in digital public relations for lifestyle and fashion brands.
It took me almost another decade later to realize that it was a privilege to be with my dad in those times and in those spaces. As much as he tried to discourage me from pursuing a career in the arts (which I am finally doing after so many detours), he was walking proof that creativity and our love for the craft fulfilled an inexplicably deep void in us. He dedicated every fiber of his being to crafting the best custom suits for his sartorial clients. His compulsion to craft the most perfect suits mirrored my love for capturing images that elevates our everyday environments. It’s a deep calling that came second nature to us. It’s the same calling that I approach my fine art photography practice with.
I believe this is the artistic bond would forever tether my dad and me together. A bond that was written into the stars. I always been destined to be an artist, no matter how hard I try to deny it. I am an artist forever and always.
And so are you, regardless of what you create and put out into the world.
Love and light,
Tommy
PS. I am running a giveaway right now on Instagram. If you’re interested in a chance to win an open edition *framed* print of mine, you can check it out here.
Yours is a beautiful story. Thank you for finally sharing it with us, for giving us a very personal glimpse into your life. You're also an excellent writer!