About four days a week, I commute to Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I have never held a conventional job in my entire life. But twelve years ago, when I moved to Manhattan, I couldn't bring myself to give up my old studio in Greenpoint. Now, I head back there to work on my printmaking. I immerse myself in my work from noon until six in the evening until my whole body feels heavy with exhaustion. On my way home, dragging my tired feet, I feel deeply fatigued—yet a sudden wave of pride washes over me. I am grateful that I still have the strength and energy to make this commute.
Suddenly, memories of our first Christmas after getting married come back to me. Back then, my father-in-law sent us plane tickets so we could visit him in Los Angeles. Since we didn't have enough money to buy him a Christmas gift, I brought a print I had made during my college years, neatly framed. With a bit of hesitation, I handed it to him and said, "Father, I brought my own artwork as a gift for you." He looked at it and asked, "Isn’t this a print?" I replied, "Yes, I studied printmaking after coming to New York. This is a piece I made when I was in school." After quietly examining it, he said softly, "You need a printing press."
Then, in 1990, a letter arrived from my father-in-law, along with a check for a large sum of money. "Buy a printing press," he wrote. "You shouldn't let your studies go to waste. Supporting your husband and raising your children well are important, but you must never let go of the work you love. Make sure to buy the press and dedicate yourself to your art. I worry about your mother-in-law. All she knows how to do is cook, do laundry, and clean. I am so worried that as she grows older, she will have no hobbies or interests of her own and will spend her life only looking toward her children."
On a warm spring day that year, we drove down the countryside roads near Philadelphia to buy the printmaking press. That journey remains the happiest moment of my life. With tears welling up in my eyes, I cried out from the depths of my heart, 'Thank you, Father. I will work truly hard.'
To be honest, Greenpoint was not a place of fond memories for me. Living there, setting up a studio, raising the children, and supporting my painter husband had been filled with hardships in its own way. Just hearing the name Greenpoint would bring back gloomy memories, so I avoided it for a long time. I would barely visit once or twice a year. In particular, I never went near our very first studio, located near an old dyeing factory where a massive, blackened octagonal brick chimney stood tall. The bitter memory of trembling in the freezing cold still felt raw against my skin.
Because I had let go of printmaking for quite some time, the first few days were difficult as my hands had grown stiff. But remarkably, after just a few days, I began pulling prints with sheer joy. It feels as though I have returned to my vibrant, younger self. Wiping and polishing the zinc plates wears my body out, but a powerful surge of life energy rises from the depths of my soul. When I draw on the plate and turn the heavy press, my husband, who is still strong, quietly slips over to help me turn the wheel. The children, who drop by every now and then, look at the finished prints and give me words of encouragement. "Kids, this is the printing press your grandfather bought for me." "We know, Mom. Grandfather was truly a wonderful and great man."
Over the grand legacy left behind by my father-in-law, our family's present day is being firmly and beautifully printed once again.
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