Artist Statement

Peter Ma

Artist Statement

                                                       The Superman Inside

            From a very young age, I always knew what I wanted to be. When growing up, people always had a set profession that they wished to pursue. Was I destined to be an artist? Probably not. My fate was to be accepted into Yale, and major in law. Or perhaps my fate was to go into the music industry and rivet hearts with beautiful sonatas. But sometimes fate is tricky. In fact, most of the time people do not get what they want. Is this something I wanted to do? Most definitely yes.

            This journey began at a far earlier age than most people can anticipate. The trek of becoming an artist is never an easy one, and never simple. There are always complications, paths, and tragedies. Often it is the optimal depressive option, and very rarely is it a fun and quirky backstory. But I have the fortuity of saying my story is not a tragedy.

Who do you look up to? Who is your hero? What do you want to be when you grow up? My dad. The policeman. An astronaut. Typical answers of a five year olds inchoate and embryonic brain. Trite, mundane, yet looking at the pragmatic entities of their fledgling life. Perhaps I was just an unrealistic soul, due to my carbon-copy answer scrawled unceasingly in my kindergarten chicken scratch. Time and time again would this being introduce itself into my crayon sketches, make believe games, and figurine limbs. Numerous occasions my chubby head would look back to this guardian and protector of people; Superman.

            But how could I have the indecency of castrating real beings into a dehumanizing spiral of injustice while revering a fake immortal? At this stage of my nascent beginnings I could not comprehend that Superman was a cartoon, just a pixelated illusion of someone else’s creation. I regarded him as a person who can liberate the bad, and an Übermensch to my teachers. Frankly I also kept him closer than any of my other incomprehensible drooling Gerber munchers.

            I legitimately accepted the fact that this spandex-wearing man was real, that cartoons were just as tangible as me. Clark Kent’s story spoke to me, its ingenious plot being a fly-trap to a romantic for justice. The power of the cartoon was enthralling, captivating every twist and tunnel in the recesses of my mind. To actually believe that someone whisked this epic chronicle was unfathomable. To believe that someone concocted a story so subtly it beseeched the reality of my own world. My life was fused with Superman’s, reality and cartoon becoming one, becoming me. I thought I was Superman.

            Eventually, it became painfully obvious that I indeed, was not Superman. I could not lift immeasurable amounts of weight like him, I could barely stumble into the kitchen with the groceries. I could not fly into the forget-me-not blue, no matter how many times I jumped off my bunk bed. And I definitely did not have the ability to emit solar energy from my eyes, regardless of how hard I stared at my teacher. But no matter how vain my efforts were, I would not surrender on my own, I would not be downtrodden into accepting the banal physics of life.

            My mother, being the realistic and sensible person she is, explained and reasoned that Superman was not real, and I shouldn’t aspire to be something that isn’t real. Grudgingly, I tied in all the pieces and realized I was not Superman. I realized that a normal person with an artistic mind composed this magnificent fantasy. I realized that I too, could be this person.

            Who do you look up to? Certainly not Superman. The only person I should compare myself to is me, I am my own greatest triumph.

            Who is your hero? Certainly not Superman. I’m my own hero, I’m greater than the Übermensch.

            What do you want to be when you grow up? Certainly not Superman. I want to be a story teller, a distributor of images, an animator.