Artist Ruben Pang (b. 1990) is deceptively hypnotic; his near monotone voice, a kind of cosmopolitan aloofness, mixes with an occasional mischievous laugh. Hiding underneath, or above, he is a medium himself. His secret is thus: his love for art, which is categorically transcendental, or to put it aphoristically, both intensely and deeply spiritual. In Pang, perhaps the quiddity of his father, a store display designer and Taoist exorcist mixes with that of his Catholic mother, a professor of fashion design; Pang is, as he puts it, “informed by my ancestors, and my parents are, of course, the central part of that lineage.” Never approaching, but always open, the Tao-like Pang moves effortlessly through the harsh art world like a jellyfish in the sea; two years before his thirtieth birthday, he’s approached an almost isomorphic vibration with every artistic project he pursues, yet the “amnesia of art, the amnesia of painting,” helpfully inoculates him against a distended (super) ego.
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