Case 008

the secret files of new york art detective

Walter Lin P.I.

Me & silkscreen - part1

1994: A Turn in the Road 

Chaos has a way of tearing through plans like wind through old newspaper. That was ’94 for me—a year when the familiar shattered, leaving nothing but sharp edges and questions I didn’t know how to answer. Figure skating had been my world, my anchor, but walking away from competition felt like pulling the plug on myself. I didn’t know what came next, only that I had to keep moving, had to find something to steady the ship.  

Art. That was the lifeline I clung to—the one thing that seemed like it might make sense when nothing else did. At eighteen, I packed up what was left of me and headed to Maidstone, to the Kent Institute of Art and Design. A foundation course. One year to find my footing, or at least figure out what the hell I was standing on. 

The Beat of Discovery 

The course hit like a pulse, jumping from one discipline to another. Textiles, photography, sculpture, life drawing, fashion. Then came printmaking—a name whispered like a secret, hiding more than it revealed. I stepped into it and felt something click. No questions, no doubts. Just the steady rhythm of process pulling me in. 

Printmaking had layers—steps that demanded focus, precision, patience. Some parts spoke to me loud and clear: adding the ground to an etching plate, grinding flat the surface of a litho stone. Other parts? Not so much. Inking up the plate, gumming and dusting the stone—they felt like chores, weights dragging me back down. 

The printmaking studio there was its own beast, ruled by Randall Cooke, black-shirted and bearded, with a technician named Terry keeping the gears spinning. The classes dug into the craft like archaeologists in the dirt: lino cutting, etching, lithography, screen printing. Each discipline holding secrets, waiting to be uncovered. 

Then there was silkscreen. No dichotomy, no tug of war. Just balance. The harmony of water-based inks, the simplicity of sponge and bucket cleaning. The spirit-based inks could keep their mess; this was all I needed. Everything about the process felt right, like a line drawn straight through the chaos.

First Prints, Lost Time 

My first two screen prints sit in the memory like photographs pinned to a board in the corner of a dark room. One’s a glimpse of a Cornish island—a holiday home for my family, owned by the remarkable Atkins sisters. The other’s more elusive, carrying the text “qui le voudrait d’une autre manière”—who would want it any other way. A celebration of womanhood, maybe. But time has blurred its meaning, leaving only the shadows of intention.  

Cheltenham Bound 

The foundation course ended as it began—quick, relentless, pulling me through each step like the beat of an old metronome. By the time it wrapped up, I had my next move lined up: a degree course in Cheltenham.