Deux Ex Machina A house by the lakeside
At the end of a bus ride
Winding through twilight
Your eyes in my hand

A hole in the sky
At the height of winter
You fell through it to lie
With your heart in my hand

A kick through the door
And overboard in an instant
I took it too far with
My home in your hand

I have no notion
No notion of people
Dying to be further away
Then killing themselves
in order to stay
Exactly
where
they
are.

Dedicated to L. aka G.

Labels: B.A.P.

  ¶ 3:25 PM 1 comments

  HOW TO BE A VISUAL ART CRITIC IN MALAYSIA A SERIALIZED GUIDE TO SKILLS YOU WILL NEED:

THIS WEEK'S SKILL : DESCRIPTION
To be able to describe a work of art in ten sentences or more is an essential skill for all prospective critics in this country. The ability to wax lyrical about the color blue, for example, or the 'sublime composition of visual elements within the rigid confines of the frame' will allow you to conveniently fill up oh-so-much column space, WITHOUT THE ACTUAL NEED TO THINK. You will still sound eloquent, as if you know what you are talking about, which of course, you don't. Amazingly, with a great deal of practice, you can even apply the Descriptive Tool to conceptual art, AND NOT SOUND STUPID. We suggest you take Duchamp's Urinal upon which to practice your descriptive faculties. Be sure to mention how lightly the urinal appears to sit there, exuding the aura of an everyday object, asserting its own right to existence, and how the artist asserts his right to bring it into existence. If you are having trouble with this skill, please keep this tip in mind: remember that the ordinary Malaysian mortal (i.e not yourself) cannot possibly see that an artwork is green, or red, or big, or small, or gestural, or... even, conceptual. When you are aware of the sheer visual dumbass-ness of your readers, you will realize that you must describe, describe, describe. It is your duty.

NEXT SOON (OR NEVER) : NON-OFFENSIVENESS
How to not have an opinion on anything but still be considered an important source of art criticism.

Labels: art, art writing

  ¶ 10:33 AM 4 comments

  Drown me in your gore On G.'s advice to do something trashy and indulgent (I know I am as stubborn as a mule but I do listen sometimes) I watched Underworld : Evolution this afternoon. There is something restoring about being in a dark cinema when everyone else is at work, especially if the movie is dripping with delicious black blood in every single frame. Indeed, each time someone was impaled upon a bat-wing (you have no idea how many times it happened), I savored it with all the relish only ultra-violence can provide. Sometimes I am overcome by the desire to rake the living guts out of someone, and then huddle over a pool licking my fingers and muttering to myself, ala Gollum in Lord of the Rings. I don't think I have a penchant for wearing tight black leather, but a very proper velvet suit I could probably do. Hopefully I will NOT have a beefy co-star with whom I must stare in the eyes, and then say 'Now I think we must have wild abandoned sex, for all that killing has made me brim over with horni-ness, and also, it is the requisite mid-point of the film when all sex occurs, Amen'.

Oh, and not one, but TWO 'FUCK's escaped the censor's knife! Both were very clearly enunciated. I felt irately thrilled at each one.

I cannot wait for the imagery of this movie to infiltrate my dreams and give me yet another disturbing nightmare. I am dreaming as industriously as a factory these days. Hopefully I will be the one doing the impaling, not vice versa.  ¶ 3:44 PM 0 comments

  Applicability vs. Allegory This is just a quick note to ensure that I don't forget - an idea that I think is obscurely important to me and will be to this show. Incredibly this came out of the Foreword by Tolkien to the 2nd Edition of Lord of the Rings.

Basically he was saying that he far preferred Applicability to Allegory, and that the two often get confused. History, whether truth or invention, could be used or applied practically by the reader. Wheareas Allegory (to my mind - an allegory is a story masquerading as a comment or reflection on another issue altogether) dictates the reader, sets the rules and boundaries for imagination, so to speak.

I agree with him, and make my work coming from this perspective. I want my work to be a practical (re)invention of systems, not a symbolic narrative. The sails are not theatrical, they are practical. They serve a purpose in the particular space in which they are hung. Texts are also practical. They are as practical as ropes, and knots that you tie with ropes.

I was very happy to have come across that particular passage at this particular time. Looking at the artists that I like and admire (Joseph Beuys, Montien Boonma, Vong Phaophanit, Elizabeth Presa), I think I was geared towards this way of thinking from the year one. But Tolkien happened to articulate this visual bent succintly with the right words.

Strange that a passage written in the 1950s as a foreword to a Fantasy novel should have such applicability to what I am trying to do. Strange and infinitely cool.

Labels: art

  ¶ 1:41 PM 0 comments

  Tupilaq I have been sewing sails like a demented ancient mariner. E.H. and Mr. and Mrs. K have very kindly let me use their large, air-conditioned and well-lit attic. I have been installed there for the past 3 days. E.H. has a penchant for bad Singh jokes which she regales to me when she comes home from work. She says me listening is my rent. I can dig it.

My mind limps along while the hands work endlessly - pinning, cutting, sewing, pinning, cutting, sewing.

As I work a couple of lines come to mind. They don't advance more than 2 lines a day... maybe they'll slowly piece together to become a song of somesort:

Green is caught at the corner of my eye
And the corner of my eye is caught in you
-
Outside the buildings are melting
They are shedding their skin
-

Various disturbing dream images:

A dark and dusty room that is a zoo. There is a glass aquarium, with a monster inside. It is a tupilaq, or a nightmare skeleton. The head of a shaggy white wolf and the body of a cat or goat. The head is far too big for its body. It swims around with barely enough room to move. I am outraged that it should be kept so confined and vow to write a firmly-worded letter to the zoo to complain.

A twirling dancer dressed in layers and layers of beige and cream tulle. The dancer is not me.

A grey horizon with a dark belly of cloud overhead. Driving with my back turned to you. Towards nowhere. I am weeping.

A bus ride which ends in a carpark on Charlotte St, the street I used to live on. I am the only passenger. Home is very close by but I have to unload a washing machine, a pot plant and a roll of green mesh. The pot plant keeps sliding off and I'll never make it up the street to the front door. The bus driver stands by talking in rural Australian twang, offering advice but never lifting a finger to help. I am incensened with frustration and anger. I will kill him, if only I could lift the damn washing machine.

And so on and so forth.

Despite one's unwashed appearance it can be quite fun to work like this - the mind seems to slip into another gear.  ¶ 1:03 PM 0 comments

  Annoying little injuries Production is halted by wonky neck. Sharp pains from left shoulder all the way to the back of my eye ball. What has happened, and why? I do not know. Anyway, a trip to the Chinese massage doctor was extremely excruciating and I am as sore as a battered sausage. The doctor calmly ignored the tears coarsing down my face as he cracked my neck to the left to the right, up and down. Gah. I shudder to remember. Anyway, it will be better tomorrow.

For now I keep my head slightly tilted which gives me a perpetually questioning expression - which I like to think is more charming than spastic.  ¶ 9:55 PM 1 comments

  Forth! And fear no darkness Blogging will be sparse for the next 8 weeks. Exhibition opens 27 April. Get ready, get set.

In a strange time-out, I suddenly love Johnny Cash. And I leave you in his good hands:

RING OF FIRE
Johnny and June Carter Cash

Love Is A Burning Thing
And It Makes A Fiery Ring
Bound By Wild Desire
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

The Taste Of Love Is Sweet
When Hearts Like Ours Meet
I Fell For You Like A Child
Oh, But The Fire Went Wild

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

And It Burns, Burns, Burns

The Ring Of Fire

The Ring Of Fire  ¶ 10:11 AM 0 comments