Betta Under The Radar
A broken on-line papier machine
Monday, August 28, 2006
Thump thump
Some thoughts about beating the day, brought up by reading U.K. Le Guin's essays on writing and rhythm:
The day is about rhythm. Rhythm is the key. It doesn't matter where you start, you can jump in just about anywhere and start grooving. Grinding might be your thing, or bopping, or swivelling or gyrating, whatever really. Once you're in the beat, you can start dictating the rhythm, and that's how you change things. But you got to get in it first.
Then there's other people. When you're dancing to their beat it doesn't feel right. The body doesn't feel good about it, because if you want to do a two-step, you have to do a two-step, and you can't do a two-step if you don't get the rhythm in your head.
But sometimes you want very badly to dance to someone's rhythm. Actually, you just want to dance with them, and you'll take whatever beat you get. Why? Because you'll get twirled around, and there'll be spinning, and slow dancing and a supported pirouette or two (if you're both good).
So if you hold back and you don't jump in, you'll never get in rhythm and there'll be no dancing of any kind. No activity and well-earned rest, no rise and fall, no noise and quiet. There will be silence. Is this the silence the Buddha achieve(d)? I aspire but I love the beat, I need the rhythm. I still equate stillness with death. ¶ 2:27 PM 0 comments
The day is about rhythm. Rhythm is the key. It doesn't matter where you start, you can jump in just about anywhere and start grooving. Grinding might be your thing, or bopping, or swivelling or gyrating, whatever really. Once you're in the beat, you can start dictating the rhythm, and that's how you change things. But you got to get in it first.
Then there's other people. When you're dancing to their beat it doesn't feel right. The body doesn't feel good about it, because if you want to do a two-step, you have to do a two-step, and you can't do a two-step if you don't get the rhythm in your head.
But sometimes you want very badly to dance to someone's rhythm. Actually, you just want to dance with them, and you'll take whatever beat you get. Why? Because you'll get twirled around, and there'll be spinning, and slow dancing and a supported pirouette or two (if you're both good).
So if you hold back and you don't jump in, you'll never get in rhythm and there'll be no dancing of any kind. No activity and well-earned rest, no rise and fall, no noise and quiet. There will be silence. Is this the silence the Buddha achieve(d)? I aspire but I love the beat, I need the rhythm. I still equate stillness with death. ¶ 2:27 PM 0 comments
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Fever
Waking up, surprised by my own ill-temper, like finding a stranger in my room who doesn't belong there. The stranger is a stranger only because he is nameless (it is a he), but I know him. It will last a day, two days. Three if I'm unlucky. It is torturous -- the minutes crawl by, saturated with doubts. Water with heavy metals dripping from a tap. I drink, smoke, write and even work... in the end it breaks like a fever breaks.
Sometimes I'm inclined to take a pill for it, but I don't know which. Truly, if there isn't a drug to relieve the symptomatic effects of misery, they should certainly invent one and make it widely available. All the treatments I know of seek to address the root causes, to pull out the root and 'cure' you. I don't want to go on a healing programme with 3 different kinds of drugs and psychoanalyic counselling. What I want is asprin.
Many people think of dear old Van Gogh as a 'tortured genius'. Every brushstroke revealing the orgiastic writhings of inner demons. However, as anyone who only wishes to work will tell you: misery is debilitating condition. It makes work impossible. Work is not cathartic, should not be cathartic. Gardening is cathartic, or fishing, or needlepoint, or watching Oprah. Work is work. When you have a fever you cannot work, at least not very well. Vincent was only able to paint AFTER the attacks passed. Perhaps the world has branded him the ultimate misunderstood artist, but I think he understood himself perfectly well.
Here I heap my own lump of soil on the myth of the Suffering Artist. Let it be buried forevermore!
Sometimes I'm inclined to take a pill for it, but I don't know which. Truly, if there isn't a drug to relieve the symptomatic effects of misery, they should certainly invent one and make it widely available. All the treatments I know of seek to address the root causes, to pull out the root and 'cure' you. I don't want to go on a healing programme with 3 different kinds of drugs and psychoanalyic counselling. What I want is asprin.
Many people think of dear old Van Gogh as a 'tortured genius'. Every brushstroke revealing the orgiastic writhings of inner demons. However, as anyone who only wishes to work will tell you: misery is debilitating condition. It makes work impossible. Work is not cathartic, should not be cathartic. Gardening is cathartic, or fishing, or needlepoint, or watching Oprah. Work is work. When you have a fever you cannot work, at least not very well. Vincent was only able to paint AFTER the attacks passed. Perhaps the world has branded him the ultimate misunderstood artist, but I think he understood himself perfectly well.
Here I heap my own lump of soil on the myth of the Suffering Artist. Let it be buried forevermore!
Labels: sweet misery
¶ 3:37 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Welcome Newty!
I'm pluggin' fellow artist blogger Gnute whom I call Newt (who also calls herself that on occasion). Please find the link to her blog 'Full Of Sound And Fury' on the right under 'Newt'.
She's goin' public, so show her some love. ¶ 1:00 PM 0 comments
She's goin' public, so show her some love. ¶ 1:00 PM 0 comments
The Diary with the Blue Cover : A Homage To A Friend
The book is pretty in and of itself as an object. It has a bright blue cover, stiff and new once, but soft now with the grease of my own hands, soiled with being stuffed into backpacks and travel bags. Brought to the sea and into the city, it has endured. It holds each and every word as a faithful friend holds a secret, and understands it, and in doing so sets it free.
Now it is gone, a friend entrusted to a friend. As the book is a gift, so the taking of it is a gift. I am grateful. There is no loss, only freedom. When we give a secret we are trying to say: there is no secret. But the person who is listening is more than a blank book. A book holds a secret like a cup holds water. A listening ear doesn't keep things, it makes things flow -- to disperse and evaporate into the air, like breath, or dreams.
Dedicated to L. - thank you and see you soon. ¶ 1:18 AM 0 comments
Now it is gone, a friend entrusted to a friend. As the book is a gift, so the taking of it is a gift. I am grateful. There is no loss, only freedom. When we give a secret we are trying to say: there is no secret. But the person who is listening is more than a blank book. A book holds a secret like a cup holds water. A listening ear doesn't keep things, it makes things flow -- to disperse and evaporate into the air, like breath, or dreams.
Dedicated to L. - thank you and see you soon. ¶ 1:18 AM 0 comments
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Path of Least Resistance
The pavement was made for walking
The city spied on every step
The corner of your eye watching
We strolled into the trap.
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
The sea was made for crossing
The end of winter was a sign
The corner of your eye melting
Dissolving into mine.
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
The land was made for returning
Open handed to dreaming exiles
The corner of your eye fading
Turned elsewhere along the miles
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
Now
Bereft of your looking,
I've lost the path of least resistance.
The city, sea and land are always spinning,
holding themselves at a distance.
The corner of your eye is nowhere,
and I hunger in persistence
to be in sight,
to be in colour,
Tired of the white of new beginnings.
To be known as your eye knows me,
At the center of your iris.
You let me in with the light onto
The path of least resistance
That in the end,
led away from you.
The city spied on every step
The corner of your eye watching
We strolled into the trap.
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
The sea was made for crossing
The end of winter was a sign
The corner of your eye melting
Dissolving into mine.
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
The land was made for returning
Open handed to dreaming exiles
The corner of your eye fading
Turned elsewhere along the miles
It was the path of least resistance
Then.
Now
Bereft of your looking,
I've lost the path of least resistance.
The city, sea and land are always spinning,
holding themselves at a distance.
The corner of your eye is nowhere,
and I hunger in persistence
to be in sight,
to be in colour,
Tired of the white of new beginnings.
To be known as your eye knows me,
At the center of your iris.
You let me in with the light onto
The path of least resistance
That in the end,
led away from you.
Labels: B.A.P.
¶ 12:16 PM 0 comments
Work
Doing things one wants to do, not doing things one does not want to do. Trying to make paths with a steady hand, not fearing, not shrinking. Time and energy well-spent, try to produce things for their effect, not as objects that are symbolic, but things that act. Produce actions, not things. Be awake.
¶ 12:04 PM 0 comments
A storm inside
"You can't change anything from outside it. Standing apart, looking down, taking the overview, you see the pattern. What's wrong, what's missing. You want to fix it. But you can't patch it. You have to be in it, weaving it. You have to be part of the weaving."
[from A Man of The People by U.K Le Guin]
[from A Man of The People by U.K Le Guin]
Labels: sweet misery
¶ 11:35 AM 0 comments
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Homeophatic Ways To Relieve Dreaded Artist Block
1. Clear out your studio, be ruthless with all failed experiments/sketches. THROW IT AWAY.
2. Press the FUCK IT button and go watch a movie
3. Consume other media - books, films, cartoons, autumn sunsets, etc.
4. Drink heavily in a bar where you don't know anyone. Talk to strangers.
5. Cook yourself food. This simple act of self-preservation/nurturing will put everything in context.
6. Make someone a present. Remember how good it feels to make things for the sake of making things?
7. Do the complete oppposite of what you are doing in the studio at the moment. If you are hanging shit, put it on the floor. If you are casting like there is no tomorrow, pick up a needle and thread. Etc.
8. Have good sex (this can be quite hard to arrange, the lack of which is sometimes the very reason for said Artist Block)
9. Drive to the airport
10. Buy stationary
11. Knock back a few shots of scotch and wander aimlessly around the local hardware store
Good luck.
xoxo,
betta.
2. Press the FUCK IT button and go watch a movie
3. Consume other media - books, films, cartoons, autumn sunsets, etc.
4. Drink heavily in a bar where you don't know anyone. Talk to strangers.
5. Cook yourself food. This simple act of self-preservation/nurturing will put everything in context.
6. Make someone a present. Remember how good it feels to make things for the sake of making things?
7. Do the complete oppposite of what you are doing in the studio at the moment. If you are hanging shit, put it on the floor. If you are casting like there is no tomorrow, pick up a needle and thread. Etc.
8. Have good sex (this can be quite hard to arrange, the lack of which is sometimes the very reason for said Artist Block)
9. Drive to the airport
10. Buy stationary
11. Knock back a few shots of scotch and wander aimlessly around the local hardware store
Good luck.
xoxo,
betta.
Labels: art
¶ 12:13 PM 0 comments
My Studio Practices
1. Imagination is more important than knowledge
But the more knowledge you have the more imaginative you are able to be.
2. Work makes more work
Work is a generative process centered around action. Action produces things. Waiting around hoping for that perfect genius idea to fall in your lap like the blessings of angels is generally a waste of time. With a tight deadline creeping up on you, you can apply the shortcut of brainstorming ideas, sometimes with great success. I've found I can do this better now with some experience under my belt. But as a process I find it utterly miserable - you feel like a production line, vomiting ideas on demand. Ideas are nothing without action. The process of making something will ultimately impose its own rules on the outcome of that thing.
3. Be the Fool
Avoid dependance on old strategies. Create problems for yourself and others. Do not have attachments to labels or expectations - these are only old tricks of a mind that resists change. Change is vitality. Vitality creates an art that lives.
4. 'Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty, lies opportunity.' - Albert Einstein's Rules of Work
5. Never hesitate to chuck shit out the window and start all over
Learn to let go, let go, let go. There WILL be other ideas.
But the more knowledge you have the more imaginative you are able to be.
2. Work makes more work
Work is a generative process centered around action. Action produces things. Waiting around hoping for that perfect genius idea to fall in your lap like the blessings of angels is generally a waste of time. With a tight deadline creeping up on you, you can apply the shortcut of brainstorming ideas, sometimes with great success. I've found I can do this better now with some experience under my belt. But as a process I find it utterly miserable - you feel like a production line, vomiting ideas on demand. Ideas are nothing without action. The process of making something will ultimately impose its own rules on the outcome of that thing.
3. Be the Fool
Avoid dependance on old strategies. Create problems for yourself and others. Do not have attachments to labels or expectations - these are only old tricks of a mind that resists change. Change is vitality. Vitality creates an art that lives.
4. 'Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty, lies opportunity.' - Albert Einstein's Rules of Work
5. Never hesitate to chuck shit out the window and start all over
Learn to let go, let go, let go. There WILL be other ideas.
Labels: art
¶ 11:43 AM 0 comments
Saturday, August 12, 2006
The Interior Oasis
If you have ever played with two magnets, you will know a solid cushion of air that creates an infuriating resistance; and the satisfying click when they are flipped over and drawn together.
This city is like a magnet. I feel gravity and a solid cushion of air. There is no space to dream except inside, and you bring the dream outside, carve out the air, place the dream there. Force it to be, to exist.
There is nothing to fear, all is surmountable.
In the moment of clarity that often comes after heavy drinking, a friend once observed that 'my un-confidence is my confidence'. Not quite grammatically there, I must say, but piercing a comment all the same, especially at 3 in the morning. True, what is vulnerable is often awkward, what is awkward is often precious, and what is precious... is an oasis.
The oasis is in the heart, leading to the jugular. A dry heart means a shell of a person, but a full heart keeps its pace, pumping a liquid dream. The dreaming is the action. People who cannot dream have no oasis...
A society that cannot dream has no oasis. It is a desert. ¶ 12:42 PM 0 comments
This city is like a magnet. I feel gravity and a solid cushion of air. There is no space to dream except inside, and you bring the dream outside, carve out the air, place the dream there. Force it to be, to exist.
There is nothing to fear, all is surmountable.
In the moment of clarity that often comes after heavy drinking, a friend once observed that 'my un-confidence is my confidence'. Not quite grammatically there, I must say, but piercing a comment all the same, especially at 3 in the morning. True, what is vulnerable is often awkward, what is awkward is often precious, and what is precious... is an oasis.
The oasis is in the heart, leading to the jugular. A dry heart means a shell of a person, but a full heart keeps its pace, pumping a liquid dream. The dreaming is the action. People who cannot dream have no oasis...
A society that cannot dream has no oasis. It is a desert. ¶ 12:42 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Recharge
A week in Singapore taking part in my first international show - 'Open SEA', curated by Khairuddin Hori at The Substation:
Alot of walking, often late at night, without the fear of being raped and stabbed.
The return of my appetite - double servings at every meal, much to the shock of curator and other artists. Allow me to highlight one particular dinner at Warung M.Nasir on Killeny Road. It was so good so good so good... the kind of dinner where you have worked hard all day and can eat into infinity! Honestly do not think I have liked food so much since I got back to KL two years ago - indication of a wider change? Perhaps...
Reflections upon Singapore as a 'soul-less' city. In an abstract, urban theoretical way, I am leaning towards agreement. But after hanging out with Khai at his studio/art space (Wunderspace) near the beach, I realize that the situation is much like KL - a giant machine headed with apparent inevitability towards disaster, but with alot of people chipping away at the edges - steadily, slowly - in an effort to halt the slide.
A very pleasant ride to the beach on Khai's bike, all by my tasty self. Sat and stared out for ages and ages at a grey-green-blue sea... momentary urge to throw myself into the water. And a disturbing thought that... I wouldn't want to die just yet.
The impossible has happened : I have become enamoured of performance art. On the 5 hour bus ride back to KL, I pieced together the rough elements of two performances... one to do with necking, one to do with reflexology. It was easy to imagine doing them while I was riding on the bus, but the moment I reached KL, I thought 'it won't be so easy...' (But more on this at a later time)
I GOT A HAIRCUT. Lynn did it on a whim in Khai's garden with a pair of paper scissors. It is a schizophrenic haircut - dyke on one side, ingenue on the other. A perfect duality. Was very nervous for a couple of days after - realize that I have been hanging on to my safe 'school teacher' look for far too long. Back in KL, it is a hit. Whee.
Tee-hee.
Alot of walking, often late at night, without the fear of being raped and stabbed.
The return of my appetite - double servings at every meal, much to the shock of curator and other artists. Allow me to highlight one particular dinner at Warung M.Nasir on Killeny Road. It was so good so good so good... the kind of dinner where you have worked hard all day and can eat into infinity! Honestly do not think I have liked food so much since I got back to KL two years ago - indication of a wider change? Perhaps...
Reflections upon Singapore as a 'soul-less' city. In an abstract, urban theoretical way, I am leaning towards agreement. But after hanging out with Khai at his studio/art space (Wunderspace) near the beach, I realize that the situation is much like KL - a giant machine headed with apparent inevitability towards disaster, but with alot of people chipping away at the edges - steadily, slowly - in an effort to halt the slide.
A very pleasant ride to the beach on Khai's bike, all by my tasty self. Sat and stared out for ages and ages at a grey-green-blue sea... momentary urge to throw myself into the water. And a disturbing thought that... I wouldn't want to die just yet.
The impossible has happened : I have become enamoured of performance art. On the 5 hour bus ride back to KL, I pieced together the rough elements of two performances... one to do with necking, one to do with reflexology. It was easy to imagine doing them while I was riding on the bus, but the moment I reached KL, I thought 'it won't be so easy...' (But more on this at a later time)
I GOT A HAIRCUT. Lynn did it on a whim in Khai's garden with a pair of paper scissors. It is a schizophrenic haircut - dyke on one side, ingenue on the other. A perfect duality. Was very nervous for a couple of days after - realize that I have been hanging on to my safe 'school teacher' look for far too long. Back in KL, it is a hit. Whee.
Tee-hee.
Labels: friends
¶ 1:39 PM 0 comments
