Saturday, 24 May 2008
This set of works began with the idea of obsessive pointillism with pen on paper. And the play of what our eyes see and our minds perceive in a cluster of dots pointed automatically.
The initial drawings titled Many Faces, Many Phases, Many places were made as an expression of our daily romantic preoccupations and continued with the next piece Nevermind Blind Mice which contains hidden messages within the countless dots as a visual poetry.
That was further developed to these laser-cut typographic boards meant to include another layer of ‘reality’ as backdrops.
The first piece made is Uncommon Places Unlike This which is 580mm by 680mm. A piece massively filled with dots and a short message to be placed in different situations. The final outcome caused by an unforeseen technical problem after 8 hours of cutting turned the message intended the other way round to Uncommon Place Lik Tis. An accidental poem created by chance gave this piece an added meaning which further complimented the concept of possibly hopeless romanticism in everyday life.
The next piece Un-Like This followed the similar technique of pointillism and idea of hidden message, only in a smaller scale of 420mm x 510mm. Last but not least, Like It Or Not is made with text drawn in lines and cut through. A visual poetry with text in different sizes meant to be read in multiple sequences.
These are photos photographed from pages of encyclopedias of places and animals in this scenic world. A re-presentation: another introduction—without words. Like a secret message passing game from A to Z and back, these stories translated from the initial experience of ‘the’ physical reality into a 2 dimensional flatland in pages of books and now individual images biasedly selected then collected in a box. Like a postcard sent by a tourist to someone who’d not been to where he’d been, only this time without the message that accompanied; unpersonalised and without an openly written emotion; unlabelled places, nameless destinations.
Places that confusedly seem so near yet so far to be reached and vice versa; fictitious as a master painting re-painted by a forger. This is just the 2nd person in the circle passing on a story to be re-told for another million times to come...
Typographic drawings of objects (and spontaneous thoughts) laying around my approximately 7.5m2 room in London, England. An honest translation meant to promulgate the multiplicity of ‘reality’ and writings from a personal-point-of-view. Drawing attention to ‘seeing as objective’ and ‘perceiving as subjective’. At the same time emphasizing the overwhelming fine written details bombarding us on everyday items that we take for granted.
They kept saying, ‘Look—closer.’
P/S: Everyday is a Sunday.
Is a poem written for her about her.
Hand set in metal type blocks of different point sizes and blind embossed in letter press. Made in this such a way meant like a letter sent without a recipient. The process and the result questions a hopeless romantic in doubt.
Wanting to say this to you,but
soon left without any to say.
The grain of the voice as Barthes described.
The incomprehensible sorrows of Plath to stay.
Night after night, The Sounds played.
What's left to fight since Philonous is all that's right.
Play it all over this May;
the explanations, the questions, the plague.
You're everything I'm not.
You're lying in the zookeeper's dike,
in the middle not without a hide.
Dim the lights, you're my god damn greyish sky.
I never thought it will be okay
taking all her pictures from the freeway;
singing in dismay,
the covers up her face.
The musings for a shout!
Do not think I missed the crowd.
All the dreams we cry out loud.
All the trash left no clues but clouds.
Hylas trapped in despair
and suspense in all things terrible.
South London forever 'til he gets ripped apart
for a dozen years to start.
The ink blotted the rug, she
dreamt only of the stud.
Not tea in a pub nor
crack in the tub burnt Babylon's luck.
The caryatid had your daze;
not for many days, she
wore a crown when you're gone.
Let me tell you,
he wouldn't be here long.
Vanished! She was gone
along with those eyes that sang no songs.
All the primary foliage in cruel winter's wave,
Zoe couldn't wait couldn't stay.
But you never told me I was late.
You never wanted the last scrape
of blades that ran in summer's wake.
You never stayed.
Found something but
not for tonight.
The eighties without parties.
The sloppy rides in giant flights;
they are memories—sliced.
Zoe in oversized shoes;
red and sly.
and given away.
All the things I couldn't say.
All the time we gambled away.
No lover in sight.
This time, Zoe, this time!
No more chicken cooked
in microwaves nor
scrambled eggs like
Both text were hand drawn inversely and scratched on metal plates, as the process—tedious as it is, reflected the obsession of all romantic preoccupations and hopeless indulgences. Unlike clicking on the keyboard to make any changes, what’s scratched, cannot be changed. It is like a crack on a vase that stays forever. And having the plates etched in a chemical bath that is almost once bitten and twice shy...
The first text is an untitled poem written linearly but lead to read alternatively, as the paragraphs intertwine between each line. Meant to be as messed up for viewers to take as much time to decipher the writing as it being done.
‘The Mysterious Is Marvelous.’
The second piece was meant ‘to tell you how much I wish the telly will explode in your face’. Statement scratched and hidden in ‘an angular universe’ trying to beat around the bush being a wimp I am. However, ultimately I tried but just couldn’t say it in your face and had to ask someone else to do it. If I haven’t told you here, you wouldn’t have known...
We die trying to hide
Why not try to die ‘cos
No one is for free and
Nothing comes easy
I reckon you ain’t satisfied
Where all donkeys swim
In lidos with nudies
Take all hearts with a breeze
Untighten those knees
I reckon you ain’t sick
Not used to telling no lies to
Make them feel right
Take it high
Fly it light and dive
Through oceans of knights
No dry eyes to
Make up neon lights nor
Life like a drive-by
Let me stay for the night so
We do not have to hitch a ride
All printed with his name
All selling his fame
I reckon you ain’t framed with pain
Do not call the pigs just
Breathe deep for
The shore is just a mile to go
Jack will not be alone
He’s got marshmallows on burning twigs
Let’s make coffee under trees
With tea leaves and royalty keys
You can have all my ciggies and
I’ll light them up for
A lease without fees
There’s too much time to sleep
‘Cos I miss you least and
You can wait for a calamity while
I slip pass
Pen on paper.
These 2 pieces were made in the name of ‘obsessive compulsive’ behaviour of fantasies and perceptive constant imaginations.
The first piece was pointed spontaneously and it being done proves the results of subjective perception of what different people may see in this sheet.
The second piece was then made to incorporate text hidden within these thousands of dots which led to the third piece made by laser cutting which pushes the idea further by making these dots to be seen through to another layer.