The Fiction I Live

Un, title d.

2008-05-24T20:30:00.003+01:00

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.

Pretty Places 'd We (not) Been

2008-05-24T20:29:00.002+01:00

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...

Sunday Drawing Classes

2008-05-24T20:27:00.005+01:00

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.

Zoe / Zoe

2008-05-24T20:23:00.002+01:00

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.
Bobby—gray
and given away.

All the things I couldn't say.
All the time we gambled away.
No lover in sight.
Nobody beside.

This time, Zoe, this time!
No more chicken cooked
in microwaves nor
scrambled eggs like
clay.

-

Once bitten, Twice shy - Thrice blind

2008-05-24T20:22:00.002+01:00

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...

-

10/02/08

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

Your magazines
All printed with his name
Your stalls
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
Thee

-

Dialogues / Monologues

2008-05-24T20:21:00.007+01:00

Conversations, thoughts, fabrications, truth—overheard and remixed like a script,like a poem to be given away...

Collected Stories

2008-05-24T20:21:00.006+01:00

These are simply found stories waiting to be re-read and given attention to.

‘Stop talking. Start looking.’

Many Faces Many Phases Many Places

2008-05-24T20:21:00.005+01:00

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.

Some Things Sometimes We,

2008-05-24T20:18:00.003+01:00

This short photographic journey with minimal accompanying text is about the distance and space of unspoken doubts—past,present and never next. The darkness of reverie; the uncertainty of desires and the loneliness of romantic preoccupations.

2 versions of this visual poetry are made—as a book and a slide-show projection. Individual photographs are included with the slide-show pack for an alternative viewing.

The the the, all the, things

2008-05-24T20:17:00.003+01:00

Memories sliced and unwind.

A poem written that spoke of bits and pieces of incidents that happened as a kid and despite already been more than a decade, these memories stay—like it, or not.

The original text was spontaneously arranged with wood block types and letter-pressed in 2 layers with colours randomly mixed while rolling ink over the plate to create a messed up effect expressing the almost chaotic thoughts which I wish to portray. Thus every single page is unique and unlikely to be copied.

An extension of this poem is then giclée printed over all the individual pages to form the book. This third layer is text inversely printed and the page french-folded to make it difficult for reading. It is intended to be slightly secretive, mysterious and chaotic within just as our mind always is.

A one-off edition.

I’ll Write A Zillion Poems But None Will Be Read

2008-05-24T20:15:00.001+01:00

Pen on paper.

A visual poetry in a form of typographic drawings.

This set of handwritten texts was made on contrary to the fact that all forms of writings are ultimately meant to be read—even if the writer is the only reader.

I wrote them both automatically and consciously with an initial poem in mind that is about: all the different things that I’ll do but am hindered in certain ways. The same poem is repeated but modified as I went along and these changes I’d made will not be recorded as I am not able to read most of the text that were written.

Some pieces are massively covered with writings, made in different colours and layers as to emphasize the obsessive behaviour and compulsive romantic preoccupations as reflected in the original version...

-

10/02/08

I'll say I’ll.
I'll build a treehouse but I haven't got enough pennies but it's planks I need.
I’ll lay on the beach but it’s been a gloomy week.
I’ll go to Paris but you wouldn’t want to see me.
I’ll never be in politics nor domestics.
I’ll paint the sea but there’s not much to see except lines that freeze.
I’ll believe in everything but there’s nothing to see in me.
I’ll never forget those quiet eyes but it’s heartbreaking.
I’ll sing a song but it will be neverending.
I’ll write a poem but it will not be seen.
I’ll watch you eat but it will be uneasy.
I’ll rock this town but not without you with me.
I’ll do a million things but you will never be convinced and
I’ll be condemned for blasphemy.
I’ll climb the giant bean stalk but you’re not on top.
I’ll be your lady but you wouldn’t like three.
I’ll be alright as there’s not much to dread about.
I’ll overcome the truth but it will be a lie.
I’ll repeat the infinite rides but there’s not enough light and
I’ll not possibly repeat an unfinished.
I’ll get my head in the tub but it’s scorching hot to turn on the tap.
I’ll be thinking but there’s nothing to free.
I’ll sleep with you but you wouldn’t bring me home.
I’ll let the cat free but he wouldn’t leave without me.
I’ll fabricate a zillion stories but none will be on sliver screen.
I’ll sin and it wouldn’t cost more than a Mercedes.
I’ll continue staring at the list but you’re already in bed without me.
I’ll wake up at three but there’s nothing in the fridge to eat nor drink.
I’ll kill who you hate but you got to give me some hints.
I’ll look you straight in the eyes but I reckon you’ll turn into a flea.
I’ll miss you but you’ll never know.
I’ll leave no more messages ‘cos
I’ll be ill.

-

'The World—Is Yours'

2008-05-24T20:14:00.001+01:00

Drawings illustrated from photographs found in pages of the encyclopedias instead of drawing from ‘the real’ subjects. A similar concept of passing a secret sentence around in a circle from A to Z and back to A as the return sentence gets distorted. Here, myself being the third person in the circle-line expressing my version to be passed on.

Printed on black paper in black ink as a play of perceptions and layering in the much spoken multiplicity of reality—what is vs. what is not. The illustrations repeated and inverted after the centrefold gives a subtle yet strange feeling as each image looks familiar but different somehow. Repetitions as a reminder that we may see the same things but we perceive them differently; at the same time drawing attention to the unseen matters of things we take for granted in life.

A Random Fictional Remix

2008-05-24T20:13:00.002+01:00

All illustrated pages found in 3 vintage Enid Blyton books almost biasedly picked up in a second-hand shop. Pages were initially randomly placed then numbered; however unbound for free reading.Each page has text and photograph juxtaposed with the existing illustration and storyline; creating a mix and chaos within...

November Thirty First

2008-05-24T20:07:00.006+01:00

A compilation of selected journal entries first published as an online blog.

(http://fiction-i-live-again.blogspot.com)

It is an ongoing project intrigued by the fact that live blogging has turned the private ritual of diary writing to a public speaking platform where every internet users become ‘writers’ publishing their daily activities onto the World Wide Web. Countless pseudonymous alter egos on air 24/7 in this hyperreality. There is no longer any line between fiction and reality. This collection of entries is about turning the traditional practice of documenting actual events to fabrications in daily life—characters,places,activities,etc. in this ‘real-time’. A different world in a similar dimension or vice verse, nobody has any rights or justifications to accuse such fabrications as ‘lies’ simply because ‘The World Is Yours’. All entries are fictitious and inspired by actual happenings, everything and everyone.

Welcome to my castle in the air.