mapping constellations in my dreams

portraits

by Racheal Anilyse


was watching a TED Talk about The Art of the Interview and something interesting was said, "people don't get their portraits painted anymore," and how true. because i guess to a certain extent, photography makes it more convenient to capture one's portrait now. i'm not demeaning the value of portrait photography, but drawn/painted portraits are certainly something to 'wow' over.

it is not easy to capture someone, as photos or paintings, and make it look like them, and yet, not. because to a certain extent, portraits do not necessarily capture the person, but more of his or her persona. a fragment of who they are, their inner states of mind. the emotion that they're emoting. the translated thought. the conditions. a non-face. a permutation. essentially, what makes a portrait powerful is what it says. the face is a canvas to the greater conversations between cosmos.

artist feature | David Michael Bowers | site

girl growing in a tree | 09'

stereotyping slaps ye in the face

i hop into a cab from uni and the taxi driver engages in a conversation, as usual.

taxi driver: so you study in NUS. smart huh.
me: no lah. it's just NUS.
taxi driver: you're Malaysian right?
me: huh? no i'm Singaporean. 
taxi driver: really? oh. cos usually Malays in Singapore aren't that smart. they don't go to uni.
me: what? you're wrong. there are loads of Malays in NUS. 
taxi driver: really? seldom see them.
me: that's because the majority of the people in this country are Chinese. so of cos it's hard to see a lot of us 'minorities'. besides, i'm Indian. not Malay.
taxi driver: huh? you're Indian. then how come you're wearing the scarf thing?
me: that's cos i'm Muslim. Indian Muslim.
taxi driver: ooh! but you're quite fair also, huh? and no wonder you're smart. Indians are very smart.
me: how do you know? you see a lot of Indians in NUS, is it?
taxi driver: not really. (pause) i'm very confusing ah. (laughs).
me: yeah you are. 

stereotypes confuse. don't buy into them.

the mermaid from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

The 4th Affordable Photo Fair

i can't believe i've not written on this.

the photo fair went well. learnt a lot of things. the most important being how i never seem to ask for help whenever i need it. bad habit. ought to be changed. new year resolution. noted. also learnt how to actually talk about my photographs. not an easy thing to do, despite my love for talking. also happy to have met new people and other photographers. had a lovely time talking to dennis about photography as art. but that's a different post altogether. note to self.

also feel blessed by the number of support bras that i have. my friends. they constantly keep me lifted, despite gravity. love them, laces and all.

interesting conversations. categories. commercial photography. fine art. questions. did you go to art school? what's your philosophy? some easy to answer. others, a tad hard to verbally express. that's why i have my photographs, right?

end of the day. got a tad sick. gastric. typical. but had fun and am looking forward to new projects and collaborations. hell yeah!

gut the court jesters

why is the idea of the individual, alone usually depicted as an abnormality? a state of being awaiting some sort of reconciliation, a resolution. an unfinished story. in movies, such characters are introduced as weird and eccentric, and we laugh or sympathize with them. it is depicted as incomplete in its worldly experiences. lulled in a state of void because its private parts have never been touched. the story will then end with it skipping off into a pixelated rainbow with someone it has encountered who completes it. you complete me. what an irritating concept: needing someone to complete your sense of self.

nevermore. nevermore.

it is important to have people in our lives. but people should not complete us. our attitude towards people should be akin to that of ghosts. it's fun (or not) to see them, initially, but then it would be better in the long run to be rid of them. for those we encounter, they impact our lives, experiences, and emotions and in that moment, we change. for those we don't see, we don't. but that doesn't mean that they don't exist. they still do. spirits are everywhere! and we hear about them in stories and accounts by those who do see them. and they might or might not leave any marks in our lives but either way, they're still there. and then there are those who haunt us for long periods of time and perpetually keep us on our toes. and soon we begin to feel comfortable with having them around, no matter how grotesque they are. but soon, they'll leave too. because the dead must live as the dead. because everything is momentary. momentaries. and soon, everybody leaves. and because, perhaps the only resolution in life, is death. and i don't say this in a dark, cynical, and ironical manner, muttering displeasure into fingernails that then claw out mine eyes. rather, it is matter-of-fact, isn't it?

and because people are actually selfish beings and we need to recognize that not necessarily as a bad trait but as a normal one. because each person creates her own needs and wants and for some, these needs and wants do not reside within others. i don't need you. but i love you. this does not make it wrong or pathetic. in fact, if you find yourself constantly needing that someone, or the presence of others in your lives, you're abnormal or probably deformed in some way and should proceed to chew on some bones or flesh to complete your growth process as a human being.

i am reminded again of the novel Veronika Decides to Die. everyone is essentially insane. we fill ourselves up with idiosyncratic jewels that we then conveniently transform into mere stones just because the Grand Narratives deem it so. we cast aside our court jesters, stuff their bells into their mouths and silence them. and we hide. we make ourselves feel weird, alone.

searching for the revolutionary

perhaps it's because i've grown old-er, or because i've studied for too long. 19 years. 19 freaking years, straight! but lately, it feels like every argument i hear is one that i've heard before. ideas that have been argued before. recited. reused. arguments about life, love, religion, philosophies on things, anything and everything. all of it. i know them inside out, back and front. and so, certain discussions feel unnecessary, certain 'intellectual pursuits', boring, certain 'doctrines', irritating. feels like i've reached the top of a plateau, the flat surface that makes it easy to walk on, but isn't challenging at all. after all, we've learnt to walk very early in life. the rest of our lives should be spent on using the art of walking for some other purpose.

something more revolutionary.

the search begins.

pages of minds

the Penguin Warehouse Sale

Expo Hall 6

3rd- 6th Dec

10am- 9.30pm

be there!

i love Penguin books. the papers they use smell nice. i love smelling books. i also love going to warehouse sales because it's when you get un-cracked spines, smooth pages, & cheap books. cheap being $5 to $10 for hardcovers. how beautiful is that! i also love how there is very little eye contact between people. every eye, peeled onto books, titles, names, searching, searching. a sea of faceless faces, acknowledging only through the bodily presence of the other, caught at the corners of eyes. our bodies gyrate against the tables likes waves to the shore, to and fro, to and fro. pendulums. rhythmic. collect and deposit. awe. lust. picturesque covers. 1st editions. un-cracked spines. swoon.

ahh, book people. book people are beautiful people. yeah!

"half glimpses of life"

Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

i've been wanting to read this novel ever since i watched/listened to Chimamanda speak on one of the TED talks | The Danger of a Single Story. she is such an eloquent speaker. resilient beauty. it made me desperate to read her. so, i did.

the first thing i did after borrowing this book from the library was to google the Nigerian-Biafran war. i had never heard of it. for shame. equipped with a mere wiki update on the war, i started. i was immediately intrigued by the characters. they were whole. described with lavish words. i fell in love. a biased love. turned them into heroes. the beacon of all that was good. this was however, shattered. but it was a disappointment so beautiful, it only added more whole-ness to their beings. humans. being and becoming who and what they can be, shaped by their ideals; changed by their circumstances for as goes the saying, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. this new-found strength can however be translated in both positive and pessimistic ways. half glimpses of life. not all that grow reach for the sky. some dig deeper into the ground, into darkness.

a thought. certain histories, calamities, genocides are constantly revisited, narrated, and thus their sacrifices, miseries, survivors repeatedly mourned, remembered through museums, memorials, movies. by those who can afford it.

but for those who can't, what become of them?

half glimpses of life

something to look out for!

oooh!!

a love letter

...your latest photos...I don't know. I don't know you. Of course not. But the world you inhabit, the spaces you move through. You breathe. Looking at your latest pictures makes me fall desperately in love with you, this person I don't know, and never will. What a crazy, stupid thing to say. Don't worry. It's nothing. Perhaps I've had too much wine. Nevertheless. Nevermind.

perhaps the sweetest, and only, love letter (of sorts) that i've ever gotten. i've been a romantic, a cynic, and then a romantic-in-denial. the evolution. the degeneration. but i guess i do believe in Love. especially in that of a stranger's. possibly because the distance makes it so surreal. and thus, easier to believe. the irony of it all. nevertheless. nevermind.

catalog | updated

the disembodied genius

my lovely friend, chand, recently linked me to this TED talk by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of

Eat, Pray, Love. brilliant discussion.

the disembodied genius. the idea that our creative processes involve an other-ly intervention or contribution. that it is not fully our own. that we do not own it. that it comes from nowhere and everywhere. and would leave when the work is done. to be passed on to another. for another creation to be manifested. across time and space.

i've always believed in the idea of the cosmos and how inspirations, ideas, dreams, aspirations, and messages of the many exist within it. released. let loose. or sometimes lost. and i believe in the presence of the divine who artfully crafts opportune chances for the meeting between these floating specters and their medium, the artist. a collaboration, as Gilbert beautifully puts it. collaborations that can happen anytime. anywhere.

interestingly, i find my meetings with such specters mostly contained within the four walls of the toilet. restroom. bathroom. pee-pee place. whatever it is called. i never linger long in the loo. for good reason. but i would be in the midst of sorting out laundry for the week when, POOF! in the middle of a shower. POOF! in the middle of the blessed* act of shitting. POOF!

*i consider shitting a blessing as i believe the human body would not be able to contain itself had it not been given an outlet for release. as the saying goes, what goes in, must come out. so that more can come in. again. and out. again.*

hence, i consider myself lucky for being chosen for collaborations without having to wait it out for centuries in that one space. waiting to be hit by the apple in the head. or having to travel to the end and back. but then again, i have been told that some of my ideas are crappy. shitty. but i suppose, it's better to be crafted as a vessel than a plastic plateau that simply allows for everything or anything that wants to latch on, be wiped away. the important thing is, to become. to become a vessel for something. anything. and then to act with it. accordingly. poetically.

of fate, freckled pages, & an uncracked spine

i just finished reading Veronika decides to die by Coelho. i've been meaning to read it for a while now but didn't for i believe that my relationship with books, like love, exists and is run by fate. i read a book when i am fated to read it, even if the book is within my possession and i find my hours in the day sauntering away. each time i finally read a particular title is when, at that point in time i find myself searching for an answer, to something. answers that most amazingly grow in the pages of the book. as we are all permitted our idiosyncratic ways of reasoning, pray, leave me with mine as i sway a little into another story about fate.

i believe that i am fated to do 'art'. i took art classes when i was a youngling. an eager girl who spent her afternoons after school tracing pictures of flowers and animals from huge encyclopedias. words didn't interest me. i derived immense pleasure from holding a crayon in my hand. second skin. its somewhat hard clay-like texture felt normal against my rough skin. i also loved it when crayon got under my nails. as i was a nail-biter, i found myself on several occasions swallowing small deposits of crayon buried under my nails. i've since however, stopped.

art class. i won second prize for the school's art competition drawing dinosaurs (long necks). using crayons, i drew three long necks, a mom, a dad, and their child. the typical family unit. mother insisted that i not draw the 'm' birds -those that children would usually draw- as those were 'modern' birds which did not exist in the time of dinosaurs. in her eyes, my drawing would lose its authenticity. she specifically said that if i wanted to draw 'birds', they would have to be those 'dinosaur birds'. the pterodactyl. winged lizards. not birds after all. but i didn't know how to draw those 'dinosaur birds' and my sky in the drawing was looking too empty. and so i drew in the 'm' birds. the fake birds. a lot of them. i won the second prize. there was however a girl in my class who knew how to draw a real bird. she drew a parrot so perfectly shaped and colored for the competition. it was green and had a sharp beak. she won the first prize.

i'm sure it wasn't because i didn't win the first prize, but my parents soon reprimanded me whenever i decided to draw and trace. i should have been studying instead. and so i studied.

i took art for my 'O' levels and did very well in it. i got an A and with encouragement from my art teacher, was determined to head to the local art college. this didn't sit well with my parents, especially my mom. no future in being an artist. and so i headed to college to do my 'A' levels. and then university. and then had thoughts of doing a PhD, until finally, i reach this point in my life where i'm revisited by art yet again. through photography, tea bags, and ink, i've become addicted to art and it is something that i plan to start and finish, even if it means i'll have to learn to draw a 'real bird'. i've since recently purchased, after 14 years, a new box of crayons. pastels!

they're still delicious!

so yes. i believe that i am fated to do art. even though it took me many, many years to actualize and chart its path in my life. i believe it as much as i believe that i was fated to finally read Veronika decides to die, for, having refused to spend $26 on it at BORDERS, i finally got to it at a second-hand bookstore at Bras Basah complex two days ago. it was priced at $5.90. and even though the cover and pages have been freckled by time and the sun, its spine was still uncracked. i fell in love. instantly. and i got some answers.

condoms

it's fun coming up with titles

especially when it's funny

and slightly disturbing to some

some

2010

was out and about yesterday, running errands. went to get some paper and envelops at a local bookstore and saw a table filled with 2010 planners. next year is looming ahead. already. i have always been a firm believer of planners. daily planners. this doesn't necessarily make me a 'planner'. at least i think not. doesn't matter anyway. so i bought my 2010 planner. black. as usual.

feels like 2009 is already running out of time.

Fabio Scacchioli | dead SEEquences

dead SEEquences - Fabio Scacchioli from Fabio Scacchioli on Vimeo.

extract any part of the human body
flanked against a setting
and it is seen differently
recognized differently

rulers

there is so much to learn from the young.

last night, as my 9-year-old brother, ammar, was preparing and packing his bag for his exam today, he took out three rulers and showed them to me. i simply went 'wow' and said nothing else. this was part of my 'i-don't-want-to-ignore-you-but-i-can't-give-you-all-the-attention-coz-i'm-doing-something' routine. evil me.

later this morning, my mother told me that as she was checking his pencil box to make sure he had everything he needed for his exams, she found the three rulers and asked him why he needed so many.

he replied saying that last year, during the final-year exam, one of his friends forgot to bring his eraser. in the middle of the paper, out of desperation, he started begging to borrow an eraser from the other kids, but nobody helped. everyone was engrossed in their exams. and some, for fear of being caught by the teacher. ammar however, did.

so this year, he told my mom that the reason why he wanted to bring an extra of everything is so that should any of his friends forget something, he could lend it to them. my heart melted.

there is so much to learn from the young. even as we're teaching them.

i am guilty

i am guilty. for having it all. beyond the basics. surpassing my needs. abusing my wants. demanding. craving. more. more. without thought of time. time it takes to create. time taken to destroy. i am guilty. for being born in a privileged position and yet, idly pressed onto seats, giving nothing back. and despite knowing and having, am doing, nothing at all.

chand | an engagement

chand from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

crutches

there once was a man who, unwilling to allow himself, even for a moment, to forget about the poor, the desperate, the tortured, the dying, the hungry, the crying, the raped, or the saddened bombarded himself with an unbroken chain of images, sounds, and records that sustained him in a state of constant sorrow about happenings around the world. his body, mind, and heart etched to the desk. his laptop. his TV. his radio. googling. shuffling between channels. tuning in and out. listening for grave voices that report disasters. searching for sombre faces amidst footage of war. scanning for words like victims, flood, Taliban, destruction, die, violence spike, Rwanda. it took him that much effort to wallow in that state of catastrophic depression about the world. he died young. his face embedded with deep frown lines like that of an old man, and his heart, still crying.

a goddess of moments

in a sea of blue she sits.

fingering the thoughts of centuries.

away she sails. away she sails.

unlimited prints edition

Unlimited Printed Edition | http://nurulh.carbonmade.com/

dear friends,

in light of all that is happening now, 50 cents from the purchase of each print will be put towards the donation to Mercy Relief

prints can be mailed or personally collection from me

email to order or for further details | newrule@gmail.com

tell your friends.

thank you!

xx

n.

a dream entwined

a friend dreams of another

from a far away land

16 hours apart by air

2 seconds apart by IM

words that sculpt truths

met you face to face

woke up

what is my mind processing here?

distance

thoughts

love

a friend dreams of another

it is night here

but day over there

mimic & murmur

looking, all i see are mimics. listening, all i hear are murmurs. similar forms of different things. each called by its own name. chartered out by its own boundaries. carved out within its own means.

i often get asked, why do you have so many non-Muslim friends? where are your Muslim friends? don't you have any? sometimes, i pretend to not understand such a question. just so i can make them explain. sometimes, they can't.

as to the question, well, i just do. because, despite our religious differences, we're the same. mimics. murmurs. of the same tune. the same beat. cliched. yes. but, only because, it is what it is.

do not undermine the value of the cliched. there is power in mimics and murmurs.

a birth

artist | Rage

cookie

dear world,

how is it fair that i get to eat a subway cookie, when there are children everywhere without food?

words

and now, for some emptiness

breathe

exhale

*

o silent shout

of conflict dreams

her vaginal tear

upon thy feet

a babe's born

his mind is weak

I Polunin | the 'exotica'

we are always intrigued by those different from us. the exotic other. they fuel the imagination, offering a glimpse into a reality of the alternative. wedged in Colonialism and in the study of Anthropology, this concept of the other is one that hosts companions such as romanticism, nostalgia, the exotica, and 'the past'. although the I Polunin exhibition was meant to be reflective of the I, the self, some fragment of being 'Singaporean', i could not help but feel extremely othered.

we walked into the gallery and instantly, we were caught in both excitement and awe. there were photos of three men, each shot in the manner shown above. each a specimen. each with a number labelled onto their bodies. markings. documenting. it reminded me of the kind of photos i saw in my introduction to Anthropology and the Human Condition module. the beginnings of the study of 'race', as determined by the physical. the biological makings of a man. stereotypes. the first two were photos of 'native men', as clearly recognized and marked by their othered faces. the Asian. the tribal. the exotic. the third photo however, caught us by surprise, for it was a photo of the filmmaker himself. the Western male. ironically, without a loincloth (for no Western man wears that), but also rather comically, covered modestly only by socks and shoes. unsettling. but also potently symbolic.

walking further into the gallery, we were then greeted by panaromic shots of old Singapore. 'old' being a mere 60 years ago. and yet, a 60 years ago we could not recognize, or imagine. it was vastly different. more vibrant. we also caught sight of something in one of the old photos. something so inconsequential, and yet, historical, existing both then and in our present day. something that ought to be historical, and yet, often unnoticed.

there were also old objects. most of which, recording devices owned by the Dr. Polunin himself. snapshots. documents. notes. we then came to a film reel. old footages of what is perhaps a village in the 1950s, Singapore. again. it was starkly different. unimaginable. how could 60 years change so much? they had a baby bear as 'pet'. a real one. the made their own boats. children carrying coconuts, pineapples, jackfruits. some children these days do not even know how these fruits look like on the outside. we sat there for the duration of the film. watching. gasping. wondering. where are these people now? the children in the film would be about 70-80 years old by now. why don't they look like any of the ethnic selves in present today? where did they go? how did they accomodate such a shift in their living environment? would we have been able to live like that? if we were born in such a reality, of course we would. socialization. a part of me felt a huge wave of nostalgia. nostalgia for a world so divorced from me, and yet deeply felt for it was 'Singapore'. the mere reference to a name. a superficial emotional affinity. othered.

the exotica. that became the main motivation, the main 'visual tool' for the capturing of what was then Singapore. to the eyes of a Western man, the mundane everyday of this world was exotic to him and thus, worthy of capture. and in time, these mundane captures became fragments of what we now deem as 'history'. our history, as shaped by this other. how do we look, consume, and manipulate it? what does this say about the makings of our history? how does this reflect upon the method(s) upon which we thus begin to historicize our today?

i do not deny the importance of the mundane, the everyday, as essential aspects of historicizing. but i also know that to be consciously aware of its existence and importance as a part of what will be archived as history, is something that might be hard for the self to be actively realize, for there is nothing sensational in the mundane. only the sensational is often remembered. only the sensational is documented. history is often made up of only the sensational. the mundane, is remembered, by others. there is thus perhaps a need for the presence of an other in order to exoticize what we would deem to be mundane. unless, we possess within a self-reflexive thought and emotive system which would allow us to nostalgize, in advance, the things that would soon be deemed ‘ancient’ or historical, and to make that effort to memorialize it, now.

look around you. and look at the rate of change that exists within the world right now. is there anything you can imagine being gone, depleted, or erased of its use in the near future? if the world that is presented within the films and documentations of Dr. Ivan Polunin is but 60 odd years ago from our now, what can we envisage to change in 60 years to come? at the age of 80, would my generation of people be nostalgizing about the pencil? would handwritings become a thing of the past? would laptops? and what of certain rituals. with the advent and presence of media that can replace these older traditions, along with the influx of the visual media, would nobody tell stories anymore? would all the bards be silenced? or perhaps, they already are. have we documented them? or are they already gone.

how long does it take to museumize a generation of objects, rites, moments? how long to realize that there is a need to museumize it?

and with a world that is each advancing in a mirroring pace, is there even an othered reality? or has everything become the same? selfed.

I Polunin
NX Gallery, NUS Museum
more info here

into light. fall.

dear world, what has Love made us into?

the butterfly

My Bohemian Butterfly
Fly Away
Away from the world of the iron cage
A world where your garden wilts
The petals of your bud
Crushed beneath the cold stab of iron
Where your Love, Beauty and Freedom
Will never blossom
So fly away
My Bohemian butterfly
Fly to the place which exists not
But in the flutter of your wings.

tracings

i've never really been good with still life

and so, i trace

there is something powerful in repetitions

"second nature" Taussig says

replication

makes the mundane

but also empowers

tracings

mimic

building up symbols

that which brought back the 'whee'

*thanks to bon*

ghost thesis excerpt

There are rules in telling ghost stories and both storytellers and audience recognize these rules, which are continuously used and hence, reified, with every ghost story told. Furthermore, one’s experience of a ghost story, be it sacred or secular, is mediated concurrently by a set of instruments triggered by the bodily sentient, when faced with variables that are socially shared within a community of people. The latter acts as a far more interesting ethnographic study as it enables us insight into the dimensions beyond that of macro structures (like religion and Science), allowing instead for an introspective look into a more micro discourse of how we as humans negotiate our boundaries between the self and ghostly other. Additionally, the processes of crafting ghost stories and the telling and re-telling of them, mimics the form of water in a reservoir- collected and stored for use. What are we then collecting from our reservoir of ghost stories? And what is retrieved from it?

'Leaky Bahloons' now for SALE

the 'Leaky Bahloons' series

is now for sale!

yaay!

handpainted

watercolor/pencil/ink

cartridge paper (folded in the middle like a card)

125 gsm | A5

plain white on the other side

or

8 by 5 plain postcards

plain white on the other side

am currently still working on some more designs

*which can be found on the nuruL H. facebook page | link on sidebar

will mail to faraway places

yaay!

for more details, email me: newrule@gmail.com

the macabre mundane

the fruit of thy womb

an apple a day keeps the doctor away

mapper of families

i've decided to embark on a project to document and archive the people, memories and moments of both sides of my family. mom's and dad's. figured i do it now, since i have the means - camera, scanner, research tools - to do so. will start with my dad's side of the family because there was recently a wedding- my cousin's. zakaria.

nenek's house

will be adding more as time/space allows.

i decided to call it nenek's (granny) house as that's where we usually go to. the headquarters.

documentary. i will be scanning old photos and will perhaps be interviewing my granny, aunts, & uncles about their memories and knowledge/perceptions of the family history. i was also told by my other uncle (mom's brother) that there is possibly an old film reel of my great grandmother when she was young. what an awesome source of family history. will be looking into that as well.

mapping family genealogies. a fun, yet time consuming project.

a rusty repertoire

the black blot whizzed by the entire visual area of the window. a bird. i think so. or at least, i'd like to think so. they're the only beings flying around early this morning. well. hopefully most of the time.

the connect. or the disconnect. i recently watched Waltz with Bashir. to a certain extent, it was a great disconnect. an animated documentary about a war that took place even before i was conceptualized as a human being. yes. conceptualized. to become, human. on levels of the intellectual, emotional, and moral. on the other hand, it wasn't a context that i was entirely estranged to. o, the bane of such incidents. incidents. if it could be lightly termed that. the bane of such horrors in its refusal to become History. its refusal to end and become a chapter in History. instead, it keeps Time as a constant mistress. a neverending affair with Time. an eternal patron. each feeding on the other. sustained.

the film. my greatest connect/disconnect surfaced through the film's use of animation. like the film Persepolis, the use of animation presents us with a different experience/perspective/representation/performance of reality. the reality of real events such as wars and revolutions. expressed, illustrated through motifs. comic style colors. surrealism is expected. picturesque dreams. grotesque nightmares. epic scenes. room for the visually-idiosyncratic. an animated film can easily create all of this. blood begins to look, artistic. in fact, it is no longer red. but black. brownish-red. maroon. it becomes symbolic. and we, as the audience, recognize it, nonetheless. connect. even death as expressed through animation, is made artistic. unreal. and perhaps, surreal. however, when this light-hearted use of animation is suddenly juxtaposed, mirrored, 'mimicked' by footages of the real, that is when the greatest connect and disconnect happens. both, at the same time. footages. terminology.

and then the realization. and then the tears. and then, the end.

the ability to finish looking, seeing, feeling something, as time passes, as a footage ends, as a memory fades, is perhaps the greatest disconnect between us. as one. the human race. can one perpetually look, see, feel, remember, and do?

momentaries

there are certain things in life that are just hypnotic. mechanical. like staring at the moon. it gets brighter and brighter. as everything else around it diminishes in sight. like watching fish swim in a tank. around and around. becoming blurs of colors floating around a landscape of blue. like the flailing arms of fire, etched onto a stove. its unachieved potential to soar. blue. orange. mild tints of pink. licking the bases of pans. limited. like peeling off dead, dry skin from a nasty cut. can't stop until it's all gone. even if it's bad to do so. scars. like a face in the fan. sitting in front of it, on a hot day. the constant wind, blowing secrets into the eyes. closing to contain. closing to contain. ruptured blinks. like waiting for the moments. the perfect moments. when they come. will they come?

leaky bahloons

found a new character
i love him

plans.plans.plans.

this is a final resolution. i shall and will and must finish the thesis draft by mid next week. after which i will and must send out my resume. i will patiently wait for my supervisors to get back to me and let time, life take its own course. in the meantime, i will start on my many projects and collaborations. those i've been archiving in my mind for the past year and a half. will. must. shall.

i will not become the legless toad. never.

6.52pm

love at the end of life

heard something mildly hilarious today. and yet, wildly intriguing. the person who, for the whole of his/her life, has hated, loathed you, will, towards the end of his/her life, love you the most. meaning. if i suddenly find my worst enemies being utterly nice and lovely to me, it means that they're going to die. soon. it’s akin to getting revenge. but without having to do anything.

but why? well, it’s just a superstition. an old wives’ tale. nothing to it. perhaps. but even these usually deemed ‘illogical’ systems of thought possess a form of rationalization. nothing is unexplained. almost nothing.

maybe it’s because, it’s fate’s way of allowing that person, who has wronged you your whole life, a final chance to make up for all the bad, and do good onto you. a chance to repent. for all the misdeeds. hmm. or maybe it’s just a way of knowing if you are the person who has been most mistreated by that particular person. as in, if that person suddenly dies, and he/she never did suddenly love and fawn over you, then you’ll know that you were never the person he/she hated the most. and won’t that be a good thing? perhaps.

so maybe, we shouldn’t really worry about having enemies. they’ll love us. soon. because, well. everyone dies. perhaps, just make sure they go first.

evolution

layers. on & off

layered on. and off.

i often wonder, if an art piece is ever finished.

artist | Alexandre Farto (Vhils) | site

by the window

from the 'black & TEA' series