My small doodle project has been featured 
A superb thanks to everyone.
Now I can continue to draw and document my ramblings on the internet.
This post is brought to you by…
Sounds about right…
Source: yayeveryday.com via Angela on Pinterest
A Brief History of John Baldessari
I will not make any more boring art.
Every now and then, I come across artists that I love, and I wish I can breathe what they breathe, and drink what they drink, in the hopes that one day, too, I’ll be like them.
I also wish that people do this with their own craft. The statement indicates that the person is standing up for what they believe in, and what they believe in is closely refined to what they believe is good, and when that happens, magic happens. Boom. All of a sudden, you sift through what is idiocy and what is brilliance. And that’s what the world needs… More brilliance.
Doesn’t matter whether or not the stickers on people’s faces actually meant anything. The point is, while the rest of the world is pondering about whether or not it’s art, he’s been busy making – even more art.
Although I love Goddard and his jump cuts and his contributions to the world of French cinema, I still love Andy Warhol more.
Also, that beard is pretty darn epic.
An Island.
“…I’d like to live in an island.”
++
Having a retreat feels awesome. This song by Whitest Boy Alive would’ve been great company by the shore.
Standard Issue Regrets
Everybody has some. Some people harbour more than others.
Last night’s meeting with an old highschool friend brought back a stream of old memories. We spoke about our old lives that seemed so distant, like as though it was another planet altogether. She came from the same highschool, the same peas as my pod, who looked like a model even at 28, she looked ravishing in pale pink lipstick and a skirt that seemed too tight.
She spoke to me about her old life in Manila, about her horrible situation being involved in a relationship malfunction that lead her ex to sue her for “attempted homicide”. Man, oh boy – I knew from that point forward that it was going to be an interesting evening.
The “attempted homicide” wasn’t as bad ass as I thought it would be: He basically sued her because he found his drunken self warmongering in a party, uninvited, whilst other drunks beat him up for saying foul things and being violent. Obviously, no fault of hers. Obviously, she did not incite any violence, as she had no idea she was being stalked by her ex fiance in the first place.
And yet…. we found ourselves sifting through the topic of regrets. Amongst that list included an old friend, an old bud she introduced back in the early 2000?s, when we used to have horrible haircuts and didn’t know what life was about.
This old bud was a charming young man; he had a fairly western accent for somebody who has never traveled elsewhere, which we suspect was an unintended consequence of wanting to sound cool. He was a nice man. We spoke on the phone for some time, I don’t know if I fancied him, but it really didn’t lead to anywhere. That, and add to the fact that he was always on and off with a very popular girl from school, which would lead any potential hook up with an “in-betweener” like me, potentially null.
One day. Just like that. He killed himself.
And good grief, my friend felt so guilty because she never replied to any of his messages. Because we were young, and when you’re young, you would dismiss teenage drama as another episode of many. I guess it’s really difficult to wrap your head around this, especially when you’re a teenager – Everyone has issues. Everyone has drama. Why was it so difficult for him to accept that?
But then again, she goes on to say that he’s always been a bit messed up, and I guess once you’re that broken, there’s no way of making you whole again.
I held on to this thought for a while.
A great resolution would be to let go of regrets, because there’s absolutely nothing we can do to change the past. We drank our beer in remembrance to him, and smiled. We thought, maybe this is how it feels like to have an old friend in heaven, checking you out.
In an odd way, it felt like he was there with us.
A letter.
I’m sorry for those things I never said. I was holding them back for fear of your rejection, your judgement, your quips about morality and your opinions. I guess I was saving myself from hearing them. I apologise for being so selfish.Silence is a small price to pay to afford myself of inner peace.
I would like you to know that no matter what you say to me – and no matter how hard you disagree about my lifestyle decisions, relationships, about things that you label ‘immoral’ in your book, or unjust, I will never falter.
I believe in being entitled to form opinions and value systems. I believe in the duty of rectifying past beliefs that are broken. I believe in the beauty of distancing myself in order for me to love you properly.
Though I may never be fully grown up, this is as far as I will get to ever trying.
Yoga.
Sometimes I need a pause button.
Why doesn’t life have a pause button?
Mental post it note reads:
Please make time for yoga again. It calms the nerves. Also, quit the shit that weighs you down.
Arty inspirations.
Sylvia Plath was pretty messed up. Reading ‘Bell Jar” makes me feel like I’m taking a guided tour in the mind of a really, really, really brilliant writer – full of brilliance and ‘crazy’ at the same time. I find myself agreeing with her redefined hopelessness – wishful thinking that Buddy Willard would end up with the heroine in the story. ( “Give her a hug already! Comfort her! Stop dick*ing around!”) But of course, nothing of the sort happens. What happens is an envelope of quiet wraps itself around you, as you go through her journey of unstable mental health, her fragile relationships, her inability to connect with others and hopeless 1960’s supposed psychotic solutions to shocking people to cure them of their mental health problems. ( “Blue light! Dizzying blindness! Steroid shots to make them fatter like cattle!”)
Surprisingly, what I like about this book is that it doesn’t read like an old novel. The language is full of beautiful metaphors, full of poetry, which Ms. Plath is known for. It truly is a beautiful read.
On Amanda Palmer (amanda !*(@^&ing palmer)
Because I’m a Gaiman fan ( Yes, I am – and though it took me a while to realise this from my silly OhMyHe’sBritish moment) – I thought it made sense to click this link he was spreading around in his Facebook page.
I stumbled upon Amanda Palmer’s site. She’s truly stuff made out of brilliance. Fierce, independent, raging artist with a real core for art. I love that. In a sad way, I find myself wanting to be like that
They’re raising funds for her new art project here. Clickie. You might like it.
Hope I can blog some more, but there’s so much grown up work to do this week. Fingers crossed and we’ll set out in jetpacks and set this project live soon.
Street
Walking and walking
Thinking on my feet
Anything can happen in the city
But you can’t sit down
Building to building
Sheltering from the sky
Knowing there’s somebody on the street
That could change my life
You can try on anything for free
Pick up anything you need
And I’m wishing you were here with me
Walking on a city street
Window to window
Filling in the hours
Catching my reflection
In a place I’ve never been before
Crossing the bridges
Leap the river wide
Knowing not in time
I’ll arrive on the other side
You can try on anything for free
Pick up anything you need
And I’m wishing you were here with me
Walking on a city street
Volunteering for the museum, and other things.
Last weekend was quite interesting. I attended and volunteered for Lee Wen’s performance art workshop in the Singapore Arts museum. You have no idea how enriching the experience is!
It was a treasure trove of interesting learnings, which was so impactful. We were truly lucky to be around such an iconic artist – someone who has changed the face and tried to put Singapore in the map of modern art.
He tried to share as much as he could, despite having Parkinsons disease. He spoke about the nuances of performance art – about the lyricism of using the body as a means of expression, about the difference of performance art and theatre, about why Americans tend to be quite loud during performances (due to the nature of their understanding of an audience, vs that of spectatorship).
He recalled stories of living in an artist village back in the 80’s, being heavily influenced by Surrealists and the Dada movement – trying to carve out meaning, expressing himself through various changes in society.
Several times through the talk, he referred to other artists from the world over: From Jackson Pollock to that Belgian performance artist who refused to be found inside the museum. He spoke about transformation of the message as expressed through different media (ie photographs).
After the talk, he got the whole group doing some performance exercises to flex their creative muscles. He asked the group to walk carefully, like as though you’re treading ground for the very first time. I found this fascinating – because I really rarely put much thought into walking. We always take these things for granted.
The group was also split into two, then one side went through a mad rush to meet the other – inches away, face to face. They also went outdoors, expressed themselves with the use of a prop – a box. They climbed in, danced with, carried up, the whole box around the doorway. Quite fun!
Incidentally, I also met another Filipino volunteer who shared the same family name as myself. Quite funny to think about it – What are the odds!! Maybe a long lost cousin of sorts. Maybe a stroke of odd luck.
In other news, I’m also profoundly fascinated by the book entitled “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath. She’s an interesting character – known for her poetry and her intense suicide; however, the one and only novel recovered after her death proves that she’s so much more than what you see in the surface. We’ll see how it goes – Right now it’s only unfolding to a rich tapestry of 1960’s/1970’s New York city environment.