Die in the roses

Am I pursue something I passionate about?

Seems not. 

Contemporary art. Seems everyone studying fine art today is making contemporary works. Works talk about emptiness, money, efficiency, politics,and irony.

I know I'm not accurate, maybe it's me who think about those things everyday.

But suddenly I'm supposing a lifestyle.

Like Borges' "A wearing man's utopia". An impossible lifestyle.

I will learn drawing very finely. almost like a painter in old days. 

I will learn making wooden ornaments very finely. almost like a craftsman.

I will learn playing music very finely. almost like a court musician.

I will learn taking photos very finely. almost like Daguerre and Bresson.

I will learn writing very finely. almost like a calligrapher and Shakespears.

Then I shall fall in love with Art again.

Everything's new in the world. I pretend.

I need to learn from zero. Not too fast, I need to progress very slowly. Absorb slowly. Carefully. Endlessly...

90's

I wish I could live in 90's at my age now.

Giant sky-scrapers, young people crush on rock, white-collar's a
brand new honorable occupation, people start to learn how to use computer,slightly oversized clothes are the most fashionable, cosmetic advertisement show the feminine example of the new age...

I finally know why people do feel nostalgic from time to time.

For me, that's because I feel lonely and boring again now.

It's very precious if something keeps parallel with you.
Like that tiny window lit on the building in my window view.
It always keep lighted, every time when I remember of it and take a look if it's still on... Like respond to me, even it never showed any accessibility or hospitality to me, it's always waiting there.Strangely, it becomes my soul mate. Even we are not the same species.

I don't want to be a curator, neither a critic, neither a magazine correspondent...Even these days, I always use these labels to categorize my future.

Look, my English is so crap, but I don't want to correct my faults deliberately... Even only one person can understand it, enough.

I don't want to be a hermit neither anymore. Now I only hope I can grow up with this century, coz now from my window, it seems a little bit like street scenes in the 90's.

tired and blurred

I've left my land uncultivated for a long time already...
now I try to come back, take a rest here...air always smells fresh and free here...listening to Moondog's semi-classical piano works, outside of my window there are trains passing by, going to east and west...from my angle, always empty wagons...I suppose just because of everyone got a seat. It's nice to think in that way.

staircase in Chelsea.
that was a day with unyielding sunshine. sunshine became black keys. I'd like to play on this harpsichord. play a Moondog's tune. maybe the one I'm now listening to - Jazz book No.2

siamese twins and diaspora

This freezing afternoon, I went to a talk by John Akomfrah in ICA. 

He made 14 films since 80's, Handsworth Songs might be the most famous one, which discussed the riot happened 20 years ago. He was born in Ghana, but brought up in south west London. So this probably affected greatly his concept and direction of his works. 

And the most impressed idea that I received today comes from the beginning of his biographical work "Testament". A scene of a/two siamese twins. They are conjointed from belly, so they are facing to each other, weaving their hands babyishly, seems they are having a silent mind conversation. 

This is a clip John borrowed from a hospital, John told us that after, these twins have had an operation. But since something important in their body was singular, so people decided let one alive, another to die.   If they don't separate, both will die....How cruel, the reality. So hard to imagine two brothers, one died for another one's life. I think the living one must have a shadow, a trauma all life long. He must usually think about his dead brother. He must feel unbelievable, regrettable and painful...   for him, and himself.  "The most similar people in the world dead for me at the very beginning." He might think like this everyday.

John said:" I think this is something like diaspora."

Exactly.

w ayh om e

During whole winter holiday, I was thinking of writing a story. A story split into many little stories, all about buildings. 

Urban buildings. 

    Urban buildings at night. 

          Urban buildings at night in London. 

                  Urban buildings at night in London which are still awake. 

Urban buildings at night in London which are still awake due to human insomnia. 

This, 

       is a staircase cohere the bridge and riverside walk. 

             In the morning, people who rush to office always frightened and stumbled 

by the little puddle of 

    half-dried-smelly sprinkler's urine.                                             A perfect place               

                                            

                                                      to  make     someone      disappear.

                                                             This is a mushroom
                                                             or
           a black umbrella overturned             by the                      wind on the riverside walk.

       Road leading to Vauxhallbridge,
                                                                in the end of sight,
       Rhere is a world Vp..side...down.

 And this,
        is a part of Crown Reach residential buildings.
                                                       For which
                                                                      I spent
                                                                                most
                                                                                       of
                                                                                          my
                                                                                              evening-dream time.

even this new year is 2012, be happy

                                      

She is a mineral water bottle, he is a bouquet of narcissus. 

Everyday, when night falls and their lyrical silhouettes gradually emerge,

I feel so sorrowful.

Like something metaphorical is hidden behind the curtain,

a tragedy, or a melodrama.

God sent them to teach me a moral, which I didn't comprehend yet.

But now the flowers are dying, soon he will become a bunch of spring onion.

What should I explain to Ms Bottle?

Maybe I can only throw them to the bin together...

That would be more kind, humanitarian.

Then I will feel guilty eternally. (Even it is not my fault.)