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Columns by Artists and Writers

Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay /

Fiona Smyth / Gary Michael Dault

/ Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Kamelia

Pezeshki / Shelley Savor / Tamara

Chatterjee / Wilson Tsang / Yau

Leung / + DOUBLESPREAD (Lee Ka-sing)

/ To be Frank (Chad Tobin)

MONDAY ARTPOST published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.

An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: mail@oceanpounds.com

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“Sorrow looks back,

worry looks around,

faith looks up.”





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Ralph Waldo Emerson

Caffeine Reveries

Shelley Savor

It Was Late


Kai Chan

Drawing. Watercolour on paper


Wilson Tsang


Yesterday Hong Kong

Yau Leung

Car Park (1963)

8x10 inch, gelatin silver photograph printed in the nineties

signed and titled on verso

From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee


bq 不 清

二 重 協 奏 曲

Double Concerto

究 竟 我 們 是 什 麼 , 在 這 片

傲 慢 與 陌 生 的 遼 闊 景 觀 中 度 過

這 麼 多 年 ? 自 稱 超 現 實 主 義 者 的 人

把 自 己 困 在 位 於 一 輛 完 美 地 失 事 的

So what are we, spending all these years in this

Vast landscape of arrogance and

Strangeness? Self-proclaimed surrealists

Trap themselves in the cargo hold of a perfectly

飛 機 的 貨 倉 裡 , 想 像 一 把 史 特 拉 底 瓦 里

小 提 琴 早 熟 的 狀 態 。 而 它 旁 邊 , 一 座 鋼 琴

在 我 們 城 市 的 街 道 上 追 逐 瘋 癲 的

節 拍 器 。 它 是 什 麼 顏 色 的 , 飄 動 於

Wrecked aeroplane, imagining a Stradivarius

Violin at its precocity. And beside it, a piano

Chases the mad metronome In the streets of

our city. What colour is it, fluttering between

黑 白 色 之 間 , 仿 佛 不 是 被 卡 在

運 送 途 中 而 是 在 過 渡 , 學 習 尋 找

深 埋 於 它 期 望 以 外 的

立 足 點 如 樹 木 讓 其 根 部

Black and white, as if not being stuck

In transit but in transition, learning to find

Footings that are buried deep beyond

its expectations like trees having their roots

抵 達 一 個 屬 於 謠 言 的 空 洞 中 心 地 帶 , 一 個

易 於 動 搖 的 真 理 ? 這 刻 那 些 灰 色 的

雲 已 經 以 其 正 常 的 速 度 在 空 中

疾 走 而 又 沒 有 吐 出 它 們 怒 火 般 的 雨 點

Reaching the hollow centre of a rumour, a

Shakable truth? Now that the grey

Clouds have raced across the sky at its

Normal pace without spitting with their fury,

因 此 平 靜 保 持 平 靜 。 人 們

總 是 在 一 個 笑 話 突 破 成 尷 尬

之 前 找 點 東 西 隨 便 說 一 下 , 就 像

地 心 吸 力 在 其 他 星 球 上 所 引 致 的 結 果 。

我 們 該 繫 好 安 全 帶 了 。

The calm remains calm. People

Are always looking for things to say

Before a joke breaks into awkwardness, similar

To what gravity could cause on other planets.

We better buckle up!


Cem Turgay


Fiona Smyth

Poem a Week

Gary Michael Dault

On the Grass

the insinuating moon

prepares us

for the big blow

the taste of night

the abolition of the stars

the blackness

of the emptied earth

the sharp point

of old age

stabbing like a dead twig

into the heart

we are like children


to the conversation

of grown-ups

we feel the needles of the moon

pricking the skin

of our forearms

we fall

busily assuming

the insect

we all suffer

more from minuteness

than from grandeur

you fall face down

on the grass

and fancy you have


into a jungle

the family cat

is a panther


Holly Lee

1. Alec Soth’s Obsessive Ode to Image-Making


2. Alec Soth website


The Photograph

coordinated by

Kamelia Pezeshki

Huambo, Angola, 1962 by Jorge Guerra

Leaving Taichung


Bob Black

The following poem, Hong Kong: Songs from the

Rooftops, is an 8-part poem that was written over the

course of the last 5 years. Each part corresponds to

a part of Hong Kong and each part also is dedicated

to a friend. It was completed this past spring. This

poem is dedicated to 8 friends, for whom the city

is a constant conversation in my head and heart,

regardless of the shape and tune.

This poem is dedicated to: Holly & Ka-sing Lee,

Nancy Li, Kai Chan, Yam Lau, Chris Song and Ting,

TimTim Cheng, Tammy Ho and Kristee Quinn.

May they always be filled with voices, food and

sound. Carry on.

Hong Kong: Songs from the Rooftops

“In these shaken times, who more than you holds

In the wind, our bittermelon, steadily facing

Worlds of confused bees and butterflies and a garden gone wild”

-- 梁 秉 鈞 , Bittermelon

pinpoint in a murky pupil,

swim as the scent of red Cypress, Camphor and the skeleton of Cinnamon cracking along the

shadows in a Thai massage room. Mahagony our courage. Hunger

Our spines crackle like the peel of forest wood chipping

We headed for shore

Winging of flag and your accented tales. Once we were tapped From a hand-made book, damp with

photos and black the frames of our galloping time, clocking with electrical tape.

Taped, turned, tackled & thumbed—

Winging of flag and your accented tales

Above the rooftops of Hong Kong, flaging

Bone and feather-less wing, knobby beak and elongated rib of our throats: all that is left of our

singing when the song has gone wrong, all that is left when the singing has gone rung.

we build our bodies then around our homes, ghostlight, teacup, mooncake, peelingpaint, bamboo cage,

teeth in the glass and all

V. Mong Kok: 一 口

The line that leads from the quiver of your lower lip

ricocheting between the sounds of click’d teeth biting

and the stretching of your arm past the falling sky as snow

as nipple as pussy as hope gallop’d in some redemptive story:

that those folk risk more then the calumny of the climate stalks and skwalk.

and still the entirety of the lipping skirt, the sleeping pose, the pillows askew’d:

lip past all that as you drive through the green-background albatross.

and our bodies fall like flake, our arms like breathed smoke, our lives like moss

fingered slowly and blinded.

and the turnpike speaks of the sea and the tossed tired stones of your hope:

and we rise to meet what was not expected,

no lions in winter,


Is this then, all we knew?

Longing over the pocket of the sea’s lungs before flight

we make our testaments breath

e, elong and gated, we

strong, agile our bent bodies wiser,

wing our teeming hope as light

Travelling Palm


Tamara Chatterjee

Canada (August, 2022) – Tentatively, we

started the day holding steadfast to nostalgic

memories. Like much in life; things change,

pow-wows change, but the regalia, the

drum beats, the sentimental belief of being

interconnected with something else doesn’t

change. The vibe at the Three Fire; with

natures embrace was reminiscent of a more

authentic past.

From the Notebooks


Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2022.

Number 151: Baby Bird Leaves the Nest (August 112, 2022)

Celebrate the launch

of three new books by

Gary Michael Dault


The Book of the Poem

Paperback Edition


Order Print-on-Demand paperback edition at BLURB:


ebook (US$5.00), pdf download. Bonus: access code for read-on-line edition


This is a Facsimile Edition of “The Book of

the Poem”, a Gary Michael Dault sketch book

from 2017 to 2018. The size of the original

piece is 9.5 x 12 inch (240 x 305 mm), 40

pages, spiral bound.

60 pages, 8.5x11 inch (22x28 cm), paperback, perfect bound

Published by OCEAN POUNDS, 2022

isbn: 978-1-989845-38-7

PAGES from The Book of the Poem are available at OCEAN POUNDS Print Series Program: Each issued

in an edition of five, on 260 g/m Velvet Fine Art Paper. Sheet size: 13 x 9.5 inch. Signed by the artist.

Numbered and with “OP Selection” Blind Stamp.

Still Life Still:

A Book of Vessels

Paperback Edition


Order Print-on-Demand paperback edition at BLURB:


ebook (US$5.00), pdf download. Bonus: access code for read-on-line edition


164 pages, 8x10 inch (20x25 cm), paperback, perfect bound

Published by OCEAN POUNDS, 2022

isbn: 9781989845363

This is a Facsimile Edition of “A Book of

Vessels”, a Gary Michael Dault sketch book

from 2006-2007. The size of the original

piece is 10.25 x 10.25 inch (260 x 260 mm),

142 pages, spiral bound with covers in thick


PAGES from A Book of Vessels are available at OCEAN POUNDS Print Series Program: Each issued in an

edition of five, on 260 g/m Velvet Fine Art Paper. Sheet size: 13 x 9.5 inch. Signed by the artist. Numbered

and with “OP Selection” Blind Stamp.

The Nearby Faraway: Small

Paintings on Cardboard

Paperback Edition


Order Print-on-Demand paperback edition at BLURB:


ebook (US$5.00), pdf download. Bonus: access code for read-on-line edition


220 pages, 8x10 inch (20x25 cm), paperback, perfect bound

Published by OCEAN POUNDS, 2022

isbn: 9781989845356

This book was published on the occasion

of the exhibition “The Nearby Faraway:

Small Paintings on Cardboard”, held at

50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon, Toronto,

in Summer 2022. This book includes 97

paintings produced by Gary Michael Dault in

between 2004 to 2009.

You might also be interested in these - =

Lee Ka-sing’s photographs on SWANHOUSE,

a two-day visit to Gary and Malgorzata

348 pages, 8x10 inch (20x25 cm) paperback, perfect bound

Paperback edition (CAD$120), order at BLURB


ebook (US$5.00), download pdf.


A collaboration: Photographs by Lee Ka-sing

/ Haiku by Gary Michael Dault

180 pages, 8x10 inch (20x25 cm) paperback, perfect bound

Paperback edition (CAD$75), order at BLURB


ebook (US$5.00), download pdf.


The Nearby Faraway: Small Paintings on

Cardboard, an exhibition by Gary Michael

Dault. 50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon in

Toronto. Exhibition runs thru September

17, 2022. Visit by appointment:


To view the exhibition online

(or purchase):



Double Double studio,

photographs by

Lee Ka-sing

Support and Become a Patreon member of

Double Double studio


Unlimited access to all read-on-line books,

patrons only contents. Collecting artworks at


Patreon Membership: Friend of Double Double ($5), Benefactor Member ($10), Print Collector ($100) Monthly subscription in US currency

Chad Tobin

To be Frank

a portfolio

An excerpt from

Island Peninsula Cape

DOUBLE DOUBLE June edition 2022

200 pages, 8x10 inches, perfect binding

Paperback edition

(Print-on-demand, direct order from BLURB, CAD $85.00)


ebook edition (pdf download, US$5.00)


To be Frank


Photographer Chad Tobin spent ten years visiting and

photographing the legendary photographer, Robert Frank.

My heart beats faster. Should I park the car at the bottom

of the driveway or by the house? I think it will be more

respectful if I park at the bottom of the driveway. The engine

idles with my indecision as I begin to question my cold call

actions. Surely he won’t call the cops? Is this trespassing?

This is definitely trespassing. He must have people

approaching him all the time. Maybe this is exactly why I

should turn around and forget this whole thing. At the same

time, I’m here. I think he is here. If I don’t at least try, I will

regret it forever. Turning the engine off, I grab my camera

and the book. Walking up the steep driveway, I notice my

feet in battle with my brain, shuffling one in front of the other

with a hurried step, as if to shut down the inner voice telling

me to turn back. I sheepishly knock at the door. “Yes?” a

gray haired woman answers. Without thinking, I blurt out,

in a quivering pitch, “ I am a photographer. I was wondering

if Mr. Frank would sign my book.” Once I was done, she led

me towards a small studio near the main house and called

out loudly, “Robert, there is a guy here asking if you would

sign his book, and he has the same type of camera as you.” I

hear a voice from inside say, “Send him in.”

From 2009 until 2019, I visited Robert Frank at his summer

home in Mabou, Nova Scotia. After that first unannounced

visit, it became a yearly ritual that eventually turned into

a body of work called To Be Frank, a series of photographs

with Frank woven into the rural landscape to which he would

escape from New York City. Our conversations were mostly

about life, but every once in a while, the discussion would

drift into photography, with Frank providing droplets of

advice and artistic direction. Over the years, I had no plan

for a project. I was simply recording what was happening

before me. It wasn’t until the last few years that I began

putting together To Be Frank, with counsel from Robert,

resulting in an exhibition.


In 2009, I was doing commercial photography which wasn’t

a great fit for me. I was searching for something completely

different and discovered a wedding photographer named

Riccis Valladares, whose distinctive style is evident, with

gritty but quiet tones. I discovered a podcast that Riccis had

been on and, when asked about his method, he explained

that he tries to approach photography in the vein of Robert

Frank and his book The Americans. Once the book was in

my hands, it instantly changed my life. I had this moment

where the world was shut out, and I was like a character in

a film where the audio is cut and everything seems to stand

still. There was something so powerful about the images.

Some are voyeuristic while others are announcing. Most

importantly, the images captured a true representation of

the marginalized population that was not being represented

in the United States in the 1950’s. Frank’s work continues

to be relevant today, in terms of division and racism. The

Americans is a collection of blurry, perfectly sequenced,

beautifully imperfect images that drip with honesty. I started

digesting everything I could about Frank. Books, articles,

and documentaries made up my education. Upon reading

that he had a summer home two hours away, I decided to

make a pilgrimage to connect with him on some level. I took

comfort in knowing that if I didn’t succeed, I would at least

have a story of the attempt and, somehow, that would be



I had no idea what to expect when meeting Robert Frank.

His reputation for dealing with people was difficult and

surrounded in mystery. He often declined interviews and

arely spoke about his seminal bodies of work. The more

information about him I read, the less I felt like I understood

him. Stepping into the room with Robert Frank for the first

time felt like stepping into a time machine. Nothing in the

room looked like it was newer than 1976. The furniture was

well-worn and cracked, and only the essentials of living

were present. I was asked to take a wooden seat, and this

warm and friendly man started asking me questions about

who I was and my life. I was in total shock and found myself

just trying to soak in the experience. He had a presence

that really made you feel comfortable. I slowly mustered the

courage to ask my own questions. On that first encounter,

he spent time going through my copy of The Americans. He

told me a number of stories about how some of the images

were made and was very humble about his body of work.

When I exclaimed that the girl from the elevator photograph

in The Americans had recognized herself at a gallery in San

Francisco, he had a huge smile on his face and thought it was

wonderful. Robert then took my rangefinder camera, took a

photograph of me, and passed it back. I asked him if I could

take his photo and he said, “Sure, go ahead.” I quietly took

a frame. He signed my book, and I thanked him and went on

my way in a total haze, buzzing with goosebumps.


I was determined to return again the next summer, but I

wasn’t sure how to approach the situation. After thinking

about it, I decided to return with the environmental portrait

that I had taken of Robert. Photography could be my reason

to return again. The two hour drive passed quickly, and I

soon found myself walking up that same uphill driveway, this

time with a little more confidence. Robert was outside, sitting

in a chair and looking at the ocean. He smiled a friendly

smile and said hello. I exclaimed a less-nervous hello and

explained that I had visited last summer and that I had a gift

for him. Robert said that he gets a lot of visitors and asked

me to forgive him for not remembering me. Then he motioned

for me to sit with him. I sat down, and Robert looked at the

photo and said “Handsome fellow.” We began to chat and

soon his wife, artist June Leaf, joined us and remembered me

from my first visit. After a couple of hours of chatting

and making a few frames of Robert, I thanked him and June

for the lovely visit and asked if it was okay if I dropped by

again. Robert said, “Yes, of course.” He thanked me for the

photograph, and I was on my way again.


Each summer, I made the trip to visit Robert and June,

bringing with me the previous year’s print. It became a

routine that I sometimes had to approach with caution, as

he was not always in the mood to be photographed. Many of

my visits were spent sitting outside with Frank, taking in the

ocean view. He often did not want to talk about photography,

but every once in a while, the subject came up, and he would

ask me about my current photo projects and would even help

with selecting the best images. Frank took interest in the

work I had done in Tokyo, due to his love of Japan. During

our visits, I continued to make photographs of both Frank

and his surroundings. The weather-laced house became a

third character in the narrative, as it was where he felt the

most at peace. The simple surroundings and modest contents

of the house were strong indicators to me of how he managed

to slip in and out of situations in 1950’s America, with an

unobtrusive presence.


Two weeks before Robert Frank passed away, I visited him

for the last time. He was his usual self, asking questions and

encouraging me to look at the nature before us. I had heard

from a friend of Robert’s that his health was not good, and

he seemed very frail. We visited for two hours, and I tried

to enjoy every second and let the glow of the sun wash over

us. When I got up to leave, I squeezed his hand and said,

“I will see you next time.” Robert squeezed my hand back.

As I headed to my car, I thought about that first visit, when I

parked at the bottom of the long driveway. Robert had asked

me where my car was, and I explained that I had parked

down below to be respectful. Robert looked at me in that

serene way he always seemed to have and said, “That was

very nice.” (Chad Tobin)

Under the management of Ocean and Pounds

Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists,

art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different

cities visiting and working in Toronto.


48 Gladstone Avenue, Toronto




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