MONDAY ARTPOST 0926-2022

MONDAY
ARTPOST
0926-2022
ISSN1918-6991
MONDAYARTPOST.COM
Columns by Artists and Writers
Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay /
Fiona Smyth / Gary Michael Dault
/ Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Kamelia
Pezeshki / Ngan Chun-tung / Shelley
Savor / Tamara Chatterjee / Wilson
Tsang / + Sculpture works by Elliot
Mallon
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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Oscar Wilde

Night Owl Sonata
(in one movement)
Holly Lee
Twenty nine
Want to remain anonymous? She still claims them – these books, which she ordered
through a book outlet at an unbelievable price – she jots down a date on each of them:
Aug 2022. The month August is extremely fruitful; she realizes she has been dropping
down Aug 2022 many times. Now, what’s on the table. Most of them are hard covers,
which not too many people fancy. Yet she’s learning. She begins to admire people who are
fearless, daring to stack up books like little mountains, heaps and heaps to height up to
their waists. She imagines them looking down at the books like giants, meandering narrow
paths between the absurd land piles. They must have a system, she thinks; like these are
the books on the read list; these are from friends, and those are books for research piling
up for different writing projects. She examines the new arrivals, marvels at the Dolphin
Letters, the one-and-a-half inch thick book, which she got at a ridiculous price of $10.19.
The original price was $68. Isn’t she happy? That’s what her daughter would have felt – the
cheap thrill when she got something at a cost much lower than the tag price. No, this is
not what makes her happy. It is the wonderful worlds inside the books, which allow her to
expand, to experience, to repel the repetition of everyday life; the monotony marked by
trivialities and iterance. For that reason, Averno, and The Wild Iris by Louise Glück; The
Lost Soul by Olga Tokarczuk (illustrated by Joanna Concejo); The Dolphin Letters, 1970-
1979 (Elizabeth Hardwick, Robert Lowell, and Their Circle); Death in Venice by Thomas
Mann; and Chronicles From The Land of The Happiest People on Earth by Wole Soyinka,
would mean much much more than paying the bulk price of $55. It stirs up a hell of a
storm in her little universe.
Read more of Holly Lee’s Night Owl Sonata -
https://oceanpounds.com/blogs/sonata

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Liberation

Everything went quiet for a while, things were alternately restful and terrifying,
pandemics can do that to communities. It was easy to notice nature, the skies were
clearer, wildlife took over the streets, the earth was breathing easier, all while a
deadly virus loomed. There is always a threat to disturb the balance of things,
however the threat is caused.
The weight of worry was heavy, so I looked up. Constantly moving shapes and
colours; blue, grey, rain, snow - clouds are busy. The sky continually inhaling and
exhaling.
I looked down. Dirt, soil, mud, leaves, mushrooms, the universe of mycelium
beneath our feet silently keeping the earth alive. The earth breathing.
Mushrooms and clouds holding everything together.
These sculptures, drawings and collages were made over the past few years during
the pandemic. Nature provided an inspiring refuge from anxiety.
Threats of global warming, nuclear annihilation, pollution, viruses, war - us humans
have a bad track record. Look up, look down, breathe in, breathe out.
Mushrooms and clouds (but no mushroom clouds).
(Shelley Savor)

Mushrooms and Clouds (but
no Mushroom Clouds)
Paperback Edition
56 pages, 8”x10”, perfect bound.
Published by OCEAN POUNDS.
Order paperback edition at BLURB (CAN$35):
https://www.blurb.ca/b/11270926-mushrooms-and-clouds-but-no-mushroom-clouds
ebook (US$5.00), pdf download. Bonus: access code for read-on-line edition
https://oceanpounds.com/products/mushrooms-and-clouds-but-no-mushroom-clouds
This book was published on the occasion of the exhibition Mushrooms and
Clouds (but no Mushroom Clouds), held at 50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon in
Toronto, October 1-29, 2022.

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing.
Graphite and pastel on paper

Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
The Jackal
the ramshackle jackal’s
lascivious eyes
go mounting the corpses
of what jackals prize
it giggles in flesh
it laughs long at little
it tangles its eating
with blood and with spittle
when feeding is done
it looks up in a swoon
denied the unreachable
meat of the moon
This poem--which is, admittedly, a bit hard on
jackals--is from a so far unpublished collection
titled Proximate Animals.

TANGENTS
Wilson Tsang
mixed tales (part 1)

ART LOGBOOK
Holly Lee
Bharti Kher’s sculpture “Ancestor”, and the fountain sculpture in the Villa d’Este in Tivoli that
inspired her.
1. Ancestor unveils at Central Park NY
https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/blogs/plumage/bharti-khers-enchanting-ancestor-sculpture-unveils-at-central-park-ny/
2. Villa d’Este
https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1025/video/
(video 2:48)

From the Notebooks
(2010-2022)
Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks 2010-2022
Number 156: Elephant Tuba (June 28, 2022)

Open/Endedness
bq 不 清
我 也 只 是 聽 說 過
TOO HAVE ONLY HEARD OF IT
在 某 種 時 刻
我 們 需 要 潛 逃 於 外 面 的 風 景
讓 貓 尾 草 圍 繞 我 們
內 在 帶 鹽 的 細 雨
At a certain point in time
We will need to stow away in the outer landscape,
And allow the cattails to encircle our
Inner brackish drizzle.
在 那 裡 , 沒 有 一 種 特 定 的 睡 姿
是 特 別 安 全 的
我 們 還 是 會 做 點 惡 夢
而 一 隻 家 養 的 倉 鼠 被 醞 釀
There, no specific sleeping posture
Is particularly safe.
We would still have nightmares,
Where a domesticated hamster prepares
牠 努 力 奔 跑 卻 一 直 在 同 一 個 地 方
聆 聽 著 誠 實 的 小 孩
斷 斷 續 續 地 朗 讀 關 於
一 個 帝 國 的 傳 說 :
To run hard but is always in the same spot
Listening to honest children
reciting off and on
The legend of an empire:
他 們 停 靠 在 你 的 港 口
等 待 冰 的 融 化
而 我 們 對 花 樣 溜 冰 的 認 識
比 其 他 冬 季 運 動 要 多
They docked at your harbour
Waiting for the ice to melt,
But our knowledge on figure skating
Is greater than any of the other winter sports.

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth

ProTesT
Cem Turgay

Yesterday Hong Kong
Ngan Chun Tung
Sunrise (Sha Tin, Tai Wai, 1958)
8x10 inch, gelatin siver photograph printed in the nineties
Edition 4/50, signed and titled on verso
From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee

Travelling Palm
Snapshots
Tamara Chatterjee
Madagascar (March, 2010) – While off
roading it towards l’allée des baobab, the jeep
meandered through jagged terrain and raced
through mud flats. We stopped a few times
to catch our breath and to marvel at various
sized monstrosities that fell into view along
the twisted path. Eventually we stumbled
upon a gorgeous specimen, likely over a 1000
years old.

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
19 Fragments of Youth, Athirst
“Have you feared the future would be nothing to you?”--Whitman
I: 1986
The year I was born, my grandmother broke and the ghosts ran in,
and the world fractured as her favorite plate and all that she believed in,
green and speckled like chicken’s feet and warm to the mouth,
the plate which had been mother’d by her mother and carried by her mother’s mother from a rusted
village against a belly protected by sheep hair and jacket darning and superstition,
across water and 50 years and all that I would once become,
but her hope scattered across the linoleum like a constellation upset
when she saw the eel,
essence slither out of the bucket and away.
Long later, she would tell me that my beauty was that of the light struggling.
She waited until I was 10 to tell me of the eel escape and the red bucket
and my mother’s broken water
but this was the only the beginning and I learned to be patient
with stories and with ghosts and with digestion.
For then, I was not yet born.
On days like this where the October copper pings cloud over browning hills
I walk into the sun and listen: her voice scrapping against the green and the air
and the scattering which is everywhere, birds, leaves, insect shells, rusting woks, the voices of
school children,.
and the hearses which enumerate the days of the calendar more than the months previous.
All these things which brought me into this world.
All these things which brought me into.
All these things
into.

II: 1987
The year I turned away from my mother’s breasts, my grandmother learned to speak again,
and I listened:
to the way my father’s heart knocked a clock slower when turning from us;
to the horse hooves in the alleyway like a bell tucking and tocking;
to my sister crying over the tooth-broke piano key in our living room, falling;
to way the sun cracked the paint crippled along my crib by the window in January;
to the rain that picked itself up off the muddied street before the trash had been collected;
to the way the neighbor sighed each time he looked into my infant eyes,
and then wait and grew, week by week
does an infant calibrate the world as we so often do?
At the year’s end, I listened again, waiting--
my grandmother on the other side of the world
the sound of marbles in a glass jar or the goldfish taking gulps in pinwheel’d oxygen--
for her voice scribbled like a green dragon caught above, marionette’d by the wind: voice and
ventriloquism,
and I scribbled with my teeth what I heard
her words stretched into me and fitted stronger than the new alphabet I was teething upon:
‘Sin, Sin’, Sin’, the song only I had not yet learned and those S’s softer breath
the inky judgment and wall that was in fact shaped in the horse-ring curve of a C.
That was the year my name rang out for the first time,
and upon hearing it, I threaded my way back to Hong Kong
miraculous
following the compass of her syllables and breath and washed bok choi.
You see: she was teaching me navigation and journey with the shape of her mouth,
the waist of her words and the globe-long chain of her anchoring breath
and the command of her voice, drilled in to my heart,
“wear the world on your chest child, not for a man but for the song that will one day take you away
from this
Let me tell you a song, long gone, people, so close your eyes and shape yourself into morning dew
falling from the blade
crickets copping a feel of sun before the water, all shaped well and frozen, gives way to the death
that brings anew,
so
size that!

The Photograph
coordinated by
Kamelia Pezeshki
Veiled Truths, Golnar, by Hossein Fatemi

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Paperback edition 200 pages, 8x10 inches, perfect binding
(print-on-demand, direct order from BLURB, CAD $85.00)
https://www.blurb.ca/b/11275641-the-book-the-reader-the-keeper
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It is with great sadness that we learned the artist Elliot Mallon recently passed
away. But it is also with great fondness that we remember his work, through
an exhibition he held at Gallery 50 in 2015. We dedicated this series of
photographs, taken during the exhibition, to his family and those he loved. We
will miss him greatly.
A suite of sculpture
works by Elliot Mallon
Photographed by
Lee Ka-sing

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