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MONDAY ARTPOST 1128-2022

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MONDAY

ARTPOST

1128-2022

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/ Shelley Savor / Tamara

Chatterjee / Wilson Tsang / Yam Lau

+ Picnic - essay and photographs

from Shan Hai Jin series (Holly Lee)

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


TANGENTS

Wilson Tsang

The Veil


Open/Endedness

bq 不 清

致 未 來

ODE TO THE FUTURE

我 們 無 意 中 目 睹 了 一 場

必 然 的 日 落

在 殘 空 與 土 地 之 間 角 力 , 我

跟 你 以 一 塊 骨 頭 打 賭 , 那 隻 受 傷 的

孤 雁 的 性 別 。

By accident we witnessed a tussle where

The inevitable sundown

Struggled between the land and the waning sky. And I

Betted a bone on the gender of that wounded

Solitary wild goose.

野 外 的 飛 蟲 都 出 來 了 但 曾 經

對 火

感 到 好 奇 的 我 們

不 曾 詢 問 牠 們 白 天 的 心 思

究 竟 潛 藏 於 那 裡 。

Flying insects were all out but we

Who were once drawn

To fire

Never asked where their minds lurked

During the day.

日 出 也 是 必 然 的 。 自 始

我 清 楚 看 見 眼 前 的 藍 天

並 沒 有 祂 們 努 力 遊 說 我 們 的 星 宿 。

一 塊 大 石 睡 在 另

一 塊 大 石 上 令 我 能 夠 看 見 千 里 之 外 的 你 然 而 它 又 把 我 們 徹 底 隔 離 。

That sunrise was also inevitable. Since the beginning

I could clearly see that the blue sky before me

Didn’t have the stars that They tried hard to convince us of.

A boulder slept on top of

Another boulder allowing me to see you thousand miles away, yet

It also completely separated us.


CHEEZ

Fiona Smyth


ProTesT

Cem Turgay


ART LOGBOOK

Holly Lee

Nick Cave: Furthermore at the Guggenheim (Exhibition tour, YouTube 14.11)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZzYWcW5zpA

Nick Cave: Furthermore at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago (video 5:36)

https://mcachicago.org/publications/video/2022/nick-cave-forothermore


Poem a Week

Gary Michael Dault

The Waters of the Afterlife

I swam

for an hour

in the waters

of the afterlife

the waves

were dry like

sandpaper

my skin

crackled

with discs

of salt

when I walked

back to shore

my footprints

ignited a chain

of small fires

across the sand


… 談 笑 間 …

Yam Lau


Caffeine Reveries

Shelley Savor

Night Guardian


Travelling Palm

Snapshots

Tamara Chatterjee

Madagascar (March, 2010) – On our walk

through the Anja Reserve; we did

not encounter traditional icons of god despite

the translation of the name, Anjanaharibe

means the “Place of the Great God.

Instead we did encounter several lemur

colonies, a variety of chameleons and a

multitude of flora. We climbed through the

nooks and crannies, along stone markers

and through grottos with dense foliage. Cacti

grew out of crevasses in the rocks; orchids

mixed among the grasses on the ground and

air ferns hung from the branches and trunks

of trees. What I remember most intensely

was the sensation of being watched; the Maki

are curious creatures, in terms of showcase

lemurs have the upper hand in voyeurism.


Leaving Taichung

Station

Bob Black

verdant dreams unbuckled, you uncluttering.

In

winter, a child bares beneath the snow and glaciated life

the damp light chirring toward a drowning glove, crushed beneath boot and ball,

as he pulls himself out of the wet world, broken into a frame of the cocktail’s Edwardtime,

and scampers through the woods

his father a ghost picking at a speakeasy’s rusted door,

the home’s window a square heart carved from crazed carpentry,

grandmother once an apparition who understood the agitated from the aggregate, love

blooming genome picked apart and ribboned,

our former life still cascading the mountain’s down:

the elder’s song and warning, morning digestion flies like a bird

and we once were, gone.

In

Spring, a night’s chrysolite hair lost amid the algae of the gutter,

the moon awakened as the clock rounds the bend of its homegoing,

and there, damp and lost, stood stools empty of body and shadow, our exited tales

firecrackers burned and left ash in their dying, dropped dragons droopy of their past--

Auntie promiscuously reading the world upside down,

once lost over a glass of Kaoliang and schnapps,

the mournings we survived,

the whale bone and the package that arrived in the front yard, the auspicious year,

Daddy’s ribs sing in the sand of the graveyard land

so you walked left out the door with a blackened hand

and the scooters ran wild and red in the dark cyan--

was it only us, was it?

Damp the Dream of Taipei

“…the mind has mountains. Cliffs of fall.”--Hopkins

“Morning digestion flies like a bird.”--Larry Fink

In

Autumn, rain ticks benumbed language along the fingers of Dadaocheng

stories gallop down the mountains as loosened earth

the divesting of the name you were once given in a doorway

bathed in green water from a blackened bowl, your teeth of the earth

and still tin in the late, an old man sits at a bar licking at peace and longing

bowed over the end, a brass coin slowing its spin down,

down the foliate rain spilling over the table as he winces

and clarity walks out the door,

life --

In

Summer, corners cool temperatures soften the exertion of thoughts ragged, you

but the wind an extra set of arms, picking the cotton from your arms

in the distance your grandmother stood beneath the Banyan tree, singing

toward the clouds and cicada, the scampering spiders upturned umbrellas

the sky exploding, the clap of a herd of pigeons taking the air in unison

pachyderms in wing, your heart song unfolding as expectation, still:

the sea and sky scar your voice as it grows verdant on the mountains of your grandmother’s dreams

disarmed, we remain this refrain.

In

Spring, once more coins fall and ring, the oolong brews high in the clouds of dew, my love

Komm du, du letzter

and all the loss dross, the tackle and porcelain and the losing

but then again on the horizon

come you.

For Wan-lin Yang, our Grandmothers and Larry Fink


The Photograph

coordinated by

Kamelia Pezeshki

One fine day by Joan Latchford, Canadian 1926 - 2017


From the Notebooks

(2010-2022)

Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2022

Number 155: Yellow Teapot, 2007 (from Still Life Still: A Book of Vessels, published in facsimile this year by

OCEAN POUNDS)


Greenwood

Kai Chan

Study

paper, wire


Order this duo-cover Exhibition Catalogue at BLURB

https://www.blurb.ca/b/11309704-2k-4-0

64 pages, 8.5x11 inch, paperback, CAD$35 each

[2K 4.0] the fourth collaborative exhibition by Kai Chan

and Lee Ka-sing. Exhibition runs thru December 10, 2022,

at 50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon, Toronto

(visit by appointment mail@oceanpounds.com)

(on wall) 16 works (Pairing) by Kai Chan

(on table) an artist book by Lee Ka-sing

View the artist book:

[Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box] (for Holly)

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sab.html


Holly Lee

Picnic

Essay, and

photographs from

Shan Hai Jin series

山 海 經

An excerpt from DOUBLE DOUBLE

April edition 2022


Bird with long neck

(Trinity Bellwoods Park 2011)


The park managed to evade concrete invasions. From the ridge of the dog bowl - the

last remnant of the creek ravine within the park, one can see the city tower, devouring

the ravishing sunset and sunrise. Dogs partying unleashed in the pit throughout the

year. In the winter, people go tobogganing. Someone told me they spotted more than

two white squirrels in the snow. I asked which ones? To distinguish the species, albino

squirrels have red eyes, white squirrels have black.

Picnic

I sat on the office chair we brought from Hong Kong with eyes closed. It was used as

a prop for a commercial shot many years ago. Birds outside my window twittering; the

room in front of me melted away. I thought of Robert Frank; he sat watching the sea.

Birds jumping from branch to branch chirping, in Cape Breton. I imagined myself as

Robert Frank so I could hear the sea.

In my mind journey I invent mountains and seas, in parks, in my proximity. It began

in 2010, the first image I saw was a picnic day, BCE 250. A modern age with a dash of

antiquity.

Faint commotion, tiny buzzing activities! I need a loupe to see what’s in there and

who’s doing what. Three people were sitting on the right. Wasn’t this scene Manet’s

picnic on the Grass? Wrong, the name of the famous painting is Luncheon on the

Grass. Manet painted it in 1863. Picnic on the Grass is the name of an oil painting on

Saatchi Art, by a 21st century painter Igor Zhuk. He was born in Kyiv, Ukraine - the

capital most talked-about now because of the war. In my picture, in Manet’s, and in

Igor’s, they all show a group of three people sitting, either gazing towards the viewer,

or engaging in their own conversation. It is a fine day for picnicking. These sediments

settled and coalesced into the organic churning of my mind, part primeval, part close

range. Reality is in a state of flux. I pluck a point in time like plucking the string of a

harp.

Here, along the grass where the three people were sitting, a creek was once flowing.

It stretched the length of the park and flowed beneath a bridge. The creek had since

long dried up and the bridge was dismantled, buried up in the same spot. A little down

south is the buried foundations of a college, a Gothic-Revival architecture built more

than a century and a half ago.

I sat in front of the computer fully immersed. I could keep on digging, repeating the

dull work of an archeologist and still finding things. I was led to a website where a

LIVE-NFT button was blinking, luring me to push. I ignored it, resisting this to be my

future. Universe, multiverse, metaverse. Virtual reality is not just mimicking our world;

it is gradually taking over. Despite legions of phenomenal thinkers, it is still confusing

to step into the future. Does spirituality need to be redefined? Would it become God,

this powerful superintelligence that qualitatively far surpasses all human intelligence?

This singularity, is he God?

Quieting down my fear for the future, I return to some of my photographs of the parks;

revaluing their significance, contemplating their resemblance to realistic landscape

paintings. They look calm, insipid and uneventful. But some genies seem to be lurking

behind the scenes. Zooming back to fifty years, a hundred or a thousand years, these

landscapes buried countless anonymous stories that never passed down, nor made

marks on the same patches they are now standing on. I close my eyes; I roll back and

forth the office chair I am sitting on, freeing my mind to do the traveling. In a eureka

moment I fly over mountains and valleys, rivers and seas, arriving at cloud cuckoo

land; places where myths live, die, and begin. I see a flock of gold-shedding birds

flying past the woods; a glowing object moving closer to another; giant bird with a long

neck; summer through winter, a structure with five basketball hoops waiting for a team

to score.

I lift my head and squint my eyes at ten scorching suns, waiting for the archer. The

blinding light, the searing suns! I duck and collapse into the minuscule of being. I hear

sweet birds sing outside my window. The room, now big, now small, opens all doors to

the ocean. On the spur of the moment, I understand the birds’ language.

history, mythology

slip by

under our gaze, every Day -


A Picnic Day, BCE 250

(Trinity Bellwoods Park 2010)


A flock of gold-shedding birds flying past the woods

(High Park, 2010)


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.

INDEXG B&B

48 Gladstone Avenue, Toronto

Booking:

mail@indexgbb.com

416.535.6957

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