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<strong>MONDAY</strong><br />

<strong>ARTPOST</strong><br />

<strong>0102</strong>-<strong>2023</strong><br />

ISSN1918-6991<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong><strong>ARTPOST</strong>.COM<br />

Columns by Artists and Writers<br />

Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay /<br />

Fiona Smyth / Gary Michael Dault<br />

/ Kai Chan / Kamelia Pezeshki/<br />

Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee<br />

/ Wilson Tsang / Yam Lau<br />

+ A Sunflower Memorandum<br />

(Gary Michael Dault)<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong> <strong>ARTPOST</strong> published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.<br />

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


DOUBLE DOUBLE<br />

City Mirage Snow<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/cms.html<br />

The Painter The Photographer The Alchemist<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ppa.html<br />

The galloping jelly pink horse with pea green<br />

spots<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/phgs.html<br />

Reality Irreality Augmented Reality<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/rar.html<br />

The Book The Reader The Keeper<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/dd202208.html<br />

Windmills Fields and Marina<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/07/wmf.html<br />

Island Peninsula Cape<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/blog-post.html<br />

The Fence the Garden the Connoisseur<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/dd202205.html<br />

Donkey camera and auld lang syne<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/02/<br />

dd202202.html<br />

The Fountain the Shop the Rhythmic Train<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/01/<br />

dd202201.html<br />

Hana Picnic Stones<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/04/dd202204.html<br />

Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/03/dd202203.html<br />

Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta/ DOUBLE DOUBLE March edition 2022/ Kai Chan


Lee Ka-sing<br />

CODA (2020)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/coda.html<br />

Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ds.html<br />

Eighty Two Photographs (2021)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/82p.html<br />

Time Machine (2021)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/12/tm.html<br />

Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sa.html<br />

Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box<br />

Museum edition (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sab.html<br />

“That Afternoon” on Mubi, a dialogue: Tsai<br />

Ming Liang and Lee Kang-Sheng (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/ta.html<br />

The Travelogue of a Bitter Melon (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/tbm.html<br />

Swan House<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/swanhouse.html<br />

Time Machine/ Lee Ka-sing


Holly Lee<br />

Nine-Years (2020)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/02/ny.html<br />

DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise a closecropped<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-cc.html<br />

DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise on-site<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-os.html<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

Still Life Still A Book of Vessels (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/bv.html<br />

The Book of The Poem (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/08/bp.html<br />

The Nearby Faraway Small Paintings on<br />

Cardboard (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/small-paintings-on-cardboard.html<br />

Time Machine (2021) photographs by Lee<br />

Ka-sing, Haiku by Gary Michael Dault<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/12/tm.html<br />

Istanbul Postcards (2021)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/ip.html<br />

Swan House (2021)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/swanhouse.html<br />

Six Poems (2022)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/6p.html<br />

The Air is like a Butterfly (2021)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/tab.html<br />

Still Life Still A Book of Vessels/ Gary Michael Dault


Calendar Beauty Vintage Calendar posters<br />

from China<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/03/cb.html<br />

Kai Chan<br />

Twenty Twenty An exhibition by Kai Chan<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/09/tt.html<br />

2K-4.0 (Kai Chan + Lee Ka-sing)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/2k40.html<br />

Shelley Savor<br />

Mushrooms and Clouds but no Mushroom<br />

Clouds<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/mcmc.html<br />

Tomio Nitto<br />

The Diary of Wonders<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/dw.html<br />

Fiona Smyth<br />

CHEEZ 456<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/c456.html<br />

Libby Hague<br />

Libby Hague Watercolours<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/lhw.html<br />

The Diary of Wonders/ Tomio Nitto


Caffeine Reveries<br />

Shelley Savor<br />

Watching the End of the Year Drift Away


Poem a Week<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

Wet on the Snow<br />

high in<br />

a mountain<br />

a crumpled<br />

page<br />

lies wet<br />

on the snow<br />

its message<br />

dead<br />

from the dark<br />

in us


Travelling Palm<br />

Snapshots<br />

Tamara Chatterjee<br />

USA (November, 2000) – We left Las Vegas,<br />

spirits high with excitement looming as<br />

we drove closer to the desertscape we had<br />

envisioned and imagined for years. It never<br />

occurred to me that our passage of desert<br />

dreams would include several days of snow.<br />

We finally arrived in Zion; as the sky turned.<br />

The devastating winter flakes did indeed<br />

impede our jaunt into The Narrows, but what<br />

we did see was rather wondrous under a<br />

blanket of snow.


ProTesT<br />

Cem Turgay


ART LOGBOOK<br />

Holly Lee<br />

1. The «Turkestan Album» in color<br />

https://iada-art.org/hhhh/turkestan-album-in-color<br />

2. The Conquest of Central Asia through the Turkestan Album<br />

https://voicesoncentralasia.org/the-conquest-of-central-asia-through-the-turkestan-album/<br />

3. «The Way» Film-portrait of the artist Askhat Akhmedyarov*, directed by Evgeny Lumpov<br />

(video 24:53)<br />

https://iada-art.org/hhhh/turkestan-album-in-color<br />

*Askhat Akhmedyarov was Born in 1965 in Uralsk, West Kazakhstan.


The Photograph<br />

coordinated by<br />

Kamelia Pezeshki<br />

Birdseye maple by Kamelia Pezeshki


Leaving Taichung<br />

Station<br />

Bob Black<br />

All poems move deathward<br />

so too our hearts, so too our homes<br />

so how to ask the shadow,<br />

the comfort of the day, the door in sprungtime,<br />

the contrition and calm of a muscular day when the wind is a wolf<br />

and your body, exposed to the late-in-coming December expiration, decibels and creaks,<br />

an old boat’s plank cuttles against the barnacles of the land’s desire<br />

your body etherized against the loss of the press once against your side, she<br />

scribbles in the margins scrambling for breath and meaning--.<br />

you will someday seek the comfort of these things surely:<br />

dusk’s dawning in spades and pried wide spaces left unlocked<br />

the chipped corners of winter’s building groped at<br />

whose voice chips away exhausted,<br />

a red blanket defiant and remaining, stitched up with poems<br />

those fearless verbs and unconjugated emotions:<br />

count all of them in your waiting and inside the questions,<br />

do not be afraid when fire falls from the sky.<br />

Voyage, Voyager<br />

“by something invisible and powerful and uncontrollable<br />

and beautiful and possibly even<br />

unsuitable —….”--Mary Oliver<br />

“All plots tend to move deathward.”—DeLillo<br />

“не бояться, когда с неба падают пожары”—David Dector<br />

How to ask the shadow,<br />

when the moon comes barking, licking up and down the walls,<br />

the loom of the bedsheets caked up in the hip of the room’s corner<br />

the winter that brought you back from September<br />

that winter that brought you back from the nation’s fear<br />

all immaterial, ungoosed breath and a wintertide tongued toward the corner light, unchained<br />

let it all go<br />

let lee loaned lift<br />

let long away amid arear, a of all<br />

the sentences we wrote upon our wrists red and blue in the dark<br />

the clauses choked from the claustrophobia of a broken heart, grandmother once feared<br />

all these endless alphabets, the disdained alphas and the oneiric omegas<br />

all that mattered, once<br />

reimagined when you picked up the frozen stick in the creek, crawfishing backward<br />

and our life swam upstream for the first time,<br />

the pictographs that penciled our collar bones and inked the spines,<br />

the alphabet and algebra of the lives we voyaged from there to here,<br />

our passages and the passengers we once were, the glowering and the gathering


the flowers picked open with our canines and the maps incisored<br />

voyaged along the riverbank in Yilan—<br />

lavender, orchid, plum flowers, calla lilies and the daylilies upturned and drenched<br />

the stories speak of this life, the recipes left dry and brown in the tea tin in the red cupboard:<br />

so too our hearts<br />

a door in Springtime:<br />

so too of love<br />

so too of hearts<br />

so too the click of selves<br />

so too you<br />

so to you<br />

do not be afraid when love falls from the sky.<br />

So now<br />

how to ask again<br />

the shadow to seek and share what it knew, once<br />

of what you have seen and what has been taken away<br />

the children who climbed the emerald mountain by the baying sea:<br />

their conviction rang out amid the nightjars and swifts<br />

the remains and rickshaws along the old quarter’s street--<br />

shall we count ourselves blessed<br />

among what remains,<br />

the tokens in the pockets, the coins in the seat’s sleeves,<br />

the reflections that muddied in the night of the street mirror,<br />

grandmother’s sprouting laugh, father’s cold sandwiches left aside on Christmas in wobby bar<br />

the stories gathered on the plates in the reservoir of the wine glasses late at night<br />

the welkin and distant laughter<br />

atop and amid the abiding--<br />

neither stanza nor firmament have words for that, or for this<br />

the fishbones plucked from the filet set out for the cat,<br />

gawking amid winter, the light and listeners listless in their nocturnal unraveling<br />

organs of longing thawed, the last of your vows at night and the Earth’s orbit:<br />

so too the click of our selves<br />

so too you<br />

so to our hearts<br />

so to you<br />

do not be afraid when love fails from the sky.<br />

How to ask the shadow to cut away the wafer hurt,<br />

cut away the heart ache, the twinge left in the joint,<br />

loves ligature where the forlorn listens and the audience audits their languor<br />

their longing heeding lullaby and lament<br />

so too of love<br />

so too our hearts<br />

so too the click of our selves<br />

so too you<br />

so to you, then:<br />

how?<br />

To tell the shadow, this<br />

do not be afraid when all falls love from the sky,<br />

cut away the heart ache, cut away<br />

while a door in Springtime opens<br />

and all the poems come scattering, all language toward the deathward<br />

yet we remain<br />

far through the distance left, alive and liquid<br />

far through the distance left, alive<br />

the moon in the hinge of our hearts,<br />

the tree and the pen line forever loquacious in the snow.<br />

for: David Dector, Chiwan Choi and Robert Black, my father.<br />

so too of love<br />

so too of hearts


TANGENTS<br />

Wilson Tsang<br />

Ruth’s Raindrop


Open/Endedness<br />

bq 不 清<br />

轉 彎 抹 角<br />

BEAT AROUND THE BUSH<br />

他 們 說 你 仍 需 為 你 的 所 作 所 為<br />

投 案 —— 那 些 錯 置 、 胡 言 與<br />

亂 語 和 美 妙 的 邏 輯 謬 誤 發 生 於<br />

市 郊 這 裡 是 為 什 麼 陽 光 有 其<br />

意 義 。 我 們 皆 是 賦 予 別 人 的 文 物<br />

They say you are still wanted for the crime you<br />

Committed — those dislocations, mumbo<br />

Jumbos and beautiful logical fallacies that took<br />

Place here in the suburbs are why sunshine<br />

Means something. We are all artifacts for others.<br />

而 這 個 早 上 , 我 們 又 一 次 以 惹 人 歡 喜 的<br />

微 笑 溝 通 卻 又 同 時 相 互 誤 解 像<br />

誠 懇 和 順 理 成 章 的 成 語 。 置 於 櫃 中 的 記 憶<br />

以 我 們 獨 有 的 坐 姿 與 說 話 方 式 陳 列<br />

而 其 口 音 就 只 有 空 氣 中 的 氦 氣 能 夠 聽 懂<br />

And this morning, we again communicated<br />

With pleasing smiles but misled each other like<br />

An honest eventual idiom. Cased memories are<br />

On display in ways we sat and talked, in<br />

Accents that only helium in the air understands.<br />

為 什 麼 這 些 除 了 跟 你 和 我 們 也<br />

息 息 相 關 呢 ? 河 川 蜿 蜒 如 一 條 不 持 久 的<br />

蛇 吞 噬 沿 途 的 植 物 與<br />

三 文 治 。 鬧 劇 與 悲 劇 相 遇 的<br />

十 字 路 口 發 生 了 意 外<br />

我 思 , 故 我 在 , 思 考<br />

Why does this matter to not only you but<br />

All of us? The river meanders like an impermanent<br />

Snake swallowing plants and sandwiches<br />

Along its way. There is an accident at the<br />

Intersection, where farces and tragedies meet.<br />

I think, therefore I am, thinking.


Greenwood<br />

Kai Chan<br />

Study<br />

paper, wire


… 談 笑 間 …<br />

Yam Lau<br />

圓 滿 光 華 不 磨 瑩 , 掛 在 青 天 是 我 心<br />

- 寒 山


CHEEZ<br />

Fiona Smyth


From the Notebooks<br />

(2010-2022)<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

From the Notebooks, 2010-<strong>2023</strong><br />

Number 160: An array of Recent Notebooks (with a slice of grand piano)


A Sunflower<br />

Memorandum<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

Excerpted from DOUBLE DOUBLE<br />

December issue 2022


A Sunflower<br />

Memorandum<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

I was raised long ago in this earthly place,<br />

But I do not care for my home.<br />

I owe my very life to its bountiful moisture,<br />

But the earth is not my sky.<br />

----Muhammad Iqbal (translated from the Urdu by Mustansir Mir)<br />

Here is the Sunflower or Helianthus Annuus: “helios” (sun) plus “anthos” (flower)<br />

plus “annuus” (annual).<br />

Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two is a piece of original work in the format of a book by Lee Ka-sing (2022),<br />

inclusive of 176 photographs in sequence. Published by OCEAN POUNDS in 2022, 372 pages, 8x10 inch, hard<br />

cover, and was released in both paperback and ebook editions. More information about the book visit this link -<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ds.html<br />

The dry, attenuated almost plaintive lyricism of the sunflower, the noble-grotty<br />

heliotropic sunflower (in that its flower its always facing the sun), its rudimentary<br />

petals, powdery with a light-scooping, moisture-holding, almost monastic attentiveness<br />

required to nurture, develop and enshrine its payload of close-packed, geodesically<br />

arranged seeds of shining jet, lends the plant a more-than-usual protective, almost<br />

maternal quality.


The plant’s relentlessly tall, rather rough-hewn stalk and its hairy, primordial leaves<br />

seem unceasingly dedicated to the focused production and protection of this glistening<br />

seed-bed core at the heart of each flower (called the plant’s “chapter”), its powerful<br />

engine of perpetuity.<br />

What of the sunflower’s look? Is the sunflower’s vigorous roughness and raggedness<br />

the result of its three-metre quest for extraordinary height—in its search for ever<br />

more light and ever more air? Is the plant coarsened by a weariness earned in the<br />

fulfilment of its elaborate botanical program (fecund all the time)? Does a sunflower<br />

ultimately begrudge its own skyscraper growth? Does it inevitably grow leggy and<br />

emptied in the course of carefully generating the florets on its flattened central<br />

receptacle and is it poignantly post-partum in the demanding production of its throng<br />

of shiny black seeds—which are actually small dry fruits, apparently referred to as<br />

“pipes”? Certainly, much is expected of the sunflower.<br />

The sunflower keeps working hours. It is, for example, diurnal. That is to say,<br />

it springs to vigorous botanical life during the day and, exhausted, grows gratefully<br />

somnolent at night. Just like the rest of us.<br />

Lee Ka-sing’s book, Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two, is beautiful and relentless,<br />

attributes not often found together. The book is not a taxonomy, nor a life-cycle, nor<br />

a mere progression of images. Ka-sing describes the book simply as “176 photos in<br />

sequence.” But a sequence is not (or need not be) a narrative, not a life-story.<br />

For me, Diary of a Sunflower is virtuoso work of photo-conceptualism, a protracted<br />

stutter of still lifes that claims meaning—eloquent meaning—from repetition and<br />

accumulation and, in the course of that amassing, repeatedly offer, from photo to photo,<br />

subtle differences, tonal variants, the rustle of sub-events and nudging revelations.<br />

The book is an essay, in the original sense of “essayer,” to try, to attempt.<br />

Like many works of tireless, insinuating anatomization of a subject, nothing much<br />

really seems to happen—at least not quickly or obviously: in the beginning there is<br />

the flower, with its ragged, upstart petals. Sometimes the blossom hangs down, like<br />

a sigh (p.16). Occasionally, the blossom is partly cradled in (and semi-occluded by)<br />

a shrouding, protective leaf (p.52). Some of the photographs (p.58) are All Leaf and<br />

nothing else. Page 144 offers a view of the sunflower in a sort of swoon or dying fall,<br />

whereas, in contrast, p.158 gives the giant blossom the sudden, incoming power of a<br />

fiery asteroid hurtling to earth. By p.220, there are serpentine stems and bulky leaves<br />

weaving together into a bulwark of fortress growth, while suddenly, on p. 252, there a<br />

momentary, inexplicable blackout—in which the mighty flower now hangs down into<br />

the photograph as a silhouette—as if someone had pulled a plug.<br />

But then a suite of brisk, steadfast blossoms follows (p.253ff), ending the book:<br />

all passion spent, all faith restored, the seed-entrenched blooms baked, crisped,<br />

windswept, the sunflower’s essential, eternalizing story.<br />

In William Blake’s famous poem, “Ah! Sun-flower” (from his Songs of Experience,<br />

1794), the rather Christ-like, sacrificial plant is “weary of time” and “countest the<br />

steps of the sun,” its whole wracked being seeking “that sweet golden clime” where<br />

“the traveler’s journey” comes finally to its end and finds fulfilment.<br />

The other great sunflower poem is Allen Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra” from 1955.<br />

In Ginsberg’s poem, the sunflower is a wreck: “…corolla of bleary spikes pushed<br />

down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-betoothless<br />

mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire<br />

spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust<br />

root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy<br />

battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!....”<br />

This is unforgettable writing, but Ginsberg’s betrayed, industrially-compromised<br />

sunflower remains as remote from Lee Ka-sing’s as Blake’s touchingly martyred plant<br />

is.<br />

The sunflower of Ka-sing’s Diary of a Sunflower is neither protagonist nor victim.<br />

Therein lies its majesty. The plant’s meaning comes in the fullness of time—like<br />

breathing.<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

December 30, 2022


Under the management of Ocean and Pounds<br />

Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists,<br />

art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different<br />

cities visiting and working in Toronto.<br />

INDEXG B&B<br />

48 Gladstone Avenue, Toronto<br />

Booking:<br />

mail@indexgbb.com<br />

416.535.6957

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