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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
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