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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/ Lee Ka-sing / Shelley Savor

/ Tamara Chatterjee / Wilson Tsang

/ Yam Lau + Ten Poems for Wood

(Gary Michael Dault / Lee Ka-sing)

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


City Mirage Snow


The Painter The Photographer The Alchemist


The galloping jelly pink horse with pea green



Reality Irreality Augmented Reality


Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta


The Book The Reader The Keeper


Windmills Fields and Marina


Island Peninsula Cape


The Fence the Garden the Connoisseur


Hana Picnic Stones


Donkey camera and auld lang syne


The Fountain the Shop the Rhythmic Train


Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta/ DOUBLE DOUBLE March edition 2022/ Ximena Berecochea

Lee Ka-sing

CODA (2020)


Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two (2022)


Eighty Two Photographs (2021)


Time Machine (2021)


Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box (2022)


Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box

Museum edition (2022)


“That Afternoon” on Mubi, a dialogue: Tsai

Ming Liang and Lee Kang-Sheng (2022)


The Travelogue of a Bitter Melon (2022)


Swan House (2021)


“Journeys of Leung Ping Kwan” (2023)


“That Afternoon” on Mubi, a dialogue: Tsai Ming Liang and Lee Kang-Sheng/ Lee Ka-sing

Holly Lee

Nine-Years (2020)


Istanbul Postcards (2021)


DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise a closecropped



DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise on-site



Six Poems (2022)


The Air is like a Butterfly (2021)


Gary Michael Dault

Still Life Still A Book of Vessels (2022)


The Book of The Poem (2022)


The Nearby Faraway Small Paintings on

Cardboard (2022)



Time Machine (2021) photographs by Lee

Ka-sing, Haiku by Gary Michael Dault


Swan House (2021)


DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise on-site

Calendar Beauty Vintage Calendar posters

from China


Kai Chan

2K-4.0 (Kai Chan + Lee Ka-sing)


Twenty Twenty An exhibition by Kai Chan


Shelley Savor

Mushrooms and Clouds but no Mushroom



Libby Hague

Libby Hague Watercolours


Tomio Nitto

The Diary of Wonders


Fiona Smyth



Calendar Beauty Vintage Calendar posters from China/ Hang Xi Ying Studio


Fiona Smyth


Holly Lee

Philip Guston Now, at National Gallery of Art (March 2 to August 27, 2023)


Philip Guston


The Photograph

coordinated by

Kamelia Pezeshki

Caesura series by Jennifer Long

… 談 笑 間 …

Yam Lau

Dear artists/architects,

I am Erik Satie, a composer. You may have heard of my music, but then you may not be

aware of the fact. Surely this presents a paradox- my music aspires to drift at the remotest

edge of consciousness, and never quite reaches its destination.

Some compare my music to a skit; some call it muzak. Some find it humorous though

mostly almost nonsensical. But my dear, the “almost” is everything!

My composition is “almost” too loose… it lacks coherence, closure and rigor… etc

My melody is “almost” too weak… it lacks development and drama... etc

My music is “almost” idle…it lacks direction and motivation. Instead of travelling to meet

the audience, it languishes and floats in the background, …becoming almost noise…

My music lacks music.

Project 2

On the “Almost” of Nothing

-An open letter from Erik Satie to commission the design of a house

Over the years of teaching, there are certain projects that afforded me a great deal of

satisfaction and happiness. They also inspired the most adventurous work by students. I

once taught a course on the intersection of art, design and architecture. The following is a

project inviting students to design a house for the French composer Erik Satie.

I deeply regret that I did not retain any records of their works. Many of them are

fascinating and still make me smile today. I learned to give students interesting projects

and take pleasure in writing them, which is the start of taking their intelligence and

creativity seriously. In teaching as in art making, I look for surprises. Often, surprises


And for this reason, my music cannot be disturbed by the intrusion of noise; it melts into

noise. It is indestructible in its lack of presence.

My music requires little attention, and demands almost nothing from the audience. (This

is something I take pride in… achieving the “almost nothing”!) Therefore, it is ideal and

fitting to leave it alone in the background, while you go about your daily routines such as

washing dishes or hanging out by yourself daydreaming. It is always perfectly calibrated

for a snow day, a warm day, a rainy day…

Sometimes when you are sipping fancy cocktails at a gala art opening, or chit-chatting

during an intermission of a long and serious performance, you may discern in the air

certain vibrations - a certain mingling of chatters, small talks and the barely audible

sound-as-fragrance from my compositions … that is where you might notice my trace…

somewhere in the background, intermission and periphery of art.

Thus, my name, following the fate and character of my music, lingers at the edge of the

western canon. I am only almost famous, yet not totally irrelevant.

Forgive me for this rather circuitous introduction. My point is this: I would like to

commission you to custom design and build a house for me. You see, at this juncture of

life, I have neither a lover nor dependents. I enjoy my solitude, especially my solitary

walk- a daily ten-kilometer walk to and from Paris. Since I understand my habits do

not appear to be the most transparent, I offer no dispute when others characterize me as

eccentric. Indeed, I am singular, but I am not a pervert… and I like children.

Yes, the house should be an intimate dwelling made for one singular individual. It should

fit my soul the way my fourteen identical suits fit my body. Living in and with it will allow

me to become acquainted with myself. In other words, the house should be an extension

of my work and my personality; they should share the same fate, the same lightness, the

same irreverence, and the same suffering. I become myself as I live in and with the house.

Some more specs… remember my daily walk? Some have likened the “flatness” and

seeming monotony of my composition to this extremely mundane activity. I would like

you to design a house that walks, slowly and not always forward, but also sideways and

backwards simultaneously. You see, I am a misfit and have no choice but to go against the


My dear, I understand this is a daunting, almost impossible task. But please be noted and

take account brightly- this is a house for the soul…and the soul needs not to be enclosed

by drywall. It can be clothed by thin air, which I regard as a coarser kind of soul. In this

house, I am alone, but with The Milky Way just upstairs!

Finally, do not forget we are artists. We have no liabilities….

Please prepare a set of six drawings to communicate the design on 11X14” paper. I am

ready to be convinced by you (a roundabout and polite way to say “you will have to

convince me”). You need to indicate dimension, material, etc… anything that will win me


Please prepare a model of the house of no less than 2x2x2 feet. There is no restriction on

the material.

Please prepare a “speech” to explain your work.

I offer you my blessing…. I await your gift.


Erik Satie

Satie once wrote a play only as a pretext to premiere his music during the intermission.

Satie is known to spend his meagre income on treats for children.


Cem Turgay

Poem a Week

Gary Michael Dault

A Mad Rabbit

there’s a mad rabbit

in the garden

the sweetest creature ever seen

twinkling through the snow

I call him mad

because he rises

to all the creatures out there

because five or six birds

at a time

ride on his back

they can’t walk in the tall snow

and flying all the time is expensive

our mad rabbit poet

living outside of his time

feeds on a vision

of what birds are

in comparison to

his impeccably earthbound fluff

he sees the birds as bits of universe

on wings

we adore him

we swear by him

we leave him carrots

in the snow

our mad backyard rabbit

is a composer

he gives birds a lift

if he likes the trill of their asking

but otherwise not

Caffeine Reveries

Shelley Savor

Winter Walking

From the Notebooks


Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2023

Number 164: Mask (August 5, 2010)


Kai Chan


basal wood, paper, wire, acrylic paint


Lee Ka-sing

Lee Ka-sing (1954)

From archive.leekasing.com / c.leekasing.com


bq 不 清

赤 壁


它 始 於 一 個 想 法

或 者 疑 問 譬 如 如 何 安 全 地

採 火 , 使 其 恆 久 而

不 傷 人 的 體 膚 正 如 那 次

擦 身 而 過 所 留 下 的

只 是 一 個 年 數 而 不 涉 及

圓 周 的 計 算

It all started with an idea

Or a query, e.g. how we could safely

Tame fire that lasted and

Wouldn’t burn anyone, like that time when

We crossed paths only to leave behind

Certain number of years that didn’t involve

The calculation of a circumference.

風 來 的 時 候 我 們 便 知 道 賽 果 了

We found out the outcome as the wind blew.


Wilson Tsang

The Sleeper


New at Poetry section -

New Look. More Content

To Grandma (after so many years, I still miss you)

by Holly Lee

Travelling Palm


Tamara Chatterjee

Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – Samarkand

is a geometric haven for those who enjoy

masterful repetition upon repetition.

It caused moments of heart thumping;

conceptualizing that each tile has been hand

cut and inlayed into the monumental facades.

As with most of the historical sites we visited,

the Registan was a glorious architectural feat.

Leaving Taichung


Bob Black

一 一 Yi-Yi

台 灣 : The Raindrop in her Ear

May they remember their days uncording

as the sea secrets in his eyes a lifetime of turns, tactile

Yushan raindrops jade her ear, silver shells awaiting the rhyme in the wave of the ocean’s netting

a braid socking each-to-each, ankles and toes snucktuck on the beach

the food they fingered as flora and fauna upon a table of entwined driftwood and bone, each other

grass, light lanterned, wordfever,

fear’s flight tracking mouths which recalls the world, accordioning

the lights harbouring on the shoulders of the Pacific’s distance, New Territories

alone in a breached moment as boulders above slip their purchase,

it may be their hearts or an unbuckling

“your stitching unbelted me” he scribbled “and loosened time,”

“your tongue wagging long in its linger, unsure!” she snapped back.

What is gone in the untying of 10,000 minutes?

What was to be gone?

What was once lost in the language, together

remains still Rhodophyt on the rock, loamy and aquatic

abundance of absented time and the wind that pricks their spines under the soft breath of tiderivers,


unlost and rounding, an oxbow of dream and beveled circumstance,

calamity forever bound.

Yet there along the whorl of the island’s margins, they remain arched in privation’s embrace,

dexterous, irreducible and concomitant in their arms, in their shackles and their waving


香 港 : Enfolded into the Sea

fire in the fields nimble in its nibbled night,

the breath’s palimpsest of saplings and crackled tin,

you slippery in your nightgown and iridescence

passing mirrors radiant of loss in the rooms and along alleys where cats bark at one another

the heart mad in its spiney undoing

the batons and umbrellas and boiled noodles bubbling as rain

teeth grinding under the sheet of sleep, ghost stories and canaries from the faucets--

this land


he bites your bruised lips mistaken for tenderness,

you spat at him dryly but the unspooling words grew dewey and darned, your metamorphosis

mistaken belief for ecumenical bargaining--

the apocryphal panhandling of love, the rights stuffed in the back of the drawer

a house burned down and language left in the shape of a key, dangling


she licks his panicked ears, hinder

alchemy a tongue risen from the sea:

lemongrass, star anise, dill, beefbones, temple incense

weeds from the hills: Luo Sang Tang

singing scent stirring a skeletal rhyme, the laundry of love


her kisses ripen by relic and briny depth

abloom in an algae night

neither longed for poetry but carved stanzas into each other,

rooms filled with argot and cloudy articulation, Nazca lines,

the panoramic view above their bodies

an early-winter Saturday and an elongating amid snow,

fall away desert love, fall away--



he guides her face through the shipwreck of his ribs

her fingers trace gold circles on his jaw, ecumenically

they seed the struck wounds of bruise that came from the street, quick as light

And the earth and their burdens folded into the sea.

for two poets: Amang Hong and TimTim Cheng

Ten Poems for Wood

Gary Michael Dault

/ Lee Ka-sing

Ten Poems for Wood


if you scrape away

a passage of

the world’s paint

what lies beneath it

is always the colour of wood


forcing different woods


gives you a sylvan battery


to attach one piece of wood

to another (glue, nail)

is to have turned a phrase


hospitable wood

sits still for the chisel and saw

holding its breath

(if wood had breath)

but there is anxiety

in every cut and chip

you feel it


wild wood

would prefer not

to end as a vicious

horned table

or a feral lamp


in a wooden statue

of the Madonna

standing with great bowed


you can still detect

the reverent tree


a woodpecker

taps at a tree trunk


the tree’s door opens

and the persistent bird

gets its afternoon tea


who can bear

the solitude

the forlorn freedom

of a block of wood?


a door opened

into the middle

of the forest

where, in a sunspot,

a ring of polished wooden cubes

circled a big table cube

in the middle

all very promiscuous

and yet not unexpected


the skin of a piece of wood

which is too refined

to call bark

rushes the eye

like the softness

of a woman’s throat

Poems by Gary Michael Dault

Photographs by Lee Ka-sing

Under the management of Ocean and Pounds

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