MONDAY ARTPOST 2023-0821

MONDAY
ARTPOST
2023-0821
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 /
Lee Ka-sing / Malgorzata Wolak Dault
/ Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee /
Tomio Nitto / Wilson Tsang / Yam Lau
+ OP Edition: Norman Jackson Ford
/ 2K 5.0 - a dialogue in pictures (Kai
Chan and Lee Ka-sing) / Sarah Teitel
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

TERRAIN, Book One
116 pages, 8x10 inch, hardcover
Hardcover edition is now available for order from BLURB
(CAN$60) https://www.blurb.ca/b/11625068-terrain-one
TERRAIN, Book Two
116 pages, 8x10 inch, hardcover
Hardcover edition is now available for order from BLURB
(CAN$60) https://www.blurb.ca/b/11640008-terrain-two

TERRAIN (a haiku a day, Book Three) photographs by Lee Ka-sing / haiku by Gary Michael Dault
a column. published daily at: oceanpounds.com
A Claw
It’s a far cry
from all trees being
created equal

Holly Lee
Buck or Doe: The Ballad of Mulan 木 蘭 辭 ,
a re-imagination
She became a warrior by necessity, at a time when well water could not be
mixed with river water. She was that quiet water knitting from dawn to dusk;
her sole music came from her own breathing; her loom click click and click
click.
A troubled, unrest heart. How was her old father to fight? The Khan was
merciless; soldiers were just numbers, recruited fast and perished fast. She
would take up the duty, cut her hair, bind her breasts, wear her boots, and
head to the market. East to get a fine stead; west, a saddle; south, a bridle,
and north a long whip. Farewell farewell my parents. By dusk I’d be resting
by the Yellow River, another dusk on the black mountains of Mongolia. Your
calling became so feeble, I couldn’t bear to hear.
Ten thousand miles she rode and battled, swept through fields and mountain
passes. The north wind blew, the gong hit at midnight. Her armour
shimmered under cold, silvery light. For ten years she fought on countless
battlefields, battered bodies laid bare, and unsettled. For ten years, she
combated and survived, returned gloriously, kneeling to meet her emperor.
On his high throne he offered her praise, high rank, and gold. All these to
her, were moon in the water, flower in the mirror. All she asked for was a
good horse, accompanying her in her toilsome journey, speeding her safely
back to her village; back to home, sweet home.
Her news of returning reached home faster than her feet. Her father, mother

walked out of the city arm-in arm. Her neighbours all came out to greet. Her
sister rouged her cheeks in rosy red; her brother whetted his knife for pigs
and sheep.
Entering from east chamber door, settling on west chamber bed, she sings,
“I’m taking off my wartime garments. I’m putting on my old time wear.
Gently, gently, I’m releasing and combing my long-tangled hair. Before
the mirror I stare, ornamenting my brow with gold floral print cut in pairs.
Stepping outside, I’m calling to my comrades. Shocked and startled, not
even my confidant recognizes me! Oh, my companions for twelve long years.
Listen to me, and look. Some distance away, among the thick bushes, a male
rabbit scurried north; a female rabbit looked vague and lost. Both running,
dear mates, are you able to tell if this one a buck, or that one a doe?”
Postscript
In our age, most people associate Mulan as a Disney cartoon character of
Asian origin, a woman disguised as a man going to battle for his aging father.
Mulan is a fictional folk heroine from China’s Northern dynasties (Northern
Wei, 386-534 AD), a time when many famous Buddhist rock-cut cave
temples were constructed at Yungang and Longmen. Mulan is believed to be
of Chinese/Xianbei ancestry (no bound feet!). Mulan is perhaps even a tribal
name, leaving the highly regarded heroine, like many others, anonymous.
But her brave deeds have survived and inspired people for many centuries.
The Ballad of Mulan is collected from oral traditions, transcribed into
written language, as a beautiful rhymed song. Though there are many
English translations of this ballad available on the Internet, I have the urge
to re-imagining the scene, and re-writing it in a prose form.
木 蘭 辭
唧 唧 復 唧 唧 , 木 蘭 當 戶 織 。 不 聞 機 杼 聲 , 惟 聞 女 嘆 息 。
問 女 何 所 思 , 問 女 何 所 憶 。 女 亦 無 所 思 , 女 亦 無 所 憶 。 昨 夜 見 軍 帖 ,
可 汗 大 點 兵 , 軍 書 十 二 卷 , 卷 卷 有 爺 名 。 阿 爺 無 大 兒 , 木 蘭 無 長 兄 ,
愿 為 市 鞍 馬 , 從 此 替 爺 征 。
東 市 買 駿 馬 , 西 市 買 鞍 韉 , 南 市 買 轡 頭 , 北 市 買 長 鞭 。 旦 辭 爺 娘 去 ,
暮 宿 黃 河 邊 , 不 聞 爺 娘 喚 女 聲 , 但 聞 黃 河 流 水 鳴 濺 濺 。 旦 辭 黃 河 去 ,
暮 至 黑 山 頭 , 不 聞 爺 娘 喚 女 聲 , 但 聞 燕 山 胡 騎 鳴 啾 啾 。
萬 里 赴 戎 機 , 關 山 度 若 飛 。 朔 氣 傳 金 柝 , 寒 光 照 鐵 衣 。 將 軍 百 戰 死 ,
壯 士 十 年 歸 。
歸 來 見 天 子 , 天 子 坐 明 堂 。 策 勛 十 二 轉 , 賞 賜 百 千 強 。 可 汗 問 所 欲 ,
木 蘭 不 用 尚 書 郎 , 愿 馳 千 里 足 , 送 兒 還 故 鄉 。 爺 娘 聞 女 來 , 出 郭 相 扶
將 ; 阿 姊 聞 妹 來 , 當 戶 理 紅 妝 ; 小 弟 聞 姊 來 , 磨 刀 霍 霍 向 豬 羊 。 開 我
東 閣 門 , 坐 我 西 閣 床 , 脫 我 戰 時 袍 , 著 我 舊 時 裳 。 當 窗 理 云 鬢 , 對 鏡
貼 花 黃 。 出 門 看 火 伴 , 火 伴 皆 驚 忙 : 同 行 十 二 年 , 不 知 木 蘭 是 女 郎 。
雄 兔 腳 撲 朔 , 雌 兔 眼 迷 離 ; 雙 兔 傍 地 走 , 安 能 辨 我 是 雄 雌 ?

TANGENTS
Wilson Tsang
Liberation

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing
Pen and pencil on paper
Kai Chan’s work and books at OCEAN POUNDS
oceanpounds.com/collections/kai-chan

Sketchbook
Tomio Nitto

Open/Endedness
bq 不 清
光 之 微 粒 說
像 梢 頭 的 雨 點
我 們 停 在 一 個 時 代 的 末 端
未 來 似 乎 已 經 到 達
退 到 清 楚 而 不 能 妥 協 的 狀 態
我 們 的 嘴 巴
即 將 混 入 泥 漿
讓 種 子 有 了 發 芽 的 條 件
究 竟 城 市 需 要 綠 化 到 怎 樣 的 程 度
才 能 夠 與 原 野 無 縫 地 銜 接 ?
一 群 猛 獸 正 以 光 的 速 度
奔 向 我 們
而 我 們 繼 續 飾 演 稻 草 人
在 房 子 來 臨 前
嚇 走 心 裡 的 夜 鬼
長 出 各 種 的 紅 色
天 啊 ! 它 躺 著
黃 昏 終 於 容 許 它 們 睜 開 眼 睛
讓 瞳 孔 溢 滿 日 落 的 餘 光
有 關 影 子 的 故 事
我 們 都 聽 過 許 多 了
你 之 後 要 到 那 裡 去 呢 ?
說 實 話
還 是 繼 續 往 前 以 應 付 往 後 的 日 子 吧
一 點 點 悠 久 的 星 光
到 臨 而 欠 缺 音 訊
我 早 已 忘 記 了
青 草 曾 經 仰 慕 花 朵
並 希 望 能 於 秋 天

CORPUSCULAR THEORY OF LIGHT
Like raindrops on the top of a branch
we stand still at the end of an era.
The future seems to have arrived
Retreating to a clear and unwavering state.
Our mouths
Will soon be filled with mud
Allowing the condition for seeds to sprout.
Exactly how green do cities need to be
In order to meld seamlessly with the wilderness?
At the speed of light, the beasts are
Heading toward us,
And we keep playing scarecrows,
Dispelling the nighttime ghosts out of our hearts
before the houses emerge.
Red in the Fall.
O, it lies there
Dusk allows them to open wide their eyes at last,
And spills twilight out of their pupils.
Stories about shadows.
We have all heard many.
Where do you go from here?
To be honest,
It’s better to keep moving forward, toward the days we cope with.
Sprinkle of long-lasting starlight
Arrives, but carries no messages.
I have long forgotten that
Grass once admired flowers.
It longs to don all shades of

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Sunglasses
Shelley Savor’s work and book at OCEAN POUNDS
oceanpounds.com/collections/Shelley-Savor

Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
An Insult
If you could
straighten out
an insult
you’d see
a frightened seed
at one end
begging for
the earth
of sweet flesh
where the shaft
of the barb
will grow down
like a root
in reverse
to be reborn
a hundred years
hence
as a pink hand
reaching up
for water
(August 19, 2023)

Watercolours Part One:
Skies Over Water
Malgorzata Wolak Dault
The collection of watercolours to be shown here was influenced by John
Marin’s Maine landscapes and seascapes. They are, as well, the fruits of the
drives my husband and I often take through Prince Edward County to look at
and enjoy its ever-changing skies and waters.
Summer Leaving

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
Two Dynasties
“We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.”-- Louise Glück
I ask you ghost
what language should we speak to our children
the knotted sound of a falling word, begun
when you shaped loss into rings
or golem stories transfigured in the afternoon over the laundry basket
histories licking shape into the space between the door-key light
and a stranger’s languor peeping curves turned into meaning
caught in the lie between axil and midrib valley’d together
dark pensées in an attic’s pitch opening you
and the words fall nearly apart
ceiling slivers drip down with taste an orange peel scent
bitten margins the skin’s rind rings away your name
the festering peach falls in the warm Ontario sun August’s ripe aquaria
the wishing the wanting the wading through the orchard
the children quirk for more time, more time I ask you ghost when
earlier

I ask you father
which words began to bubble up spun themselves into banners of taught
thought going adrift, you a white cotton scarf
strong over the escarpment the poles you lifted us up upon
we kneed up your back a gull gliding arabesques when you
snatched the light and left the door open, our hearts ajar a movie
heroine’s heart cracking and then every throng was gone
every car unbuckling on I-95, the hotel room hunched outside Baltimore
we dragged the sea and sand up from the Chesapeake into the room
toe-small piles on the carpet corners
your underwear and the tv light flickering white and black&blue
dreams
the chemistry of an ill-suited room love abandoned on the Holiday Inn
bedsheets, as the nation racks up a family one by one over
the Stateline grief on the sunburned shoulders of four
young boys, wide-eyed and loose lipped
the barren woods carved into their sleep the neon over the balcony
as the city mirrors Atlantis on the horizon
the ice machine barks at the end of the mildew-stained plaster
corridor with a terminus’ buzz ice cubes drop like death’s rattle
fear drops in their small throats not yet ready for what
the ax swing in the sounding of the salt-damp ocean air
breath frenzied an aquatic twirl
intelligence lay in the corner of their eyes that vast shoreline
who will save them from themselves, these children
I ask you, father
speculative and long I too remember Yilan
yackled, the hills rose black and the sea washed away blanched
the hoof white on the black sand ruff the words that wronged us
on the frontier of the small island, each to each both your songs
nothing ever nor forever you ran away I wish I could ask you
why, as the light followed you through the front door, our family gone
now
my brothers and I bend reflexively beneath the milky sun
the lone Oak a sentry in the field enormous in its love
once split by the sky’s lightening tongue we lift glasses
of rum to cool our brows first a heart, then a home
then we, each to each after the undying, became one
through the grief and the wreckage
a family unspun but I tell you
will always tell you and I will tell you again
we became our own namelessness wired together with grief outrun
for my brothers
later
I ask you mother
which of us was wingward and wild waxing west and in abundance
the tide lit love across your brow when loss coursed light through the wan horizon

From the Notebooks
(2010-2023)
Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2023
Number 192: Moth (November 20, 2011)
Gary Michael Dault’s work and books at OCEAN POUNDS
oceanpounds.com/collections/gary-michael-dault

ProTesT
Cem Turgay

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth
Fiona Smyth’s work and book at OCEAN POUNDS
oceanpounds.com/collections/fiona-smyth

The Photograph
Selected by
Kamelia Pezeshki
Gord Downie by Gordon Hawkins

Sarah Teitel
Clementines and Babybels
Ira lived the furthest away of all my aunts and uncles, and he was the first of
my aunts and uncles to die. One of the last times I saw him was at my sister’s
wedding. He’d travelled from his home on Salt Spring Island to attend the
festivities. He seemed as healthy as ever, which is to say healthier than the
rest of us. He was taut and agile, with a smooth face, a lean physique, and
an easy gait that belied his age. At seventy-one, he could pass for a man
twenty years his junior.
I attributed Ira’s youthful appearance to his fastidiousness and to the sea air.
Years before, I had visited Ira on Salt Spring. Every morning at breakfast
he allotted five black olives to himself, and five to me. He explained that
a bundle of health benefits were associated with eating this exact quotient
of olives daily. My sister had another theory to account for Ira’s looking so
young. She guessed that somewhere, in a closet, Ira had hidden a portrait of
himself, and that the portrait was aging instead of Ira.
The wedding was held in high summer, on a farm in Tiny, Ontario, a town
about three hours from Toronto by car. Ira had flown into the city and rented
a car to drive to Tiny. He knew I needed a ride, and he offered to take
me with him. I jumped at the opportunity. Ira was a keen listener with a
broad frame of reference and a gentle sense of humour: a perfect road-trip
companion.
Sarah Teitel is a multidisciplinary artist living in
Toronto. She writes poems, songs and prose; draws,
sings and plays instruments.
sarahteitel1.bandcamp.com/album/give-and-take
We stopped at a Costco on the city’s outskirts to pick up snacks for the
journey. Ira suggested clementines and individually-wrapped, miniature
wheels of Babybel cheese. I had no argument. The foods were perfect for
a car-picnic, and characteristically Ira-ish—wholesome, enjoyable, neat.

I peeled oranges and cheeses, handing them to Ira as we cruised along the
highway, talking and listening to music. We spoke about being alone. Both
of us were single. Ira had been married once, a long time ago, for about a
year. I had just gotten divorced. Ira told me about a woman he had recently
started dating. She was only a few years older than me.
A dynamic was in play between me and Ira, in the car, as we headed north
to Tiny. It’s a dynamic I’m not sure I’m supposed to name. I was attracted
to Ira, and I think he was attracted to me. The attraction was very much in
check. There was a strong force-field separating us. Ira was my uncle and I
was his niece. We weren’t going to act on our attraction; but we could play
with it. I flirted. I story-told and shifted in my seat with what I hoped was
extra elegance. I tried for clever jokes. I showed Ira a little bit of what it
might be like if we weren’t related, and he responded with his usual interest
and intelligence and wit. I respected him for cultivating those qualities in
himself. I appreciated his style. I like to think that he felt the same way
about me.
Some of the music we listened to was mine. I write and sing folk songs. I’d
recorded a couple of tracks in the months leading up to the wedding, and
I was excited to share the new tunes with Ira. He was impressed, and this
made me glad. Ira wasn’t a musician, but he crafted instruments. When
I was a teenager, I’d discovered a dulcimer (a wooden, hourglass-shaped
zither) at my grandparents’ house. It was an odd object for my grandparents
to have. I wondered where it had come from. It turned out that Ira had
carpentered the dulcimer. That made sense. The qualities I imagined a
builder of dulcimers would possess—precision, handiness, ingenuity—
were ones that I expected would be assets to a person employed as Ira was,
heading a research company, teaching sailing, and operating as a hotelier of
sorts, managing a bed and breakfast out of his house.
him in passing over the course of the next months, when he made his way
east again and again to visit my ailing grandmother, and yet again, when he
returned for her funeral. But the drive to Tiny stands as my last substantial
memory of Ira.
About a year after our drive together, I learned that Ira had pancreatic
cancer. I’m still not sure when he found out. My understanding from other
family members is that he knew for a while before he told anybody. News of
Ira’s declining health was delivered to me by my mother and my aunts, who
took turns visiting him out west, and then in Germany where he went for
treatment. I heard Ira had lost weight. I heard he was scared—that he would
wake and cry in the night. Most disquieting though, was a reported change
in Ira’s temperament: he had begun to lash out; to tear into the people close
to him with words. This Ira, dying Ira, sounded like a different creature from
the Ira I had known.
I wonder what made for Ira’s transformation. Was it fear that possessed him,
that set him on the attack? Was it anger he had buried long ago rising up
and breaking through to the surface? Was it cancer eating into the mood
centres of his brain? I’m reminded of the ocean: how it can lull with its low
rippling, how it can smash a ship to pieces. I imagine Ira in his sickbed
hurling insults, and I contrast it with my picture of him in the driver’s seat
beside me, hearing my words and music, responding with curiosity and care.
I count the difference as meaningful, but I don’t understand it.
When we got to Tiny, Ira dropped me off at the cottage where I would stay
the weekend, and he headed to his room at the local hotel. I suppose I saw
Ira at the pre-wedding dinner that evening, and at the celebration itself
the following night, and at the brunch the morning after. And I know I saw

Norman Jackson Ford
untitled
8x10 inch, gelatin silver photograph, printed in 90s
Number 1/20, OP Edition
Signed on verso
As the practice of collecting photographs picked up
steam by 1994, the push motivated us to establish
a system for people to interact, exchange, acquire
and collect photographs. We set up The Original
Photograph Club that year and created a print program
called the OP Print Program. Ka-sing and I co-curated
the project and attended all administrative and
organizing work. It would be a quarterly program, each
quarter of the year would feature ten photographers’
work. All participants would be required to contribute
an image with 20 editions, printed in the size of 8 by
10 inches. These prints we referred to as OP Editions.
DISLOCATION 1992-1999, and Beyond. [The OP Print Program
and OP Editions, 1994-1999], Holly Lee

2K 5.0
(The fifth chapter
of a collaboration.
A dialogue in
pictures)
Kai Chan and
Lee Ka-sing

Image on the left by Kai Chan,
image on the right by Lee Ka-sing.
2K 5.0
Published here are eight diptychs in their original
sequence. A complete suite of this collaboration
will be published in the October 2023 issue of
DOUBLE DOUBLE.

DIGI (1994-1996) is an extension to the last issue
“DISLOCATION 1992-1999, and Beyond”.
DIGI zine was a side-track in the course of our publishing venture.
It was attached to the PHOTOART, in the last section as part of
the contents. An additional print-run of 500 copies was printed
as an independent publication–in the exact manner as we did for
DISLOCATION in PHOTO PICTORIAL. In total, thirteen issues of
DIGI were published from 1994 to 1995, with the last issue coming
out in 1996.
In this issue of DOUBLE DOUBLE, we reproduced the thirteen
issues of DIGI zine as a complete volume facsimile edition.
The original DIGI zine is in the format of 8.5x11 inch, 16 pages.
Each issue had a 500 print-runs.
DOUBLE DOUBLE April/ May edition 2023
DIGI (1994-1996)
232 pages, 8x10 inch, ebook and paperback editions
Read-on-line edition for PATREON members
https://reads.oceanpounds.com/2023/05/digi.html

DOUBLE DOUBLE February/ March edition 2023
女 那 禾 多 DISLOCATION (1992-1999), and Beyond
340 pages, 8x10 inch, ebook and hardcover editions
Hardcover edition available at Blurb (CAD$125)
https://www.blurb.ca/b/11543683-dislocation-1992-1999-and-beyond
ebook edition (PDF download, US$10)
https://oceanpounds.com/products/dislocation
Read online the complimentary copy in full version
https://books.leekasing.com/1992/01/dislocation.html
THE LIFE OF A PUBLICATION, written by Holly Lee
(the main article in 21 segments)
• It began with Lee Ka-sing’s two photo columns in the mid-eighties
• Seeded by a studio promotional publication: WORKS MAGAZINE (1988-89)
• And it began, with a transparent and translucent journey (NûNaHéDuo ZERO and GLASS issues)
• The first year
• NûNaHéDuo 1992-1995. 48 issues, 4 annuals and an index issue
• Fair Deal. A playground at the backyard
• Free-wheeling and Seeding
• The OP Print Program and OP Editions (1994-1999)
• The second stage (1996-1998), a new format
• The idea of Three: Beijing, Hong Kong and Taiwan
• DIGI zine, a side track
• OP fotogallery and NCP–the NûNaHéDuo Centre of Photography
• A tale of the other city, the OP fotogallery in Toronto (2000-2005)
• Closing of the second stage of NNHD 1999
• This side towards lens, FOTO POST and ebooks
• DISLOCATION as an ebook, Volume 14
• Landscape in flux. The Missing Volume 15, Geography issue
• The Second Life of DISLOCATION
• Recapturing time
• Thirty years
• The Unfinished. Hong Kong Streets issue

Leads to the Books published
by OCEAN POUNDS
DISLOCATION (1992-1999), and Beyond
books.oceanpounds.com/2023/04/dislocation.html
Poetic Liaison
books.oceanpounds.com/2023/02/poetic-liaison.html
City Mirage Snow
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/cms.html
The Painter The Photographer The Alchemist
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ppa.html
The galloping jelly pink horse with pea green spots
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/phgs.html
Reality Irreality Augmented Reality
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/rar.html
The Book The Reader The Keeper
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/dd202208.html
The Air is like a Butterfly
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/tab.html
Still Life Still A Book of Vessels
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/bv.html
The Book of The Poem
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/08/bp.html
The Nearby Faraway Small Paintings on Cardboard
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/small-paintings-on-cardboard.html
DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise a close-cropped
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-cc.html
DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise on-site
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-os.html
Twenty Twenty An exhibition by Kai Chan
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/09/tt.html
2K 4.0 (Kai Chan + Lee Ka-sing)
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/2k40.html
Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sa.html
Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box
Museum edition
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sab.html
“That Afternoon” on Mubi, a dialogue: Tsai Ming
Liang and Lee Kang-Sheng
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/ta.html
The Travelogue of a Bitter Melon
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/tbm.html
Swan House
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/swanhouse.html
“Journeys of Leung Ping Kwan”
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2023/01/pk.html
ARTPOST contributors
Cem Turgay lives and works as a photographer in
Turkey.
Fiona Smyth is a painter, illustrator, cartoonist and
instructor in OCAD University's Illustration Program.
For more than three decades, Smyth has made a name
for herself in the local Toronto comic scene as well as
internationally.
http://fiona-smyth.blogspot.com
Gary Michael Dault lives in Canada and is noted for
his art critics and writings. He paints and writes poetry
extensively. In 2022, OCEAN POUNDS published two
of his art notebooks in facsimile editions.
Holly Lee lives in Toronto, where she continues to
produce visual and literal work.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holly_Lee
Kai Chan immigrated to Canada from Hong Kong in
the sixties. He’s a notable multi-disciplinary artist who
has exhibited widely in Canada and abroad.
www.kaichan.art
Kamelia Pezeshki is a photographer living in Toronto.
She continues to use film and alternative processes to
make photographs.
www.kamelia-pezeshki.com
Windmills Fields and Marina
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/07/wmf.html
Island Peninsula Cape
http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/blog-post.html
The Fence the Garden the Connoisseur
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/dd202205.html
ana Picnic Stones
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/04/dd202204.html
Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/03/dd202203.htm
Donkey camera and auld lang syne
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/02/dd202202.html
The Fountain the Shop the Rhythmic Train
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/01/dd202201.html
Calendar Beauty Vintage Calendar posters from
China
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/03/cb.html
Libby Hague Watercolours
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/lhw.html
The Diary of Wonders
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/dw.html
CHEEZ 456
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/c456.html
Mushrooms and Clouds but no Mushroom Clouds
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/mcmc.html
CODA
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/coda.html
Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ds.html
Ken Lee is a poet and an architectural designer based
in Toronto. He has been composing poetry in Chinese,
and is only recently starting to experiment with writing
English poetry under the pen name, “bq”.
Lee Ka-sing, founder of OCEAN POUNDS, lives in
Toronto. He writes with images, recent work mostly
photographs in sequence, some of them were presented
in the format of a book.
www.leekasing.com
Robert Black, born in California, is an award-winning
poet and photographer currently based in Toronto.
His work often deals with themes related to language,
transformation, and disappearance.
Shelley Savor lives in Toronto. She paints and draws
with passion, focusing her theme on city life and urban
living experiences.
Tamara Chatterjee is a Toronto photographer who
travels extensively to many parts of the world.
Tomio Nitto is a noted illustrator lives in Toronto. The
sketchbook is the camera, he said.
Nine-Years
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/02/ny.html
Istanbul Postcards
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/ip.html
Eighty Two Photographs
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/82p.html
Time Machine
https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/12/tm.html
Wilson Tsang is both a visual artist and a musician
from Hong Kong. To date, he has published two art
books for children and four indie music albums.
Yam Lau, born in British Hong Kong, is an artist and
writer based in Toronto; he is currently an Associate
Professor at York University. Lau’s creative work
explores new expressions and qualities of space,
time and the image. He is represented by Christie
Contemporary.

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