MONDAY ARTPOST 2024-1111

MONDAY
ARTPOST
2024-1111
ISSN1918-6991
MONDAYARTPOST.COM
Columns by Artists and Writers
Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay / Fiona Smyth
/ Gary Michael Dault / Kai Chan / Kamelia
Pezeshki / Lee Ka-sing / Malgorzata Wolak
Dault / Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee /
Tomio Nitto / Yam Lau /
Holly Lee : The Fountain (a novel)
MONDAY ARTPOST published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.
Edit and Design: DOUBLE DOUBLE studio. Publisher: Ocean and Pounds. ISSN 1918-6991. mail@oceanpounds.com
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今 期 MONDAY ARTPOST 重 刊 楚 喬 的 小 說 「 噴 水 池 」, 原
是 刊 登 於 DOUBLE DOUBLE 2022 年 一 月 號 。 當 時 該 刊 剛 從
網 上 版 改 變 成 為 紙 本 出 版 物 , 每 月 出 版 一 次 。 小 說 寫 於 大
約 2020 至 2021 年 間 , 她 剛 寫 完 「 壽 司 草 邊 的 天 堂 」。 發 表
時 作 了 一 回 較 大 的 修 改 。 在 楚 喬 的 創 作 筆 記 簿 她 寫 下 心 願
想 寫 一 個 以 她 自 己 的 作 背 景 的 長 篇 。「 噴 水 池 」 也 可 說 是
她 在 這 方 面 的 小 嘗 試 , 為 日 後 的 大 篇 章 作 為 揣 摩 。 楚 喬 的
創 作 , 早 在 八 十 年 代 , 她 的 攝 影 作 品 , 已 有 不 少 以 她 的 家
庭 背 景 , 身 邊 的 人 作 為 作 品 的 素 材 。 去 到 文 本 寫 作 , 纖 細
內 容 的 梳 織 , 以 她 個 人 過 往 的 故 事 為 本 , 那 是 自 然 不 過 的
事 。
DOUBLE DOUBLE 於 該 期 開 始 改 為 紙 本 , 除 了 發 表 我 們 兩
人 的 新 舊 作 品 之 外 , 並 每 期 發 表 一 位 客 座 藝 術 家 。 該 期 發
刊 了 李 卓 媛 。 之 前 我 幾 次 旅 港 , 都 看 過 卓 媛 的 作 品 , 是 一
位 年 青 而 又 出 色 的 創 作 人 。 我 們 發 刊 了 她 的 「The Crescent
Void」, 是 她 的 較 早 期 作 品 , 也 是 她 獲 取 WMA 大 獎 的 作
品 。 不 過 , 當 時 我 發 刊 這 組 作 品 , 有 一 個 主 要 的 選 擇 因
素 , 還 是 因 為 她 的 以 家 族 為 軸 的 主 題 。 與 楚 喬 的 「 噴 水
池 」 有 著 呼 應 的 關 係 。 然 而 , 那 又 是 兩 個 不 同 世 代 的 創 作
人 。 巧 合 之 前 卓 媛 也 因 為 香 港 動 植 物 公 園 的 一 個 聯 展 , 她
做 過 一 組 關 於 噴 水 池 的 作 品 , 而 且 , 她 又 以 該 組 作 品 為 基
礎 , 作 了 進 一 步 的 發 展 。
是 因 為 噴 水 池 的 偶 遇 ( 其 實 她 們 所 書 寫 的 是 同 一 個 噴 水
池 , 同 一 個 遠 年 的 記 憶 ), 促 使 了 談 及 兩 人 一 起 在 WMA
的 展 覽 。 雖 然 , 這 個 展 覽 , 經 過 歲 月 , 已 經 走 離 了 池 水 ,
變 成 了 後 來 的 「 壽 司 草 邊 的 天 堂 & 青 蛾 飯 」, 其 間 沒 有 變
的 , 依 然 是 那 個 與 家 人 繞 纏 在 一 起 的 追 憶 。 當 初 大 家 談 及
的 時 候 , 誰 都 沒 有 意 料 到 這 是 楚 喬 最 後 的 一 個 展 覽 。 遠 方
的 噴 水 池 , 今 天 你 看 到 它 的 時 候 , 四 面 風 景 依 舊 , 它 層 層
的 噴 咀 , 卻 又 不 時 霧 噴 出 一 幕 一 幕 , 沉 重 的 幻 景 。
The Fountain
In this issue of MONDAY ARTPOST, we are republishing Holly’s novel, The Fountain,
which first appeared in the January 2022 issue of DOUBLE DOUBLE, shortly after the
publication transitioned from an online format to a monthly print edition. Holly wrote
The Fountain around 2020–2021, just after finishing Sushi Grass in Paradise, and
made substantial revisions before it was published. In her notebook, she expressed a
desire to write a long novel rooted in her own background, and The Fountain can be
seen as an early experiment in this direction, a preliminary exploration for future, more
extensive works. Since the 1980s, Holly’s photography has often drawn on her family
and the people around her as subjects. Naturally, her writing, woven with fine details,
also drew from her personal history.
When DOUBLE DOUBLE moved to print, our plan was to feature both new and
previous works, along with a guest artist each month. In that issue, we featured Sharon
Lee, a talented young photographer whose series The Crescent Void, an early work that
earned her the WMA Grant Award, was included for its family-centered theme, which
resonated with The Fountain. While Holly and Sharon belong to different generations,
a unique connection emerged: Sharon had also created a series about a fountain for a
group exhibition at the Hong Kong Zoological and Botanical Gardens and developed
the theme into further works with deeper layers.
This serendipitous link to the fountain—indeed, they were referencing the same
fountain, a distant memory both shared—led to discussions of a joint exhibition at
WMA Space, centered around this theme. Though the exhibition evolved, moving from
the fountain theme to Sushi Grass in Paradise & The Rice is Greener on the Other Side,
the lingering thread remained: a shared remembrance bound to family. When they first
discussed it, neither could have foreseen that this would be Holly’s final exhibition.
Today, when you encounter that distant fountain, the surrounding landscape remains
familiar, while the fountainheads, heavy with mist, evoke layers of haunting illusions.
(Lee Ka-sing, November 11, 2024)
( 李 家 昇 , 11-11-2024)

Holly Lee
The Fountain
a novel

turnstile to take the path, a shady and winding trail leading to the menagerie. Some time ago, when she
visited the couple, they were sitting upright in the fork of a tree, huddling together, comfortably taking
their afternoon nap. Another time when she passed by, Abek and Keba were swinging and brachiating
through the branches with their long gangling arms, acting in a way as if they were the top trapeze artists
of the animal world; and indeed their acrobatic performance won loud applause from several spectators,
including hers. What will they be doing today? She wonders. What will you name your child, you king
and queen of swing. Your child, would you like it to be the prince, or princess of the swing? In a habitual
manner, she combs through her thin hair with her fingers, feeling instantly more hair falling out, her
scalp warm and tender.
Early morning calls
Here they go again! Abek Keba.
A blessing, or a curse. The silence of the waning night breaks, before the first ray of sunlight hitting city
buildings, before her spirit climbs back to the body, suspending her in a state of half-asleep and halfawake,
and like an overtly early alarm clock, without warning, a sharp, harmonious duet punctures the
air. Less than a quarter of a mile away, on the northern slope opposite where she lives, inside a cage in
the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, a pair of siamangs, swinging from branch to branch, are routinely
performing their morning ritual cries with a mix of deep booms and high-pitched screams.
Ack! Just when I’m about to drift off…
Yes, her sleeps have been fragmentary since the operation, her further struggle with radiotherapy, and
chemotherapy taking a visible toll on her. The first night she started her chemo she was in so much pain
that, in between bursts of dreams, she yelled for help from her grandmother, forgetting that she had been
dead for nearly a year. The nights following are not any better; she is often in a state of consciousness
with eyes closed. Then around dawn, she is almost certain to hear calls from the gibbons, taking her
away, or dragging her deeper into the same fuzzy dream; a wood so dark, primeval and impenetrable.
She decides to visit the siamangs Abek and Keba today. Secretly, and avoiding the keeper’s watchful
eyes, she will feed them popcorn for a treat. Abek is male, seven years old, and measures about 3 feet
tall, weighing 25 pounds. Keba, his wife, is three months younger, built slightly shorter but weighs
more since she is pregnant. The couple is from different parts of Sumatra and has been living in this
enclosure for almost a year. It is just a short walk uphill from her apartment to the zoo through a lane
called Glenealy, a gated, minor entry point, one of the eleven entrances to the central Public Garden.
Usually, this entrance is quiet and unstaffed. She has to pass through the full-height, two-way steel
The day’s forecast is hot and sunny, a considerably fine day; it’s better for her to wear a cap and bring
along the blue umbrella with light-green stripes. Her spirit needs uplifting, her body needs fortifying,
and this umbrella provides both. She delights in spending time with the siamangs and walks directly
towards the compound where Abek and Keba are staying. To her surprise, she finds not two, but three
primate friends. Keba has given birth to a baby. On a signpost outside the enclosure stated: Ekke, female
siamang, 6.5 ounces, born July 1, 1992. Because it is a weekday, not too many people are gathering there
to watch the newborn, and she’s able to get closer to her siamang friends. A picture of family bliss, all
tenderness and loving care. The tiny baby is sprawling out on her mother’s tummy, and Abek is gently
grooming his wife’s shaggy black fur with his long fingers. She leans over and presses her face against the
cold steel fence, looks straight into the eyes of the parents. They look back languidly, as if floating on a
cloud, as if lodging in their small haven, so contented that they do not want any disturbance.
She carries that picture with her as she strolls further along the old trees trail, crossing the pedestrian
subway to the north-eastern side of the park, passes by the Pavilion, and the bronze statue of King
George VI, a somewhat beautiful area surrounded by aviaries, the air filled with fragrant jasmines
and all kinds of bird songs. There’s a bench to sit down on, the weather so bright, the constant breeze
cools down streams of heat waves as she sits under her umbrella, well-sheltered from the mid-day sun.
Minutes later, resuming her strength, she descends the stone steps, reaching an open square; the fountain
terrace. There, the sky, skyline of tall buildings and some breadth of the harbour view unfurled before
her. Putting down her umbrella, she inhales deeply, her arms stretching out, as if trying to gather the
spectacle all to herself. In the middle of the courtyard sits the centerpiece of the garden - the fountain,
which, in its several rebirths, has always remained in the same spot. Now rebuilt for the fourth time, an
irregular polygon replaces the former round-shaped fountain, having four huge, dandelion-like spheres
with rotating fountain heads, spinning around gleefully as water jets out of the nozzles. The view is
captivating and refreshing. To complement the centerpiece, a dozen of geyser jet fountain nozzles create
masses of aerated water at the lower level of the fountain.
Never has she thought once about the history of the fountain, at least not when she is struggling with
something more serious and life-threatening. History says that the government built the first fountain in
1868, some two decades after the island came under British rule, a hundred and twenty-four years from
her present. Yes, it’s the fountain, but not the fountain of her memory, which is always round, the one that
her mother took her to when she was a very young child. But even that fountain has become a legend; as
another soon replaced it, and another, and another.

Pictures by the Fountain
She said she was just a few months old, her
index finger pointing at the photograph, which
was glued to the page of an album along with
other older pictures, when her mother took her
to the Botanical Gardens. My mother looked
thin, she said. I heard she had a hard time
bearing and giving birth to me. Must have been
a disappointment, too; she added, because I
was a girl, an undesirable gender that not only
looked more like my father, but inheriting not
the slightest trace of my mother’s beauty. The
photograph she showed me was small, about
two and a quarter inches square, in which a fair
woman holding a baby on her left lap rested on
the flat rim of a round fountain; her right foot
anchoring on the cement ground, showing her
elegant, flat bottom embroidered satin shoe.
Why did my mother dress in black? It made her
look even thinner; she said. But it’s a blackand-white
picture; I reminded her, she might
have worn a burgundy red or a dark sapphire
blue. Her garment, however, I pointed out, was
something particular - a tailor-made Chinese
short sleeve top and pants suit, though worn
commonly among women in the 50s, was made
from vinyl silk, a material that vanished ages
ago. She frowned slightly at the picture and said,
look what I was wearing, a western baby dress,
and no shoes! But you were just crawling then, I
promptly corrected her, and let out a giggle.
You could only gather secondhand information
from the photographs inside the album; any
memory dust left that day simply wasn’t
registered, hence never existed. But you began
to think that afternoon was a family day trip.
Regretting not learning more of your ancestral
history, you admitted growing up in the age of
egoism and freedom; when everything was the
“future and I”, there was little room nor need for
looking back. Or was it because of negligence
and ignorance that the idea of family history
didn’t ring until late in life? Your grandma
was a young widow with two small daughters -
your mom and your aunt, who moved with her
husband’s extensive family to Hong Kong in
the early part of the 20th century. As a child,
you grew up, saw yourself mix and mingle with
relatives from your grandpa’s side, yet always
feeling awkward, like an outsider. A large and
traditional family, your departed grandpa had
at least a dozen-and-half siblings, all of whom,
after moving to the colony, still gathered to
celebrate Lunar New Year; held banquets at
restaurants for birthdays and weddings. You
could still remember your 12th uncle, 13th
uncle, 15th uncle and 18th aunt, faces of their
wives and children; the bustling gatherings at
15th uncle’s home; the noise and excitement,
and most of all, the hearty smell of food which
the wives were busily preparing in the kitchen.
Children’s duty was to play, eat, and live well;
little were they informed about, or concerned
with hunger of the motherland. In mainland
China, the great famine from 1958 to 1961 had
caused the lives of millions of people.
Like a detective gliding a magnifying glass
over the small photographs, you wanted
desperately to find some clues, some DNA,
or forensic evidence from that day, when your
mother sat with you on the edge of the fountain;
you wanted to ask, who was the one taking
the photograph? Here, you tracked down your
mom posing in front of the greenhouse with her
right hand resting on your 18th aunt’s shoulder.
A snapshot of your two uncles, the 12th and
the 13th, walking up the steps, the latter held
a cigarette in his mouth. In another picture
containing a group of people, a ‘stranger’, who
might be a relative you didn’t know, sat holding
you beside two more strangers - another young
woman with a boy. The back roll stood a couple,
your 15th uncle and his wife, and your mom in
her black vinyl silk clothes. After a few pages,
you discovered a bigger group photograph with
the fountain in the background. All the uncles
and aunties, their children, your grandma and
your mom carrying you, the ‘strangers’ you saw
earlier, squeezing each other to fit into the frame.
A nice family picture, you thought. From the
adjacent page, you noticed an almost identical
image of the large group shot, which might have
been taken seconds earlier or later. An imperfect
picture but was kept, anyway. At the moment
the photographer pressed the shutter, a small
boy ran across the camera, his head accidentally
caught, and made a mark in the lower left corner
of the picture.
By this time you were quite certain, and could
conclude that, that afternoon must have been
“pre-planned” for the big family outing. In fact,
back in those times, having one’s picture taken
was a big deal, as photography was not only
expensive, but a practice that still required
certain technical skill. It made you suspect
that it might be a friend of the family who
volunteered to undertake the mission; would be
more than happy to drag out his camera, partly
to help take pictures, more so to jack up his
photographic skills. As nothing could pinpoint
who this anonymous amateur photographer
truly was, and not a soul in that group picture
was available to tell the backstory (except your
baby self), the identity of this person thus only
witnessed by the fountain, while he, perchance
she remained to be covered in the dark cloth, a
mystery unsolved.

The Garden and the Fountain
On the Internet, I came across a Hong Kong New Year card from the 1880s, which is now in the family
collection of Don Lickley. One John Mitchell Dunlop, who lived and worked in the Orient from the 1870s
to the 1880s, sent this postcard home. The Scottish Griffith Photo studio took the sceneries in 1875. On
the top half of the card showed three pictures respectively: Kennedy Road; Praya, and the Public Garden.
The below picture showed a panoramic view of the old city harbour of Hong Kong. At the very bottom,
flanked by cherry blossom branches on both sides, was the printed word ‘Hong Kong’ and a doggerel
poem, which read:
“To Topside Hill from where my stand
My look see plenty Hong so new
My neva have see place mo gland
And neva talke thing mo true
My look the roads, the ship, the tree
And thinkee my no place have see
So nice Hong Kong”
The sender of the card, John Mitchell Dunlop, was certainly in Hong Kong in 1883, to obtain his 1st
class ship’s engineering certificate, and subsequently worked as a master mariner for several years with
the UK Shipping company Blue Funnel Line. A Carte de visite, c.1875 proved that he was already there.
Mr. Dunlop was a man in his late thirties, or early forties, medium-built, garbed in suit and tie, his short,
well-groomed hair in a classical side-part style; a heavy walrus mustache hung above his lips. He posed
straight-faced, resting both elbows on a small cushioned desk, his left-hand fingers curled into a soft
fist laid flat on top of the other hand. Now we know what he looked like, but who was standing behind
the lens? This is not a hard question either, for a name was stamped at the back of the Carte de visite.
A “Chinaman” Lai Afong took the portrait. He was the earliest Hong Kong photographer active between
1859 to 1900. His extraordinary talent in both landscape and portraiture, to some degree, impressed
the pioneering Scottish photographer John Thomson, who claimed openly that Lai Afong’s ability as a
professional photographer would easily earn him a decent living in London. An extraordinary praise
indeed, for a Chinese citizen living and working in the then colonial Hong Kong, when equality and
respect were hardly the rule of the day. Unpleasant as it was, this attitude would linger on for another
century.
Just as he was absorbing the surrounding beauty, inhaling sweet scent from the roses; orchids; kamuning
and osmanthus, the sound of a group of people approaching awakened him - a company of young Chinese
men resembling scholars, wearing queues and dressed in long white robes, chattering and laughing on
the way, holding a folding fan each; open, close, flip it open, then fluttering the fan several times and
draw it close. They moved ahead slowly, noticing the stranger’s presence, and nodded to him curtly.
Later that day, he would run into all twenty-seven of them one more time, posing on the staircase in three
elevated rows. At their backs emerged the grand centerpiece of the Public Garden: an elegant Victorian
fountain terrace.
This fountain, ordered and imported from the United Kingdom by Her Majesty’s Government for the
Public Garden in Hong Kong, finished installing in 1867. The fountain was a three-tiered structure
featuring a central column some twenty feet tall. All three levels of ornamented basins were quatrefoils,
and the ground basin was eighteen feet in internal diameter. From the top shaft, water gushed out from
the upper jets escaped the top basin through the eight lips to the middle basin, which was supported on
four columns with land ornament composed of water lilies and other aquatic plants. At ground level, the
face of the lowest basin was decorated with wild and cultivated water plants carvings; with nozzles jetting
out water formed four glistening crystal lobes. All around the fountain terrace, the garden workers added
a variety of flowering plants, beds of ornamental shrubs and trees to enhance the centre masterpiece.
Let us then imagine John Mitchell Dunlop strolling in the Public Garden on a gray morning in 1874,
just a week after he arrived in Victoria. Panting lightly from his uphill walk, he stopped at the site of the
Pavilion, a hexagonal structure supported by six cast-iron pillars, built eight years ago with donations
from the Parsee community. He circulated and examined the framework for a while, stepped inside,
and settled himself down on the granite bench under the pyramidal roof. The surroundings were quiet,
and a tranquil air prevailed. Still early in the morning, he thought. Having heard from a Chinese friend
that people held frequent concerts in the Pavilion, he was eager to know when the next brass band
performance would take place. A Saturday evening music performance would be great; not only would it
offer suitable entertainment; it would also draw in large audiences, especially expatriates from Europe,
who were in general suffering from cultural deprivation.

Standing on the opposite side of the fountain
terrace, the elegance and beauty of the structure
spellbound John Mitchell Dunlop. For a moment
of serenity, he found himself reluctant to walk
away. A short distance from his point, some
women were approaching; they gathered and
scattered around the rim of the fountain, some
looking down to the pond, some staring up
to the pillar, their faces expressing awe and
admiration. The leader, a tall, thin middle-aged
Caucasian nun dressed in full black religious
habit and a black veil, talked to the women
about the aesthetic of the fountain in contrived
Cantonese - a dialect spoken by the Chinese in
Hong Kong and Canton. The class of Chinese
women wore loose-fitting jackets over wide skirts
or trousers, some lengths short enough to reveal
bound feet in embroidered tiny shoes. Despite
most women had normal feet and wore flat cloth
shoes. Watching them interact in a foreign
language was interesting, but soon gave way to
noise down the path. As John Mitchell Dunlop
descended the slope, he crossed path again with
the Chinese young scholars he met earlier that
day. The men were arranging themselves up and
down on the staircase for a group photograph.
Buzzing and murmuring, they waited impatiently
for the photographer’s instructions.
The photographer gestured to the group to stay
quiet and get ready for the session. He was a
Chinaman in his mid-thirties, standing close
to a tripod, on which mounted a black-clothcovered
wooden box camera. Back and forth, he
would slide under the cloth to check focus and
perform minute adjustments. Then, at last, when
everything was ready, he ordered his subjects
to keep still. Swiftly, he set up an aperture in
the lens, cocked the shutter, and removed the
dark slide from the camera. For a moment of
perfect obedience from the team, he counted
off three and released the shutter. Slid back the
dark slide to the film holder, he instructed his
apprentice, who carried a leather case on his
shoulder and stood just beside him, to pass him
a fresh film plate. He continued to take more
pictures. The Chinese photographer’s dexterity
and proficiency in his trade impressed John
Mitchell Dunlop, and in a few months’ time, he
would visit the man’s photo studio at Queen’s
Road Central, and sit for a portrait by this
photographer named Lai Afong.
Memories of water
You say we should and we could love more; we are not expired. Separate beds are not good for couples;
the body, broken apart will soon wither. Warmth that cherishes, touches that jolt every cell living;
yearning for Spring. Without a body, the soul has nowhere to find repose. We should live in the present
- now. You did not speak out loud, but I feel it. My flame flickered in that vulnerable way, longing to be
rekindled.
Did I tell you this? I have a picture of my mother holding me and sitting on the round edge of a fountain.
This image dwells deep and well in my psyche and I could not stop going over it, time and time again.
This fountain; am I being stubborn, or too stupid to insist on digging out its past? All this time, while
researching its history, from books and documents and pictures on the Internet, I am dismayed by how
little, and how repetitive all the information there is. From a popular point of view, we always take
fountains as ideal backgrounds for photo shoots; when they were built, the stories behind them or the
unique history each carries are of little interest. And for this reason, even though I have scanned through
decades of images of people lounging around this fountain, its different periods of lives and forms, all I
can learn is that the grande dame - the old Victorian fountain was dismantled in 1932 to facilitate the
construction of an underground reservoir, and replaced by a new round fountain in the next year. From
this mother holding baby picture, I could see that the new fountain was a large circular basin made of
stone. The brim, at thign height, had a wide, smooth surface people could sit on. The elegantly handsculpted
central bowl was resting on a thick square base. In the centre of the bowl, water spouted out
from the mouth of a stone lotus bud and spilt gently into the basin beneath. For a very long time, this
round fountain formed the basis of all my memories of the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, despite

seventy years having passed, and the fifth
generation of the fountain stands now on its
garden terrace.
I might have visited this round fountain more
than once, you said, where you and your mother
appeared in the photograph. When, and what do
you remember? I asked. Must be in my teens,
you mumbled, in the sixties. You continued
with an assured tone. I went with my school
friends after class, and on Sundays with family,
to have pictures taken by my father. He was a
photographer. You once wrote a poem for him.
My father is a photographer
He likes to catch a big half of a river
at an instance
upon which
the walls of our house
hung many streams
that move, and don’t seem to move
The relationship was always difficult between
you and your father, but you followed in
his footsteps, anyway. You’ve become a
photographer, and because of you, I’ve become
one.
I don’t remember visiting the fountain in the
sixties, or I had and have forgotten. Hence
my memory of the fountain remains in the
photograph, of me as an infant in the arms of
my mother, who sat and posed on the rim, its
water bowl partly cropped due to bad framing by
the family’s friend - the amateur photographer.
When we moved to live near the Public
Garden, renamed as Zoological and Botanical
Gardens, it was already in the early nineties.
The round fountain had gone, replaced by a
fourth generation, a big polygonal water fountain
equipped with four spherical dandelion-like
spraying heads, spinning around as they jetted
out dramatically, four crystalline balls of water.
It did not impress me. My heart belongs to the
fountain where my mother held me. My mother,
my fountain.
I am your fountain; you said. I provide respite
and quench your thirst and heal your arid
garden; you come back a new flower. I nestled
the idea under a melancholic smile. With my
white hair falling, teeth loosening, living with
chronic illness, I am insomniac and suffering.
Not Chopin, not a lullaby; your snoring reminds
me of the small cacophony of music I once heard
while lying beside my mother; the night would
be long, and I keep listening, laughing at the
childish thought that, out of those undulating
notes, I could compose the most incredible
piece of symphony rivaling Beethoven. Music
and water. I think of the tropical rain that swept
through narrow streets and wide roads many
years ago; reoccurring sometimes here with
roaring thunders, makes me nervous and excited
at the same time - a sense of déjà vu, and
recalling the typhoons in the city of our past. We
ran under symphonies of water. We should live
in the present; now, you said. I feel your fingers
running gently through my thin white threads; I
see Abek’s fingers caressing Keba’s hair. If they
were still living today, they would be old and
frail, but wonderful great-grandparents now.
Recalling from a recent visit to Hong Kong,
the fountain, you told me, is in its fifth
reincarnation. On saying this, you pulled out
your smart phone and showed me some pictures.
The polygonal fountain terrace, designed based
on patterns of graphic shapes and lines was
erected in 2010. It is still occupying centre
stage, surrounded by deciduous and coniferous
trees, seasonal plantings and gardens; enveloped
by ever-increasing layers of sky towers and
high-rise buildings. Hugely successful and
ultramodern, this 21st century post-colonial city
looks chic and ahead of the times, breathing a
future through networks of curved, sharp-cut,
vertical and angled architectures. Still in the
same spot, this contemporary fountain impresses
spectators with its dramatic water display,
featuring a prominent geyser jet in the centre
- firing an immense water column reaching
several storeys high. Around it dozens of big
smooth bores forming a circle, jetting out water
half the height. A few feet away, the outer ring
mounted with more smooth bores, each firing
out a single beam of water arching back to the
centre. All around the edges of the lower basin,
numerous bubblers and water bells are installed.
Certain times of the day, fountain water would
shoot out in full splendour, dance rhythmically
in sync with the orchestral music. Here, in the
mornings, or early evenings, visitors can find
men practising Tai Chi and women fan dancing
in small groups. Ten years after the fountain’s
inauguration, the city has put on a different
mien; the fountain, a new face. With a water
display built in a scaled-down rococo style,
the present fountain renders a faint impression
of Neo-Classicism. Nostalgia in simulation,
remembering a flavour, lost. More than ever, the
city is floating; motionless and still. What is it
waiting for? Where is it heading to? Its east-west
hybridity in its short shining history. The free
will to act, the free will to remember.

I tour around the world on the Internet to
look at fountains. To my amazement, not
only discover so many masterpieces, but the
revolutionary change of concept, and design of
the fountain, that the old idea of fountain needs
to be readdressed. The time-honoured majestic
fountains of Rome, Versailles, Barcelona and
St. Petersburg; Bellagio Fountains in Las
Vegas; Buckingham Fountain in Chicago; the
Floating Fountains in Osaka; and “Rain Vortex”,
a 40-meter high indoor waterfall at Changi
Airport, Singapore; the Jeddah Fountain in
Saudi Arabia, boasting its outstanding power of
jetting water to an amazing eight hundred feet
above the Red Sea. All built to show the desire
to display power, wealth, and beauty. Despite the
splendour and sophistication of these fountains,
no, none of these can compare to the fountain
of my heart. Still, I find solace and peace in
Foot of Lonsdale Plaza, a water feature on the
waterfront in North Vancouver. What I love
about it is accessibility, its participatory concept
where children and adults can play interactively
with bubblers, walk barefoot on the thin plane
of rippling water, which the architects carefully
calibrated to flow in gentle waves across the
serrated stone’s surface. Coupling with spiritual
music it creates a mesmerizing, moiré effect;
with just enough water to mimic the waves.
People, movements, voices, water and music.
A sudden indescribable sensation compels me,
bringing me back to the fountain, to the picture
of my mother holding me, and slowly putting
me down on the water. I could imagine myself,
baby-walking, crawling, or sitting on the smooth,
stoney beach splashing water, two tiny hands
with ten tiny fingers; my toothless mouth bursts
out a few giggles. My mother, always alert,
and with her hands behind me, her vinyl silk
trousers rolled half-way up her knees, feels the
coolness of water surging up from the ankles of
her feet and toes.

Sketchbook
Tomio Nitto

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing
32 x 38 cm, acrylic paint on rice paper

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Trio of Despair

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth

Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
What Can I Think
what can I think
father and child and cat
about dealing with war
during the passing
of roasted carrots
smiling peas
the little things we do
that are meant to be big
laugh back at us
through the window
under the helicopters
war bears down on us
like freezing days and months
the wind bears down on us
like war
in the cold throw of things
real cries of agony
pinch like bad jokes

Travelling Palm
Snapshots
Tamara Chatterjee
Canada (August, 2024) – We are all thankful
to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all
that we need for life. She supports our feet as
we walk about upon her. It gives us joy that
she continues to care for us as she has from
the beginning of time. To our mother, we send
greetings and thanks.

Gary Michael Dault
From the Photographs,
2010-2024
From the Photographs, 2010-2024
Number 53: The Demon Muse

The Photograph
Selected by
Kamelia Pezeshki
Untitled by Gordon Hawkins

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
on the construction of a poem
forthwith: language trapped in the colony of an alphabet
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
first: a sound
a wooden hull grousing in the distance
then: an image
incoherence circles back, the circumference in the flag of red squirrel’s tail
appended: cacophony
the laced shoes swinging on the powerline in the dark, trembling
set down: a scratch at a nub of words
broken bottles plot against a wave’s’ black neck, drowning
end: the drop
the way home from narrated from tree to tree, thread tied around trunks in the dark
soon after:
gone the grief and the gilding, the poem and you

Sushi Grass in Paradise
(Facsimile Edition)
By Holly Lee (1953-2024)
Format: 8x10 inch
480 pages
Published by OCEAN POUNDS
CAN$80.00
This book is the Facsimile Edition of the work
in fiction currently showing in an exhibition
at WMA in Hong Kong.
“Sushi Grass in Paradise” ( 壽 司 草 邊 的 天 堂 )
is a novel written by Holly Lee, with a Chinese
translation by 宋 子 江 and book design
by Lau Ching Ping.
“Her other new work is the novel Sushi Grass
in Paradise, written between 2019 and 2020.
It weaves together the mundane incidents
and events in a foreign place, including what
is in the past, the present, and the future,
creating a paradise-like earthly existence.”
(WMA)
Order from BLURB
https://www.blurb.ca/b/12147281-sushigrass-in-paradise-facsimile-edition

Night Owl Sonata (in one
movement)
By Holly Lee (1953-2024)
Format: 6x9 inch, Hardcover
152 pages
First Edition, Limited to 100 copies
Published by OCEAN POUNDS
CAN$45.00
Night Owl Sonata is a collection of 40 poemprose
pieces that reflect Holly Lee’s profound
growth as a writer. Composed during a
reflective and transformative period of her
life, these works were originally published in
MONDAY ARTPOST. The book is a testament
to Holly’s enduring creative spirit, with writing
that embodies the grace and clarity of a
seasoned artist who had reached the pinnacle
of her literary craft.
Order from BLURB
https://www.blurb.ca/b/12144767-nightowl-sonata-in-one-movement

TERRAIN, eleven. (Photographs by Lee Ka-sing, haiku by Gary Michael Dault
in response). Read this daily collaborative column at oceanpounds.com
Division
half of me is clinging vine
the other half
is wet blanket

http://kasingholly.com

album.kasingholly.com
李 家 昇 黃 楚 喬 文 件 庫 ( 照 片 冊 )
(May 1996) On the left is Patrick Lee, and on the right is Kotaro Iizawa. I
am in the center, holding a CONTAX Tvs. 1996 in Yokohama, “New Images
from Hong Kong”, an exhibition curated by Kotaro Iizawa. Participating
photographers included Karl Chiu, Almond Chu, Alfred Ko, Holly Lee,
Lee Ka-sing, Patrick Lee, Yvonne Lo, and Ducky Tse. (May 31 to July 14,
1996, Tower Gallery, Yokohama, Japan) (dot-hong-kong footnotes, Lee Kasing,
2011).
左 是 李 志 芳 , 右 是 飯 澤 耕 太 郎 。 我 於 正 中 , 手 持 CONTAX Tvs。1996 年 5 月 ,
橫 濱 。 飯 澤 耕 太 郎 策 劃 「 香 港 變 奏 - 香 港 寫 真 之 現 在 」。 參 展 攝 影 師 包 括 :
趙 嘉 榮 , 朱 德 華 , 高 志 強 , 黃 楚 喬 , 李 家 昇 , 李 志 芳 , 廬 婉 雯 , 謝 至 德 。
(1996 年 5 月 31 日 至 7 月 14 日 ,TOWER GALLERY, 日 本 橫 濱 ) ( 李 家 昇 香 港 點
註 腳 集 筆 記 , 2011)

album.kasingholly.com
李 家 昇 黃 楚 喬 文 件 庫 ( 照 片 冊 )
(2-11-2024) with Tomio Nitto
(November 9, 2024) The morning after a discussion on Holly’s work, held
last night at WMA Space in Hong Kong with Chloe Chow, Tina Pang, Blues
Wong, Janet Fong, and Michelle Wong.

writing.kasingholly.com
李 家 昇 黃 楚 喬 文 件 庫 ( 文 本 匣 )
HOLLY LEE’S PHOTOGRAPHY WORK (Toronto Period)
黃 楚 喬 攝 影 作 品 系 列 ( 多 倫 多 時 段 )
A list of photography and literary works by Holly Lee
During a discussion of Holly’s work at WMA Space, I gave a brief overview of her
photography career spanning the past 50 years, along with her recent writings. Below is
a reference list of her works:
HOLLY LEE’S PHOTOGRAPHY WORK (Hong Kong Period)
黃 楚 喬 攝 影 作 品 系 列 ( 香 港 時 段 )
* Pictures of Friends, Artists, and Others (1981-1986) 我 的 朋 友 , 藝 術 家 及 其 他
* Si-Ling and Owltoise (1985) 烏 頭 貓
* The Carpet Rolling Out Emerging Scenes (1980s)
* Footstep of June (1989) 六 月 前 後
* Portraits with an 8x10 Camera (1989-1990)
* Duo (1991-2015)
* Dung Huang (1991) 敦 煌 筆 記
* This Side Towards Lens, or Vice Versa (1991)
* Travelogue (1992-2001)
* Hong Kong Memories (1993)
* Black and White Photograms (1994-1996)
* Restricted Exposure (1996)
* Hollian Thesaurus (1993-2024) 何 年 集
* Lomo Sampler (2002)
* Shan Hai Jing (2010-2013) 山 海 經
* Flip Book Project (2011-2012) 急 翻 豆 本
* Claw Script (2013) 貓 爪 文
* Both Sides Now (2013-2021) 兩 面 看
* PictureWords (2014)
* XO, OX, and Map of the World (2016)
* Sky Series (2017-2019)
* Birthday Cake (2024)
HOLLY LEE’S RECENT LITERARY WORK
黃 楚 喬 近 年 文 學 寫 作
* Nine Years (Poems, 2010-2018)
* The Air is Like a Butterfly (Poems, 2019-2020)
* Istanbul Postcards (A work of fiction in 18 postcards, 2019)
* Sushi Grass in Paradise (Fiction, 2019-2020)
* Jungle Line (Essay, 2019-2021)
* Night Owl Sonata (Poem-prose, 2020-2023)
* K&G Greenwood (Essay, 2023 - unfinished series)
* If Sculpture Could Talk (Poems, 2024)

Several ways of not to miss
a single issue of MONDAY
ARTPOST.
subscribe.mondayartpost.com
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.
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
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.
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