Life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, you reach a point in your life where you feel stuck, as though you regret every decision you’ve ever made, and every step you’ve taken feels like another wrong move towards a future you cannot imagine.

But sometimes, somebody pulls you back. Somebody gives you hope, and shows you how beautiful life can be. Yes, life is fragile and full of empty promises, but life and love are equally – if not more so – abundant.

It’s fairly easy to say to someone, you don’t know what I’m going through. But knowing is one thing. Being patient, understanding, and loving is another. And that’s the important part of a relationship. That’s the important part of love.

That’s the important part of life.

 

 

 

 

Lessons.

Rich boys buy nice things for pretty girls.

Rich, spontaneous boys surprise pretty girls with nice things.

the other side of sanity.

It’s gotta be somewhere here. I can feel it somewhere in my bones.

I know it’s somewhere around here, I just need to look harder.

It’s right in front of me, I just know it.

How come I can’t see it? Maybe I’m not looking hard enough.

Or maybe, I’m looking too hard.

I’m trying too hard.

I’ve got to let go.

If I just follow my instincts, and go with the flow, I’m sure it will reveal itself, eventually.

I just hope there’s enough time.

But even if there isn’t much time left, it’s still more than enough to make it count.

Here we go.

Art, you make it pretty hard not to.

Art, art, I want you.
Art, you make it pretty hard not to.
My heart is trying hard here to follow you
But I can’t always tell if I ought to.

 

 

Of mind and body.

I hate being sick. You feel like shit, you look like shit and you can’t do shit. You just lie in bed, staring at your ceiling, use your computer, properly hydrate and recharge. I hate it.

It’s especially frustrating to keep still after such a fruitful trip to Guangzhou for the bronze-casting workshop. It was a real eye-opener. Bronze is such a beautiful medium to work with. It’s mind-blowing to see such a strong, solid material melt into a searing hot pool of red slush, and then transform into a solid again. There are so many things that bronze can be a metaphor for, and I feel a need to use it for a future body of work.

But looking at so much art and being surrounded by artists makes me wonder: What kind of artist am I? I know it is a question that only I can answer, but what if I can’t?

Fit in or stand out.

I feel like I’m on the edge of something.

All it takes is to throw myself off the edge, so it can begin.

 

10 weeks.
And so it begins.

Successfully failed.

People think that the purpose of creating art is to be able to make messages clear to other people. To tell them things they need to know.

I say no.

I don’t really have a ‘my work is about ______” sentence for my artistic concept, but a few keywords are: childhood, parenthood, concept of home, reinforced sense of control through role-playing games, importance of child’s play, and most importantly,

the idea of parents and a home does not become an issue until it is no longer present, and only when that part of our lives is missing can we truly discern it.

I believe that every human being has experienced some kind of trauma or loss, and every parent has made some kind of sacrifice, or mistake.

I know, some people are hardened. But you know what? My work is not for people like that. The same way I now have little interest for ‘First Gradism’ paintings, talking about light and shadow and colour and that sort of thing.

But seriously, am I going backwards here? How do we know when we’re moving forward, and if we’re in the right direction?

That time.

Don’t fall in love with me.
Don’t let your love for me grow.
Don’t shower me with gifts, or take me out for meals.
Don’t watch my concerts, don’t watch my plays.
Don’t drive me to places I need to be.
Don’t take me to places I need to go.
Don’t stand outside my window and sing songs to win my heart.
Don’t come looking for me.
Don’t get close, and don’t get comfortable.

Because emotional baggage is a difficult thing to let go off,
It will be something you will never hear the end of.

I will cry,
I will weep,
I will speak of my brokenness and my hurt.
I will tell of my pain and my sorrow.
I will not say nice things.

I will curse and swear and scorn the face of the men who have hurt me.
I will be insecure and vulnerable.
I will be difficult to fix.
I will be impossible to save.

I will be bitter.
I will be jealous.
I will be forever in search of a perfect life.
I will not rest until I have full control of my surroundings.
And worst of all,
I will never forget what it feels like when a person breaks you, hurts you, and leaves you,
wants nothing to do with you,
wishes not to know you,
walks away from you,
hides away from you,
and chooses not to contact you,
because it is the closest thing possible
to a life,
a perfect life,
in which you do not exist.

 

You weren’t even there.

I am 4 days without incident. Let’s keep it that way.

Professionalism.

Every day, we learn something new about each other. Today, I learnt this much about you: You know nothing about me, and like Gandhi says, ‘nobody can hurt me without my permission’. Nowhere in the handbook does it say I have to sit through this kind of crap, and nowhere does it say I have to take that kind of sh*t from you.

To put it plainly, you disgust me, on every level.