Posts tagged seni

thesharonchin:

‘It’s not about money or compensation, but tradition and history. We’ve got hundred year-old temples and houses, a 90 year-old school. There’s so much here, we don’t want to let it go.’
Faces from Kg Hakka Mantin:  stories and drawings from my visit to the 100 year-old village. 

thesharonchin:

‘It’s not about money or compensation, but tradition and history. We’ve got hundred year-old temples and houses, a 90 year-old school. There’s so much here, we don’t want to let it go.’

Faces from Kg Hakka Mantin stories and drawings from my visit to the 100 year-old village. 

thesharonchin:

'Once upon a time, she transported coal, tapped rubber, raised pigs, brewed soy sauce, and had six children.'
Faces from Kg Hakka Mantin:  stories and drawings from my visit to the 100 year-old village. 

thesharonchin:

'Once upon a time, she transported coal, tapped rubber, raised pigs, brewed soy sauce, and had six children.'

Faces from Kg Hakka Mantin stories and drawings from my visit to the 100 year-old village. 

Zedeck slayed it at Readings last Saturday. He read 3 stories. People loved it, as I knew they would. 
You can read one of the stories here. It’s about the loving relationship between a timid girl and her murderous cat.

Zedeck slayed it at Readings last Saturday. He read 3 stories. People loved it, as I knew they would. 

You can read one of the stories here. It’s about the loving relationship between a timid girl and her murderous cat.

zedecksiew:

So, I’ll be reading at Readings this Saturday. Woo! Not sure what to read, yet. Maybe this:

When Samuel passed away Nicky found a hole in his chest. Where his heart should’ve been, with his sternum, bits of lung and rib-endings? Nothing, except a Samuel-shaped hole.
It was not unexpected. Samuel had been ill for some time, and bedridden for the last two weeks.
Nicky had been asleep in a chair next to Samuel’s cardiac monitor. He woke up as soon as the thing flatlined, but he didn’t pay attention to its flat tone – he couldn’t, because he was doubling over, in agony, and pressing at the front of his shirt.
He found that he was pressing his shirt into a concave vacancy. There were bloody stains in the cloth wherever his fingers touched.
For a few minutes it was touch and go for Nicky, until the doctors managed to bring in a heart-lung machine. He was lucky that he was at the hospital when it happened. If he’d been at home he would have died.
“So thank you, Sam, you old asshole,” Nicky thought.


Zedeck will read stories from his epic book-in-making this Saturday, 27 Oct at Seksan Gallery. 
It’s like a trial birth - no baby yet, more like… a toenail. You are all fucking invited, darlings! 
*brogging cross-promotion end*

zedecksiew:

So, I’ll be reading at Readings this Saturday. Woo! Not sure what to read, yet. Maybe this:

When Samuel passed away Nicky found a hole in his chest. Where his heart should’ve been, with his sternum, bits of lung and rib-endings? Nothing, except a Samuel-shaped hole.

It was not unexpected. Samuel had been ill for some time, and bedridden for the last two weeks.

Nicky had been asleep in a chair next to Samuel’s cardiac monitor. He woke up as soon as the thing flatlined, but he didn’t pay attention to its flat tone – he couldn’t, because he was doubling over, in agony, and pressing at the front of his shirt.

He found that he was pressing his shirt into a concave vacancy. There were bloody stains in the cloth wherever his fingers touched.

For a few minutes it was touch and go for Nicky, until the doctors managed to bring in a heart-lung machine. He was lucky that he was at the hospital when it happened. If he’d been at home he would have died.

“So thank you, Sam, you old asshole,” Nicky thought.

Zedeck will read stories from his epic book-in-making this Saturday, 27 Oct at Seksan Gallery. 

It’s like a trial birth - no baby yet, more like… a toenail. You are all fucking invited, darlings! 

*brogging cross-promotion end*

This is Zedeck in the evening. 
He is modeling my #bungaBERSIH flower headdress. I brogged a tutorial on how to make one here. 
He is also holding a squirrel lantern that he bought from an old aunty in Melaka. He brogged a video of it here. 
*brogging cross-promotion end* 

This is Zedeck in the evening. 

He is modeling my #bungaBERSIH flower headdress. I brogged a tutorial on how to make one here

He is also holding a squirrel lantern that he bought from an old aunty in Melaka. He brogged a video of it here

*brogging cross-promotion end* 

danielmichaelclark:

‘Digging’, animated drypoint (element for larger installation.)

Art is this. Everyday. 

danielmichaelclark:

‘Digging’, animated drypoint (element for larger installation.)

Art is this. Everyday. 

Zedeck is away at art camp making puppets of ships (ships of puppets? I don’t know! Leave me alone!).

I… well, I just wanted to post a nekkid picture of my ship tattoo. I don’t get to see this thing alot, despite it being on my own actual body. 

Fuck it and come

A few things that have me in them this weekend:

POSKOD’s Artists In Conversation: SAT, 31 March, 4PM at the Whitebox, MAPkl. What am I talking about? Well, it was a toss up between art about censorship and art about friendliness - I’ve made both.

I’m going with friendliness.

I’ve been thinking lately that it’s actually more risque and difficult to talk deeply about things like art, love, hope and connection. I feel like I’m selling snake-oil, or worse, luxuries that people don’t need. My twitter feed (yes I quit Facebook for Twitter - I’ll blog that shit eventually) is choked with stuff on elections, corruption, mobilization, public transport, climate change, elections, politicians… opinions, SO MANY opinions, and calls to become an ‘agent of change’. I’ve come to the disconcerting realization that I don’t want to be a fucking AGENT. I want to be a person. Sometimes I could cry (actually I do cry, horribly and often) at how useless my art is, how it doesn’t DO anything. Except this: it remains stubbornly, stupidly, painfully human and incomplete. That’s all it is, that’s all I have to give the world and somehow I have decided to dedicate my whole life’s work to this endeavor. If you do too (part-time, full-time or any time at all) I salute you, my comrade.

This path, this strange path.

Passengers

Last week we went on a trip, shooting a short film with our favorite people Azharr Rudin and Shahril Nizam.

The film is Azharr’s baby. He wanted it on a train, and so we took a train north - past palm oil plantations, the backs of people’s houses, herds of kerbau, lakes, rivers, piles of trash, half-completed roads…

We got to Penang and spent two nights in the reputedly haunted Cathay hotel. I’m hopeless at taking photos on trips (too busy living), but here are some beautiful shots from Nizam’s camera. Azharr’s decided that the film is going to be black and white, and something about these photos totally captures how I felt on our journey.

We rode ferries:

Battle squares are drawn

We’ve been away from home for about a week. In the meantime, the wonderful Grace Chin dreamed in our beds, watered the plants, fed the cats, and even blogged our blog

I realize that sometimes when I say ‘home’, what I really mean is our whole life here. More or less the same routine of trying to get up before the school next door starts its batshit mind-control on the students, biking out to breakfast, and then settling down to do battle… battle with the day, the self (laziness, doubt, all that good stuff)… battle to make art.

I made Zedeck a card with squares on it to keep track of all the hours he’s been writing. Labour never looked so pretty!

Btw, if you’re an artist or want to be one, read Steven Pressfield’s War of Art. Basically he makes the simple distinction between amateurs and professionals: showing up. TRYING. Every day. Even when you really fucking don’t feel like it.  Even if the sum total of literally HOURS of work leaves you with two sentences and a blank page.