A grey melody begins to nudge at the happy picture, from the way its low, solid and unusually soothing notes – like the cold of the rain amplified auditorially – are slipping into place so much so it’s coming off like a requiem. Melancholy spells the loss of a love that exists nowhere beyond her subconscious, is never made known and will never be for a lifetime. For a moment she observes him toying his silver ring fitted snugly on his long finger, his scintillating eyes now softened to expressive orbs.

Her hug on the boy tightens – dry lips alike – returning the man’s smile as he looks up. And that is when she lets herself drown in the sorrowful tune, wills the twinge of pain to go unnoticed and, exhales unsteadily into the comfort of the pillow, albeit slightly damp.

tbc..

Looking at stars along the way, I was slowly falling back into the memories of the time when the moon shone most brightly, almost blinding my vision as I convinced myself to divert from it. I did not know if it was right or wrong, but time has caught up since then.

Today the moon shone gently, beckoning, so for once I won’t turn away.
To put it in words would be too much – IGAMCOY. It might only last for a moment, but because moments are what we live for, hasn’t it become so very important?

I flew to the moon, and back again, only to realise the moon was only imaginary. But if one day the moon came and told me that it’s real, I would gladly believe.

And hope it’s here to stay.

Expository Essay on “Other Ways of Seeing”.
Part of Project 1 – writing portfolio for Design subject ComDI.

Andrew Small once quoted in 1996: “This great world… is the mirror in which we must look at ourselves to recognize ourselves from the proper angle.” It may be surprising to learn that majority of the time, more familiarity is derived from our reflected mirror image than reality itself. The crudeness of reality presents to us distortion of the human nature whereby everyday life becomes monotonous. In seeing ourselves through the great mirror, we are placed in a position where we can be in sync with the ever-changing, motley world.

Yet, it is only because we can see, and that seeing is believing. Seeing not only refers to sight and vision, but also perceiving mentally. Comprehension, to be more exact. Be it placing ourselves in others’ shoes, drawing back and observing from a distance or through a simple kaleidoscope, all these clearly define the outline of “Other Ways of Seeing”. Berger, 1972, mentioned, “We only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice”. Regardless, within the fundamentals of artistic realm, having an eye for details is an essential skill to master. Not only does it bring out the ability to penetrate into greater depths, but also to perceive things in an entirely different manner, and sometimes “to see the ordinary as extraordinary” (Jones, (n.d.)). In order to experience flexibility, we can decelerate time and observe the world from the endless perspectives in search of underlying connotations and cryptic values in life, not purely judging from their surface value.

Eyeing on similar things but from dissimilar perspectives comes along with different interpretation, one illustration is in the form of Art as identity; a self-portraiture. It may vary for individuals as to what they regard self-portraiture as, but is generally a means of expressing oneself without having to use words. With reference to Small’s observation in 1996 that “(self-) portraiture describes the individual at a given moment”, it is the momentary significance that emits its essence – the artist from his own eyes. Including one’s identity in art will invoke in the audience a sense of empathy; this we can tell from Bell’s (2000) statement that “You can best judge by the flavour of your own responses” to artwork from other artists.

An exerpt, in which Fleming & Honour wrote, “Other everyday domestic objects are transformed by him into complex symbols… they engulf the visitor in an environment of equivocal symbolism” about Robert Gober (b.1954). Infusing this example into a self-portraiture of mine, a simple object is chosen as a representation. Originally created in the mid-nineteenth century by an American, Hyman Lipman, the Wooden Pencil with Eraser currently ranks as #74 of the 122 “Humble Masterpieces” in the Museum of Modern Art. A humble masterpiece indeed; manufactured by Faber Castell in Germany, it is made of graphite, cedar wood (as the outer layer), metal ferrule and finally a stub of rubber at one end. The uses of pencil are limitless; while serving as an irreplaceable tool in everyday life from home, to school and to work, it is rendered a fundamental medium in the fields of art and design.

How many attributes can one see in a pencil? Ample to reveal underlying meanings and statements of character traits through symbolism. The mirror image of a right hand, a pencil and an incomplete portrait sketch showing only eyes and brows; they complement, connect and condense complexity and intricacy into what is revealing in its own way. Adding on to this point, the concept itself is none other than the mirror; in it, we see the other side of things. As each receives it differently, the message put across may be impacting to some but mundane to others.

This great mirror is one in which we look at ourselves, the world and through which the world looks at us. Its multitude of angles allows us the never-ending possibilities of exploration and new discoveries. As defined by Small and Jones – only when our minds discard its conventional mentality, welcoming the unfamiliar with a different interest, that exactly delineates the theme of “Other Ways Of Seeing”; to look at the world from another point of view.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Berger, J. (1972) WAYS OF SEEING. London. Penguin.

Fleming, J., Honour, H., Hattersley-Smith, K.(ed.) & Payne, U.(ed.). (2000). THE VISUAL ARTS: A HISTORY. London. Calmann & King LTD.

Jones, D. (n.d.). Seeing The Ordinary As Extraordinary. Retrieved May 10, 2006, from http://dewittjones.com/html/seeing_the_ordinary.shtml.

Small, A. (1996). ESSAYS IN SELF-PORTRAITURE. New York. Peter Lang Publishing, INC.

Descriptive Essay on my Self-portraiture.
Part of Project 1 – writing portfolio for Design subject ComDI.

It is often taken for granted that such a lean, meagre object can do wonders in the realm of art and everyday life, yet it suffers the fate of being strewn about like a discarded toy, or even becoming a handy object to complement a two-pin plug into the power socket with. Made of cheap materials: graphite, soft wood, malleable metal and a worthless stub of rubber, its abundance signifies of it being overused but under priced. So very cheap — is there still value in it? Very frequently, it humbly subjects itself to under the razor-sharp edge of a sharpener, refining its blunt, rusty tip until a fresh layer is exposed, as though a butterfly quietly emerging from a cocoon. Unnoticed, until it is beckoned for, until there is a need.

My self-portraiture makes up the only piece of artwork in the newly bought A4 sketchbook. Paper quality is thick but fine, reflecting a dull sheen of pure white from areas that have not been etched with greyish traces of 2B, HB and H pencil lead. An epitome of a single left hand working at a pencil sketch of a portrait – apparently at the beginning stages of rendering – on a piece of paper taped onto an empty plane. Or you may also view it as a wall. There is a relatively strong sense of simplicity at first glance, however, complexity when under careful observation and the elements present are taken into account; there is more to the superficiality, to what meets the eye. As the whole picture, we see that it is a sketch using a pencil; a sketch depicting a pencil; a sketch depicting a pencil being used to sketch. Being conceptual as it is, the main idea continually revolves around the chosen object – that is, none other than – the pencil.

While it is not up to anyone to decipher, I hence see the obligation to define. Well, you may ask, in what way does the pencil mirror my personality? Why pencil? Firstly, as the most accurate representation I deem from the list of “Humble Masterpieces”, the pencil carries certain characteristics resembling some of mine and is elemental – what I cannot do without. The symbolism of the pencil is evident in its ability to enable freedom of expression, guided in motion by encouraging wings – the human hand – to catch thoughts from the air and pin them on paper, and I daydream just as well. There, a form of transmission, and translation. Through the endless possibilities of defying gravity, connecting with imagination and thus, ultimately transforming the impossible into the possible. One thing I feel strongly for is the importance of NOT conforming – trends, fashion and all. After all, individuality is seen in ones’ style; I live to defy convention.

Here I hold my own ‘specimen’ of the humble masterpiece, something I had fished out from the remains of a party bag aged with time. Of scanty weight and a magenta not exactly enticing, this made-in-China product has somewhat lost its foothold in recent days, giving up its position to the giant market of art and mechanical pencils as well as the demand for erasers of higher quality. Though uncommon, it is reminiscent of my childhood days and for a sentimental person like me, unearthing past memories can be so endearing at times. Just as how sensitive – even over-sensitive – a person I am, every stroke endeavoured is wholly dependent on the pressure exerted and the angle, from which a mark is made. Meticulous for details in all aspects of the aesthetics, I am seen as a perfectionist who strives to refine my creations to the fullest.

On the contrary, a major flaw I have wanted to rid myself of is the fear of making mistakes. I even hate it – because honestly, I detest making changes. What an abhorrent excuse, you may think. From experience, this sort of rubber, after being in contact with a pencil mark too deep, has a tendency to leave behind a hideous streak of maroon that lingers stubbornly. So, do I make use of the eraser attached? This you will find out, if you look at the eraser stub in the self-portraiture; it is clean and not grubby.

In a self-portraiture, one will expect to find the artist in his/her own art; likened to the paradox Small (1996) pointed out, that is to “use disguise to reveal identity.” The concept of a drawing within a drawing appeals nicely to me and unlike conventional self-portraits which depict artists in a wholesome and exquisite manner, I have done away with all other facial features, to disguise, save my eyebrows and eyes – the former to portray emotion, the latter as a window to the soul, which means to have my identity revealed. With a glint in my eye, the other one shut lightly, this is how I see the world. Of all things, eyes cannot lie, therefore enabling the viewer – through this limpid, opened window – to gain an insight to the real me.

Hands, are important symbols in my intention for this self-portraiture. I am by nature a right-hander, hence there seems no appropriate reason my artwork should depict a left hand, unless of course there is the presence of a mirror. In a strongly lit environment, dark shadows are cast. Devoid of colours, this imperfect (by my own standards) self-portraiture, basically what you see, is the exact posture I observed from the hand-held mirror. As I run my fingers across the artwork with the slightest touch, for the fear of smudging, the hand and pencil are 2D images after all; flat and formless. How deceiving images can be.

Attesting the effort and time that has gone into this, I can proudly label it as my very own humble masterpiece. When confidence fails, when time calls for a change, why not – to appreciate what the Maker has created you as – look for another way of seeing oneself? That is, though the mirror.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Small, A. (1996). ESSAYS IN SELF-PORTRAITURE. New York. Peter Lang Publishing, INC.

Narrative Essay on the learning journey through Project 1.

Noontime felt so much like the best time to idle around, yet on an entirely disparate circumstance, a class was (unfortunately, with no official lunch breaks whatsoever) scheduled. ComDI – not that I knew at that time what it denoted – which would last for a whole month. Entering the class DG28-03-46, a warm ambience greeted me as I took what was ahead; chairs positioned in a random array and the sunlit carpeted floor conjoining transparent glass windows that overlooked the school compound. Along with majority of the previous class, we were all set on the path for a series of unknown lights ahead.

Somewhat like a mini-lecture it was, Lucinda – a quick-witted and eloquent lady – took up the role as our lecturer for the subject. It was not until the binded textbook reached my hands that I came to realisation that we were going to read a core subject entitled “Communicating Design Ideas” which, she covered in her introductory session, was all about Language, writing and communication. Seeing her confidence, in a way, shook my own, because I knew at that point of time the standard was going to be high, and I would have a hard time catching up, especially with the in-depth study of the English Language. From the 45-minute video Lucinda screened and the objectives of the lessons, already it was apparent that from then on we were on our own; no spoon feeding from teachers, no more copying (plagiarism matters, indeed) and lastly, no excess time to spare. Not anymore, for it would be independent learning we undergo; intensive and rapid in pace.

Surely, I must admit, these were more than enough to keep me at bay. Moreover, the thought of beginning a project on the very first lesson was certainly not a motivating add-on. Weighed down by the task of completing a self-portraiture within a day, browsing through the 122 Humble Masterpieces in search of a single, if not a few, objects unrelated, at first glance, to myself was never an easy task, not forgetting to mention the process of brainstorming for words that describe me. It certainly took some effort in reflecting about my own behaviour and character. Initially I chose items like the glass bottle, scotch tape and flat bottomed brown paper grocery bag, but eventually filtered down to the Wooden Pencil with Eraser as the possibilities of linking it up with my personality gradually dawned upon me. Having to battle with headaches and race with Time (it was already 5am), I was terribly worried about the final outcome, mostly due to incompetence in my rusty sketching skills.

Through the self-portraiture, I planned to portray the impression of my self-reflexivity. There was the main problem that I faced; my lack of confidence due to the fact that I am unable to express my ideas well verbally. Images of the past failures with presentation skills flashed and haunted me. This concern I reflected on and decided to turn it into another way of perception – having this acknowledgement, the more I should improve on the means with which I am comfortable, and it is through Art. Agreeing to Small’s (1996) opinion of self-portraiture being a “multi-faceted mirror”, it also reveals “greater and more varied aspects” in a way that through eyes of the audience, each has his own interpretation and inference with respect to the work and hence incurring different point of views from different individuals.

Completing my self-portraiture was a timely success; the process of finding the right words for the writing portfolio had me hooked onto the dictionary. I still am, and the journey all these while – though it is not that long – has been truly remarkable as I found myself emerging from my comfort zone to meet deadlines and experiment new aspects such as researching thick art history volumes for citation. Although individual presentations still create butterflies in my stomach, I do try to calm myself down and deliver all my points clearly to the audience. In believing the extensive boundaries, I have learnt through writing, communicating and reading to embrace Language and its expressions, thereafter advance into the greater depths of life.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Small, A. (1996). ESSAYS IN SELF-PORTRAITURE. New York. Peter Lang Publishing, INC.

Spanning over a few decades in the 1900s, the period was encircled between the diminishing traditional era and the impending New Society of modern China. Amongst the countless Chinese Opera performers, particularly a young man who adopted the name Dieyi takes on the role of Yuji the Concubine from the infamous opera script of “Farewell My Concubine”, traversing the theatre stages with his stage brother, the Emperor. Sold into an opera troupe at a tender age, Dieyi’s life was a fragile one. He was a tragedy right from the beginning.

Perhaps, destiny had etched the forlorn look onto his flawless face. The ghost of his past – the sedate young boy – has grown into a man of fine calibre, with a medium build just perfect for his female role and a voice tender enough to sing of the undying love Yuji had towards the Emperor. Straight-browed, a finely shaped nose lies between Dieyi’s cheeks, with bow-shaped lips and gentle eyes – eyes that seem to stare into a distant – which are molded in the right proportion onto an oval frame. Dieyi does not have very squarish jaws. He is a man, yet with so much resemblance to a woman. His well defined features shine forth an innate appeal, most of all an ethereal beauty that is alluring to both genders.

Peking Opera itself is a well-received form of artistry, an infinite performing stage where Dieyi obliterates all distractions and fully engrosses as Yuji, a woman destined for a sorrowful ending which somehow becomes Dieyi’s.

The estheticism of the outlook of Peking Opera “dan” characters lies in the spectrum of colours of the elaborate dressings as well as the headdresses. On stage, Dieyi dons intricate trinkets on top of his headdress, consisting of pearls and butterfly hairpins and basically decors to enhance the significance of his role. Dieyi’s entire face is covered in white oil paint while magenta colour pigment is spread over the eye area with bold, black paint for the brows and eye-lines. Subjected to his own world so aloof, he stands, ever so dignified and garners the audiences’ attention in its entirety. Yuji wears a genteel, prideful expression and with a single tilt of the head and gesture of a fair hand, his subtle yet lavishing charisma encompasses the finest qualities of what men and women yearn for. Minimal expression from his countenance amazingly outpours the most indescribable and complex emotions. Much like a piece of art; picturesque to the state of perfection.

In a particular scene, Dieyi takes on a graceful, well-planned gait as the sole performer on stage. The Japanese soldiers are rationing the electricity yet again, turning on and off the theatre lightings. Faced with the onslaught of the audience’s chaos, his silent figure spins, ignorant of all else, finally landing headlong upon the carpeted stage of crimson. A despondent concubine in a state a stupour. He lay still. He does not move. Yet beyond the stage, welling emotions arouse simultaneously and erupt the audience’s admiration and most of all, applause.

After all, it is his stage, his art, his life. These are meant to be, because – he is Yuji, in real life.

However obsession and enticement Dieyi brings about amongst his supportive fans, actors are merely a passing fancy in the Chinese culture, as the saying goes, “Actors are unfeeling”. Away from the splendidly dazzling role on the stage, Dieyi leads a bleak life and has a melancholic nature. It is not known, to them. He has a burning desire for beautiful things, for perfection, just as himself with a delicate and fragile personality. Like a metamorphic butterfly, mortified yet blessed with a beauty so overwhelming and intense that it can hurt.

A rich merchant, rather captivated by Dieyi, once exclaimed, “A smile brings on the spring, a tear releases sorrow. Such mannerism, to you, solely belongs. Such demeanour, can you, solely withhold.”

Dieyi’s tragic ending is a result of his lifelong suppressed love for his stage brother. Like an exact replica of the script of “Farewell My Concubine”, where Yuji drinks and dances for the King for the last time before slashing her throat with her sword, Dieyi’s death occurs as a symbolism of fleetness in life. Nothing matters even if life is short-lived. Just because it is short-lived, only then can life be thus beautiful.

written on 7 July 2005