atmosphere live paint and project: blog launch.

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atmosphere live paint and project: blog launch.
2008-01-12 8:50AM / 標準BLOG / 會員可以看

project: gallery's rising artist series launched 2008 with the aptly-named, LAUNCH at atmosphere boutique. what a great turnout it was; los feliz is a great little area with some nice shops and apparently tons of great places to eat. i will have to see about that next time i go there.

it was very daunting for some of the artists doing live painting since most of us actually don't work on canvas too much these days... still the excitement was in the air and i think the sporadic energy of creation turned out some real great painting. all in all it was a good time, i got to chat it up with some real cool people and collabo with some of the freshest young painters in the scene.

^that's one shot, but for a full collection of photos, hit up project:'s flickr, here. and while we're on the project: tip, p: gallery just launched their blog; you can check that out here, or link it off my link list.

also, an exclusive, in-store print:

it is limited to an edition of ten and are only $60 each, giclee on archival sommerset velvet paper. they are waiting at atmosphere. nice.

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2009-02-10 5:37PM

Tessar Lo

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i was born in indonesia. ...
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i was born in indonesia.
in 1989, my parents brought me to canada.

soyez amoureuses, vous serez heureuse.
d'où venons-nous? qui sommes-nous? où allons-nous?

I stopped and turned to look behind me. The slope twisted palely down toward the town like the tracks of some gigantic insect. I looked up at the sky then, under the moonlight, and glanced at my palm. With a rush of understanding I knew this wasn’t my hand anymore. I can’t explain it. But at a glance I knew. My hand was no longer my hand, my legs no longer my legs.

Bathed in the pallid moonlight, my body, like some plaster puppet, had lost all living warmth. As if a voodoo magician had put a spell on me, blowing my transient life into this lump of clay. The spark of life had vanished. My real life had fallen asleep somewhere, and a faceless someone was stuffing it in a suitcase, about to leave.

An awful chill swept through me and I felt choked. Someone had rearranged my cells, untied the threads that held my mind together. I couldn’t think straight. All I was able to do was retreat as fast as I could to my usual place of refuge. I took a huge breath, sinking in the sea of consciousness to the very bottom. Pushing aside the heavy water I plunged down quickly and grabbed a huge rock there with both arms. The water crushed my eardrums. I squeezed my eyes tightly closed, held my breath, resisting. Once I made up my mind, it wasn’t that difficult. I grew used to it all – the water pressure, the lack of air, the freezing darkness, the signals the chaos emitted. It was something I’d mastered again and again as a child.

Time reversed itself, looped back, collapsed, reordered itself. The worlds stretched out endlessly – and yet was defined and limited. Sharp images – just the images alone—passed down dark corridors, like jellyfish, like souls adrift. But I steeled myself not to look at them. If I acknowledged them, even a little they would envelop themselves in meaning. Meaning was fixed to the temporal, and the temporal was trying to force me to rise to the surface. I shut my mind tight to it all, waiting for the procession to pass.

How long I remained that way, I don’t know. When I bobbed to the surface, opened my eyes, and took a silent breath, the music had already stopped. The enigmatic performance was finished. I listened carefully. I couldn’t hear a thing. Absolutely nothing. No music, no people’s voices, no rustle of the wind.

-excerpt, Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami

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職業: 畫家 , 作家 , 動物訓練師
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