hauntings.

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hauntings.
2008-05-16 9:27AM / 標準BLOG / 會員可以看

i did a drawing recently that really grew on me and decided to do a series of gocco prints. all the coloured inks are subtly iridescent and i am really happy with the results.

i set aside one series for the upcoming insider trading show, part of the culver city artwalk; those will be available through project: gallery.

these are the editions available through me:

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

one through four measure approximately 5.5 x 5.5" and are $20 USD each, plus s+h. five measures at 5.5 x 5.5", six measures at 5.75 x 7.75" and seven is 5.75 x 8.25"; these are $25 USD each, plus s+h due to size and edition.

please note that due to the nature of gocco printing, there will be slight variations between the editions. please check the numbers on each to see the number of editions. they are all hand-printed, numbered and signed by me, and are completely limited as i have thrown the master printing screen out.

please email me at: tessar(at)tessarlo(dot)com with gocco haunts in the subject line if you are interested, thank you.

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the watcher, mixed media, 2013

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2009-02-17 6:41AM
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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
性別: 男
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