in print and some photos.

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in print and some photos.
2007-12-07 3:33AM / 標準BLOG / 會員可以看

here's something i did for maisonneuve magazine that's in print right now, it can be found in a fine bookstores everywhere.

thanks to anna and megan for making the job so easy for me- and for featuring me. also, a print and original of the piece is part of a silent auction for their food issue launch in montreal. details here. it should be pretty awesome, maisonneuve always does some neat things, not only with illustration but also with their writing and design.

i also wanted to post some pictures of what i've been doing. last weekend, i went to see the murakami mid-career at lacma, no pictures allowed, but you can see a lot of the show at eric nakamura's blog. the slide show at the bottom of the post is *thumbs up*.
and while we're on the topic, that same afternoon i hit up the giant robot biennale which was also pretty rad, especially david choe's monster of a wall. here are some pictures:

adrian tomine panels looking mad clean.

sashie masakatsu is sick, and so is edwin.

eishi takaoka, nice.

saelee oh is a madcutter.

souther salazar.

the insane wall.

project: on a december afternoon.

also, a new t-shirt at redbubble.

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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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