project project

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project project
2007-07-12 3:01PM / 標準BLOG / 會員可以看

thanks to those that have responded to the second part of my shikishi sale. there are but two pieces left as of now, nos. 9 and 15. i am very happy with the results so far. so once again, i thank you for the support.
the shikishi thing has prompted people to get in touch with me and tell me how much they like my work; while this is very cool, i have been more excited about being able to connect with other creatives and finding out about what they do. in this way, the shikishi thing is paying off in more ways than one!

these days have been quite busy- creating work and preparing for fecalface's 7.5 year group show. i am going to be in the bay area july 26/7 to august 4, then it's LA until the 7th.
fecalface's show is on august 2nd, so if you're in or around the area, please come through- if not for me, for the rest of the show. i am humbled to be showing alongside some other notable artists. details for the show can be found here.

i am also writing because many of you have inquired about pieces other than the shikishi stuff. coincidentally, a few days ago- project gallery LA put up four of my original paintings for sale on their site. one has sold, but there are the other three. project's a new gallery in culver city with a pretty cool vision- i am looking forward to being a part of its future. if you are interested, you can link the gallery here.

hope everyone's still having a good summer,

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the watcher, mixed media, 2013

2013-05-29 11:01PM
so is spring to be an edamame,

2013-04-12 10:21AM
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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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