Chairs

Kuku Big Bag

So I started making things again... I think the last time I sewed was back in 2nd year university. Now, in my new abode by Arsenal Stadium, I have come back to joy! Kimberly, my housemate has a sewing machine. As though it is mine, I have made it a little home by the kitchen and am forever on this machine to make Kuku Big Bags

Oh Beautiful Handwriting....

Bili Bidjocka interview from Ecriture Infinie on Vimeo.

Squirrels

Squirrels are cute... young or old!

A New Vision

Over the past month, I have created 2 new paintings. They get their own post because I put them into the Threadneedle Prize. And like all the other competitions, funding, etc that I apply for, I didn't get it. A little discouraged to ever try this ever again... One was 'Who' and the other is the one below

'Misplaced'

The reassuring talk from my friends is that the winners were chosen before the event even began. This is the reality of these things as they say...

Time to make me...

Today I make myself known. Today, I make myself. Painting, drawing, creating is what defines me. What is missing is what I need to project through art. Perhaps there is not enough of this. I can't project this onto people I love because that is not fair. I have pushed my anger, fragility and pain onto other people. I need to just do...

Houses on one side and the sea on the other

I was riding in my car, across a winding road with large grand houses on one side, and the lapping sea on the other. I swear I have been there before, but it was all in a dream.

... and with such imagery in my head, I didn't want to wake up.

People are strange... illustrations

People are strange from Denis Fongue on Vimeo.

Paper cutout... Jeremy Messersmith - Tatooin

Jeremy Messersmith - Tatooine from Eric Power on Vimeo.

Love....

Gone Goodbye - A short film from Session 7 Media on Vimeo.

Paint

I am grateful and frustrated at the same time. If only I had dedicate my heart, my hands, my love to painting, where would I be now?

The gum was in my mouth

We stood there stealing glimpses at each other. Either of us too proud?, afraid? to see read what was exactly written on each other's face. Our mouths moved round and round in circles, chewing the piece of gum that had been chewed for the past hour. I could feel the residue of the rubber sticking to my teeth.

A strange sequence of events occurred, an one that was all so familiar.

As we stood there, a group of journalists flooded into the small room. Lights, microphones scurried across my vision. Now, I could only catch Pedro in bits. He is still looking down, shooting small glimpses my way.

Then, before I knew it, like always, I see him walking across the window and out of my life. Like every other time. This time, the gum in my mouth have tied my speech. I could no longer call out to him. That was when I woke up.

My feet touching the ground

Like a reality TV show that is not a reality TV show. Sending us out in the wilderness, into the forest...

I remember my feet touching the ground, the drying mud. I haven't quite freed myself from the nervousness of seeing the mud seep through my toe nails, or in between my toes. Feeling the mud is a different story. With my eyes closed and unbounded by the knowledge of what is actually tainting my sheltered feet, is a joy like no other.

I had joined what was seemingly a pretentious program to get the city away from the girl, namely myself. In my second visit, never did I realised that my feet would have such a revelatory experience!

A desire within a dream.

And... no colours

And then there were no colours... or just a little

Colours

Today, a search through my hard drive took me back to my old life. 

Then a look at 7evener in Dornbirn, Austria.

And Leon... where are you?

A home for a wee bit...

Perhaps it is a calling for the return of colours in my life. Perhaps...

Running with bullets between my teeth

Things escape from my mouth because I am under a state of frustration. They fire like bullets and pierce through whoever that stands in front of me.

All I want to do is run back in time, perhaps 12 hours. Rather than loading my mouth with hateful bullets, sit in amongst my paint and simply just paint. That wouldn't hurt anyone, perhaps just myself.

Scrambling Tryfan

Tryfan

Scrambling, scrambling!

A weekend away in Wales in the beautiful crispy air of January. Scrambling, scrambling, scrambling, up, up, up. There is nothing I want more than this...

Mad Woman

I began by trying my hand at finesse. It didn't work. Is it my need for it to be perfect, or is it because i find this style a form of perfection. Perfection according to me. Can you see? The hand explored some form of finesse... blah blah.

It is me. 

I like the fact that I am in motion in this artwork. Because motion makes me feel better. When I get on a bus, walking down the street, on my bike, and most of all, on the plane. I am not running away, simply just moving.

Work in progress...

And then...

My home at the sole of my feet

I am so bloody annoyed! Merely 2 months into 'the' most beautiful house I have ever lived in, and I have been asked by f&*k arse Savills to move out!

When I first walked into the kitchen, I felt like a wee little woman whom have wandered into the some beastly giant's home. The cupboards are high beyond anyone's reach (except for the giant, of course). Although trapped in the underworld of the basement, I have grown to love my nest. The comfort of such a space to call my own! Is a comfort to know the exact of number of steps to the bedroom door from the top of the stairs, or the tiny swirl of my bottom that I must do as I walk across the room to avoid the table in the center of my room. The ability to stop being an explorer of my bedroom, but a confident dweller of a familiar land, in complete darkness.

The homo-erotic statue at the end of the garden, a masterpiece to be admired from the top floor bathroom window. The soft rumbling of the washing machine as it vibrates on the bathroom floor, and kitchen ceiling.

I hate you Savills! and Sally Anne Murphy from the Islington office.

Mad Man

I called this 'Mad Man'. Is he anything like Don Draper from the 'MAD Men' series? Yes. He sits there with his legs open, shoulders back, in confidence.

He first arrived on my paper canvas on another pensive evening at my beloved. He came from my nightmare and into my waking life without so much of a tap. Appeared like an apparition, he sits there staring out at me, so still, so silent. Every evening watching me drift into somber. It is his silence that scares me, and his power that immobolise me. Why can't he just stop!... Then again, I was the one that created him.

An invite to a beloved kitchen table, studio convert // what colour?

To a beloved man who caught me in his traps by inviting me to his studio (converted kitchen table) to paint.

It was a drunken evening, all I saw was red. Red the colour of the wine he fed me, and the blotches of red that surrounded me bruised bottom as I fell off for the fourth time, off the broken dining room chair.

Catching me by my shoulders, he led me to this damn seat and placed me in amongst his soiree of colours. Mattia is a man of colours. A man who knows how to find the perfect red, the perfect blue, and the perfect black. He sat me on his magic carpet of colour knowledge. We flew along in the swirls of colours, rolling through these dunes, diving down head first, then picking up again just before we hit the bottom.

I sat clueless to this monologue. I have no understanding of this. Every colour that hits my palette ultimately ends up a shade of grey. He argued and argued with me for my denial of this knowledge. He does not believe it. How can I, an artist, a designer, a snake slithering through the world with my eyes wide open not understand colours? Is this what he is talking about?

I am clueless with colour. What is it? Why do they say red goes with blue, or yellow and green is a terrible clash? I never understood this social conventional ideas. 

For me, the red that sits on top of the paint box is always the right red. The next colour that comes alongside my red smear, is the tube of paint that is at closest reach. That is my understanding of colour.

Despite feeling slightly crippled, he has become my beloved.

I started knitting

For two months, I told Mattia that I would knit him a scarf. This turned out a success! It was an electric blue, shy little thing. I curled at the sides, fearing of revealing its scaly back. Oh, how silly!

He was beautiful! I googled through millions and millions of posts to find out how I can get him to come out of its little shell... I tried and tried and had no luck!

Oh alas! This didn't stop me. I then rendered myself a mad knitter and embark on further searches for mittens patterns, and wooly stores in London. And here she comes...!

She is the messy little swirls in my head that is now slowly, but surely becoming my new scarf. 

I kept telling myself that knitting was my therapy. It lets me feel as though I have not wasted my life away because an incredible number of hours have already been devoted to this little beast. Little brown beast around my neck. To keep me almost hidden from the world. God love winter for its massive wears, enabling me to hide myself as I trawl along the streets.

Keeping track of my madness

Over the past 2 months, I have been incessantly up and down. Maybe this blog will help me keep track of what the hell is going on...

Seven Months Later

Seven months later, I am not writing the story of my grandmother, but a story about me. I couldn't possibly wrap my brain around what was fresh on my mind seven months ago. Come to think of it, it was more a desperate state of needing to make use of wasted energy.

Currently, there is a lot of energy being wasted. So in the past two weeks, I have decided to transfer this energy to a photopolymer relief workshop, London wanky yoga, knitting (a never ending scarf), procrastinating on starting an illustration, and coming up with a drawing for my beloved, Mattia. Till now, this is the man with the most beautiful energy...