11 feet straight lines in two sections

It is such a morning when I did not remember I have slept.

It is such another morning I woke with the fundamental question of survival.

An ambitious spider defied the norm,

spun a total length of 11 feet, in two sections, aiming to build large, yet exhausted.

I questioned again,

why do I art?

It would be selfish to work for the primitive satisfaction of hands and mind.

It would be blind to work for the earthly substance.

It would be forgetful to work for the celestial elevation.

why do I art?

Does one must breathe when a respiratory system was given?

Does one must fight or fear when a sensation of death is near?

Is free will as free as one assume, without obligation to a reason of survival?

Did the ambitious spider spin for a meal

or

for her experiments of new ways to spin?

Her adventurous 11 feet straight lines in two sections most likely failed the supper,

yet achieved a recognizable hell of useless admiration from an equally impractical artist.

First week in Montalvo

There is magic power pass midnight.

Muse comes in contact when liver goes into detox.

My first week in Montalvo Arts Center:

mountains

Saratoga

California.

Music

Food

global initiatives

indefinable.

Under the 4 windows

I read ink paintings,

observe polarities,

fight for a reason to be me.

Wings flung open late at night,

resistance dissolved.

Tomorrow, we will battle again.

Eden and I had a conversation on the difficulty times in our 30s.

Out of the presumptuous, not yet reclaim oneself,

I too feel like a snake having a hard time shedding her old skin.

Identity butchers the spirit.

We stayed late and danced.

Dream Catcher

White dream,

leading from the silver thread,

fell out of the dream catcher,

on blue,

on grey,

on fainted reflection.

Travelling in quirky entanglement,

swirled towards opposite direction from the last turn,

CH 27 stitches,

then 5.3.

Melody sounded like breath,

like minty smile,

like lips in water,

unraveled through the dream catcher,

over flew as introverted bubbles.

It was a pleasant dream,

in a moment seeking mutual greetings.

We were there,

listening to the shadow who spoke to the form.

Spilling,

cascading,

and flowing again.

Inspired by Renée Azenaro's sculpture at create/re/create, an exhibition in den contemporary, West Hollywood, CA.

夜 (Night.)

Calligraphy sculpture study 01: 夜

In a city, moon is always so bright.
Street lamps building lights vehicle beams and flickering monitors.

Women light their torches
while men search for the claimed.
Out to the alley they go.
Horses greet with a neigh, goats glimpse back:
"Fools, there is no star close enough to guide you,
there is no answer loud enough to wake you.
What you are looking for was never lost.
Go home now, my child."

A true purpose for this blog

I am drawing a steady line,
connecting the past to present,
from pure thought to over thinking,
and back to neutrality.

It was a struggle to place myself in an honest position, artistically.
The toggle war between what came naturally and what came with fiscal calculation.
Today, I claim the courage to search for "me."

It was not an intention to use this blog as marketing tools for my art.
Yet, services to friends and supporters who are not facebook inclined is a courtesy.

Occasional I will post important updates in the studio and exhibition announcement.
Most of the minutes will lay on the verses I made up with my silent tongue, call it linguistic sculpture, shall we?

between Sandy Owen and his piano

There was a bag of joy, carried on my shoulders.
Flied with it, we sailed.
Somehow it grew heavy, mixed with judgement and self criticism,
filled with fear, doubt, expectations of the world the fame the wealth and the reputation.

It is a spot light went dimmed.
Like an over indulged addiction, it drooped.
Treasured as marvelous jewel, I held it close to my chest; hard to breath.
Heavy as a ton of gold, I wore it as a crown; never to look up again.

My bag of joy is now a wagon loaded with resentment.
Pushed, I trekked the dry spell of truth.
Dragged, I crawled through the desert of sorries.
joy. suffering.

I no longer talked to my art,
I no longer listen to my heart.

It's time to leave, it's time to shut.
Shut the fabricated sense of world,
shut the pretended story of me.

When it no longer chatters, I hear the sound of pure honesty,
that is
what it was
between Sandy and his piano,
between me and my art.
If I don't hear this conversation,
who is to listen to it.

inspired by Sandy Owen's interview on Between the Lines with Barry Kibrick, Sat. 01/15

Transcending materials

I was admiring the artists on Walter Maciel Gallery's website. Suddenly I broke through the eggshell which has been encasing my brain for years, realized that I have been a slave of materials.
It may seem like I see what other don't see when it comes to working with daily materials. The truth is that I've been on a leash lead by these mundane products. They dictate what I will make and cage me in the name of "sculpture." That is tragical, no wonder many artists no longer associate themselves with the title of sculptors or painters.

I thought I have seen the unseen, but actually I have only seen what was taught to me to see. To truly be free, I must transcend the function, history and nature of the material. If I were able to transcend the form of the material, I'd be marvelously successful.

Materials are simply tools, like a computer, one must not build lives, believes or conceptions on them. I am enlightened. Thank you, fellow artists!

Moon Rabbit was born in fast speed!

One sculpture in 7 days! It looks as fun as it was to create my moon rabbit!



To adopt the Moon Rabbit, please visit http://eliminateregifting.com/
under Los Angeles >>> YaYa Chou link. You have until Jan. 15, 2012, to bid on this bouncer!