I take photographs of words on artworks, museum displays, urban paraphernalia, sticker art and anything else that contains beautiful text or a suggestive combination of words.
Here are some of those photographs worked into a visual poem, titled During Uncertainty.
Like many people who studied art and humanities, I often catch my mind holding hands with the preoccupation of professional uncertainty. For no very good reason, since I have managed to get by in a number of countries without too much existential angst. Each job and each trip has been a joyful risk and successful experience -only a little bit scary.
While creating this piece I wondered more and more about refugees’ perception of travel, of emigration, of life change. I admit, with a mixture of guilt-shame and thankfulness, that despite the precariat ravaging culture and knowledge work, I am in a random -and lucky- position of privilege. I hope that refugees too will witness their life journeys as an adventure with a happy ending.
Good luck (and resist the Precariat!)
Carrying a broken stick on her head
she walks and sings
Evening comes gradually at the end of the street
She walks and sings
Fragments of a tranquil song
break in my heart
Alas, the madness of tile and brick
Please sing and sing again
of all the destruction
you carry in your head
Black dog, black night: Contemporary Vietnamese Poetry.
Edited and translated by Nguyen Do and Paul Hoover.
(Permission was sought from editor to post this poem, but after a year no answer was received. Please note that copyright lies with publisher and poet. This poem is not covered by this site’s Creative Commons license.)
I make art in series and I collect some of the things I find when walking. When I have enough of whatever it is I’m collecting, say, bones, photographs of padlocks, or pieces of driftwood, I feel that I have an art series. Then I have to make whatever interventions on the collected items (e.g. attaching pieces together with wire, painting them, printing over them, or whatever other creative methods suits me at the time) that I feel are necessary to fully appropriate them and bend the haphazard moment in which we found each other into a volitional, constructed and significant one.
For about 6 months now, I’ve been saving tweets, choosing my favourite short word arrangements and taking screenshots of them. Once I’d collected enough tweets, I was able to play around and curate them into a lyrical narrative. Here is the first Curated Tweet Poem, I call it Calliope Baristess, Cafe Warrior:
Dear Tweeters featured here, if you should disapprove of your public tweets being part of this artwork, just let me know and you shall be un-retweeted as soon as is humanly *this-is-not-a-tweetbot* possible!
A curated poem made of Tweets. This is a metrosexual love story set in London. I re-tweeted each chosen ‘line’ in sequence from last to first, so the poem can be read on my Twitter timeline.
Dear Tweeters featured here, thank you for your inspiring tweets. As you know, it is common -even desirable- practice for tweets to be retweeted by interested parties. If, however, you should disapprove of your public tweets being part of this artwork, just let me know.
(First published on 30 September 2012)
Creating order out of the seeming chaos of my Twitter timeline, the third #curatedtweetpoem makes meaning out of ice cream desire/consumption in the global economy of exploiters and exploited.
Curated Tweet Poems are selected tweets, carefully chosen over months of Twitter activity, re-tweeted in order so they read from top to bottom with a narrative different from the purpose of the individual tweets. Again, I thank Tweeple re-tweeted here for their inspiring tweets.
(First published on 4 October 2012)
Below are my digital drawings currently on show in Cúnhouse Lounge. I like seeing and capturing funny anecdotes. The poem and illustrations chosen for this small exhibition on the occasion of International Women’s Day humorously picture some favoured debates of ‘the female condition’.
Woman Underneath Glass Ceiling
Bet You Thought She Was Hormonal! laughed the Crow…
Rocket Scientist Dips Her Toes into the Waters of Love as She Looks into Her Future
The Sky Inside Your Mouth
An Ode to PMS
This illustration was first conceived as a poem, and published in <a href="http://www.blankmediacollective omeprazole 40 mg.org/blankpages/issue_19″ target=”_blank”>Blankpages magazine in 2010.
my moonly visitor
red traffic light
to stop and check
And in that
little waste of time
of road rage
Thank you PMS
for the warning.
(go slow now)
Do some thinking.
Interrupt my sleep
Sweet films and hurts.
for the thin skin,
for the blood
the stagnant still
I enjoy the feeling
Sorrows come alive
spiking through my pain.
(You give me)
I like to hear
and to love more.
To no sorrow.
Thank you PMS.
Until we meet again.
Due to my regrettably poor memory, I confused Billy Childish with Charles Thomson, ignorantly putting all stuckists in one mental box, and I went with naughty glee to the ICA expecting to see some awfully bad paintings. You are wondering why I would do that: it’s because although Thomson isn’t a painter that rocks my visual world in spite of his expoundings on the value of painting, he does act with passion and purpose in his mission of trying to rid the world of conceptual art, a mission that tickles my humour glands.
Anyway, I cheerfully looked at the works of Billy Childish, and I came across a lot of unfamiliar stuff. I had never known about his musical career – much like I never bothered much with Laurie Anderson.
But other than the record covers, the visuals on display kept my interest alive through all the rooms and corridors (exhibitions at the ICA always seem small, although it’s actually a big space…). It is clear to the naked eye that he left the stuckists early one, after 2 years, in fact, in 2001. And it seems that his ideas did too. The yellow uniform with his quirky little hangman symbol suggests how funny his performances might have been – something that you’d expect to see on performance poet Steve Tasane – but with enough signs by way of concepts, that you wonder how he once felt compelled to sign a manifesto that said in bullet point four: ‘Artists that don’t paint aren’t artists’.
The hangman/teardrop symbol is then replicated in the recent poster-like poem paintings that have sweet or amusing short messages. His poems, many in dyslexic spelling that is becoming so ubiquitous you never know now when it’s put on just for ‘fun’, are poetry for sensitive souls in the age of txt messages. Last summer, the Concrete Poetry exhibition at the ICA featured young and old arrangements of text on paper. Billy Childish arranges the text like a sign painter, and it smells good.
He also sings them.
Maybe in future I will confuse him with Malcom McLaren…
Random ocurrences. hockey Yesterday was of some cheap MLB jerseys is of my Sit poems wholesale nba jerseys and an illustration football were cheap NBA jerseys published in Steelers cheap nfl jerseys Blankpages magazine, cheap mlb jerseys so I re-read Sweatsteam (the last sentence of which wholesale jerseys reads ‘Exit Sauna’, but for that ?????? some mysterious reason was removed from wholesale nfl jerseys cheap jerseys over the publication). Now I’ve just stumbled upon this cheap nfl jerseys wholesale NBA jerseys wholesale mlb jerseys image, with digital steam and dripping cheap jerseys drop sounds wholesale jerseys that took me ???????????? back to the poem imagery. Go to Cai’s website for the virtual ‘steamy’ experience!