The Blue Lotus magazine issue 18

Lotus

Issue 18 2019

The Blue

Arts Magazine

in this issue Honey Khor Bestrizal Besta Gulshan Hossain Lucia Tang K Kyaw Tiarma Sirait Maduri Bhaduri Manuel Ocampo Bandana Kumari and others 1

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

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Photo....Top's Studio, Muar, Johor, Malaysia

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inside....

66 Editorial

Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

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The World According to Honey Khor Floral painting from Malaysia

10 The Best (a) of Bestrizal: Mother Nature

From Indonesia. A review by Eva Wong Nava

24 Bhaav

Mayada K Nigam,

Dance from India

34 The Shoe Mender

Short story from Bangladesh, by Awara Azad 40 Gulshan Hossain

Paintings from India 50 From the Sea

Short story from Malaysia, by Martin Bradley

58 The Water

Lucia Tang, digital images from China 78 Myanmar

Paintings from Myanmar by K Kyaw

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Front Front cover; cover; Honey Nazia Ahmed Khor

Issue 18 2019

88 Tiarma Sirait

Paintings from Indonesia

Ballari Sen 98 Ballari Sen

Poems from India

104 Maduri Bhaduri

Paintings from India 114 River Gypsies

Mahmud Rahman's photos from Bangladesh 126 To a Father I Have Never Really known

Poem by Martin Bradley, Malaysia 128 Ideological Mash - Up/Remix

A review of Philippine artist Manuel Ocampo at Singapore Tyler

Print Institute by Elaine Chiew

146 Absolutely Fabulous

Bandar Kumari's paintings from India 158 Yong Tau Fu

Chinese cuisine in Malaysia

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Lotus Welcome to

The Blue Lotus (arts magazine)

It is June. The Blue Lotus (as Dusun) was founded in 2011, eight years ago this very month.This magazine continues to reveal the histories of Asian art, and to act as a conduit for Modern and Contemporary Asian art and Literature.

The Blue Lotus, this issue, visits Malaysia, Indonesia, India (a few times), China, Myanmar, Bangladesh, and The Philippines.

This issue could not have been created without the kind assistance of all the participants, to whom I am deeply indebted.

The Blue Lotus is open for submissions,but cannot pay and asks those submit not to simultaneously submit elsewhere. Thank you.

Now read on

Martin Bradley

(Founding Editor)

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the world according to

Honey Khor

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For Honey Khor, love is a blossoming heaven. She finds affection, and everything she needs in the Buddhist notion of ‘Metta’ , or loving kindness. This, she says, is the seed of joy, and happiness.

The experiences she has had in Siem Reap, Cambodia, over the past ten years has enabled her in her practice of Metta, and assisted her to be a better person.

A Lotus grows into the full bloom of peaceful contentment, just as her life is unfolding, blooming. She finds inner strength and beauty after facing hard times and overcome obstacles, just as the lotus grows from the mud.

Love, gratitude, compassion and kindness, she says, are the source of all endurance.

In her paintings, Honey Khor delights in rendering vibrant, expressionistic, brush strokes later to be tempered with detail in minutia. Buddhist lotus flowers, their roots in mud and their petals dancing in the sun, dominate with their colourfulness thrown forward by natures greenery. Secessionist Klimt gold in the foreground, amidst remembrance of poppies and flowers reflecting the magnificence of the spiritual sky, gives us pause for thought. Honey’s paintings are a journey. She invites the viewer along to ride with her, to assist her in untangling her symbolism, and to relish her uniquely Oriental vision of the world she travels.

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The Best(a) of Bestrizal: Mother Nature (Review)

by Eva Wong Nava Bestrizal Besta was born in 1973, in Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia.

He made Yogyakarta his home and can be found in this city where he lives and works. I was acquainted with Besta’s art in 2018 at Art Stage Singapore where he was represented by Art Porters Gallery. Hanging in this gallery’s booth, at the entrance, is a substantially large monochromatic canvas with a burst of colour that led my eye to a human face — a smiling female child framed by a bouquet of colourful flowers. She is perched on a suggested make-belief swing made of leafy tendrils, her feet crossed elegantly and both hands clutching a spray of orange flowers and she is beaming. She is accompanied by a parrot and surrounded by flora and fauna, thick and lucious. A mouse deer peers at us, a rabbit peers at the mouse deer and we peer into a busy canvas covered corner to corner by monochromatic prints of flowers, plants, leaves, petals… and then the eye spots a leopard. I stood staring at this gigantic canvas, ‘Almost Paradise’, 2018, (H250 cm x W200cm), for several minutes and drank in its wonder. I let it quench my imagination while I studied the patterns on the leaves, on the girl. Peering closer, I caught sight of a feathery down that covered the girl’s legs – follicles of hair so lovingly and intricately added to embellish the subject. This is beyond Realism. I was in Art Heaven because being up this close and seeing such intricate details made with charcoal sent electric shivers down my spine. An apt title for such a mesmerising artwork, I thought. I was not the only who thought this way. The piece was finally sold but art lovers would drop in for a chat about this eye-catching rendition of what Paradise could be.

For a dazzling half day at Art Stage, I found my Paradise.

Bestrizal Besta is known for his large canvases of hyper-realist compositions, intricate in detail and surrealist by presentation. His works are photographic by nature, hence the term hyper-realism used as 16

Mother Nature 1, detail, 2018

Almost Paradise, 2018

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Mother Nature 1, 2018

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a descriptor of his oeuvre. In reality, Besta is a Surrealist: his works are often realistic but dream-like, centring on this world and bordering on one that is other-worldly.

However, I am not one who is fond of labels. To say Besta is a Surrealist would put emphasis on Surrealism and detract from the fact that he is really a Hyper-realist. But to say that he is a Hyper-realist would veer away from the oft challenging definition of Surrealism and the representation of Besta’s unconscious mind.

Surrealists were artistes who sought to find ways through art, literature and film to channel the unconscious in order to unlock its power to find an unfettered expression of thought. André Breton, René Magritte, Joan Miró and Salvatore Dali were Surrealists. Surrealism took off in visual art due to artists like Magritte and Dali, who were categorically Surrealists. Surrealist motifs differed from artist to artist and exactly what constitutes Surrealism is difficult to define – like a dream, we can’t quite put our finger on what it is. Yet, we know as viewers that the bending clock in Dali’s work is not real, psychologically, we know that it is an image from a dream. Similarly, we know that Miró’s fantastical depiction of space with biomorphic shapes, representing human beings on canvas is also not real, it is surreal. Magritte’s work also tells us that his imageries are from the land of dreams or from the unconscious because there is something quite unusual, rather disturbing in his pieces. However, we know that these artists are definitely not Hyper-realists, though.

Hyper-realists are artists whose keen eye for detail and realism mark them out from the rest. But be careful for they are not Realists because the eye sees a different style in Realism. Realism is an art movement that sought to depict real life with truth and accuracy; Realist art is detailed but not photographic, they are paintings and they are unmistakably so. There is nothing pretty about Realism, to tell the truth. Jean-Francois Millet and Gustave Courbet are Realists. What of Hyper-realism? Hyperrealism was developed since the 1970s and are artworks of images that resemble high-resolution photographs but rendered in mediums often associated with paintings. This is where Bestrizal Besta gets drumrolls.

Besta, to my eye, is a Hyper-Realist. A quick glance at his canvases will train the eye to notice that his human figures are realistically detailed.

They resemble photographic images of somebody we are familiar with.

That his works are dream-like, it is true. That they are surreal, that is true too. So, yes, he can be called a Surrealist.

Labels are but categories for better understanding of concepts. In art, better understanding comes from looking. Let’s take a close look at ‘Mother Nature #1’, 2018 (charcoal and acrylic on canvas, H80cm x W180cm), for example. A girl, somebody from a lost world, gazes out, she is holding a doll in one hand, with the other, she clasps a branch. Nature engulfs her. In fact, nature takes up two-thirds of this canvas, with only a sliver of sky topping a mountain chain. The leaves are intricately sketched as we follow their meandering journeys; the animals playing hide and seek in the thick foliage beckons us to find them. These life-forms are so hyper-realistically depicted that I feel the leaves growing and winding

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Happiness is simple, 2018

their way through the thicket; I hear the sounds of animals as they move through the jungle; I smell the silage of the damp earth. This piece is similar to Besta’s many other pieces – a human figure engulfed by nature seems to be the theme in all his works. Through detailed patterns of flora and fauna, Besta tells the story of how wonderful life would be if we were all to live harmoniously with(in) Nature. Nature is good, he says.

So, it is not about being engulfed by Nature but about coexisting as one with a naturally eternal Female force. This is where the artist as dreamer steps into the canvas. It is Besta’s dream that we all coexist with Nature.

He expresses his dream and observation of Nature, unfettered, through the medium of charcoal. Now, we can see why critics have called him a Surrealist.

Besta expresses what his psyche really thinks about Nature and this is reflected in the exhibition’s title — Mother Nature — which underscores the power of the Feminine. Nature is the giver of Life — our Mother.

But Besta goes one step further and tells us that “We are not born of Mother Nature”, “we are Mother Nature” he asserts. There is something so curative about this knowledge. Resistance is futile was the message that I took away from this exhibition. The best way to live is to be one with Nature. I succumbed to this adage as I immersed myself in these monochromatic canvases, meditating on Life and the human condition.

I asked the Goddess to envelope me in her soothing balm which only Nature can provide.

Mother Nature, Art Porters Gallery, 64 Spottiswoode Park Road Singapore, from 24th April to 30th June, 2019.

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Mother Nature 2, 2018

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Mayada K Nigam

Inspired by 'Bhaav' or (emotions ) and by the Radha and Meera story Bhakti and Shringaar.

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Rati

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Nayan Bhaav

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Maya K Nigam has been pursuing dance since the age of 5, and had learnt the Kathak style of dance from Smt Geetanjali lal.

Maya was awarded an M.A in Kathak, and an M.A in Psychology. not to mention a Diploma in theatre. She has performed many stage shows as a soloist as well as in groups.

She has conducted many workshops under the aegis of Anjana welfare society and the Nrityam Kathak Kendra Gwalior (MP). She has also choreographed dance drama, and fusions of Kathak and Bharatnatyam, Kabeer Doha, Ram- Sita virah etc.

Maya is a social activist who works with social issues and choreographs dance concerning social issues like save girls, woman empowerment, and the importance of education.

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Shringaar

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Pushanjali

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Virah

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The Shoe Mender

by Anwara Azad

Translated by Saokot Hossain With Sitara Jabeen and A. T. Siddiquee The lady arrived right after the evening. Taking out of a polyethylene bag, she put a pair of shoes on the wooden box. Shushanto was mending a pair of sandals with deep attention. He was stitching one of the torn crossed shoelaces. It was about three months now that he has been sitting in this place of the market. Two others also sit here since long. He had chosen this place under an electric pole. Though the light turns thin and feeble here after sun set, but still he finds comfort here. At times, he could relax leaning back to the pole. The slight comfort he gets is very precious.

There are two elections posters on the upper portion of the post at both sides giving at least some shade for a short spell of time in the high noon.

The photograph in one of the posters is a person sporting a cap on their head and the other showing a guy with a long hairy moustache. Both of them have smiles on their faces. Shushanto, however, uses an old black umbrella, in case the sun blazes a harshly. He heard that the umbrella was of his grandpa’s time. Most of it was patches and stitches. It was even used by his father.

All around the day people mingle here. Naturally he has little time to spare, and remains engaged in either stitching or polishing shoes.

Sushanto was stitching a piece of sandal leaning back on the electric pole bending his head a little. The small box made of kerosene-wood was placed at his right hand side. Inside it various kinds of shoe-polishes, creams, sheets of leather shoe-bases, coarse threads, and glues are kept in order. He can pick up the things he needs without actually turning his gaze. The sole of sandal was frayed to the point of the foot being bare. He had not looked to see the features of the person who brought those for mending. By seeing the pair of shoes, he has presumed his state. Shushanto does not usually look at the faces of those who bring their shoes for mending. His job is to pay attention the shoes rather.

Nevertheless, sometimes, for reasons unknown, looking at the shoes, his eyes shot up to the faces.

So, while completing the task at hand his gaze turned to the pair of shoes put down by the lady and Shushanto’s eyes shot up. Though the lady’s features are not so clearly visible in this poorly lit place, but he could see the pair of the shoes quite clearly. Wow! What a beautiful pair! These are not sandals, rather or a gorgeous pair of shoes of maroon and black. Shoes of this kind usually do not come to his way. Seeing the shoes, glimpses of happiness touched Shushanto’s heart.

‘What kind of repair do you want?’

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‘The soles are frayed away a little, nothing much’ the lady showed the shoes turning them upside down.

‘But the shoes are almost brand new; only the soles are frayed slightly’.

‘Yes, these are not used much. God knows, how that was happened.’

‘Have you brought these from abroad?’... ‘They are so clean, not a grain of dust sticks on them.’

Shushanto picked up the pair carefully and softly. `Because I keep these properly cleaned’.

‘It is evident that you do so’, holding the shoes in his hands, Shushanto put a smile on his face.

‘How long it will take to repair?’

‘It will take over half an hour. Should I fix the bases in both of these?

If it is done, you will be able to use them for long.’

‘Okay, agreed. Then I’ll be back finishing other errands in the market.

Please also do the polishing. How much should I pay?’

‘It’s one hundred taka for mending the base and extra twenty for polishing’.

‘Okay carry on....

Shushanto’s father Shyamal Das was also a cobbler by profession. At the age of 12, Shushanto learnt the workmanship of shoe-mending from his father. After reading up to class two, he could not continue his studies.

‘Why wasting time, when there is no way but to pursue the same profession for earning livelihood!’ His mother once said tersely.

At the end of the day’s work, his father almost always used to carry back one or two pairs of shoes to home. For reason of the owners’ mistake or perhaps because of owners’ lack of time to pick them up, some pairs of the shoes were left with his father. Whenever a pair of shoes was brought home his father and mother would check them, sometimes they even put them on as well. Once, his father had brought a pair of sandals that fitted very well to his mother’s feet. Shushanto still can recall his mother pacing around wearing those sandals until it was bedtime. His father had tried to make her refrain in a mild voice but then thought better of it. Rather, he stared at his mother’s feet as though he was admiring the feet of some goddess. That unique look of his father is still alive in Shushanto’s memory. On that day, he had promised himself that when he grew up, he would buy his mother a pair of sandals of that kind. Alas! He had not got that opportunity. His mother suddenly passed away just as he started earning. The pain caused for not being able to buy his mother a pair of sandals still lives in the core of Shushnto’s heart.

As the lady left, Shushanto finished the repairing the sandal he had in his hands, fast. Its owner did not ask for polishing, but still he put a coat of shoe-shiner on them. Finishing the task, he picked up the lady’s pair of shoes and examined them, turning them around. Taking out solesheets from the box he cut a piece to the measurement of the sole of the shoe. Now drawing out the glue from the glue-pot he applied it first to the frayed sole and thereafter applying glue to the cut out sole sheet he 35

pasted it from the head of the sole with his hands. At the same time raising his gaze a little, he saw two boys chatting on some topics standing at some distance. It occurred to Shushanto that he had seen them here a long time. What had they been talking about for so long?

Returning to his job, Shushanto tried to let his ears to catch a bit of their conversation. Nah, he could not hear anything. How old these boys can be- 18/19? Health is not good, completely skinny, thin buttocks, no flesh at all.

Are they heroinechi (Heroin addicts)? What sort of trashes the boys of these days consume? Some of them had even tried to make an addict out of him. Once coming on the excuse of repairing sandals, they built up relationship with him and took him to their den. His father got the hint on the very first day and had left the locality taking the son with him.

Shushanto has never gone to such places again since then.

Fixing soles to both shoes done. Now he will keep them for about 10 minutes, then when the glue dries up, he will polish them. Meanwhile, a Jhal-Mureewala stopped before him, the extremely strong smell of lemon and onion made Shushanto’s mouth water at once. But his soiled hands compelled him to suppress the temptation. If asked, they can make sort of a spoon out of paper, though. Nay, he will not eat JhalMuree now; but he wishes to eat something nevertheless. It will be 10 O’clock in the night by the time he will be able to reach home. By then ‘a mole will run inside his stomach’ making him very hungry. Shushanto looks around-people are crowding all around. The two boys are no longer in view. Coming to a vacant space, a Badaamwala (Nut-hawker) hanging a basket full of nuts from shoulder, stood there. At one side of the basket, a small oil lamp was kindled. He knew his name; they were acquainted in this very place.

Sarafat. Sarafat smiles at him and he asked him to give nuts for taka 5/-.

Dragging the water bottle out, he drank water when the nuts of 5 taka were consumed within five minutes. Feeling somewhat satisfied having the nuts and water together Shushanto once again resumes stitching the shoes. Nope, these can wait for ten more minutes.

It would be very nice if the lady does not turn up to-day. If he gets a scope of taking these home, he would ask Shova to walk for a while putting them on. Shushanto knows very well that it would never be possible for him to buy shoes like these. The lady surely walks insolently wearing these, without giving a damn. Does she wear these with saree or with a pair of trousers! Now-a-days, the rich people have attire of various kinds for every occasion, a kind of dresses to attend offices, another for using in houses and yet another for travelling. He knows all these details from just sitting in the bazaar. His companions earning money working like him usually discuss such things. Even while repairing some kind of shoes, they at times would utter, `where does the chick go wearing this sort of sandals? Why brought them for mending rather not throwing away!’

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‘I think, the pair is used at home’, remarked the other one.

‘Who knows, given to the housemaid, may be?’

‘Why, nah! No, In that case, she would not have come for repairing this herself ’.

‘Perhaps, these are for shopping at the grocers’. They need things of different types. One is for going to the office; the other is for attending the wedding receptions. Another for going to the bank.’

‘We are through with a single type, what-dya say! The life is finished soiling hands with other peoples’ shoe-dust and wearing a pair of open slippers at heels, ha ha! My daughter was pestering me for buying her a pair of shoes for the school-to buy that for her, I am saving money for a month’.

‘The other day, my son was also pestering...’

Shushanto is damn sure that Shova would not be able to walk insolently wearing these. She is in fact a very soft-natured lady with a mild face. His father had indeed taste to choose her. Shova’s father used to work with his father. After seeing her, he had decided to settle his son’s wedding to Shova. Shushanto was not deceived. Shova is really a blessing for him.

However, he had bought Shova a pair of sandals during last ‘puja’ (worship) festival. Shova bought these by her own choice. She wears those on the occasions whenever they go out together somewhere. Usually she uses a pretty old pair, simply a thin pair of sandals of two laces she brought from her father’s house and still uses. The laces were replaced twice, while the lace of the pair he himself is using was replaced four times. Once a guy brought a pair of sandals for repairing but never turned up. Days gone by but the person never came back. He kept bringing those every day for about 10 to 12 days continuously; even afterwards he had waited thinking that he would come. But it is now a year that he had not came.

That pair of sandals is quite large for Shushanto’s feet and as such he could never put them on. Till now these are left in a corner of the house.

Once he thought that he would sell those out to Haroon, but for reasons unknown to him, he could not till to-day. The person might be no more, thinks Shushanto. Perhaps on that very day he had passed away. I should give it away to Haroon at last.

Shova, if not insolently, walks elegantly like a Queen wearing the shoes bought during puja festival. Slowly, in a leisurely posture! Previously Shova used to wear saree covering her ankles, but after buying those sandals she keeps the saree higher. This is because Sushanto himself asked her once, ‘Why do you wear your saree so low? The sandals aren’t seen.’

‘Oh, mm, is that so? The sandals aren’t seen? Wait, let me correct it exactly.’

Untying the pleats of the saree, Shova set her saree slightly upper position.

‘Okay! Now they can be seen’- Shushanto was pleased. Sitting on the bed, he asked Shova to stand a little farther. Shova takes spell of an 37

ecstasy; put a mischievous smile on her lips. Shushanto thought that the whole world belongs to him, too.

Shushanto picks up the pair of shoes. Yes, these seem dried up. He thinks for a while about which shade of maroon would do. He puts the light maroon first and keeps it aside for five minutes; he then brings out the cream colour. This will not take any other hue, but will make the colour brighter like a new one. Shushanto does the cream polish with utmost care. Due to poor light, the actual brightness could not be discerned much, but from what is seen was enough to work out-nothing else to do. Inserting both hands inside the shoes, Shushanto looks for some extra light. Now Shushanto inserting his hands inside the shoes looks for better light. Seeing that a narrow beam of light coming from the hardware shop behind over his shoulders, he rises his hands in that direction. Yes, now it is visible, the shoes seem to be brand new.

Shushanto studied them for some time. The glittering brightness of the shoes reflects in his amazed eyes. He started thinking that with a pair like this one he could walk straight to Feni from Dhaka on feet. His father lives there since he became aged. Despite himself Shushanto, however, cannot go there so easily, but his mind fly over so often there. For the money he could earn in Dhaka by mending shoes is more than that he could possibly make in Feni compelled him to stay in Dhaka.

Again Shushanto examines the shoes turning his hands. He feels sort of excitement, which flooded from his mind to his body. He starts for Feni putting on the shining shoes and keeps going on.... and while he was walking, suddenly a huge and hideous sound brings him back to reality from the trance; Shushanto felt ashamed for such stupidity. It was the sound of the starting load shedding. Holding the shoes to his chest, Shushanto prays that the lady does not turn up today. Surely, she should go back home without roaming around in the market in this darkness.

She can take them tomorrow, what the harm there can be!

Let the pair of shoes be with him only for a night! At least if a chance is got to watch Shova wearing the shoes! It might fit, there’s no harm if does not, either. He continues praying in heart and sole. He just wants to see the shoes in Shova’s feet. That’s all; he has nothing harmful in his mind. Knowing very well that nobody will leave a costly pair of shoes by mistake he keeps the hope alive. In that moment of his fervent prayers, Shushanto saw that the lady was coming with the purse swinging in the semi-darkness. When the owner of the shoes arrived at the front, Shushanto slowly put the shoes down on the wooden box and sighed heavily. `Oh God, why are you so miser in fulfilling so little a desire? Only a simple wish....’

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Gulshan hossain Hossain gulshan

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Story of an old poem

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Reminiscences 3

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Reminiscences 1

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Sound of Water

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Snow in Winchester 1

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Snow in Winchester 2

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from the sea

by Martin Bradley “Good grief!” Richard Fairchild lay naked, sweaty and breathless. She, equally bare, continued to sit on Richard’s flaccid midriff. The petite Chinese-looking girl, all smiling eyes and seductively slight figure was completely devoid of body hair. She was wet, very wet. There were small curls of Richard’s chest hair stuck to the front of her smooth, lithe body.

One of Richard’s silver chest hairs persistently hung from the girl’s left nipple. Richard slowly reached and took it from her. He was exhausted.

His partner’s moist breasts sat perkily on her chest, a little like tanned, steamed, Chinese dumplings (Pau), her nipples hard like candle nuts.

Panting, all Richard could manage to utter was, “Bloody hell!” He had little breath for talking, less still for further deliciously fatiguing activity. Richard collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted but glowing with happiness. The room smelled slightly of seaweed, and male musk.

The bright yellow sheet, pillow cases and counterpane were sodden with the sweat from both their bodies. The hairs on Richard’s right thigh were curled into balls and hardened by her wetness. It was there that she had used Richard to finish herself off amid rubbing and sliding and her eventual collapse on him, all wet necked and glowing.

Richard caught the unmistakable odour of fish, but dismissed it as an olfactory illusion.

Half an hour earlier…….

The afternoon was hot. Hot even for the equator. Richard and the girl were both dripping. Richard had shed his shorts and Cambodian white cotton shirt, intending to catch his second shower of the day. As he stood in the bathroom doorway, She stood looking at him. He was embarrassed.

She put her hand on his wet chest anyway, smiling. She messed his chest hair until her hand was wet with Richard’s sweat. She was still smiling, but her expression had changed. There was another emotion. Richard sensed it. He quickly moved towards her. Richard held the girl’s chin with his large hand, bent down to her and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

His other hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. The kiss electrified them both. With a great degree of elegance the girl shed her sea-green cotton slip and, effortlessly, the couple fell backwards, hungrily, onto the bed.

The backward momentum of the couple ensured that a very sweaty Richard hit the bed first. She, moistly, followed close behind. Due to their wetness the girl soon found herself sliding along the entire length of Richard’s body, coming rudely face to face with the bedroom wall.

Meanwhile, Richard discovered his face confronted by an unexpected 50

bare mound of Venus. There was a brief moment of surprise, then they both burst out laughing and began the best love making Richard had ever had.

Eleven months and twenty days previously…..

The years between the ages of forty and fifty had been barren for Richard. Instances of good sex, other that which he practiced with himself, were getting fewer and far between. At times his thoughts would drift to those halcyon days of the (so-called) swinging sixties. It was a time when there was no need for viagra, only The Pill…..and a notebook to remember the names the next morning.

Richard was past his prime, and the 60s were a very long time ago. The oncologist had told him that. His sell-by-date was nearing. The doctor said about two years, give or take. The months just seemed to be slipping past. All thoughts of passion were dying along with his increasing weight and years. The only tarts Richard found himself fancying were Portuguese – and egg. Even the swaying rumps of passing female joggers, as they sashayed along the beach, were not enough to ignite Richard’s cooling ardour. He would watch as salmon pink jogging trousers bounced by, without even the slightest interest except, perhaps, in their brand.

If it were a sexual hiatus it was a bloody long one. Richard’s wistful sighs had been growing with each passing day. Soon, he knew, time must have a stop and all thoughts of passion would cease. In a bizarre way Richard was looking forward to the days of not feeling, not longing, and not wanting. To be devoid of lust would bring great benefits, the least of all was an un-sore member and a cessation of longing looks at x-rated internet sites.

Richard’s sea-view bungalow grew hotter as the equatorial sun was reflected from the sea. The air-con failed to keep up with the mounting heat.

“Fuck. Bloody heat” Richard had began to sweat yet again.

“You’d think it would let up just for a day. Jesus Christ.” Richard, again, cursed the luck which had brought him ten years and ten thousand miles from his home and to, no doubt, one of the hottest damn places on earth.

“I’m turning into bloody Denholm Elliot, washed up and only the bloody liqueur to keep me company. Hmm time to buy some more Gordon's Gin, and few cans of Schweppes Tonic Water” he mused to the nude house lizards.

The entire beauty of the equatorial sea was marred by the sun’s blinding reflection. It caused Richard to shield his eyes each time he tried following a flock of gulls with his gaze. The heat was almost totally devoid of air. It was like living in a desert. Richard’s sole oasis was browning with each dry, rainless, day. His Fortress of Solitude was rapidly becoming Alcatraz.

Richard was trapped along with the tut-tutting gecko inmates with no time off for good behaviour.

Besides aimless pottering along the small roads to the rear of Penang in his old Kia Rocsta Jeep, Richard read. Richard read anything he could

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legally, and sometimes illegally, download from the irregular internet.

He read of his first love; the sea. Richard collected books about seafarers, myths, legends of the sea. His father had been a boy sailor on the trawlers out of Great Yarmouth, England, then, later, a merchant mariner. The sea was in Richard’s blood. In England, Richard had fished from a small dingy, three miles offshore. The tiny petrol engine had pushed the fibreglass vessel through the rough waves off the coast of Holland Haven, where Richard caught winter Codling.

He had formed ‘friendships’ on Facebook, but they seemed as ephemeral as his and their moods. For him, it had become a solitary life, filled only with the demands of his two fish devouring cats – Stevens and Ballou. Richard had little imagination when it came to naming things.

Days, weeks, months and years had passed. Richard had taken to rising before the sun, reading, surfing the internet then resting during the afternoon when the sun was at its hottest. Evenings saw him reading again, or engrossed in watching Swedish/French subtitled films on his laptop. Marketing was done seldom and quickly, with thanks to the local Tesco’s and the covered market; which supplied the cats with cheap, fresh, fish.

That day, a day much like any other in his seaside retreat, Richard heard a noise from outside. Unused to visitors, Richard peeped from behind the dowdy curtains in his adjoining bedroom. He squinted at the sun’s brightness. There was a shape collapsed on his pathway. Richard continued to watch as, after a few moments, a young Chinese girl unravelled herself from his path and eased herself towards the gatepost.

In particular, Richard noticed her long dark hair fall to her shoulders, and her slimness. The woman was silhouetted against the sun so Richard could not see her clearly. The bell rang in Richard’s hall. For a moment he froze, uncertain what to do. Quickly he donned, and hastily buttoned a cotton shirt.

A slight woman half-stood, half-leaned against Richard’s door. She was wet, drying in the heat of the sun…..and naked. For a second or two Richard just stood and stared. It was a teen fantasy. A naked girl literally arriving on your doorstep and, like a teen, Richard just stood and gawped.

She tried to talk, but slipped down Richard’s doorway into a pool on his marble hall tiles. He stooped, grasped her under the arms and aided her to his wooden bench. She gasped, struggled a little. Richard rushed to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. He offered her the water. She took one sip, then spat it out. “Please, salt water, I must have salt water,” her “thank you” was very faint. She was losing energy.

“Bath….please.” Richard looked at her questioningly “You want a bath!”

“Bath, salt water please, this is the first time I have done this” “Or take me back to the ocean. I need the minerals, please sir, help me.” She said.

“You can’t just come into someone’s house, naked, and demand a bath, well you can, because you have, but you really shouldn’t you know.” He

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replied, a little perturbed.

She collapsed on the bench. Richard stood over her, wondering what to do. Should he do as she requested, or should he assert himself, tell her no! Eventually, despite other inclinations, Richard scooped her up into his arms. He carried her slight form to the only bathroom which had an actual bath put in at his insistence, as well as a shower. Then he went back to the kitchen for the rather expensive Maldon sea-salt that he had brought with him from England. He poured the whole earthenware pot of sea-salt into the bath, regretting each crystal. He ran the water and gently lowered the partially conscious girl into it. Richard propped her head up with a loofa, fearing she might drown; he didn’t want that on his conscience. For a moment he wondered if she was on some kind of medication.

Richard left her for only a moment. He went to fetch himself a double Southern Comfort, with ice. He deserved it. The ice had just hit the bottom of the glass when Richard heard a commotion in the bathroom.

He ran only to find the floor covered with water and wet footprints heading for the door. Richard was just in time to see his surprise guest leave his garden gate, a beige towel wrapped around her. He scratched his head, trying to make sense of his morning. He couldn’t. There was no sense to be made of it.

“Bugger, and I wasted all my precious salt. Oh, Bloody hell, my towel too. She’s taken my towel.”

Stevens and Ballou were licking the watery footprints and meowing.

“Clear off ” Richard shouted at the cats.

There was the thought about sharing his exploits on Facebook, but for some reason unknown to himself, Richard refrained. Maybe it was just too unbelievable. People would think that he was crazy – wet, naked girls, sea-salt baths indeed. And what was that she had said about the ocean. It was the stuff of stories, and had no place in Richard’s reality. He mopped the floor and bathroom, then got on with his lonely life. The cats tumbled around Richard’s feet, expecting fish.

Five days later Richard heard his wooden gate creak. He had been meaning to get that fixed but, on second thoughts, found it was a good alarm. Somebody rang his doorbell. Richard couldn’t see who. He left the curtains alone and dashed out of his bedroom door and stopped, dead. There she was again, Clothed this time, carrying something. A little roughly Richard opened the door, banged his right foot and winced in pain.

“Are you alright” she asked softly. “I’ve brought back your towel”.

“Hmm, thank you” said Richard a little shamefaced, nursing his damaged foot.

“Can I help you with that, I have some fish balm in my bag” She began to unscrew the small container, but one whiff of the balm and Richard declined. Stevens and Ballou came purring round.

“Go on off you go”, he shooed the cats away, but they hung around

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Richard’s visitor, sniffing her clothes, her feet.

“Go on, off ” and Richard literally chased the cats away, hobbling as he did so. Stevens and Ballou rubbed themselves up against the wall, still hoping to return and continue their exploration of the visitor.

Richard and his surprise guest talked, and talked. The more they talked, the closer they became. The closer they became, the more they talked. Richard drank coffee, not caring about the fat of the condensed milk, or its sugar content. The visitor insisted on drinking warmed, salted, water, only.

She introduced herself “I’m sorry. I should have said before. I’m Mei” it was all she said of herself. Richard gleaned little of her past life, but the next day she was back again.

“It’s dried seaweed, you’ll love it” Mei said. Richard didn’t, but pretended that he did. Thereafter Mei would bring all kinds of foods related to the sea for Richard to try. Sashimi was ok, he’d had Sashimi before, and the marinated herring called ‘roll mop’. There was a constant supply of seafood and Richard wondered about Mei’s love for all things sea related. He passed it off as a quirk and decided not to try the live baby fish. “You can take things too far”, he thought.

“Go on you’ll love them, they are delicious, and good for you, they are from the deep ocean.” But Richard stayed firm “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just let them swim, maybe keep them as pets.”

“Ok, but they really are tasty” Mei said as she scooped them up in her hand and swept them into her mouth. Richard looked on a little in awe, and a little concerned.

The first time they made love was a treat for Richard. He had never made love in a bathtub full of lukewarm water before, but he was game for anything. After his ‘dry’ spell, Richard was grateful for any small sexual crumb. If she wanted bath tubs of lukewarm water, so be it.

Richard, however, did not find sex in the bath tub the most comfortable of experiences, though making love to her was. The next time, Richard insisted on somewhere a little more comfortable, and a little less wet.

Mei gave her all to Richard, and he gratefully accepted. From Richard’s perspective she was the best thing since sliced bread, electricity, the wheel and fire all rolled into one. He quickly became besotted with her.

Every day Mei visited Richard. She found the air dry, even in the humid equatorial climate, and had frequent showers or, her favourite – salt water baths. She always seemed wet to Richard, but it was a small matter, and really none of his concern. During those days they were virtually inseparable. All the time she was flowing deeper into Richards blood, bringing him a fever that none could douse. It was as if there was no difference between them. They walked streets hand and hand, ate from the same plate, shared drinks as they shared a bed. The closeness between them grew to unfathomable depths.

One year later

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For a while they rested.

Mei touched Richard again. Soon it was “Shhh,shhh,shhh…..

Shhh,shhh,shhh” as Mei put her hot finger to her over heated lips. She panted, groaned, opened her mouth again “Shhh,shhh”. Her whole body was flushed, her neck ringed with love bites.

“But, darling it’s you making the noise” Richard laughed.

Mei loved being on top. She bent over, placed her passionate nipple into Richards eager mouth. He sucked gently, licked, felt her tremble again. He could not stay. He came into her, fully, completely. She moved her muscles, squeezed him to make certain that he was finished, then slid herself from him and took him into her mouth. Richard’s member was dripping. She liked the saltiness. Mei manipulated him back to hardness with her mouth and tongue. She kissed him full on the mouth, smelling of him, and slid Richard’s member back inside her. Mei moved stronger and stronger, gripping him. Faster and faster, sliding herself up and down his manhood. Mei’s hair whipped Richard’s face, she groaned loudly, her neck was wet with her effort. Mei shuddered. She flushed again.

Shuddered again, this time longer, then she had finished. Exhausted, Mei fell on top of Richard. He massaged her wet neck, and ran his hands down her body, then kissed her forehead. It was so easy to love to her.

Mei rolled from Richard. For a while he held her by his side. Then he eased his arm from her long hair. For a while he listened to her breathe, draped her with the bed cover to protect her from the air-con, and slept himself.

The next morning……..she was gone.

There was simply no sign of Mei. Richard waited for her to come back.

Perhaps she had gone marketing, or down to the beach. The morning became midday. Midday became mid-afternoon, became night. The next day, the day after, the week after there was no sign of Mei. Richard went into town day after day, hoping to spot her. He scoured the beach, time after time. Time dragged on. There was never any sign of Mei. She had simply disappeared. Mei had no mobile phone. He had no address for her, didn’t even know her family name; it had never seemed important.

In his desperation, Richard scoured his laptop looking for a sign, any sign of her. Eventually he found a file tucked away on D: drive. The buff coloured file was called – Richard. It was Mei’s video diary, obviously taken with the laptop cam. He watched video after short video with Mei trying desperately to explain why she had left. Clumsily she tried to tell him of her true nature, as a Mei Ren Yu (Chinese mermaid). She spoke of the mermaid goddess Nu Gua, and the power of creation the mother mermaid has. She told of her family, off the coast of Penang. How she missed them, and how she was going to miss him too. He watched avidly, his heart breaking all over again with missing her.

“My poor, poor darling. If only I had known. I would have taken you to see a doctor. He could have helped you. There are many pills now that can help. I am so, so sorry that I never noticed how serious it was becoming.

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Mermaids are a myth. Not true, and you had convinced yourself you were one. I am so, so, sorry to have failed you.”

In one video, Mei revealed a painting, a portrait of a young girl, created sometime in 1913, by a Scottish painter living near Langkawi. It was called ‘Straits Mermaid’. The image looked very much like Mei, only the hair was a dark green. Richard remembered thinking that her hair was dark green before, but dismissed the thought and convinced himself that it was black.

He watched those videos. He learned of her love for him, but Richard couldn’t believe what he was watching. She seemed deeply delusional.

Without him mentioning, she knew of his body slowly eating itself from within. He had never mentioned the cancer. She said that sea-folk could stay and give strength to a land person for one year only. After that, they must return to the sea, or die. Tears streamed down Richard’s face as he watched, remembering his loss. There was a great emptiness in him. If he had known, he could have taken her to a psychiatrist, done something, saved her somehow.

Richard went to the police, to the hospital to see if there were any drownings, missing persons. He firmly believed that she had drowned under the delusion that she was a mermaid. There were never any bodies answering her description.

In his loneliness Richard took to sitting in a deck chair, on the beach, gazing out to sea. Every day he would wander to the beach, shield his eyes, look for her, then settle into a deck chair and remain watching all day, every day. At night he would sit by his picture window, by candlelight, and watch the waves crash on the beach under the moonlight. Richard could see his reflection in the candle-lit window. He was getting more grey, more sallow with each passing month. His research trips to Langkawi were fruitless.

Richard never saw Mei again. He waited for her everyday, every night until the day his body finally gave out, and he closed his eyes permanently.

After the funeral, the bungalow was boarded up by the property manager. A month after his passing Farah, an Indonesian maid hired to keep the bungalow free from unwanted reptiles, complained of constant watery footprints across Richard’s hallway going to the bedroom, the bathroom and into the kitchen. No matter how many times Farah mopped the floor, the footprints would return the very next day. The plague of the watery footprints continued for exactly one year, then suddenly stopped, never to be repeated.

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I love to travel. I often travel between the city and the countryside, for career reasons, and every trip is full of surprises. There is great art and architecture to be admired on these journeys. I mostly admire the work of the Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, who profoundly reflects the simplicity and sublimity of an architect's heart, architecture exemplified by his work at Bruder Klaus Field Chapel.

Revealing his pure inner world, Peter Zumthor wrote in “Thinking Architecture” (2006) ‘It is said that one of the most impressive things about the music of Johann Sebastian Bach is its "architecture." Its construction seems clear and transparent. It is possible to pursue the details of the melodic, harmonic, and rhythmical elements without losing the feel feeling for the composition as a whole - the whole that makes sense of the details.’

I was deeply touched by this, and, as an interior architect, I found my own "eternal language" in the creation and practice of the straight line.

Yes, I chose to draw a straight line - the distance between two points is the shortest, and in each element, a triangle is formed by three straight lines. The triangle is the most stable structure and the most mysterious and eternal structure. It is the most sacred form of faith, architecture, music, all art forms. Thank God. Give me wisdom, I found the "language" to express "heart".

There are various possibilities for memory behaviour, and they are intertwined. Images, thoughts, forms, words, symbols, and contrasts open the possibilities of various methods. I need to find this kind of radial method system, so that I can focus on a certain world from multiple angles at the same time. From a historical point of view, from a practical point of view, from a personal point of view, Looking at feelings.

I love music. I am enchanted by slow movements in Mozart's Piano Concerto, as well as John Coltrane's "ballads". Art has its own territory.

It has a special material connection with life. I think art is not a kind of information or symbol at all; on the contrary, it should be a leader and a pioneer. As John Berger said: “What we remember should not be compared to the end of a line.” I found the “eternal line” as a fulcrum and opened my creation forward. journey…

Tang Lishu

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one woman

Every so often a book appears that reveals and illuminates a project that might otherwise remain largely unknown by the outside world: ‘Colors of Cambodia’ is such a book. This is a highly personal and passionate account written by Martin Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter with a remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in Cambodia, and how she was drawn into practical involvement with the children for whom the project exists.

The book shows how a small NGO run by William Gentry in Siem Reap has been able to reach out to children in local schools, some in areas of great poverty, through the medium of art, and to give them hope for the future in a country that has suffered so much. The children and their families who are drawn into the project prove how art can cross all borders of language and culture. The book also tells of how Malaysian children and their parents have been encouraged to support the project and to become involved with the children and their work.

This is a highly personal and passionate account written by Marti remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in Cambodia, for whom the 76

n’s journey

And there is the additional touch of magic as Pei Yeou and Martin tell of their meeting and of how he too was drawn into the story, and contributes to it, and of how it changed his life. His sensitive words and poetry add another colour to this unique book In a world in which the news is bad more often than not, this inspirational book tells a story of optimism and success, and of how dreams can become true.

Richard Noyce, Artist and Writer, Wales, July 2012 contact honeykhor@gmail.com martinabradley@gmail.com http://colorsofcambodia.org/

in Bradley and illustrated by Honey Khor of her encounter with a , and how she was drawn into practical involvement with the children project exists.

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Myan

by K Kyaw 78

nmar

K Kyaw was born in 1967, in Yangon, Myanmar, and studied under U Kyaw Lay, U Hla Myint Kyaw, U Mya Aye, and U Thit Lwin Oo. From 1988 to 1992 he was a commercial art designer in Yangon. Soon his art works began to be shown and collected at home and abroad. Some of his work is now in the National Museum, Yangon, Myanmar.

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tiarma sirait

Just Pink Me Up

Tiarma Sirait is an exciting Bandung-based fashion artist who is presenting visually provocative & thought provoking installations, performances, textiles & fashions questioning all the conventional wisdoms both of the East & West She began to study painting from the senior artist Barli Sasmitawinata when she was in Junior High School. In 1994, she graduated from Faculty of Art & Design Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB). In 1997, she started her own Private studio for fashion design; ‘Poleng Studio’.

Her performance in design & fashion has been acknowledged by many international art institutions & she has intensively participated in many domestics & overseas exhibitions. In the last 10 years she starts painting again & has participated in many exhibition & has received many astonishing awards in Creativity Designs & Art Awards from many countries; 2017 Excellent Skill Award from the Major of the Nowon-gu @ World Youth Art Festival 2017 in Ajung Art Museum (Induk University), Seoul – Korea; 2015 Finalists of the Gudang Garam Indonesia Art Award (GGIAA) @National Gallery, Jakarta – Indonesia & The 5th Annual Exposure Award competition, her photo has been hand selected for inclusion in The Architecture Collection @the Louvre museum, Paris – France.

The fabulous artworks of ”2008 Won’t Ever Be“ have been chosen as the permanent collection of the Olympic Fine Arts Museum-China. Some of the honouring award experiences were the Excellent Award for the 3rd, 5th, 7th & 9th the ChinaAsean Youth Artwork Creativity Contest @Guangxi Nation Art Palace-China; besides: 2013 "Women & Culture" as one of the 10 women who had been working in the field of art & culture, 88

Send My Love to The Fishes

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Fishing Love With Me

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which makes Indonesia known internationally @Grand Indonesia, Jakarta - Indonesia; 2011 One of Indonesia’s most experienced Fashion Designer from the Australia Unlimited Magazine’s version; 2009 Sariwangi Gold Selection, an Appreciation of Six of Indonesia’s Dedicated Woman Artists @Nikko Hotel, Jakarta – Indonesia; 2008 Finalist Australian Alumni Awards for Culture & Art @Shangri-La Hotel, Jakarta–Indonesia; 2002 Winning to become an Indonesian Representative for the Concours International des Jeunes Createurs de Mode 2002 @Carrousel du Louvre, Paris– France.

Tiarma was educated in the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) in Textile Design, Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT) in Fashion Design & a STINT (The Swedish Foundation for International Cooperation in Research & Higher Education) scholarship Program, Master in Fashion & Textile Design at University of Borås, Sweden.

She is a fashion artist, which aims to support diversity in Indonesian fashion through active participation in the local & international fashion scenes. Tiarma is passionate about developing the creativity of young Indonesian designers through workshops & internship programs & events. She sees her key role in the facilitation of fashion @Poleng Studio as a medium of expression & communication through various exhibitions, lectures, writing, performances & forums.

She has worked quite consistently with pink since the beginning of her career as a fashion artist in 1998 & has brought up pink plastics & synthetic fur to highlight the fickleness, volatility & falsehood that permeate our dearly held beliefs, influences & lifestyles. Through her bold conceptual approaches to art, fashion design & pop culture, Tiarma has explored themes such as love & lust, foreign influences on Indonesian culture & mass consumerism to name but a few. Her art is intended to show the hyper reality in the contemporary context. She used fashion in her painting as a medium to express the journey of her performances. She shows her exploration of her free spirit in her painting. Her artwork uses pink as the main colour. She uses this colour to give an eccentric sensation for her creation. She used pink also because the colour is very girly, kitsch, synthetic. It has been her signature to use this brilliant colour in her artwork.

But, since 2015 until now she is painting with Batik theme.

She has exhibited extensively throughout Indonesia and in countries around the world such as: Australia, Bangladesh, Cambodia, Canada, China, Colombia, Cuba, Denmark, France, Germany, Hungary, India, Italy, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Myanmar, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Singapore, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Slovak, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Thailand, Turkey, Vietnam, United Kingdom, USA & others.

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Pink dress, gloomy mood on a day trip

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Fishing Fish Fishing Me

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METROPOLIPINK ... no love ... no green

Pink Umbrella and the Dragon

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Triptych #1

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Ballari Sen poems

Ode to hunger Beneath dead throbs of walkie-talkie, cycle orbs kept moving It was afternoon naps in dark masculine homes, the only female was a parrot in a cage left to flutter I escaped balconies where memory chips unfurls like a cinema, long shots pass in undulating roads I fled.

Starving for several hours, between promises forgotten I snoozed awhile.

I felt goodbye.

Or tonight, sweetheart, let me starve Let me die.

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Harbinger myth of tomorrow Glow worms as you wished Pushed me to lacy silk threads, number locks neatly opened, pullovers dried with white bed linens It was you, who virtually close my lids and weave my body to a story.

It was around 1 a.m Messages single ticked, doors latched or locked forever, as we pulled the sheets to lie naked and empty.

It was all over.

The fire oozing from wings Killing words, meaning and metaphors.

We had no excuse but to love each other.

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A pot of butter beans and eggs slowly summons alternative routes Drizzling palms grip the galaxy Frenzied dusts feared, a fear that the gates will be closed.

Gates really do not open, unless you have solemn oaths to kill yourself .

I was asleep with ballerina shoes last night together , you pinched a warm capsule , moist shreds of fragrance deeper within your neckline fantasies, I swear I had been hiding all night under your eyebrows, dreaming of oblivion.

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Only a few hundred miles distant Only twenty six silent sentences Measure by measure your arms, neck biceps overwhelmed, charred by dense breathing and breathlessness I filled your eyes with flowing goblets Scattered kisses from someone dearly losing you , drops of lemony nectar had a whisper in your right ear , spelled twice , what happened to be our long growing desire for sorrow As if we slept last night on a soil of the blue hills , made love in the rains.

Ballari Sen, is from Durgapur, West Bengal, India, and currently lives in Kolkata.

She is the author of five Bengali anthologies, along with two English poetry titles, and has pursued her literary career as a researcher. Her field of interest has been poetry, translations of poems from other languages, and changing trends in the history of Bengali literature within a socio-cultural perspective. After being awarded a doctoral degree, Sen visited the centre for linguistics, at the University of Oxford, to work with Prof Aditi Lahiri and Dr Stephen Parkinson on a project in 2012. Sen has been a recipient of Krittibas Puraskar, the prestigious award given by Sunil Gongopadhyay (the stalwart of Bengali literature). Sen has been invited, as a poet and panellist, to the Dhaka Literary Meet for this year (2019), due to her contributions to poetry and research.

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The Principal Girl

Feminist Tales from Asia Sharifah Aishah Osman and Tutu Dutta editors

Gerakbudaya: 2 Jalan Bukit 11/2, 46200 Petaling Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia, Pho 102

Sharifah Aishah Osman and Tutu Dutta editors

Editors and some of the book's authors

The Principal Girl: Feminist Tales from Asia features stories of bold, bright, and heroic women and girls drawn from Malaysia and Singapore, and the Asian diaspora that underlies the rich and diverse cultural heritage of the two countries. All eighteen stories of this anthology emphasise female empowerment, and privilege the agency, strength, and wisdom of young girls and women, over conventionally idealised traits such as beauty, obedience, conformity, and passivity, so frequently depicted in traditional malecentric folk tales.

Of these, eight tales are based on, or inspired by Asian folklore and well-known female cultural icons, while ten are original stories with contemporary settings, drawn from sources as diverse as the Rig Veda and the Sejarah Melayu, to Iban and Kadazan folklore. Apart from re imagined tales of legendary female figures like Hang Li Po, Princess of Mount Ledang, Draupadi, Queen Vishpala, Khawlah bt Azwar, Mahsuri, and Cik Siti Wan Kemboja, and mythical creatures like the Phoenix and Gedembai, readers will also meet the crime-fighting teenager Surya, the scholar and philanthropist Lilly Po, and the beauty queen Eve, who learns the true meaning of embodying the spirit of Huminodun, among many others just as dauntless.

The stories reflect a feminist point of view within the circumstances the characters find themselves in - from having to earn their own living and rising above adversity, to accepting the fact that they may not always be the chosen ones; after all, not every girl will marry the prince, or even want to. Others feature protagonists having to cope with traumatic events, rejection and betrayal, or fighting for what is rightfully theirs - be it a kingdom, or an inheritance.

Aimed at readers from the ages of 11 to 21, this volume showcases the writings of both new and established authors from Malaysia and Singapore, and hopes to inspire its young audience with empowering narratives of various “principal girls” of past and present, all courageous, resourceful, and intelligent in their own ways. These are tales readers will want to revisit, again and again.

Authors: Joyce Ch'ng, Preeta Samarasan, Hezreen Abdul Rashid, Leela Chakrabarty, Wan Phing Lim, Maizura Abas, Sumitra Selvaraj, Anna Tan, Golda Mowe, Julie Padasian, Julya Oui, Krishnaveni Panikker, Latifah Tamerlane, Renie Leng, Sharmilla Ganesan, Shireen Zainudin and Shalini Nadaswaran.

one: (+60)3 7954 1355, (+60)3 7957 8342,Email: emarketing@gerakbudaya.com 103

Maduri Bhaduri Maduri Bhaduri is a Pune based senior artist exhibiting her artworks in India and Abroad for the past four decades, successfully. So far her art works have featured in forty solo shows and more than eighty group shows.

Bhaduri recently had her 40th solo show inaugurated by Smt. Maneka Sanjay Gandhi (Indian Union Cabinet Minister for Women & Child Development in the Government of ruling Prime Minister Narendra Modi) and Mrs. Anjolie Ela Menon (India's leading contemporary artists and an awardee of the Padma Shree in 2000) She had a great start to the year with being invited by the most premium art fair in Singapore- Art stage Singapore 2018, and was the only artist from Pune to take part at South Asia's leading platform for modern and contemporary art - the prestigious India Art Fair 2018 in New Delhi.

Bhaduri has received several prestigious awards during her art journey, including the latest being honoured with the National awardAmrita Shergill Rashtriya Kala Puraskar in New Delhi by the National Institute of Fine Arts (NIFA), felicitated with the National Excellence Award 2018 for an Iconic Achiever in the field of Art followed by the Women’s Economic Forum (WEF) at The Hague, Netherlands for 'Exceptional Woman of Excellence' in Art (2018).

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river gypsies by mahmud rahman

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RIVER Gypsies in Bangladesh, 1995. I have started following the same route after 30 years to finish my project.........

Bangladesh’s River Gypsies’ ancestors have lived on boats, and sailed through the rivers, moving at a leisurely pace through the canals and tributaries from the north to the south of Bangladesh. They are the perpetual travellers, making frequent journeys in all parts of Bangladesh and India.

“We needed no papers to cross the borders; we are people with no boundaries”.

While doing my research, I was told that the “first known settlement was in a village on the bank of the Padma River. The people grew over generations and approximately 300,000 gypsies are now living in Bangladesh. Most of the families have settled on land now, in different districts. The biggest concentration is in a little village called Porabara, in Savar. No one could tell the exact time of their migration in Bangladesh.

“A few generations before, we were rich moneylenders to the poor villagers.” Life is changing fast as people are “more aware and it is not easy to make money out of them as easily as it was before”.

I have come across five groups of gypsies in Bangladesh. There are the Mal Manta - the snake charmer, the healer and fortune-tellers. They are the largest in numbers. Then come the Ojha/Shapuria Manta- the snake catcher, the only group who catch snakes. And the Bajigar Manta - the magician. A lot of people from this community have given up their forefather’s profession. Some are engaged in the making of batteries for automobiles.

Toila Manta are the fortune-tellers who use monkeys for their trade.

Whereas the Shandar Manta are boat people engaged in different professions like shell collection, and vendors selling glass bangles, cosmetics, toys, fish, vegetables, aluminium and plastic utensils. They can also be locksmiths.

Except for the Shandars, all other mantas work as ‘kabiraj’, or healers.

They perform different feats to collect a crowd, or single client, using 116

snakes, roots, herbs, images and monkeys. Some perform tricks, some opt for clowning. The sole purpose is to sell amulets so that they can earn a living.

The majority of people in Bangladesh call them Baida. They call themselves Manta and the rest are Gel for them. Manta probably originates from a Hindi word mangta (asking for something). It justifies the mode of living of the mantas who attract a crowd through performing tricks and charm people - men charm snakes mostly at the busy market places to attract a crowd only to sell amulets or roots of plants for every kind of health hazards. Others carry a rack of antidotes from roots, herbs, limbs, skulls, wings & hair of animals & birds. These can save one from the evil eye, the fear of darkness, from disability, jaundice and a lot other ailments.

Their ancestors lived on boats and sailed through the rivers. They moved at a leisurely pace through canals and tributaries of big rivers, from the north to the south of Bangladesh. They are the perpetual travellers making frequent journeys in all parts of Bangladesh and India, by land, and still do “We needed no papers to cross the borders. The border people let us pass. We are people with no boundaries”.

While researching, I have been told that the first known settlement of the River People is Khoira, a village on the bank of Padma River, close to Dhaka, the capital city. Over generations people grew to approximately 300,000 gypsies, living in Bangladesh. Most of the families are settled on land in different districts. The biggest concentration is in a little village called Porabara, in Savar. No one could tell the exact time of their migration in Bangladesh.

“A few generations before, we were rich moneylenders to the poor villagers.”

Life is changing fast for them. For people who are “More aware and it is not easy to make money out of them as easily as it was before”.

I have come across 5 groups of gypsies in Bangladesh. They are the Mal Manta - snake charmers, healers and fortune-tellers, and are the largest in numbers. The Ojha/Shapuria Manta are snake catchers. The only group which catch snakes. The Bajigar Manta are magicians. Though many 117

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people from this community have given up their forefather’s profession, and some are engaged in making batteries for automobiles. There is the Toila Manta who are fortune-tellers, and use monkeys for their trade.

The Shander Manta are a boat people engaged in different professions like shell collection, and are vendors selling glass bangles, cosmetics, toys, fish, vegetables, aluminium and plastic utensils. They are also locksmiths.

Except for the shandars, all other mantas work as kabiraj, healers. They perform different feats to gather crowds, or apply their skills to a single client, using snakes, roots, herbs, images and monkeys. Some perform tricks. Some opt for clowning. Their sole purpose is to sell amulets, to earn a living. The majority of the Bangladeshis call them Baida. They call themselves manta and the rest are gel for them. Manta probably originates from a Hindi word mangta (asking for something). It justifies the mode of living of the mantas, who attract crowds through performing tricks and charming people. The men charm snakes, mostly, at busy market places, attracting crowds to sell amulets or roots of plants for every kind of health hazards. Others carry racks of antidotes from roots, herbs, limbs, skulls, hair of animals, and wings of birds. These can save one from the evil eye, fear of darkness, disability, jaundice and many other things.

The art of attracting a crowd is a mozma, in manta language.

Gipsy men are addicted to gambling, and falling in love, whether married or single, within the community. Things have changed in the recent past. Some are now marrying outside the community. When all the sardars (group leaders) sit to settle disputes during the Eid festival, in most cases the chaos is over “who ran away with whose wife”.

Among the mal mantas in Khaira, Kanaksar and Goalnimandra, in the Munshigonj District, there are about 400 boats left, reminiscent of past trade. Others live in big settlements like Parabari of Savar are settled on land for “3-5 generations”. Not many of the gipsy families own land or a proper house. However, they all return from banijjya (trade) to their respective villages, during festival time and those of voting.

It is believed that gipsy people started out from Assam, in India. A place called Kamrup still is notorious for tantra mantras, or the black magic. Whenever asked about their origin, a manta talks about their ancestors in Assam, and in Arabia. During a performance, a snake charmer mentions the Almighty God, the Prophet Mohammed, the holy man of one’s choice and the power of kamrup Kamakha, the land of magic.

Early marriage is common. The average age is fifteen for girls and eighteen for boys. For many, this may be only the beginning of several matrimonial bonds. Men are like “water flowing from one woman to another”. But must pay dowry to the bride’s parent, unlike the common practice among all other communities in Bangladesh. ‘A manta chemri (woman) earns for the family. She looks after the children and earns more than a man, in our community.” Eight is the average number of family members in a family, and while women stay loyal to one spouse, men maintain two or four wives. Womenfolk think it fare as men having more than one wife is widely practiced. Some call it buying a bride. The rule of dowry is other way round in manta society, for it is the groom who pays most, in cash, to the parent in order to marry. A marriage will not take place without the girl’s consent, and marriage mostly takes place inside the community. In every settlement people are related to each other in one way or the other. Bonds between close cousins or with uncles or 119

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aunts are most common. In this way, a clan is formed. One leader heads about six to twenty families. All the members will move together, under the leadership of someone old and wise.

The beautiful Manta women, known as Baidani, charm with their way with words, their grace and elusiveness. They are tough, and cannot be easily harassed, although crude remarks at work never stop. Women are not spiritual healers like the men folk. A cotton sack which a woman shoulders at work, contains a few cow or buffalo horns, to suck out foul blood from a painful muscle, or scrapes of cotton to eradicate worms from bad teeth or from eczema. Tricks, called Gaaol in Manta language means going out for business in the villages. A lot of people still believe bad teeth or eczema are caused by worms and not by skin infections.

The woman chants mantras with showers of words. She twists bone or root, then put cotton buds into the mouth to bring out maggots one after another. One seasoned Baidani told me that people are the land to cultivate; and they survive on the people’s stupidity.

Many young manta women are addicted to movies. Halfway during their working day, they must go to a cinema to be happy. Snake charmers, alias Baida, do not know the tricks to catch a snake. Instead they buy reptiles from the snake catchers, from the Santals, the wood people in the North or from India. They are engaged in another unique profession, as gold searchers. As, while taking dips in ponds, village women sometimes loose their gold or silver ornaments. A Baida is summoned. With a metal fork attached to a long pole, he collects mud from the pond in a basket and washes the contents. If he is lucky, he gets 25% of the recovered fortune.

Snake charmers have mostly settled in 2 places : Porabari, in Savar 122

and in Khaira in Bikrampur. In Savar all the Mantas have settled on land. Their last boat was sold in the 1970s. In Khaira, Kanaksar and Goalimandra, people have both houses and boats. About 300 boats sail to the south, with the north wind, in the beginning of the winter. They sail for six months, breaking their journeys at several points.

River gypsies always anchor their fleet in the narrow channels of the big rivers. They stay close to a market place, or a village. Kalkini is the major stopping point on the way back from the south. They stay there for a month, repairing or making new boats . I found 160 boats on the 3rd week of April.

In Kalkini the boat people stay between 2 to 4 weeks. They drag the boats on to the shore and put fresh layers of tar on the bottom of the boats. They repair and colour the boats. The rich Mantas order new boats. One 35 feet. Long boat cost between 20000 to 30000 Tarka. The boat carpenters, living in the nearby villages, have made gipsy boats for generations. Manta boats are decorated with hand drawings, and subjects include bird, flower and human figure designs.

They have big feast called Faita, meaning a gathering of relatives, in memory of one died in the recent past. During a wedding , no food is served, and they don’t go observe the daily routine of Gaoal. Men play cards, a most favourite form of recreation. Some, especially the youths, play football. Women engage in stitching Kanthas, cotton quilts made out of old garments, and young women gather together on the river bank, after making themselves attractive with face and eye makeup. Gambling is a favourite sport among the Mantas. The children play with coins for real. The older ones with cards.

The holy act of matrimony also takes place here. The groom, Sohrab, whom is getting married for the third time, is 27 and gives his 2nd wife, a Talak, which is a divorce, and he is ready for another wife. Sabita, 14, is the bride. The act of Talak is very simple. In a Samaj, which is a meeting of the older ones & the witnesses of the wedding, listen to the complains of both the husband and wife. Everyone is treated with cigarettes and betel leaf & betel- nut. The leader of the group will give his decision later in the day. The divorced girl can be married after three and a half months. Starting a dance during the wedding is unavoidable. Mantas are very noisy people. They pick fights with the slightest provocation. Most of the time it involves money, debt and gambling. They see the vigorous enthusiastic encounters (limited in exchanging obscene verbal abuse, not enough physical assault) as being good for their body and soul.

After Eid, and with the South wind in their favour, mantas will travel towards the North. There is no census of the gipsy people. There could be 300,000 gypsies all over Bangladesh. Baida people are out after Eid-ulAzha, the second most observed religious festival of the Muslims. Under one leader, several families, close relatives, are out for Banijja, trying their luck from one place to another. Bonds of the old days are loosening up.

The younger generations are going into jobs other than those of their forefathers. It is because of the increasing everyday obstacles. Their target people are more educated, wiser now. The hocus-pocus of the tantra mantras are failing. These wandering, carefree and impulsive communities will be history in a few generations.

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to a father I have never really known

by Martin Bradley In your scuffed sepia photo you were Spickandspanwithyourpithhelmet Shortsaboveyourknees AyounglioninCalcuttaandDelhi CountingheadsonchestsontheNortWestFrontier You were the father I never knew ShippedbacktoBlighty Shotupanddemobbed PostwarcollectingHarleyDavidsonparts Magicallystitchingthembacktogether having two distant sons who never talk Civiestreetworkingbutlonging Britishlegionsadasmanynevermadeit Settlingdownbutneversettled MotherIndianeverquiteforgotten Then gone never forgotten never really known 127

Ideological Ma Manuel Ocampo’s Solo Exhibition at Singapore Tyler Print Institute (STPI)

By Elaine Chiew Manuel Ocampo is that artist who makes you think you have to be quite clever to catch all his multi- layered references in his complex collaged works of art. From ‘Cuzco School’ religious iconography of saints and angels, which already contains a level of syncretism that blends Spanish and Flemish Mannerist and Baroque styles with indigenous traditions, to cartoonish modern signage such as Angry Birds and assorted images including aliens, teeth, sausages, eyes, geometric shapes, flowers and swastikas, Ideological Mash-Up/Remix, Ocampo’s aptly titled solo exhibition at STPI, draws upon its unique paper-making and print capabilities to produce a visually resonant and psychologically charged new series of works that continue to challenge taboos, question the inherent meaning of signs, and lace humour with socio-political commentary. In this exhibition, Ocampo showcases his exploration of a range of techniques, encompassing lithography, collography, etching (see Image 2), collage, screen-print, and sometimes a combination thereof.

Ocampo’s prominence began with his first solo in Los Angeles in 1988, cemented internationally by his participation in Documenta IX (1992) -- where he caused quite a stir with his paintings containing ‘swastika’ symbols -- as well as multiple participations in the Venice Biennale (1993, 2001 and more recently, in 2017). Born in Metro Manila, Philippines in 1965, he moved to California in 1985, residing first in Los Angeles (1985-1994), with an interim period in Spain thereafter, and subsequently living in San Francisco (1999-2005). During the period of the 1990s, as mentioned, Ocampo’s works generated backlash and 128

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Cover photo.Virtue Signalling On The Bully Pulpit pt. 5, 2019, Stitched-on hand-painted collages, screenprint and acrylic on canvas, Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI.

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Image 2. The Meeting, 2018, Etching and relief on paper, 38.6 x 60.2 cm. Photo courtesy of Manuel Ocampo and STPI.

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controversy, particularly those that employed Catholic iconography (for example, the crucifix) or ‘swastikas’ in what can be described as dark, chaotic clashes with images of racial and political oppression (for example, hooded figures recalling Ku Klux Klan members). From inception, his intention was to challenge the way we invest certain symbols with meaning that sometimes occludes or erases the history of these symbols.

Iconic works from this period are Las Plagas (1989), I Killed History (1993), and Once Again First in the World (1993). In 2005, he moved back to Manila and has been based there ever since.

The two largest works in this exhibition, titled If All You Are Is A Nail Then Everything Looks Like A Hammer, Versions 1 and 2 (see Images 3 and 4), feature an assemblage of geometric shapes and Ocampo’s frequent motifs of birds, eyes and crucifixes layered on top of images of uniformed figures screen-printed on canvas that Ocampo found from a World War II uniform catalogue. He likened this mash-up to ‘the busy streets of Manila’, where disparate elements canter cheek by jowl with conflicting ideologies, and the artist interrogates, tongue-in-cheek style, his own agency as ‘cultural scavenger’ via the presence of the vulture.

Works such as On a Witch Hunt, The Road to Hell is Paved With Good Intentions (see Image 5), and To Remain Pious The Priest Must Reveal New Sins may carry some of the more formal properties of painting in terms of colour, form, visual flatness and gestural expression; however, Ocampo’s process of collography and use of collage are designed to push the boundaries of painting. The fact that depth measurements are given for these paintings points to its three-dimensional nature; perhaps ‘paintings’ isn’t the right word for these works of art.

Likewise, collography is a print-making method in which materials are applied to a rigid substrate such as paperboard or wood and then inked onto the canvas or paper. In the above-mentioned works, a three-tier layering process is involved: Ocampo first laid down a background of bluish-green and ochre hues, then layered on images of angels, saints and martyrs, and finally, super-imposed on top his usual artistic vocabulary of skulls, flowers, sausages, serpents, Goyaesque devils, just to name a few.

A couple of the works were hung up high in the gallery to simulate the act of looking up in church at religious paintings (see installation Image 12). Ocampo further augments this experience with a painted ‘chapel archway’ of purple words rendered in three languages – Chinese, Tamil, 131

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Image 3. If All You Are Is A Nail Then Everything Looks Like A Hammer,Version 1, 2019. Screenprint, relief ca

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ast paper, hand-painted and screen-painted flags on canvas, Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

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Image 4. If All You Are Is A Nail Then Everything Looks Like A Hammer,Version 2, 2019. Screenprint, relief ca

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ast paper, hand-painted and screen-painted flags on canvas, Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

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Image 5. Manuel Ocampo, The Road to Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions, 2018. Collography and screenprint on paper, 156 x 123 x 7 cm. Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI.

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Image 6 The painted ‘chapel archway’, photo courtesy of Elaine Chiew..

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Malay – as a textual tribute to his artist residency at STPI in Singapore (see Image 7). Consistent with his wacky humour, the name of the purple paint is Deep Faith, which contains another layer of irony.

Ocampo jazzed up this exhibition with two other painted ‘visual tributes’ on the walls of STPI that offer a satirical take on Singapore. The sign that reads ‘Danger – Keep Out’ is a ubiquitous local construction warning sign one sees around Singapore; here, appropriated through its placement in an art gallery, the sign suggests a subtle political critique (see Image 7).

In true Ocampo style, another painted ‘tribute’ takes on the notion of abstraction within art history and using the same visual framework, ‘mashes’ it with Singaporean cuisine to produce a humorous effect.

Two works, entitled Micro-Monument To The Failed Liberation Of The World (see Image 8) and Monument to the Toxic Sublime (see Image 9), function almost like keys in a visual map of the exhibition.

Within Ocampo’s illimitable arsenal of visual images, the ‘culture vulture’, as seen in his works such as Learning to Code pt 6 (Image 10), is one image he describes as having a particular affinity with, and it usually appears as a humorous collaged element on his canvasses. It signifies his status as a ‘perpetual expat’, splitting time as he does between America and the Philippines. It also suggests a teleological Deleuzian ‘line of flight’ between past and present, symbol and iterations of meaning, incorporating various branches of knowledge, be it history, philosophy, literature or critical theory.

All these metonymic historical and cultural allusions borne by what Ocampo called ‘floating signifiers’ might come off as either too cerebral or satirical, but there is a personal dimension to Ocampo’s incorporation of these images. In selecting Cuzco School religious images sourced from a found auction catalogue for the paintings in this exhibition, Ocampo was not only referencing the history and cultural absorption of Catholic paintings in the Philippines, but also his own personal history of growing up Catholic, and feeling terrified by these images. Interestingly, as a college student, he faked Spanish colonial paintings under the direction of a Catholic priest, and the paintings were then sold as authentic originals to overseas collectors. In his talk at STPI, Ocampo further revealed that the recurrence of faeces and sausages as collaged elements on his paintings references his traumatic memory of witnessing his father’s struggle with colon cancer. The personal dimension invests Ocampo’s artworks with a psycho-social aspect that resonates with Ocampo’s wordy but evocative titles.

What’s new in this exhibition is Ocampo’s exploration of all that STPI has to offer in terms of its paper-making and print techniques capabilities.

In his work Sign Points Heterotopia (see Image 11), Ocampo painted on linen pulp paper, which has a wet absorbent texture, with Chinese ink, and Ocampo was happy with the way the ink soaked and spread. Also, for the first time, Ocampo sourced images from the internet, such as emojis and digital icons, and incorporated them into his works; a work in this vein is Trigger Warning: Your Ideas Don’t Have Rights (see Image 13).

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Image 7. Installation view of painted wall with words, “Danger – Keep Out”.

Photo courtesy of Elaine Chiew.

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Image 8. Micro-monument To The Failed Liberation Of The World, 2019,

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, Screenprint on canvas Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

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Image 9. Monument to the Toxic Sublime, 2019. Screen-printed and hand-printed collages stitched on canvas. Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

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Image 10.Learning to Code pt. 6, 2019. Stitched-on hand-painted collages, screenprint and acrylic on canvas, 126 x 116 cm. Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI.

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Image 11. Sign Points Heterotopia, 2018. Chinese ink on STPI hand made paper. Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

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12. Trigger Warning:Your Ideas Don’t Have Rights, 2018 Screenprint and archival print collage on handmade paper, Photo courtesy of the Manuel Ocampo and STPI

Fundamentally, Ocampo seems to be saying: if collaged art is essentially composed of structural layers, then so are signs. So are knowledge and ideologies. And so are paintings, composed as they are with layers of paint, and other things.

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Bandana Kumari

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Absolutely Fabulous 147

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ARTIST

STATEMENT Whatever is inside that is outside As you all know in nature the five elements play a dominant role. They are fire, water, air, earth, and sky. I strongly believe that human body is made from these five elements. My painting consists of birds, animals, plants, flowers and much more. When god created this world, he also made human beings as the wisest species on this earth.

Some of us do not look like animals but posses the qualities and characteristics of an animal. In this world everybody deserves to look beautiful and this brings them closer to various forms of fashion and they follow it as a culture tradition to create their own distinguished identity In my painting I present women as the strongest creature of the god, I show women as a birds, moon, stars etc in my paintings. Similarly of lion, bear, horse, bull, elephant, etc. describe the characteristics of a male.

In this world whatever is outside in the nature that is present inside the human being Like in our folk and tribal society people have a godna culture (tattoo). by holding this culture people makes their important identity, in my human forms the ornamentation is the expansion of that culture Most of the time in my painting I make body of human beings and head of animal’s. In our society where we give respect to female god but when it comes to woman people underestimates them we think that they are incapable but they are forgetting that when it is needed they can become female god .

BANDANA KUMARI

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yong tau fu Yong tau fu is a Chinese (Hakka) dish, which literally means “stuffed tofu�. Fish and/or pork paste is stuffed into tofu or bean curd skin. There are also bitter gourd, okra, large chilli peppers, and sliced aubergines stuffed with fish paste.

The stuffed items are then deep-fried and served with, or in, soup.

Dishes may also contain tau hu (soft white bean curd), tau kuah (firm bean curd), tau pok (deepfried bean curd), tau kee (bean curd skin) and fishballs with a bowl of noodles.

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A wide variety of Yong Tau Fu, some steamed, some fried

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In soup

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Fried with relish

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In spicy soup

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In some Yong Tau Fu restaurants you can also purchase the esteemed Chinese Beggar (paper wrapped) Chicken

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Followed, in Malaysia, by a tasty bowl of 'Bubur Cha Cha', a dessert consisting of sweet potatoes, taro, plantain, and sago in a sweet fragrant coconut sauce. Served warm or cold.

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Dusun Publications The Blue Lotus Publications

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Books by Martin

Bradley 173

Books By Ma

Luo Qi and Calligraphyism (2019) China Academy of Art China One of a series of biographies concerning the Chinese artist Luo Qi, and his contemporary blend of the ancient art of Chinese calligraphy and Western concerns with 'Modernism' in art.

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The Journey and Beyo (2014) Caring Pharmacy Malaysia

A brief pictorial look at history of 'Community Ph in Malaysia, charting the community pharmacies an roots in Singapore and M

artin Bradley

ond

t the harmacy' rise of nd their Malaysia.

Uniquely Toro (2013) Walters Publishing House The Philippines A 'Retrospective' concerning 'Toro' an enigmatic artist from Manila in The Philippines, whose dynamic Pollack like paintings have captured the Asian imagination

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Books By Ma

Remembering Whiteness & Other Poems (2012) Bougainvillea Press (digital) Malaysia Martin's first collection of poetry concerning his life in South East Asia. Many in this collection have been read in performance across Asia and Europe.

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A Story of Colo (201 Everday Art Stu Mala

This is the jo Malaysian artist into working wit children's char and joy of giv and eventually education of Khm book is about the of learning alo volunte Profusely illust Honey Khor (K

artin Bradley

ors of Cambodia 12) udio & Educare aysia

Buffalo & Breadfruit (2012) Monsoon Books (digital) Malaysia

ourney of one t (Honey Khor) th a Cambodian rity, the beauty ving, teaching sponsoring the mer children. This e ups and downs ong the way to eering. trated by artist Khor Pei Yeou).

Martin unwittingly discovers, that there is nothing quite like uprooting yourself from your home of fifty-four years in suburban, temperate England and transplanting yourself into rural, equatorial Malaysia. with its trial and tribulations.

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Antho

The Best of Asian Short Stories (2018) Kitaab Singapore

Best of Southeast Asian Erotica (2010) Monsoon Books Singapore

New Malaysian Essays 2 (2009) Matahari Books Malaysia

Story - Bougainvillea

Story - Awakening

Story - Colourful Language

A sequel to Martin's 'The Good Lieutenant". Reggie Gold's younger son, John, pays his respects and discovers more than he bargained for in the process.

It is a journey into John's past. A journey from John's comfort zone of Blicton-on-Sea, to equatorial Ipoh, and to emotions and cultures he did not know he was ready for.

In the heated atmosphere of an Indian Malaysian 'roti' shop, pubescent passions become inflamed. It is the awakening of young, innocent, desire and the complications which arise.

Not so much a story, as a light hearted essay about the difference between American English and British English, the notion of Malaysia's continuing Colonisation of the mind, and the effect of the West's materialism on Malaysian young minds.

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ologies

Urban Odysseys KL Stories (2009) MPH Publishing Malaysia

Silverfish New Writing 7 (2008) Silverfish Books Malaysia

Silverfish New Writing 5 (2005) Silverfish Books Malaysia

Story - Mat Rempit

Story - The Good Lieutenant

Story - The Orchid Wife

A Mat Rempit is a Malaysian term for "an individual who participates in immoral activities and public disturbance with a motorcycle as their main transport", usually involving underbone motorcycles. This is the story of one wannbe Mat Rempit, 'Abangah', and what happens to him in Kuala Lumpur.

The story of British Lieutenant Reggie Gold, working for the Federation of Malaya Police, and his family in England, during the days of Malaysia's 'Emergency'.

This story underlines the sacrifices undertaken by British soldiers, in Perak, Malaya, during a very difficult time for Malaya.

This is, ultimately, the story of an Indian Malaysian couple, Devi and Chandran, living in Butterworth, near Penang. It is a story of the cruelties and abuses within marriage and how they become resolved.

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BANGLADESH

CAMBODIA

CHINA

WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

ITALY

MALAYSIA

PHILIPPINES

SPAIN 180