The blue lotus 2 by Martin Anthony

Lotus

Issue 2 Spring 2016

The Blue

Arts Magazine

There are a few branches of plum blossoms in the corner of the wall, Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re blossoming alone there in the cold early spring, I know they are not snow from far away, for its delicate fragrance had been smelled before I have seen them clear... Wang Anshi (1021 - 1086)

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

Spring 2016

inside.... 6 Editorial Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

Live Flesh, Dead Flesh, Urban Flesh Short Story

14 A Bibliography of Malaysian Literature In English, Malachi Edwin Vethamani 18 ShuiMo Resort Hangzhou, China 28 The Persian Poetry of Shirin Khabbaz 33 Rafael Serrano, Paintings

48 12th Zhejiang China Annual Asian and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition 80 Alessio Schiarvo, Variations

114 Last Summer in Scotland Sasenarine Persaud, poetry 4

117 Forgetting and Remembering Review of Sasenarine Peraaudâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Love in the time of Technology 120 The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye Sonny Liew 122 The Innocents of Queenie Chow Paintings 140 Poems, Paul Gnanaselvam 144 The Mysterious Angel Mark Walker 146 China Art Talks Martin Bradley talking about Contemporary Art

in Zhejiang Province

152 Chinese Cuisine Eating in Zhejiang Province, China

174 Saddiq Dzukogi poetry

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine Spring 2016 cover: Honey Khor ShuiMo Resort, China

Editor: Martin A Bradley

email: martinabradley@gmail.com TBL TM Published Spring 2016

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

Welcome to the second issue of

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine.

With this issue we spring into the new year, 2016. The Blue Lotus, for those picking this up for the first time, replaces Dusun and Dusun Quarterly, its previous incarnations, to bring Art and Literature together in one place. These free magazines have grown out of an unwillingness to kowtow to various editors who like to play god with submissions, especially were I currently reside. It has aslo grown out of a need for a vehicle where Art and Literature might be discussed, openly, honestly. We cover Fine Art, Literature, Travel and Food writing too from right across the globe, to places such as America, China, Iran, Malaysia and Nigeria (in this issue). The Blue Lotus encourages international support and aims to bring Asia to the world, and the world to Asia Now read on

Martin Bradley (Founding Editor).

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine is an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asia to the world, and the world to Asia

Live Flesh, Dead Flesh, Urban Flesh by Martin Bradley

In equatorial mornings I water my petite garden of English growing herbs; rosemary, chives, basil, mint, oregano, marjoram, tarragon, dill. Partly in shade, partly in sun. They remain a little shy of the full Malaysian suburban heat. They need a place slightly sheltered. I, and they, survive by measuring our exposure. We are still fragile. We are still subjects of temperate climes trying to exist in lands the Chinese had once dubbed as Nanyang. We struggle, trying to adjust to new cultures while remembering our own within the everyday experience of embedding. There was a time, a lacuna between boyhood and manhood, when I was freshly sixteen, naive, still somewhat innocent, released from the strictures of college, newly working as apprentice bookbinder, repairer, restorer in the small town of Coggeshall, in Englandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s East Anglia. According to ancient ledgers, the Manor of Coggeshall was once owned by a Saxon freeman named Cogga. At the time of that villageâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s entry into the Domesday Book there were two mills, about 60 men with ploughs and horses, oxen, sheep, woodland with swine and a swineherd, four stocks of bees, one priest, and four cobs. Coggeshall has an antiquity dating back to the Mesolithic, before Saxon times, before Roman times. That gentile town has an ancient air. A slow, time-worn thickness, echoing times before Christianity, pagan copses, notions of Jack-in-the Green, (The Green Man) as told by Cistercian Abbot Ralph (1300s), of Coggeshall Abbey. I had fallen out of college into bookbinding, repairing and restoring. During hazy, romantic, June days I could be found scraping dried, dusty leather from antiquarian books, watching leather dust mites float in summer sunlight streaking through infrequently cleaned window panes. I spent mornings scraping down book spines, leather dust on my hands, in my face, in my hair. The smell of desiccated leather permeated the air, musty, ancient. I learned to measure enough, just enough leather, to re-cover books. Learned the sharpening of flat knives for the paring of animal leather, enabling leather to bind to books with undue bulk. I learned leather staining. Leather came as a pink brown. Most clients needed their refurbished books to fit with existing libraries, dark, stained to match. The same Master bookbinder, trained in the book binaries of Cambridge, who chased me to finish book re-covering took me, during lunch times, out the back of the Tutor barn we bound in, into the lengthy tree lined gardens, across a small stream and into the copse of trees beyond. There I learned to shoot. My youth had given me the opportunity of air rifle management. Shooting with a friend in Elmstead Market. The Master bookbinder revealed the power of shooting with an American pump-

action, single-barrelled shotgun. Our sport was unlucky pigeons, not so fleet partridges and incautious pheasants. The unpleasantness of the sudden deaths echoed around the blue skies, Tudor mansions, sleepy town. Then, killing over, freshly dead flesh (still feather covered) in my hands, unpleasantly warm, I was to carry our dubious prizes back to the cold, slaughtered dead leather flesh used to bind books. It was a time of cured, soaked, painted, limed, fleshed, delimed, bated, pickled, degreased, tanned, split, shaved, neutralised, dyed, fatliquored, sammed, dried, staked, buffed and brushed Skiver, Calf, Goat, Saddle pigskin, Sheepskin, goat or calf vellum, and parchment. The dead game flesh contrasted with long dead flesh of the materials for binding. I was unable to reconcile the one with the other. I knew pig to be from the once live animal, calf, sheep, goat too. The names were the names of their live counterparts and yet I was unable to complete the puzzle. The dead and the live remained separated, the one not the other in their flesh or leatheriness Years later, after youthful sojourns in communes in Halifax, sex, beads, bells and kaftans, the deadness of flesh, its stench, the shock of the bolt hitting flesh, stunning, killing shocked me into the reality of being a carnivore. I was to experience the stench of spoilt offal. The awful waste of slaughterhouses. The waste of animal waste. Shovelling detritus into a small open-sided yellow Council lorry, being rewarded with a pound of freshly prepared plump, glistening, sausages for my efforts. It was only four years from bookbinding. Four years but a lifetime in experience. I was far from being an angel but had fallen from middle-class artisan to pariah work. It was all for the love of the road, the quest for Existentialist experience and novelty of flesh revealed by teen passion, foreplay, fondling and protestations of love. Much later, as unkind years were beginning to catch up to the once svelte youth I was, I had begun dragging my copious weight around northern Malaysia. Those lands remain permanently ravaged by tin dredgers. Those monstrous machines, of which there were 105 working in 1929, scraped huge holes in the green landscape, raping the Malaysian countryside. However, due to the good grace of nature, those gouged holes had finally given life back to the environment, forming fishy lakes, with otters. I lived in the qurban days of sandy silvery Perak, watching blood of slaughtered buffalo wash onto the small compacted dirt track, passing through the rambling kampong. Small drops of fresh blood, remnants of life spray, dripping from rambutan leaves onto ant heaps. Masked Muscovy ducks looking on, uninterested as humanity went about its murder. In

the hullaballoo, the anticipation, waiting, parcels of dead animal were handed out into the kampong community. Deceased flesh softening in long hours of cooking for the communal repast, revealed sweet flesh of tenderised buffalo internalised, becoming flesh of man amidst kampong trees of banana, coconut, bushes of lemongrass, pandan, incipient shrill laughter of children and the incessant scratching of chickens. I can recall those distant mining-pool days, watching lone anglers fish, their catch flip-flopping, turning in white plastic buckets, kingfishers onlooking as the evening sun finally rescinded its rays, herds of forty doomed water buffalo roaming in their imagined freedom, herded by motor-cycle men towards the roseate end of the day and, for some, their end too. It is recalled as I am seated in suburban Selangor, a place where Bugis settlers had once historically displaced Minangkabau from Sumatra. The dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heat sidles through my open studio window, continuously moistening my far from slim frame, making my flesh drip. With an effort I stand, close the window, close the wire frame keeping insects at bay, watch a resident nude cikcak scamper away. I still think about flesh and its nakedness, its yearnings, tanning and the names we use to distance ourselves from the reality of dead flesh. I turn the air-conditioning on; my heaty skin still leaking sodium, chloride, urea, oily fluid traces on my preserved wooden desktop. The heat of the punishing August sun finally eases. Jambu and Jackfruit trees become silhouetted against an uneventful sky. I dress in the luxury of air-con. Striped shirt. Fawn Cargo trousers. Smile to greet friends with. She, the artist who saved my life, drives me to restaurant which is less than a Middle Eastern than Turkish restaurant. She knows my penchant for the grilled foods of the region and for the nakedness of female abdomens. The Bangsar air aches for rain. Parked, we walk to the lift on floor B1,of the Bangsar Shopping Centre to greet our sculptor friend. Unknown to us, in this Hungry Ghost Festival month when fuming joss sticks, paper money and inflammable objects ignite to appease ancestors, down the road, two hours and one day earlier at the very beginning of the festival, in a Bangsar South City office complex, a woman crashed her Perodua Viva onto the steps of her former office block. Inside the car were three bottles filled with petrol, a gas cylinder and two boxes of fire crackers. The young woman, it is speculated, set herself on fire after the embarrassment of private fleshy photos being seen at her former workplace. She burnt 50% of her once lively and vibrant flesh. A social media shark flesh fest resulted soon after, relishing a video of the drama, speculating upon the cause, gawping, gaping at one womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sadness, resulting in her macabre self-immolation.

I, in ignorance of the former, eating char-grilled chicken and lamb, with a tangy garlic dip. We are in the restaurant, oblivious to the stranger’s fiery tragedy. There are, after all, degrees of separation. In our ignorance of the young lady’s misfortune we watch another young lady entertain us, dancing, in that eatery. She gyrates with the Raqs Sharqi, la dans du venture (the dance of the stomach), the dance which Sol Bloom, at the Chicago Columbia Exposition (1893), once referred to as a Belly dance. The name stuck. Belly dance is one of the oldest forms of dance. Some say that it originated millennia ago, in Egypt, or The Middle East, but other authoritative sources suggest Rajasthan, India. Perhaps it began with the semi-nomadic peoples who later became known as gypsies (coined from a misunderstanding of their origin - Egypt). The evening’s dancer begins and immediately beguiles. She enchants her way around the restaurant. She twirls her rainbow coloured scarf, flashing yellow, red, blue in the dimmed light. She and her dance is more graceful than Princess Rajah’s vintage vaudeville (1904) performance. She swirls her scarf. This lithe dancer’s flesh catches purposeful light within the intricacies of her clothing, and of her performance. She revolves, her supple body caught, enmeshed within the heart pounding Arabic music. Amidst her weaving of dreams, suddenly, she and the music stop. It is a splash of cold water in our faces. We awaken. She rolls her tongue. Gives a shrill high-pitched ululation. That sound, like a referee whistle has us, momentarily, stunned. All in the restaurant gaze at her. It takes one, two, three, four seconds. She and the music resume. We, once again, are held her captives. Her dance, along with the atmosphere, are now at fever pitch. She undulates, rolling her abdomen, sways, curves. Her seemingly independent hips oscillate with the music. I, for one, am enraptured. I am hypnotised, caught by her rhythm and the rhythm of the music. I gaze at glimpses of exotic, not erotic flesh, an aid to her movement not a temptation to touch. She is a sublime dancer in celebration of womanhood, caught in an age old dance originally meant to be seen by women alone, she is all woman, all women, she is Isis, Terra Mater, Gaia. She and her dance outstrip golden age film dancers Tahi Carioca, and Samia Gamal, she glorifies in her arabesques, she is serpentine, nimble, agile and utterly, utterly mesmerising. We all, dancer and audience, are held captive by the confines of the music, her dance and the restaurant. It is as if it could, would, should never end. And then, it does. Evening turns to night. There is stillness after the excitement. A lack. Our chattering outside the restaurant seems unable to fill the gap left by music and the dancer. Realising this, we utter our goodbyes. We do

the pretend kissing, this side and that side, with our friend. We, never, actually, touch lips to flesh. She smiles, we smile. After an uneventful ride, we are home. I shower. The water is barely a trickle over my body. It is something that I have grown used to in our house. We grow used to most things; the change in the weather; the change in ourselves; the disappearance of youth and ageâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rapid onset. I stand, washing the scent of smoky shisha, Turkish coffee and the evening from my hair, from my Cartesian flesh. I ease the soap, scented rose, hand made in Australia, onto my hirsute self remembering that I must rise early. I have herbs to water. The equatorial atmosphere, which is foreign to both the small garden and myself, is a constant. The herbs, like I, are still adjusting to the heat which wilts us at this time of year.

A Bibliography of Malaysian Literature in English by Malachi Edwin Vethamani

This bibliography is an update of a bibliography that was published in 2001 with the aim of providing data on Malaysian writing in English, both works written in English and those which have been translated into English from local languages. The works cited in this bibliography are by writers born in Malaysia, some of whom may be residing overseas but their writings continue to strike a chord with Malaysians. The bibliography also cites works by writers who reside in Malaysia though not Malaysian-born. This edition of the bibliography provides details only of the four main literary genres: novel, short story, poetry and drama. The early major Malaysian writers often worked across genres, for instance, Lloyd Fernando, K.S. Maniam, Shirley Lim, Salleh ben Joned and Kee Thuan Chye. This has changed to some extent over the last two decades with the emergence of more Malaysian writers and these new writers seem to focus more on a single genre. Malaysian literature in English is a relatively new literary phenomenon and its origin can be traced to the late 1940s, in the activities of the Literary and Debating Society of the King Edward VII Medical College Union which published , the first journal to publish literary work in English in Malaya and Singapore. With the establishment of the University of Malaya in 1949, was transferred to the university’s Raffles Society and it took the name of . The inauguration of Malaysian and Singaporean writing in English was influenced by a group of literary intellectuals who attempted to develop a hybrid language, called “Engmalchin”, that would unite the multi-ethnic population of Malaya and Singapore. However, their idealistic attempt was doomed from the beginning. The new hybrid language failed to gain much support and was abandoned by the mid 1950s. Its advocates rather inaccurately construed that Engmalchin would be the common language that would evolve for multiracial Malaysia and also failed to foresee that language planning policies in newly independent Malaya would relegate English to the status of a second language, in favour of the national language, the Malay language, and deemed all writing in English as sectional literature. Writing in English in Malaysia has been kept alive largely through the determination of an English educated minority. The reception of writings in English in Malaysia has often ranged from hostility to near indifference among a majority of Malaysians but these early writers persevered in writing in English. After a lull period of writing between the mid 1960s and mid 1970s, there has been an increase in the number of Malaysians writing in English. Some of these writers have openly stated that the English language is not just a preferred medium but also the only medium through which they can channel their creativity most efficiently. As such, the English language remains their only means of 15

literary expression. Although Malaysian readership of English literary works remains small, there has been a more positive trend in Malaysian writing in English since the 1980s. Shirley Lim winning the Commonwealth Prize for Poetry in 1981 was a landmark achievement for Malaysian writing in English. And since 2003 there have been more significant recognition of the works of Malaysian writers with novelists Rani Manicka, Tash Aw and Tan Twan Eng winning international awards. Malaysian writers continue to make their presence felt in the international literary landscape and in various genres. The most recent achievement is Zen Cho winning the Crawford Fantasy Award for her short story collection entitled in 2014 published by Fixi Novo. She has gone on to publish her debut novel with the international publisher, Penguin Random House. Initially, Malaysian literary works were mainly published in local and foreign university journals and by a few local and international publishing houses. Since the early 1990s there have been more local and international publishers publishing the works of Malaysian writers. The contribution of local publishers has been very significant and has received international recognition. In 2014, Fixi Novo publisher, Amir Muhammad, won the Bookseller International Adult Trade Publisher Award at the London Book Fair. Writers now also have the option of publishing e-books and there is an increase in the number of online literary journals and literary publications that provide opportunities for Malaysians to publish their creative works both locally and abroad. A number of new developments have further helped in the growth of Malaysian literature in English. There has been a proliferation in the number of creative writing workshops now available for aspiring writers and even creative writing degree programmes are available in local private universities, like the University of Nottingham Malaysia Campus. Another relatively recent phenomenon is the emergence of literary festivals in Malaysia, of which the Georgetown Literary Festival is probably the best-known and well-attended. There are more opportunities for writers to read their work to the general public and many young writers have formed writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; groups to support each other in their writing. All these developments bode well for Malaysian literature in English. It seems to be moving away from the rough ride it received in its early days. Though Malaysian writing in English may still face some marginalization within the country, its writers have now found local and international publishers who want to publish their works that give access to readers all over the world. Malachi Edwin Vethamani University of Nottingham Malaysia Campus November 2015

The Shui M within w overseeing C in Hangzhouâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Mo Resort is set back wooded mountains Chaoshan Plum Park, s Yuhang district, China.

China’s Plum Blossom

Luxury

Southeast of the renown Chinese city of Shanghai, accessible via the high speed ‘Bullet train’; close to the energetically emerging city of Hangzhou, is the freshly opened, and extremely comfortable refuge of the Shui Mo Resort. The elegant Shui Mo Resort is set back within wooded mountains of the Chaoshan Plum Park, in Hangzhou’s Yuhang district, 35 kilometres, or half an hour, beyond the burgeoning Hangzhou city and just 5 kilometres from the local town of Tangqi. Now a very popular local tourist destination, the Chaoshan Plum Park area, also called "Ten Li of Plum Blossoms are as fragrant as snow flower sea”, is famous for its heavy carpeting of startling Spring plum blossom and its thousands of visitors every year. Within that park area ancient plum trees, many now exceeding 1,000 years of gnarled growth, still produce their fragrant flowers. Set back within the floral calmness of those plum trees, the peaceful and awe-inspiringly Shui Mo Resort itself boasts of over five thousand trees and bushes, and a serene lake for inner and outer reflection. Overlooked by majestic mountains, the Shi Mo Resort styles itself as a ‘high end, scenic, boutique Bed and Breakfast arts resort’, covering 2,800 square meters within the Chaoshan Plum Park area. It is the brainchild of Chinese entrepreneur-chef Zhu Lian Zhong. The Resort is set beside a stunning 5,000 square meter lake. The architecture and interior designs encompass the best of Mediterranean, South East Asian and Chinese styles to bring a coterie of calming sensations to encourage rest and recuperation from the busy lives enveloping us all. Throughout what could only be termed a luxurious resort, Zhu Lian Zhong has spread his vast personal collection of Chinese antiques from dynasties as diverse as the Soong and Ching, as an open museum for his appreciative guests. Luckily my wife and I share a mutual friend with Zhu Lian Zhong - the Chinese Contemporary artist Luo Qi, who kindly arranged for us to stay in the Lakeview Gardens Chinese suite, Room 105, in the very lap of luxury for one night, just prior to our departure from China. We had been traipsing around after artist Luo Qi for a week through Zhejiang Province, in Eastern China. He had led us to museum after museum, gallery after gallery, summit after forum and fascinating town after intriguing town, until we were cultured out and ready to drop. The one night’s stay at the Shui Mo Resort was a pleasant surprise, and the very fine icing on what had been a carefully crafted cultural cake. The evening we arrived, having just travelled from the ancient Chinese town of Xitang, we were ushered to our suite with barely time to appreciate the resort’s grandeur until, that is, after dinner and during the following 21

sunny day. We each took a quick shower in a resplendent wood, chrome, granite and concrete themed bathroom, actually containing a (Roca) bath. Then a nimble, disbelieving, gaze at the all-wooden Four-Poster Bed, and a not-too-leisurely walk to the dining hall. Therein lay one large, round, wooden table, bedecked with cold starters. From a place-setting consisting of two elegant white plates with blue Chinese filigree designs, the larger at the bottom, a small bowl containing longans and melon cubes at the apex, we were to launch into the most sumptuous of Chinese meals. There were eight cold appetisers, including the softness of red and brown cold cubed beef and the sweet/sourness of chopped chicken with soy sauce dip. In time there came a sheer heavenly taste of a local lamb dish, on and off the bone, which surprised and delighted us all. A braised pork, soft, succulent in the way only Chinese can make and a health embracing soup. It was at that dining room, within the Shui Mo Resort, that I finally became acclimatised to the combination of bacon and fish, in one dish, having tasted variations of that throughout our stay within China’s Zhejiang Province. Previously, it would never have occurred to me to combine the two. Dessert was glutinous rice balls, swimming in a slightly sweetened broth, appearing in a small, white, bowl resembling a lotus. The softness of the luxurious bed, the weariness of the day’s travel and the quiet of the surroundings lulled us to sleep. Morning broke with gentle Autumnal rays of sunshine shining through the resort trees, glinting off the lake and highlighting a bird perched just outside the suite window. It was time to shower with the provided French L’ Occitane shower cream and shampoo. Then a quick nosey around on the way to breakfast. A white marble statue of the Chinese Kwan Yin Goddess of Mercy, had been placed within a rockery resembling Chinese mountainscapes. As we stood watching, admiring, taking pictures, subtle white mist drifted from secreted pipes, making those mini-mountains romantically misty. It was a most beguiling effect, especially with the mid-pink bougainvillaea in the background. Inside and out, the Shui Mo Resort blended the natural and man made. Genuine Chinese antiques rubbed shoulders with innovative new designs to form a homogeneous whole. It was all so very delicately designed to make guests feel at ease, a place where Chinese calligraphy might be made, poems read and artists sit to philosophise with writers. Our one night in the Lakeview Gardens Chinese suite of Zhu Lian Zhong's Shui Mo Resort, was a dream come true. And yet, while the resort was undoubtedly amazing at any time of year, I quickly realised that to gain the maximum from the amazing surroundings, it would be 22

better to return at the beginning of Spring, January to February, when the plum trees are in blossom and the air resplendent with their blossomy fragrance. The very luxurious rooms of the Shui Mo Resort, are priced between Yuan (짜) 1,380 (approximately 212.136 USD) for the Mountain Southeast B room to Yuan (짜) 2,380 (approximately 365.858 USD.) for the Deluxe Continental B, depending on size and luxury required.

‫‪The Persian Poetry of Shirin Khabbaz‬‬ ‫میدمآ یم هک هار رد‬ ‫میدید یگرزب یاه هناورپ‬ ‫‪ ,‬دندوبن ناساره چیه ‪ ,‬چیه ناشگرم زا هک‬ ‫‪ ,‬هدیچیپ رون رد‬ ‫دندیراب یم‬ ‫‪.‬یناشیرپ یاهتنا ات‬ ‫میدمآ یم هک هار رد‬ ‫‪ ,‬میدید ار ینز و درم‬ ‫کیرات ناشیاه هرجح رد هدنام‬ ‫‪,‬دوب ناشنایم رد ایرد و‬ ‫‪ .‬اوجن رپ و عیسو‬ ‫میدینش ار اه هرجنپ تداهش‬ ‫قشع یهاوخداد رد‬ ‫‪ .‬میتسب ورف مشچ و‬ ‫میدوب نیگمغ ام‬ ‫‪ .‬یصاع و نورتس یاه بش زا‬ ‫نام هشیدنا و‬ ‫‪,‬قاتسود رد هدنام ‪ ,‬روجنر دوب ییوس روک‬ ‫‪.‬روجهم‬ ‫‪ ,‬بش مامت‬ ‫‪.‬میتسجیم ار دور ناشن ‪ ,‬بش مامت‬ ‫دوب دور اهنت‬ ‫‪,‬ریلد دور‬ ‫اباحم یب هک‬ ‫تشرس یم یهام شقن‬ ‫اه ایرد ناوسیگ ریرح رب‬

‫‪28‬‬

years without Ordi Behesht, years of hot and humid chambers, years of burning fevers and pounding nights, years of fondness for

wave's coquetry

in distant islands years of the sun and sizzling sands, years of sandals and touch of the water, and reconciliation with humility of the nudity years without Ordi Behesht, and ceaseless summers, and labour and labour and labour, the restless torridity of the thirst lonely years without Ordi Behesht, years of thunder and storm, they were ruling years of the rain and ash pile of the coy desires drowned in our innocent marine minds

‫میدید یگرزب یاه هناورپ‬ ‫‪ ,‬دندوبن ناساره چیه ‪ ,‬چیه ناشگرم زا هک‬ ‫‪ ,‬هدیچیپ رون رد‬ ‫دندیراب یم‬ ‫‪.‬یناشیرپ یاهتنا ات‬ ‫میدمآ یم هک هار رد‬ ‫‪ ,‬میدید ار ینز و درم‬ ‫کیرات ناشیاه هرجح رد هدنام‬ ‫‪,‬دوب ناشنایم رد ایرد و‬ ‫‪ .‬اوجن رپ و عیسو‬ ‫میدینش ار اه هرجنپ تداهش‬ ‫قشع یهاوخداد رد‬ ‫‪ .‬میتسب ورف مشچ و‬ ‫میدوب نیگمغ ام‬ ‫‪ .‬یصاع و نورتس یاه بش زا‬ ‫نام هشیدنا و‬ ‫‪,‬قاتسود رد هدنام ‪ ,‬روجنر دوب ییوس روک‬ ‫‪.‬روجهم‬ ‫‪ ,‬بش مامت‬ ‫‪.‬میتسجیم ار دور ناشن ‪ ,‬بش مامت‬ ‫دوب دور اهنت‬ ‫‪,‬ریلد دور‬ ‫اباحم یب هک‬ ‫تشرس یم یهام شقن‬ ‫اه ایرد ناوسیگ ریرح رب‬

‫‪30‬‬

On the way we were coming, we saw large butterflies who were not afraid of death, twisted in light, they rained to the end of desolation ***** On the way we were coming, we met a man and a woman, who remained in their chambers, dark And the sea was between them, vast and whispering We heard testimony of windows to plead for love With the eyes wide shut, we felt the sorrow of the rebellious and barren nights And our thoughts were like wretched glimmers held in goals ***** The whole night, the whole night, we were looking for river Only the river, brave river was drawing fish figures on the silky tresses of the sea

‫دور یوس ود زا میوریم هار‬ ‫هک میناد یم و‬ ‫یزاوم طخ ود‬ ‫درک دنهاوخن عطق ار رگیدکی زگره‬ ‫***‬ ‫ساره زا یلاخ‬ ‫سوه زا یلاخ‬ ‫طسبنم یاه لایخ زا یلاخ‬ ‫میوریم هار‬ ‫زور هنابش ره‬ ‫یشزاون یب‬ ‫یشهاوخ و‬ ‫و میوریم هار‬ ‫رود تخب روش یاه هسوب بارطضا‬ ‫مادم دکچ یم هکچ هکچ‬ ‫قشع نیگمرش نابیرگ یاه کاچ رب‬ ‫***‬ ‫‪,‬دوخ هب هدیچیپ‬ ‫‪ ,‬ییاناد و درد یناتساب یاه الوش نیگنس تبیه رد‬ ‫میوریم هار‬ ‫دور تازاوم هب‬ ‫میوریم هار‬

‫‪32‬‬

We walk on the sides of the river and we know two parallel lines will never cross paths ***** Fearless, devoid of lust, and tumid dreams, we walk, every day and night With no caress, or desire, we walk and the anguish of far misfortunate kisses drops, drip by drip on the shy collar kerfs of love ***** Rolled into ourselves, wrapped in the heavy solemnity of ancient suffer and knowledge, we walk on parallel sides of the river

Rafael Serrano Cuban born Rafael Serrano creates what he has described as “abstract neosurrealistm”. These poignant pieces have developed over three decades of residence in Los Angeles. His works recall magic realist Latin American authors, and artists, with the ingenuity of his ‘making’. His themes echo mixed-media works of Max Ernst, photo experiments by Man Ray and films by Luis Bunuel. There is little doubt that Serrano is a voice to be heard, making images needed to be seen with an unparalled passion for his craft waiting to be experienced.

Untitled

Un Poema di Amore

Female Nude

Untitled

visual monologue

Untitled

Murky Lake of Truths and Other Living Things..

Untitled

(12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition a review by Martin Bradley

To the south of Shanghai, within the Southeastern Zhejiang Province of China, the twelfth annual array of Asian and African and Mediterranean art exhibitions took place this November. While in Britain people were unsure whether they were championing the governmentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s defeat of Guy Fawkes, or his brave attempt to do what we all have secretly wanted to do for years and India, Malaysia and Mauritius were celebrating light conquering darkness with Dewali (Deepavali), artists from across the world were converging upon the city of Hangzhou, famous for the beauty of its West Lake and its connections to Marco Polo, before exhibiting across the Zhejiang Province. The 2015 (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition, this year featured a large number of stunning works by international artists. Academics, art representatives and artists from myriad countries as diverse as Australia, Canada, France, India, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Mauritius, Reunion Island and the United Kingdom all came to lend support for his annual initiative. The array was held over one week, and in three differing venues, including two venues in the beautiful city of Hangzhou - the Shang Kun Luo Qi International Modern Art Museum, and the Xiling Printing/ Sigillography Museum. Satellite exhibitions included the vibrant city of Dongyang, renown for its superb level of intricate woodcarving, and Xitang, one of China's preserved ancient cities, and the virtual heart (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and M 48

Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition

of Chinese artist Luo Qi's Calligrapyism, and his museum of Chinese calligraphy. With a great deal of panache, and not to mention hard work and expertise at bringing together an annual show of Western and Eastern art, the dapper Associate Professor Luo Qi (from the China Academy of Art), and his energetic team had, once more, pulled off the impossible to astound, delight and bring a breath of fresh Western artistic culture to China. Chinese sponsors, large and small, enabled Luo Qi to present an ongoing melange of some of the most important Contemporary Art seen in China, from Western artists as well as those from China, and on an annual basis too. In the spirit of ancient Chinese cultural enquiry, Luo Qi had gathered together artworks and artists whose outlook was internationalism and intent, camaraderie. It was no mean task, but is completed each and every year, for twelve incredible years in a row. Hangzhou

While a mild Chinese Autumn swept Hangzhou streets with rain, then sunshine, then rain again, myriad artists from the diverse countries already mentioned, converged on the Shang Kun Luo Qi International Modern Art Museum to begin hanging their miscellaneous works for the greatest show in Hangzhou. It is mildly unnerving to see a large photo of oneself, in black and white, posted on a corridor wall. But like running the gauntlet, all previous exhibitors in the Shang Kun Luo Qi International Modern Art Museum exhibition must endure this to exhibit new work, or assist in the opening of the show. 49

With canvas stretcher artisans already on site, people to help to hang even the most difficult works, and aluminium ladders allowing artists to adjust lighting, and assisting in the process of placing the various shapes and sizes of artworks on walls. It was yet another example of Luo Qi’s forethought, the benefit of his experience, the precision of his team and his own ability to keep a large show smooth running at the Shang Kun Luo Qi International Modern Art Museum, 8, Xiyuan Road, Sandun, Hangzhou. From the French Island of Réunion, Charly Lesquelin’s unframed paintings undoubtedly stole the show. Lesquelin, hailing from a multiethic island where creole is spoken and histories are diverse, skilfully reenergised narratives centred around heritage and personal perceptions of I and Other. As a seasoned painter, Lesquelin deftly, carefully, painted his images on un-stretched burlap, not the easiest of tasks allowing the roughness of the material interacting with the painted surface. But develop his narrative he did. The overall effect was to present, to the enraptured viewer, a stunning comment on race, heritage and ethnicity in a captivating way. Part of the Italian contingent, Silvio Ferragina, demonstrated just how diverse artworks could be within the auspices of an annual exhibition. Ferragina's large scale works ‘spoke’ of the ‘mapping’ of strokes used in Chinese calligraphy, presenting them diagrammatically, in black and white, as if in a modern Dada experiment. They were, and are, a counterpoint to Luo Qi’s own work in Calligraphyism. Another Italian Alessio Schiavo’s main works were reserved for a solo exhibition in the Xiling sigillography museum, one floor below a solo exhibition of Luo Qi’s artworks. Schiavo jnr (Alessio) and Schiavo snr (Marcello) both had works in the main exhibition, with Marcello Schiavo being represented by his superb Modernist watercolour landscapes. Malaysia was represented by the ubiquitous Honey Khor. She regained the pillar she had painted the previous year, and displayed the beginning of a new style of work. Internationalist ‘Miel’ artist, Honey Khor’s works have recently appeared in Cebu (the Phillipines), Figueres (Catalonia, Spain), Hangzhou (China) and Kuala Lumpur (Malaysia) within a very 50

Charly Lesquelin

Silvio Ferragina with Martin Bradley

short space of time. A newcomer to the group, Laure Thibaux-Reinsfield, currently resident in Hangzhou, originally from France, rendered petit snapshots of China in her own inimitable Modernist style. Ganesh Basu, from what was known as Calcutta (now Kolkata), India, exhibited line work reminiscent of the great Indian painter Maqbool Fida Husain (M.F.Hussain) and, curiously, also the graphic content of French artist/poet Jean Cocteau. Another newcomer in 2015, Francoise Issaly, originally from France but living in Montreal, Canada, intrigued her audience with her take on ‘psychedelia nouveau’ - fascinating colourful abstracts with an emphasis on bright colour combinations, organically designed. But, truth to tell, the artists’ personalities were equally as interesting as their artworks, with the irrepressible Charly Lesquelin attacking a drum at the opening; singing to the delight of fellow artists and audience alike. With the advent of the new exhibition spaces throughout Zhejiang Province, it became possible to spread the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition over new and exciting venues, giving extra room for galleries to exhibit solo exhibitions. Xiling Sigillography Museum Seal arts in China are called Jin Shi Zhi Xue, or the study of metal and stone inscriptions. Xiling Yinshe, or the Xiling Society of Seal Arts was established in 1904, representing and conserving the ancient art of seal engraving, for posterity. The Museum, the only national level one of its kind in China, rests on the south side of Hangzhou’s West Lake, on The Solitary Hill, near the Xiling Bridge. Architect/artist Alessio Schiavo, from Italy, and artist/Professor Luo Qi, from China, came together to exhibit their very distinct works in a joint exhibition, titled ‘Connections’ within the Xiling Seal Museum. Housed on two different floors, with Schiavo’s ‘Twenty Variations’ on the lower floor and Luo Qi’s singular Calligraphyism style, on the upper, the two were tendrils reaching out from the main fruitful bio-organism of the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition. Like musical notation, Schiavo’s subtle semi-abstract works sang like an Italian romantic melody in tune with the theme of ‘Variations’, perhaps with reference to the Caprices (or variations, 1820) by his countryman Niccolo Paganini, though there were twenty-four, not twenty, Caprices. On Luo Qi’s black and white exhibition board, we read that he is a member of the China Academy of Art, that he lives in Hangzhou 53

Alessio Schiavo

Luo Qi

and Europe, absorbs the essences of Chinese Buddhism, painting and calligraphy to convert them, in abstraction and minimalism to produce his own style called Calligraphyism. Where Schiavo’s work was quiet, subtle, melodic, Luo Qi’s work was practically bursting from their frames. Luo Qi’s new works had all the pentup energy of Heinz Edelmann’s Beatles’s Yellow Submarine animation. Despite being created in 2015 there was a district retro look to these fresh works, abstracted and abstracted again from Chinese calligraphy, which only enhanced their impact in that quiet Seal Museum, yet reminded me of the very best of 60s Pop Art. Tied together through the title of ‘Connections’, the audience was forced to observe the similarities beyond the differences. It was if the pianist in Luo Qi was presenting an ‘Allegretto vivace’ (A moderately quick tempo) or an ‘Allegrezza' (cheerfulness or joyfulness) to Schiavo’s quieter ‘Adante’ (walking pace) together they seemed to perform ‘A due’ (duet). Dongyang At the Hangzhou East Railway Station (Hangzhoudong), the collective artists entourage boarded the high-Speed train towards Yiwu, and eventually Dongyang, now styling itself as ‘Dongyang China Woodcarving City’, and its wondrous centuries of woodcrafts. Dongyang is well known for its traditional ornate wood-relief carving. This ancient craft dates back to at least the Tang Dynasty (618–907 AD). We were fortunate enough to visit the home of one surviving Master Woodcarver and see for ourselves the wonder of his works. The intricacy of the carving is to be seen to be believed, as many pieces are huge and stunningly beautiful. So delicately are some woods carved, that peonies and chrysanthemums appear real, though made of wood, and natural wood coloured. We were invited to the “Tenth China (Dongyang) Wood Carving Bamboo Arts And Crafts Fair Opening Ceremony Of Chinese Wood Carving of Dongyang City II Opening Ceremony” as part of the World Woodcarving City. With woodcarving ceremonies and summit ceremoniously dealt with, it was time to get back to the opening of the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition, phase two, opposite the China Woodcarving Museum, at the Crafts Fair . Tens of 7 Watt LED energy saver bulbs shone down on phase two of the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean 57

Dongyang tea ceremony

Martin Bradley being interviewed by Chinese Television

Dongyang fine wood crafts

International Modern Art Exhibition. This, the second opening, was animated, joyous and captured by Chinese TV. Spin-off exhibitions accompanied the main event - the “Shin Youngho Famous Artist Exhibition” of Contemporary Korean ink brush work, the “Ninbella” aboriginal art exhibition managed by Australian Grant Rasheed, and another by Luo Qi. Professor Shin Youngho achieved his Ph.D. at the Central Academy of Fine Art, Korea in 2010, since then he has specialised in a form of ink and brush painting, called Liquid Drawing. In his 2015 work, featured in the solo at Dongyang, red and pink frequently found itself nestling with black, white and grey. Daliesque ants, large and small, feature in his large works, many of them on the largest shingle sheets of Shuan (Xuan) paper (138X70cm). Shin Youngho redefines classical ink, brush, painting by means of his focus on minutiae and colour juxtaposition. On a quite different level, amidst the various plots selling luxurious solid wooden furniture, lay the other side of Luo Qi. An open exhibition, the ‘Luo Qi China Famous Artist Exhibition’, featuring Luo Qi’s energetic, yet contemplative, line and wash work from 2009 to 2012. It was a subtle exploration of the poetry of his line, with the overall effect as peaceful as Longjingshan park, and as scintillating as its green tea bushes. And so on to Xitang. Xitang Xitang is a partially preserved ancient Chinese town, constructed in the Ming and Qing dynasties. Millions of tourists flock there every year to get a feel of old China, and marvel at the nine rivers which converge on the town, dividing it into eight sections. In early morning and at night Xitang retains some of its old romance as bright red lanterns are raised and reflected in the dark waters, perhaps in homage to Zhang Yimou. In Xitang Luo Qi has created The Xi-Yuan Museum of Characterism Art Institute, also known as ‘The Characterism Art Institute’. Its website remarks that it “is a non-profit organisation that develops and promotes the modern art which is based on calligraphy and uses Chinese characters as major elements. It collects, preserves, and exhibits Characterism artworks, and organises annual and biannual art exhibitions and artist conferences.” The museum is home to Luo Qi’s collection of Characterism or Calligraphyism works, as well as a collection of artworks, documents and books related to the Characterism theme. The collection also features artists from Southeast Asian, Korean, Japan, African and European countries, not just from China. 72

Korean Professor Shin Youngho ink and brush paintings

Phase three of the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition, was launched amidst the ancient splendour of Xitang, in a rock garden fusing modernity with Xitangâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cultural heritage. It was a fitting end for the (12th) Zhe Jiang China Annual Asian, African and Mediterranean International Modern Art Exhibition, in the year of the Goat/Ram. Luo Qi and his series of exhibitions bring nations together, and goes from strength to strength, getting bigger and bolder each year. It is an honour and a privilege to continue to be part of this.

Alessio Schiavo VARIATIONS

Born in 1965 in Gallarate VA, Italy, he received his degree in Architecture at the Politecnico di Milano in 1990, where in 1998 he became Contract Professor. He start performing his professional career as an architect in 1991 comparing with the design of public buildings, residential activities and the recovery and reuse of industrial buildings. Along with the practice of architecture, he carries out constant research in art, meaning art and architecture as an integral part of creative process. He creates his works by applying

wax on canvas or

paper using crayons of great size. The use of

wax

crayons allow him to establish a direct relationship 81

with the surface of painting. This technique imply a strong involvement of the body through the repetition of a series of gestures; body language is a key part in his creative process, thought to be the synthesis of

emotional and

physical act.

With his works he participated in national painting’s awards 2010”, “ Arts Award 2011”,

which is

(“ Terna Award

Arte Laguna Award 2011”),

in group

exhibitions (“Visions in Black and White” exhibition curated by Barbara Vincenzi, Chie Art Gallery – Studio Iroko Milano Italy 2012, “ArtExpo International Exhibition of Contemporary Art”, curated by Tatiana Carapostol - Venezia Italy 2012, “Draw a Horizon, online campaign CIAI 2012 “Terza Rassegna Contemporanea” a cura di Daniel Buso, Casa dei Carraresi Treviso Italy 2013; “9th Asian and African Modern Art Exhibition” Luo Qi International Art Gallery, Chang Lian, China 2013; “New Proposal part two” Galleria Antonio Battaglia Milano Italy 2013) and solo exhibitions (“Trediuno” , curated by Contemporary Art Gallery,

Giacomo Marco Valerio,

Area 35

Milano Italy 2011, “Trediuno” ComVarese Art

Gallery, Varese Italy 2012). In 2015, with the Chinese artist Luo Qi, he shows his works in the exhibition “Connections” in Palazzo Branda Castiglioni, Castiglione Olona, Italy and in China Printing Museum, Hangzhou, China. He lives in Gallarate together with his wife and his three daughters.

The Exhibition

I look at them now. Look back to my artworks

for Hangzhou’s

exhibition. Now that the exhibition it’s opened, I can see all together these “Twenty variations”, side by side, for the first time. The room is empty:

the moment of the opening is now

past, the people who participated in it are gone. Now it remains only the exhibition, the physical presence of the paintings arranged in this space. So I start thinking about.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Twenty variationsâ&#x20AC;?

Twenty variations, this was the issue that I was given to myself

in approaching this exhibition.

I knew that I would work with my usual elements: a coloured background, a recognizable figure, a horizontal mark. These elements are my reassuring companions. But I did not want to focus only on the creation of a single piece. I imagined to build a larger set, a unified composition whose needs were being regulated set of individual parts, similar but distinct. So I took as a reference the process of

Variation

music : a simplified initial theme is expressed through different modes of expression. In the same way, I tried to define an unitary set thus which perceives the presence of all the individual parts.

watch the exhibition; the paintings are hung on the walls of this rectangular room. Continuous glazing generates a display case that separates the walls from the observer.

An aquarium ... I perceive to be inside an aquarium.. But it is not me that look, I am not the active subject: I am observed from those silent fishes, they are watching me. Those glasses which are hanging around, they do not protect me: they are surrounding me. I am in a large pool observed by fishes. These fishes are all white, but is not the white as a colour, it is no substance , it is absence. The colour is out of them, the colour is in the background. They can not even speak through colour. It's my turn to speak, it is me - the observer - that

must pronounce his words, filling its spaces, breaking his silence. Then I think back to the procedure I carry out to realise them. It differs from how I have acted since now, even with the same subject.

Here I have started to remove

material from the

background. My fishes does not stand out on a mass, not occupy a predestined void. They come later and they took places where already there was a ripple of colour, a slight stain or, perhaps, a thickening shadow. There the colour is removed, watered down, faded. And there, these silent creatures, they go to live.

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101

102

103

104

105

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;My fishes does not stand

out on a mass, not occupy a predestined void.

They come later and they took places where already there was a ripple of colour, a slight

stain or, perhaps, a thickening shadow.

There the colour is removed, watered down, faded.

And there, these silent

creatures, they go to live.â&#x20AC;?

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108

109

110

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My Items The background is substance, is choice, is colour. In the background I experience the intensity and lightness of my way of painting It is not a fund intended as a backdrop, it is not a neutral element. It is meaning, it is harmony of tone, it is musical chord. But it is, at the same time, form. In fact, the colour that animates the background does not saturate the entire surface. He asks to be contained, yes, but does not want to give up his individuality. So he find a way to express himself

through his fleeting boundaries, the uncertain

contours that reference to an external geometry which is not so exact. Creating limits, however fleeting, spaces are defined: the background

is a place.

Recognizable figure who inhabits my places is that of a fish. Why the fish, what

is a fish, what the fish tell about...

I can not answer directly to the questions that I get formulated in these terms. But it is research that I carry within me. Perhaps silence is one of the aspects in which is the meaning of this representation. Silence generates an absence and my fishes manifest their presence just with an absence. Their silence is the absence; their essence is the absence. They are talking about what is missing, what it is not. 112

The shape defines them as fishes, make them recognizable. But for me it is a form-gesture,

it is a form, again, silent.

A silent form which tells about silence. In the words of the music, my fishes are pauses, intervals. I have never been interested in fish as a vital subject. I watched fishes from the depths of the stone that

kept them imprisoned for

millions of years, fossils and locked fishes. I watched fishes of the darkest depths of the Arctic seas, their disturbing forms returned from the atlases biologists. These are the fishes that I looked and probably are still in me. Even if I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find them more in what I do now.

The sign placed horizontally is out of the coloured backdrop. It is not necessary for the carrying out of the action that relates the fish and the space in which it lives in. It stands outside, it is separated, it defines another,

distinct space.

But tries to establish a relationship. Of the three elements, is the one that uses the word, which seeks dialogue with the other two, the one who tries to make sense of the other two elements. Is a sign that

generates stability, gravity, balance.

Perhaps,

it is the ground.

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Last Summer in Scotland Sasenarine Persaud

(1) How eyes look like sugarcane juice and spring-green shoots as we stand on a ledge off Royal Mile unable to leap Into a crag below. How oxygen pumps in chests sound like trains rolling into Waverley Station on a windy wet day dampening clattering wheels Up a hill down a hill â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and why not simply say uphilldownhill â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Starbuck one, Starbucks two American poets lending names to coffee houses we pass and cross Paths all our hearts crying never let me go, never let me go.

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(2) In these clouds, we are mists Above Glasgow, or an ancestral village created from the bogs. In this air sun sparkles on aluminium and steel and you could say: The Clearings We were poor once and over centuries constructed a hut - you cross from the Mainland, you gain a language. You cross from the Mainland you gain a land. Only these are all islands to strangers. Rain water runs downhill through open-tip shoes as we go uphill On toes we might hold or touch or tongue Ordering in the café a hairy pie or a scone gives us language, gives us love.

(3) Threading rings and demonstrating the Airbus’ emergency safety apparatus, metal speaks and air escaping sings. At five, a competition in ancient diphthongs and sibilants crossing With rain and western relatives. How did they arrive on the Irish Isles? Or was that from – academic - when ancestral lands were all joined in a pelvic dance, we are straining to remember it is and isn’t a miracle For forest flames leaping from brown bramble to dark green palms is no curse for eyes, rain no terror for a pyre intent on reclaiming bones. Only today it is fruit and something more we’re after:

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(4) Hold my arm down the wet close down this steep incline grimed at the edges old stones greening take new breath though soles cautious in the close, one slip and we reach that bottom too quickly Hold my arm as none before disengaging in the wink of mind considering consequences and uttering beneath breath, beneath Krishna clouds and Goberdhan mountain, hold my hand hold my heart and never let me go.

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Book Review

Forgetting & Remembering (in Sasenarine Persaud’s Love in a time of Technology) by Martin Bradley

The Latin American, Caribbean, Canadian, North American Yogic Realist poet and author Sasenarine Persaud, was born in Guyana, lived in Toronto, Canada, then relocated to Florida. Recently, Persaud has penned (word processed) a fresh, slim (72 pages), volume of poetry called, mischievously, Love in a Time of Technology. It was published by Tsar Publications, Canada, in 2014. The book’s title is an all too obvious nod to that great Magical Realist writer, Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez’s novel Love in the Time of Cholera, but I shall leave it others to elucidate this nuanced referencing. We live in a world of multiple narratives. Persaud’s “Love in a Time of Technology,” the book’s title poem, walks the same well-trodden path, if not in the same worn moccasins, as William Henry Davies’ poem, “Leisure” (15). Persaud suggests that the fault for man’s gradual retraction from his milieu is technology’s siren call. More specifically – the “Internet.” Perhaps Persaud’s persona choses to heed Circe’s words (in The Odyssey, by Homer), as she suggested that it was better to Steer wide; keep well to seaward; plug your oarsmen’s ears with beeswax kneaded soft.... (The Odyssey 256) to stem that Siren call. Or one could simply leave the router switched off. Persaud’s persona talks of a forgetting of all that is natural by internet acolytes – of “how foxes yelped at night,” “how mongrels roamed in packs howling and barking” and of “fowl-cocks chain crowing” – due to being immersed in technology. For Persaud’s persona the Internet is the danger which ultimately leads to all life, and interactions, being confined solely to it and, ultimately, to a total and exclusive absorption by technology, and the forgetting of the world exterior to its portals, love being no longer strong enough to break the Sirens’ spell. “And you will part as you have met through the portals of the Internet”. (“Love in a Time of Technology” 3) Not forgetting, but remembering, I tracked down a 1940 recording of the voice of William Henry Davies (on the Internet). He was reading his best known poem “Leisure” (on YouTube). Davies’ persona considered that one problem lay not with technology, but with the unwillingness of man to take time to be an authentic part of his milieu, and thus not able to observe simple pleasures in his environment. The siren call of the Internet was not part of Davies’ world, and yet the author recognised 117

a growing inability for human beings to appreciate the here and now, caught, as they always are, in the rush of life. No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare (“Leisure” 15) William Shakespeare had suggested that we move “Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast” (Romeo and Juliet 94). Persaud, in “Orchids,” walks a little down this path with Davies to say: You are looking to Scotland or beyond China to an American or Canadian headland for paper birch while here in your own yard the shrubs you both planted dry before your eyes.... (“Orchids” 7) Distraction and forgetting moves us away from what is before us. Yet is remembering more helpful? Researching for this review of Sasenarine Persaud’s latest poetry book I, unleashed from my mast, ears unplugged, listened to that siren call of the Internet (digital technology). I draped Logitech headphones over my ears, plugged them into my computer, and listened to the BBC iPlayer Radio programme “Poetry Postcards,” and (ironically) proceeded to souse myself with Persaud’s poem “Georgetown.” I encountered an audial jangle of North Indian (Bhangra?) music, I heard of Peraud’s former home, in Guyana. I was told of Guyana’s “East Indian” population forming 51% of the general population, and of the historical replacing of African slaves with indentured Indians. I was informed, that, after years of inter-racial strife, many Indians and white plantation owners had left Guyana, and that Sasenarine Persaud too had left, and returned to visit, after more than a twenty-year absence. For evenings on the seawall drinking soup thickened with coconut milk melting cassava, sweet potatoes and plantains; for your smile in the mornings, a wave from your platform as we pass, the trade wind

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in our faces; for parched peanuts jumping out fingers unto sand and breakers exploding on old brick groynes jutting into the Atlantic’s belly and tempering tides as stars flick on; for conversations on galaxies, or monologues, what if we are from beyond beyond, aliens in this space and the ocean spray sprinkling spectacles and moistening lips; for a first kiss, or second riding around the bandstand, the dance of street lights in your eyes, I would return. I would dare all gun-wielding bandits to walk, linked fingers with your ghost on the sapodilla brown sand. (“Georgetown” 67) Whether heard, or read, Persaud’s poem “Georgetown” wafts wistfully across our senses. It is a fond, yet distant, remembrance of a beloved place and courtship, of an idealised, romanticised time and place, for the two seem immeasurably entwined. It is L.P. Hartley’s “a foreign country” (The Go- Between,” Prologue), where things are done differently. It is not the eternal regret-filled longing of the reluctant expat, but a smile-inducing recollection and perhaps the fanciful remembrance of one who has made his home elsewhere and who, ideally, would return but, and would seem always to be a but, but it is now a foreign country. “Georgetown” struck a chord with the eternal expat in me, a decade adrift and once, momentarily, longing to retire to Penang’s Georgetown. Persaud’s explanation (after the reading), of how the longer that you are away, the more difficult it is to go back, resonated. I found myself concurring with every wistful line of that poem, and with the emotional, faltering, reading by the reflective author as he acknowledged that the poem talks about a then, before, when both being and time were different. As an expat, I too might consider returning for “the dance of street lights,” but different colonial street lights. Maybe there would be different lamps, no longer sturdy Art Nouveau lamps, on streets no longer familiar, but not the angst ridden persona in the Malaysian Muhamad Haji Salleh’s poem “The Traveller.” It is approximately 17,655 kilometres (10,990 miles) from South American Guyana, to Penang, Malaysia. Guyana once had a 51% Eastern Indian population, whereas in Southeast Asian Malaysia the Indian population has been recorded as between 7 and 12%. Persaud’s poem (“Georgetown”) has all the resonances, reflections and coconut milk of that similar Georgetown, on the island of Penang, where the poet Muhammad Haji Salleh was a university professor. Muhammad writes:

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take my love while you can, take my hatred, take my weathered hand if you will, for i shall have no home here, among the dull hard buildings where the heart cannot stay. for i am only a traveller on my way, to somewhere further than here (“The Traveller” 69) For Muhamad the situation is practically reversed. Where Persaud’s persona seems content with the home he has chosen, away from home, fondly remembering Guyana, fondly remembering his former loves and conjuring a romance concerning a return to Guyana (despite “gunwielding bandits”), the persona in Muhamad’s poem rails against his misfortune, chosen or not, and constantly reinforces, to the reader, the temporary nature of his stay. Though no specific destination is proffered, there are enough hints of Muhammad’s traveller returning to a former abode, that which is home, his land, his people, his language. Muhamad writes in the language of the former colonisers, as does Persaud, yet Persaud shows no longing for otherwise. Muhamad on reaching “home” (Malaysia) for many years wrote almost exclusively in Malay. The persona in Muhamad’s poem has not discovered a new home, unlike Persaud’s persona but, instead elucidates displacement and accuses the city he is in of being “the city that broke my heart,” “stole my feelings from me” and of having “cruel streets.” Persaud’s persona has made a home from home, yet not forgetting, for his is not a dislocated pining, but a calm acceptance of place, of another time and country where time might be taken to stand and stare, tend shrubs and dream of a little, perhaps of soup thickened with coconut milk. I have only selected a few lines from Persaud’s intriguing volume of poetry, 1) to elucidate the title and 2) to weigh two different senses of displacement by considering Muhammad Haji Salleh’s poem as a counterpoint. My suggestion is that you try to find Love in a Time of Technology, and read it yourself, and if you are unable to do so do listen to this writer’s poem on the internet, you will not be disappointed, but be aware of technology’s distractions, particularly if you are in love. Works Cited Davies, W.H. “Leisure.” Songs of Joy and Others. London: A.C. Fifield, 1911. Márquez, García Gabriel. Love in the Time of Cholera. Westminster, MD: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 1988. Hartley, L.P. The Go-Between. Penguin Classics, 2004.

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Homer. The Odyssey. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. New Ypork: Straus and Giroux, 2011. Muhamad Haji Salleh. “The Traveller.” Contemporary Literature of Asia. Eds. Arthur Biddle, Gloria Bien and Vinay Dhardwadker. USA: Prentice Hall, 1996. Persaud, Sasenarine. “Georgetown.” BBC iPlayer Radio programme, Poetry Postcards. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p022ys3f. 24 December 2015. Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. Signet Classics, 1998. Sasenarine Persaud is an essayist, novelist, short-story writer, and poet. He is the author of ten books: seven poetry collections, two novels, and a book of short stories. He was born in Guyana and has lived for several years in Canada. He has served as a vice-president and chair of the membership committee of the League of Canadian Poets, on the Board of Directors of the Scarborough Arts Council (Toronto), and on juries for the Toronto Arts Council and the Ontario Arts Council. He presently resides in Tampa, Florida.

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The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye by Sonny Liew

The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye is a biography showcasing the life and work of Chan Hock Chye, a pioneering but largely forgotten comics artist in Singapore. With a career spanning more than five decades, from pre-independent Singapore through its three Prime Ministers, Chanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work reflects the changing political and economic environment in Singapore. Containing Chanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s original illustrations, paintings and sketches, this is a groundbreaking work and labour of love aimed at recapturing the portrait of an artist, whose deep passion for comics and country is given a fitting tribute by award-winning comics artist Sonny Liew.

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the innocents o

Untitled

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of Queenie Chow

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Queenie Chow grew up in an artistic environment. She stayed with her grannies who would share about art, philosophy, poetry, their values and music. At the same time... Queenie was much engrossed in the animated world of cartoons such as Walt Disney, Doraemon, My Neighbour Totoro, Ultraman, Superheroes and so on. A world much of its own... Full of freedom, imagination and values. A world where only the child remains. Just like Peter Pan. Naturally art became her form of communication and a means to convey messages, philosophies, poems, riddles, values and imagination. Still retaining a childlike soul, she sees through the window of her heart. What is really essential and matters is from the heart, and not so much from the eyes. " The Little Bonbon" (the Little Children) exemplifies her journey to discover within her the childlike values of life, simplicity and happiness. She desires her work to be "enchanting in its simplicity". She delights in the paradox that the image of the animated figures suggest. They are "childlike yet soulful" and they shine through. Her characters are rendered in non-realistic style and yet they come alive. This is her challenge. "I want to show the essence of child, not so much what they do. I think even if they are sleeping or sitting still, the posture and expressions speak". She lets the simplicity, naĂŻvetĂŠ and innocence which are so rich in nuance and narrative stand alone in her paintings. The character of the Little Bonbons are comfort, courage and a reminder to hold on to the childlike (essences of a child) values. A contrast to grown up values. Through her art, her aim is to impart these values to her viewers, this is her main message of the little Bonbons. Although we have grown up, the child in us remains both learner and teacher. For her, it is important to journey on... to discover more of the childlike wonder.Â "For we were all children once and some still keep the childlike spirit. My art appeals to children but at the same time they speak to the grown ups too!". 126

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The Everlasting Kingdom

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Had a Dream

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“My art... are expressions of me. Its my philosophies, poems, songs, imaginations, dreams, believes, comfort… I was growing up where I never need to ask for more in anything materials. My granny sit with us daily never fail sharing Philosophies, principles, and disciplines. But are those makes me who I am? I follow most of those teachings and principles. I must have to say that these principles have protected and be good conduct in my life. Something in me is still never satisfies with all given to me. I felt heavy yolk by principles. Where freedom? I can never be myself. Express myself… I can never say or do something silly with my family. I am a right brain child. Never have their kind logic. Most I remember is stay in my home. No neighbor friends allow. While… such active child… I still in need a LOT of friends. Playing with bubbles dew drops on each leaf of my house compound in the morning before school. In the day, scouting, visiting my colorful tiny as well as big black birds and their chicks in their nests. Dogs and puppies… Since, no one really interested on my conversation… talking still my habits but to the sky, clouds, rain, rainbow, trees and their leaf… they melodies, they dance, saying little poems, and teaches me of what heights, what depth, width and length. Their riddles and questions making me puzzle and respond… I called our quiet sayings and songs. I will never share off course, I will be mock and laugh again and again. As I grown, I realized I still a mare human. The world I am in, I can’t near to one. I find sense distance from my kind. I could not relate to them neither them to me. They laugh saying, “Your logic is you logic… or What system you are coming from?”. I speak with my senses, I have strong senses. But sad, all the people in the box, talk the same matters inside the box. Most of it is about systems and numbers. That’s tiresome to

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me. In year 2000 I developed Fibromayglia. “Invisible pain”. Totally body pain 24 hours, with couple more symptoms. I could collapse anytime and no longer breathe. Doctors can help very little, the end putting me in mental house. Giving… mental medication to numb all my senses come with side effects. In mental house, I found insane people have more freedom to express. I have the opportunities learned what insanity about. I believe most

artists and scientists have some kind of insanity in them. I have yet to find opportunities abroad, they have fibromayglia society and support for the patients. As I feel my body is falling… even I wanted to give up… I feel life inside never give in. I grow younger each day tapping more freedom. I found my space my journey clearer each day. I can relate to most people deep but I have not much interest in air talking. Time is short but life I have now must be the best. I am funny and make fun cause I never want people t be in the same situations of me. I wanna to encourage life deserve more then materials. What is really matter and essential in heart. I spend most of my time in art and art projects; here I can be who I am. Even garbage bag are accepted in Art Basel Hong Kong, 2015. My art are my expressions. I don’t do what the market want of me. Art is where I can live in, the communication I need to convey the messages, the poems, songs of comforts that ease pain, the philosophies reminders of my soul, the riddles and mysteries found and yet to be found. I pursue a soulful art. My art have life and soul with it. It’s life. It’s voice. It’s messages where it need no explaination yet connections. I exhibit my art to communicate to more viewers. I knew many are of my kind. My hope that they find their freedom. We cannot control our life spend but we can decide our freedom. What are essentials and matter to hearts. “The eyes do not necessary see... mind do not necessary understand... Let simplicity and pureness take you there”. “There are sharks around…. I might be kind of little child, naïve and true. But do not mistaken kindness for weakness”. “Meekness is a kind of strength. I am growing stronger children. “I will vanish… for centuries rain drops; clouds and all created nature carry messages of The One created them… my soulful voice will join in….” Infinity...”

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Every so often a book appears that reveals and illuminates a project that might otherwise remain largely unknown by the outside world: â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Colors of Cambodiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; 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 Martin B remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in Cambodia, for whom the 136

nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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

Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter with a , and how she was drawn into practical involvement with the children project exists. 137

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A Fly Whizzes By PAUL GNANASELVAM

A fly whizzes by, tranquil wings on leisure drift, twitchy nose, off damp mildews and dust, lifting away an absorption, into the chaos of an absurd tavern. A fly hops in, drawing giddy circles unsure, on slippery cold footing, inspectingin perusal, a spot ascertain its delusions, of a haven suspect. A fly crawls, nearer clumsy and chary, for stains and crumbs, a stopping mindful, almost businesslike, its whiskers, in a quick handshake. A fly halts, choosy and undeterred, by foreboding waves of murderous thwarts, amid an open book, macchiato foam and cream puffs, its head in a salacious twirl. A fly totters, up and down, clowning at wits ends, the trickles of morsels, the lingering whiff of heightened pleasure, the feast awaits, fencingthe treacherous thief. A fly clings, lost- in the jagged edge of

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teeth marks, smeared in maple dust, innocuous dancing, drawing patterns of cream, unfazed by momentary lust. A fly is found, tickled- for this debauchery, allured into class and space, uninvited, to the sweet tempts of innocent folly, desecrating, of banal consumptions. A fly falls, huff and puffstiff and silent, limp eyesdecaying abuzz, broken, locking entrails in ceramic memory, spluttered - across a chapter closed!

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Like a Child

By PAUL GNANASELVAM Like a child- I came, flawless and unwrapped, into the fondness of your friendship. Like a child- I whispered my heart’s content, will unknown, adventures set forth, before yours. Like a child- I played, At mistakes and words folly, Trusting and knowing- they’re Written on vapour. Like a child- I wandered, in life’s little tangles, left alone in a silk cocoon, awaiting for you to blossom. Like a child- I gaped, for warmth and embrace, watching you, distant cold, far removed.

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Like a child- I learnt, your circle filled happiness, joyful and contented- void of my presence. Like a child- I grew fastidious and sensible- lost in an emptiness, truth gained correct and thick. Like a child- I believe, the roads now diverged, the paths brightened, sturdy and assuringI walk my own. Like a child- I grow, mere past a magenta stroke, on fluttering wings I leave, to you I never was!

Illustration by Queenie Watts

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The Mysterious Angel by Mark Walker The mysterious angel sits uncomfortably in the daylight between the money machines and the tricycle stands. Underneath, yet so far away from the opulence of the 5 star the business of doing business at The Peninsula Manila. Yet in the gloom of night in the shadow of Robinson’s Mall she sulks awaiting her next trick. She looks seductive in neon yet the hidden truths of her existence shall be less so. Moans of pleasure are only for payment time is counted in seconds don’t be late coming Children roam like feral cats scrawny, looking for scraps of life on the sidewalks nearby. Mystery subsides and reality takes a grip of your throat. Chaos is but a stone’s throw away from the balcony of the latte sipping elite. Air conditioned comfort for those who can afford it. While squalor prevails all around for the masses of humanity. Angels and devils ride side by side in downtown Manila Looks far less mysterious on a hot Monday morning 144

Illustration by Queenie Watts

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art talk WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

DONGYANG HANGZHOU XITANG 146

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Chinese Cuis bounty from Zhejiang Province

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sine

a ce, Chin n i v o r P g s from Zhejian nging cuisine o soft ide ra oked s w o c h c k r u o s p to has bread. reen tea e g b t o t s e t i n in eve the fi ght beli iations i r a m v e u o h t y ce e provin n o n i azing. m a Even s i s e edibl through d e a r u t n rn Chin e t We ve s a E n ovince i hou r P g n a angz Zheji from H yang to Dong and to finally . Xitang

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fore, e b e n i w Chinese your r e t f a and g n i r u d meal

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Saddiq Dzukogi Your Dirty Cloth is Mine to Wash i will wash your cap and wear it as mine and be sodden in its cloud and blood brother, your dirty cloth is mine to wash and wear, trapped in a box of steel your presence is the water snail loves so much it began to also crawl on its belly. i remember the last time papa washed mama's lingerie he found all the secrets she was hiding in her v, her belly button and all the places that unlocked her and smelled the presence of the men who have knocked and the door opened at her request. he asked her to wash his trousers but when she turned his pockets inside out she saw the weight she's placed and how her laughters all this years have dug holes in them.

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Step-father comes to gather my coco yam inside a vault seated in its night close to you telling me the story of how your step-father split your thighs to dig up coco yam not meant for his basket. each time your mother was working late you make big talk of an empty garden saying I have no flowers to tender in you. you have hid all your stories in each of the groundnut pods you've broken in his farm. no one will go looking for talks in what is sold off to strangers at the market place. you're like my grandmother who keeps her talks under her pillows as snores to bury what creeps out: she is not like my mother whose talk is all in the air burning at the village centre but this instance I want you to be my mother.

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Wedding let them go, do not keep prisoners who have so ruined a cell she consumed me in a crow like an owl traps the moon in its eyes and night becomes a signpost saying that my heart is not cordial to the sun I suffered my tongue forgot the taste of oysters and wine the stars became small and drowned in a seacoast I did not weep for what turned the city into ash I climbed the wind as a leaf singing “there is no vengeance as sophisticated as forgiveness” since the tree was being crumbled by quakes I do not blame her that i’m in the air I bought her roses even the last time she wedded she burnt my heart with news of her wedding I smoked like a television box flooded with high voltage and went off like a bulb that had ran out of light she had gone on to marry a foreigner who ran off with the custody of their child and is now in possession of a living Green Card though I do not love her as a certain dark thing I continued to send roses as much as the sun’s long red fingers throbbing skin until one day my wife and kid signed the postcard I sent her to celebrate her loneliness 176

A burning smile a tree hikes the air from indoors your sweat imprinted on a recto what it brings expels the odour of what vultures leave behind everything organic behind a closed door walks away as maggots

from the marshland

before I went to sit in the leaves under your canopy the penumbra of the tree having a harsh pillow talk with the sun I was a ripe melon seated in pieces of self after an accident took me away from the hands of a child learning to have a grip on things that aren't his toys here on this courtyard when the sun could see every sand and beat it up with a burning smile you are the eyes of the moon that have taught me to be a kite in the sky of a warehouse lifting and dragging across a spectre you teach me to ride a breath while reading a line you are the punctuation invisible between words telling a story of how to read a poem in a smile

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June/July 2013 Ridiculously Free

e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture

nabina das sue guiney julian good ankur betageri

rodney p. yap

gerry alanguilan jeganathan ramachandram 1

Dusun Pu Books by Martin

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Bradley

ublications 179

CAMBODIA CHINA

WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

MALAYSIA PHILIPPINES SPAIN 180