Forward, from the Artist, a Few Words, About How He has Good Feeling Toward This One, and Trying to Point It Out for You


I am in a lot of pain today.  The weird thing is that I cannot quite locate it, or tell whether is it physical or mental.  Could it be a form of severe jet lag? Is this mal-nutrition? Is this some kind of psychological trauma? Is this existential crisis developing? Then how do you explain the weird sourness in my mouth?  Is it the effect of using moldy bath towels? Spring fever, whatever that is? Wrong coffee? (Yes I am particular when it comes to that.) Is it the flu? Staring at computer screen too long? Am I poisoned? Is someone doing voodoo on me? Some kind of chemical withdrawals? Too much time with family? Too much chili last night? Is it the expired painkiller I take?  What??? I really have no idea.  But I can put it this way: I feel like a lizard that had been gutted and left under the Tangier sun.  Something like that.  Could be any combination of animals and wounds, however you like (replaceable nouns and what happens to it, and under whatever suns, your poetic slot machine). Anyway, feels like shit.

Switch (Tree into Forest), ditigal photograph size variable

Having that said, all of above have absolute nothing to do with this project.  Those of you who know me, I rarely deal with my mood in the works so literally.  Sure, sentimental and melancholy sometimes joins the team, but they rarely go to the extreme forms of grim, of suffocating pain.  That seems outside my palette, anyhow.  Actually in this project, I rather have “good” feeling toward it (apparently it is missing now.  Finding the joy of it is almost becoming part of it). Regardless of how I feel, I want to use this opportunity to illustrate a point: the problem lies with words.  I feel, for the lack of better word, uncomfortable with them.  There seems to be limitation in terms of using them to reach a physical, hmm, place.  And that “physical place”, perhaps have to do with communication, and ultimately understanding. (Pain could be primal, animalistc, bodily, but words are essentially artificial in nature.  But these words we made up to describe how we feel, have a huge stack at how we perceive these feelings.)  At the moment I am caught in between the push and pull of wanting but not knowing how to use it and trying to stay away to but couldn’t.

What is is What, ink on paper 30cm x 21cm

I can’t quite understand my problem towards it, nor I can quite explain now with more words. Ah fuck. I do have the strange motivation to figure it out, give it a go: Is What is less a “project”, more of a process.  It involves writing, performance, re-writing, sculpting, documenting.  And most importantly, how they all, in an unknowing sort of way, moving forward in time together. (Leaning toward...what, exactly?)

What is Illustration What is Text, ink on paper 30cm x 21cm

Because I am not a writer. (Lacking the qualification.  Ha.)  It is not my tendency to paint you a picture with words.  Let’s say, for the sake of this body of text, I want to illustrate the said image of an artist suffering in pain, in solitude: but it would not be interesting, as it is pretty boring and clich├ęd.  Whether I do it with words or images, the “what-is”ness of the thing intended may not be so essential, but the performative given, the path, the map to the physical place where sharing and understanding is possible. (I am speaking of a sense of community, audience-ship here.) The what-is, really, could be anything, cute dog, war photos, nude woman, you name it (all of them seem more engrossing than me lying sick in bed, for sure). Is What is the experience of getting there (place of understanding), or at the least, in hoping of. And I insist these words feel welcome, because I want you to come along, whomever you might be, gentle traveler! (You the audience, at the same time, give me anxiety.)