Minimalism

It has come to my attention that my memory often fails me, even for the things I can be most fascinated by and which I wish to remember most. So I have decided to write about the books, stories, ideas and art which inspire me–– what I think about them, what I have learnt, because I think this way I will remember more, and even if I do forget, it's never really too far away to get back :)

So today I went for an art exhibition on Minimalism. Honestly one of the more interesting, confusing and mentally exhausting exhibitions I have gone to, which perhaps backs the whole point of it; The lack of in space, colour, shape... does not necessarily mean that there is less to consider.

There are some overarching concepts when it comes to Minimalism; the use of and interaction with space is one. I gathered that a lot of thought goes into the positioning of an object or any 'thing', and there is great intentionality in pushing the viewer to consider the object in relation to the space around it. So if I were to frame some guiding questions I believe would be in line with Minimalism and space, perhaps they would include "Why is the object placed in this way? Why this orientation? Why in this setting? Does the environment add more value to the object and/or the other way round?" and maybe even "What fills in the space? Is there emptiness?"

This idea pertains to one of the main sections that we came across that was about The Void. Artists concerned with this concept of nothingness try to provide experiences or an avenue to contemplate such ineffability. It kind of makes sense now, all the different mediums that we came across in the exhibition. There was light and sound works involved, and as I was writing the earlier paragraph I had difficulty finding a definitive and encompassing term for these mediums (I thought "matter" might do the trick, but Google suggested neither light nor sound were matter, and in the most realistic primary school level science view, they didn't have weight and didn't take up space.) It is perhaps inevitable that when engaging with the idea of space, and when dealing with the 'empty' spaces so characteristic of Minimalistic art, a contemplation of absence, infinitude and their meaning will soon follow. And maybe the use of light and sound, in all their intangibility and subjectivity, is a reflection of this curiosity and attempt to discover The Void.


While it may seem contradictory, Minimalism is also concerned with the idea of temporality, transience. There were works of images with things like the mist of hot water from a kettle, a long road-looking strip that stops short and which you cannot see the other end of (by Tan Ping). One of Lea and my favourites was a video footage of the painting of the ensõ circle on a block of ice, and its washing away ("Circle" by Charwei Tsai). It is looped so it looks like it occurs endlessly and seamlessly. It was captivating... The idea of transience, I think, is another form of emptiness, another subset of The Void. That one cannot hold on to it and preserve it forever, it is another way of questioning what is. I guess it echoes a lot about ontology.

There was also a lot on circles; the cycles of life, circular and round movement. This I saw in the movement pieces in the videos which was really interesting. Minimalism reached even the art of movement, such as how minimalist artists like Anna Halprin was known for stripping dance down to the essentials, being rid of the conventions and the rules, and focusing on everyday and natural movements. This was especially in contrast to the conventional dance of that time, epitomised by the teachings of Martha Graham (whom we learnt about briefly in TSD), which was more complex. Upon viewing the videos, my thoughts led me to the concept of Grotowski's Poor Theatre in the sense of stripping down and even adopting primal behaviour as part of the rehearsal process (as I tried in a workshop). In these movement pieces was also a lot of repetition, which was probably present in all forms (the visual art, music), and is also another characteristic of a lot of Minimalistic art. It emphasised a certain cyclical nature, and reminded me also of some of Stanislavski's teachings, more specifically the practice of repeating movements to elicit a psychological response. His concepts are also echoed by Halprin in a video I found online where she says "there's two ways of working with the body–– one where the mind informs the body, the other when the body itself informs the mind. Your body impulses guide you".

These ideas related to the use of space as well as Minimalism in movement really enthralled me because of how familiar I found them to what I have learnt in Theatre. Art really is all connected :)

xx,

CLL

thoughts after a thunderstorm

dear you,

a neighbour plays her piano, the notes drifting from the distance. I imagine she feels the calmness too, the damp leaves and the stirring of activity. It feels wonderful to do nothing, and just watch the trees that live beyond your window. They call out to me, and I have visions of myself walking through crisp forests with gentle breezes. I wonder if I had been an adventurer in my past life. I wonder if I had breathed in the air of indescribable fascination at the beauty this world can possess.

xx,
CLL

it isnt

dear you,

thank you.

thank you klee, for your quiet presence, for skype sessions though I hide myself. thank you gavgav, for talking to me as we walk back home, for breakfast initiatives. thank you zain, for making me laugh, and for your company i have learnt to find solace in. thank you clemon, for always making me smile, for your embrace that i can only describe as safety. thank you nic and eugene for mala and education on Indonesia. thank you wan, for little comments of encouragement. thank you sid, for cute text messages and weird pictures.

you don't know how each day you spur me to take new breath.


xx,
CLL

i am bathed in a sultry rosewater of words, ideas –– when Fear ceases to be your fuel.

right now like this,
I am only an outline with a heavy head. i don't comprehend my feelings i can't comprehend my feelings which one i am not sure. i only run my fingertips over my temples, the veins that protrude and remind me of pain. i am empty. i don't remember very much. the only sense of comfort comes in lying down and curling into myself, mingling with the covers and staring into space.

maybe this is the end. the end of this or the end of me. the end of this and the end of me. we will see. how long these vines have curled around me, how impossible the escape... we will see.

All, entirely.

Dear you,

I think... the strongest, most perfect hearts are the ones that break. The ones that latch onto words like Bible verses, even though experience has been enough to teach them of how empty words can be. I think the most wonderful hearts are the ones that do not take for granted, the ones that fall before thinking, supposing, questioning. The ones that first have faith. Those that reach deeply into the soils of the earth in love, but whose leaves are the easiest to sway in the wind; swaying, swaying, each breath through the pores of its canopy. All, entirely.

xx,
CLL

Dear you,

Today I was told that I need to learn "to be less creative".i want to fly away. the words are just words now and they flood my brain but i can't make out any meaning. i look at pages out of necessity if not sheer dread and i want to choke on all my worksheets shove them down my throat- if it can be done in metaphors it can be done in real life.

The Head and The Heart

I feel boxed in. I can barely breathe.
Every instance of every day, held against me.
If I did the work– the right work, enough of it.
Each slip in conduct, indicators of my entire being.

It is a microcosm of so many things.
One wrong word held against you forever,
A diseased part that consumes you
By society, not the sickness itself.

It is an epidemic,
A civilisation of extremes and generalisations.

And so they come to the decision
That the brain is the grail
Instead of the heart.



I feel it pounding inside my chest
Scratching against the walls of my ribs
Begging for it to somehow be seen.

Oh heart, but you are fraught with so many things.
To put you up would be to serve you on a chopping board,
Your river-flowing veins run dry.
And no matter how hard you try,
You will never quench the likings of all in the city.
And you should know... why won't you learn?
Parts of you have become brittle
Sprinting in all directions for all seven billion people.



xx, CLL

Is there a place for me?

Dear you,

I wonder if there is a place for me there. No, not the flashing lights and the golden figures–– my dreams are a little smaller. I wonder if it could be to make the circle of the lens a new home, I wonder if it could be the spotlight tracing my footsteps across the stage. I wonder if dresses would be made for me, and if my eyes could tell stories that perk the ears of forgotten hearts.
It is a dream I pursue but am terrified of. I wonder if you know how much I want it. I only spread indifference over it because of the mere fact that indifference is not a possibility. Is there a place for me? Despite the parts I turn away from, despite the weaknesses I cannot change, will there be love for me there, where I tread towards, heart precariously balanced on the swaying foundations of hope?


Love,
CLL

I just want to listen to the rain.

No other melody or beat,

How it sings me to sleep.

You're glass and granite.

I wonder if you know that for all the steel I present the sun, I still break between your index and your thumb.

http://www.roamingrequired.com/chernobyl-exclusion-zone-pripyat/
http://www.arambalakjian.com/2018/05/chernobyls-apocalyptic-playground/

But please don't let me go

midnight comes to steal my breath

& i am left with nightmares again.

nine years old & the bleakness of my dreams,

rain,

& the sound of your footsteps as you turn away.

i am host to a most terrifying disease;

Fear, you breed & take your tine.

in its grasp, i writhe & struggle

it makes myself the ultimate enemy.

every minute a trial, each time a choice:

to stay or to go

& which one to less destruction?

so your hands will turn purple,

grow scratched and bruised

what once was our embrace

i'd think an awaiting disaster.

a nuclear tragedy between two bodies

a cut here and bruise there 

cannot compare to radioactivity.

my skin is toxic,

my words– a miasma of broken memories.

your blood of my hand

i wipe from my eyes,

but soon you will cease bleeding

while i hope to grow numb.

i am sorry but to go is best.

i am sorry but to go is best.

i am sorry but to go

i am sorry but to go

i am sorry but

i am sorry

i am sorry but please

.

love, cll

free thinker

I thirst for more.
I want to scour each and every page, inhale the dust and fibres of time and discovery of each sheet as I feel its smooth roughness under my fingertips. I can almost hear the journey itself; the shushing of sanctity and the crunch of the turning page. I am on a pilgrimage–– I search for truths and faith, devote myself to eternal wonder.

Get Me Wrong

Sometimes, I take on too much and leave myself breathless and exhausted. But sometimes I also leave too much for someone else to take on. This, I've been grappling with for a while. I've been pondering on my obsession with image, my need to be recognised, my attraction towards popularity and fame. Of course, I am too aware of how in many instances I reject being seen and talked about, but it has been increasingly apparent to me how this stands like a massive monolith between me and progress... my betterment as a person. For fulfilment comes in the form of praise, and the things I do not get credit for I often slip and neglect. And many times I have found these things to be most important, and most enriching to my being. It gets tiring too, having to keep hoping that someone is watching with a camera in hand or anything at all to spread the word of whatever fantastic job I am doing. 

I wonder if it stems from childhood. I remember a dear teacher telling me the way to get me happy and assured is if one would just say a word of praise and recognition. In class I would think my answer through before I would voice it out, such that in my mind it was near impossible for me to get it wrong and not impress. Times when I do get something wrong I would brood over it, let it eat away at me, and I would never be able to pinpoint what about it was getting me so uncomfortable and embarrassed. 

It will take me a long time to get over it I think. But I'll start now and here, and any improvement will make me so happy. The little things matter, even if they are not seen. And regardless my heart will sing.

most times when i am like this i feel like i could give everyone the world,
every part of me they asked for or needed,
every part they didn't ask for and didn't need,
i would give you everything
not because i love you
but because sometimes, these times, i just give.
but i wonder why i seem to expect something in return,
your lacklustre response seeps through my skin
and i wished i had never expressed my existence,
in my giving.
i wish i had hidden from view
behind that sliver of a moon
and i wish i did not say that i thought of you.
because this is too much and perhaps you do not know what to do with me.
i cannot blame you because these times
most times i don't either.

I fantasise and tip-toe around big dreams, hoping that one day they could get close enough for me to step towards, grasp and embrace forever.

starbucks music rings in the background

Dear you,

I forgot to bring my diary down to Starbucks today. I had too many things in my hands, and I don't know why I never learn to bring less or try cramming more in my bag, because I've lost so many things this way.

I ache to find a way to express this heaviness; a mixture of indignation and resignation all at the same time. The only conclusion I have energy enough to dive into is that this world is not equal. And there will always, always, be the sacrifice of one's happiness to suit the greater good.

Remember Me

Watching "Remember Me", I also was clearer on some things that I hadn't gotten from the movie before. Beyond the beauty and the romantic portrayal of the character of Tyler, there were also points when I was so frustrated at how blind he could be (almost in the way he accuses his father of), and how outrightly stupid he was sometimes with his words and how he put them across... But at the same time, I realise that these kinds of things are often what makes me fall deeper in love with characters. When I acknowledged how I felt and what I thought; how frustrated I was, almost desperate for him, I also came to the recognition that that's the way we are.

Because the main lead does not have to be perfect, only human. And Tyler Keets Hawkins kind of unravelled for me at that point. Because he is careless, obstinate, and if you call manipulation and acting out of self-gain immoral then call it that, but I just call it making mistakes. But he also does it out of a pure heart, and when he is careless and when he makes mistakes, I imagine that his mind is that of a clear day; not cloudy nor bright, just usual, and almost blank. And I guess that's because that's what I sometimes recall in moments when I "make mistakes"... when I act out of no real ill-intention to hurt, and not thinking much of motives or consequences, but that act is eventually revealed to hold significance in ways I wasn't aware. I guess there are chips in our very being that we often like to think whole, and I don't think that we can possibly find anyone to blame for that.
(I also think that Rob Pattinson and the characterisation through costume, speech/voice etc was quite perfect in conveying this idea of imperfection. Tyler Hawkins was a little rough at the edges: had crumpled shirts, a bare and worn face, fingers that weren't sure of themselves. It all culminated into an honest portrayal.)

Beyond that, it also caught my attention that this film is not about Tyler Hawkins. It's easy to think that way – I subconsciously did in all the times I've watched it before. Intrigued and obsessed I was of him, but only now do I as clearly understand that it is not the tragedy of his death in 9/11, not about the romance or the family he left behind... not even about the abruptness of which he went, and just as his life seemed to be getting better. Instead, knowing how the events would unfold and how the movie would end, in the last few moments one particular quote from the movie kept resonating in my head. It was a voiceover of one of Tyler's writings to his brother: "You once told me, our fingerprints don't fade from the lives we touch."

It was almost an epiphany forced into slow motion. The moments building up to the end it approached me like footsteps, getting louder and feeling heavier – clearer, and when I finally got to touch its tip this consciousness washed over me full force. It wasn't about, as Tyler says, our insignificance in the world, it was about what worlds we danced within, what hearts we touched, who we love and what we each have done for them. Without Tyler, I don't believe his father would have learnt that money and the ability to provide his children with a good, comfortable life can ever compare to time and the show of love. Without Tyler, I don't believe Caroline would learn in the way she has, in gaining strength and belief. And without Tyler, Ally would never have let her guard down, allow herself to be reckless, and therefore face her fears and the recklessness of the world. It all made sense: why the ending scene was so significant, why it was Ally as the ultimatum and no one else.

It isn't only a story about the happenings, challenges of one's life and how it came to end. It isn't a story about the sorrow of having to go without all the beautiful things left behind. In my understanding, it is more about how there are beautiful things that we do leave behind, and how those who remain can enjoy such privilege. There is a strength, an acute consciousness, and an awakened hope that lies in tragedy. That's the best way that I can describe it.




I've probably written about this movie before somewhere on this page. I'll go find it. And also, side note: The "Tyler" tattoo on Aidan's arm made me cry. I hadn't seen it before.

Love,
CLL

Vicky the Legend & Elle the Alien

Dear you,

Just this Tuesday, I spoke to the student population about my views on circles. I spoke about learning to accept that more often than not, who we are cannot be wholly encompassed by distinct categories that we unknowingly try to fit ourselves into. Categories such as "Science/Art kid," "Sporty/Not Sporty," even "Nerdy/Sporty," which are often believed to be mutually exclusive. For the longest time now, I have tried to understand myself based on how I fit into these labels and have found my efforts to be close to fruitless. But the repeated attempts, the meeting roadblocks of self-definition, the hair-pulling, the brow furrowing... has all culminated into a stark realisation of the possibility that perhaps, we aren't meant to understand, and be understood at all.

For how do we ever cease discovering and changing to ever come to a point of steadiness; an equilibrium that holds still long enough to draw associations to the finite number of which our own knowledge of the world is derived from? Would we ever be satisfied even, with the limitations of those self-same categories, to be all which we are and can ever be?

Because I've found that maybe we subconsciously attempt to understand ourselves by our adherence to such labels for the hope of simply being able to comprehend who we are, in the only way we know how. And perhaps this means we will always be lapsing into these socially-constructed outlines of what relates and what makes sense, grasping at the things we are familiar with to mould something comprehensible of ourselves. However, even with this knowledge of the difficulty to detach from a habit almost as innate as blinking, I hoped to share my thoughts with my peers to urge them not to limit themselves based on the pre-conceived categories they have set themselves in. I shared the opportunities and experiences I have had the pleasure of having, simply by being more accepting of possibilities; my various metamorphoses. Because it was only through my interest in my physical surroundings and in Science, that I decided to participate in a overseas Science research program when I was 15 despite my being labelled an "Arts Kid". And it was only my brushing aside my belief of not being "sporty" that I tried out for ODAC. Both of these experiences have made an incredible impact on my life, helping me break many barriers of self-limitation, and allowing me to meet wonderful people who have only taught me more.

It was hence at a perfect timing when my old friend from the 2015 Science trip contacted me to meet up while she is here on holiday. Today, I ate Makisan for dinner with her on the floor of my bedroom, catching up on the lost years that have passed since we enjoyed discovering and learning about the beautiful town of Da Lat, Vietnam. It turns out that Vicky's life has been immensely happening and simply awe-inspiring. As I listened to her talk about her scoring a scholarship to study in Austria and about her fellowship with Harvard, I often had to take a few moments to process the wonder that flooded my mind. Goosebumps rose on my arms as she shared about the almost miraculous process of her finding her current school, the places she has visited, and the people she has met along the way. I kept repeating, "You're living the dream."

I truly was listening to stories that only appeared in my imaginations; the opportunities she has had to explore the world and its inhabitants, as well as to intellectually stimulate herself and push her own boundaries filled me with admiration and envy. But I was also starkly aware of the amount of hard work and effort she must have put in to earn the opportunities she has had, and it washed over me again that where there is a will, there is always a way. I reflected on myself, and I still do, asking myself questions such as "what held me back?" and "why had I never thought to..." Because Vicky's platforms to find the path she has had were also available to me, yet in her short 16 years she has already found a way to experience and learn so much more.

In this week where I was reminded about the pressing need to begin acting on my applications to universities (a stressful and honestly dreadful process), meeting up with Vicky was not just a beautiful reunion of old friends, but has also provided me with inspiration and drive to seek out what I dream of without fear and without inhibition. After all, my future is mine to create and strive towards, and regardless of where life takes me, I hope I will go forth with the knowledge that I've put in every inch of my best effort.

xx,
CLL

Oranges

This is the first time you have made me cry not out of fear of what you could be,

But in terror of what you are.

My mind is torn

Apart, I turn over the words you say

Over and over,

Struggling to establish any structure;

A chip in your elusive language.

My world resorts to flipping itself upside down and then back again,

For a first, the heat was not the extirpator of my energy.

Rather it was the sheer force of your compulsion,

I was bare and unsuspecting to the lab of your mind which I was wandering right into.

I walked out of there

With an orange tinge in all the places you touched,

Your influence so contagious the host is forced into obliteration:

Even as I lay in pieces

I still screen your words into possibilities. 

Has what I've taken of you found what it looks for?

xx,

CLL