I like the artist’s (imperfect) marks. The 手迹，the 痕迹。¹ It makes the perfect real.
I think the imprinted wall, the off-center magnets, the extra smudge around the painting makes a (more) painting.
They’re floating around me, the music pointing into me and making me swell, warp, deflect, tilt (add more photoshop words) into an artwork myself. I’m expanding about to explode; my body turning into close slim blocks.
¹The marks by hand, the traces by signage.
[Ingee Chung, Bresenham’s Line]
Being in the Back of a Painting
I’m interested in the marks around the artwork. The leftover dirt, people’s footprints, a bunch of flowers left erect and lean(ing).
If anything lives long past anything of nature and humanity creates, it is the immense, overwashing power of standing in art’s presence.
[Yermin Park, Perish Trail]
I(’m not supposed to) see my eye in there (the strong black)
It’s The stairwells. The incense. Chinese calligraphy Brushstrokes. The man around the street corner in black leather jacket holding a motorcycle helmet, grey 90s’ Hong Kong dress pants, black pointy dress shoes That Does It. Two times We gazed at (fixed) each other and exchanged passed lives.
We’re like the meeting of two brushstrokes: one 粗旷、狂野、浓郁/厚，one繁复，细致，² like those who come together in the painting I now stand in front of.
I looked back. The man is no longer there.
The painting still is.
² one Rough, thick, wild, lush, full-bodied; one complicated, Precise, decisive, delicate.
The paint on the painting/panel has dropped, from all directions, now spilling into speckles. I don’t know what it’s a metaphor for.
Something in me whispers “life.” Something Else whispers “your dress,” making 撕拉的sounds.³ Maybe they’re the same.
³ tearing or ripping
Can I take a picture? The question stays, remained, lingered. The text as a portal to the Lage.
Please leave the other language explicitly unexplained.
I’m not supposed to look in mirrors, but my shadow is everywhere, casted by the lights behind me, surrounding my look(s).
[best regards, Weave Wave]