such a beautiful coincidence, i am learnng robert mapplethorpe now.
my Q: who has the ticket to photograph the nudes of black?
lecturer's answer: depending on the mutual-acceptance between the photographer and the subject.
we know there is power everywhere, it is crucial we could be critical to stand behind and look into the hierarchy. of course his works have aesthetic value, however why most of them are ideal type of body representation in the black. is that a stereotyping of the black. how a WHITE guy like him exploring the beauty of the nudes?
the controversial part of his work, perhaps apart from the deviant sexual perference, is his OWN sexual desire toward the object/subject.
personally i like his works on portraits and SM more than the book of black. of coz it is just very personal.
those portraits have their aura, there are spaces behind and in front of the subject. the spatial time is somehow very surreal to me. the emotion and energy just like phosporescence, it's freezing. it is 4-dimentional.
*** *** ***
well, honestly tell me, do u want hugh cock like a baby arm?
or like a baby being feed by plump tits?
our life begins with sex, and always being with it. it is colorless. and transparent.
2008年2月19日 星期二
2008年2月16日 星期六
2008年2月14日 星期四
2008年2月11日 星期一
andres serrano, frozen sperm ii, 1990
sperm competition?
smell of sperm: like the un-used soap , mixed with flour.
the owner of the sperm, is that you?
is K's? is L's? is T's? is M's?is J's? is Y's? is Z's?
how important is your initial, L.
your sperm spill over my belly, my navel is all yours.
full of warmth.
i put your meatus into my mouth, i slowly adding lubricant by saliva.
your erection, the hardest thing in the world.
i sense it, i feel it, i swallow it.
how fragile you are, my dear phallus.
my tougue works over your testis, holding the lifes of others.
who becomes the one, whom sperm merges with me.
my deepest soul, your hottest sperm.
stickiness, holding the gravity between you and me.
i love you
2008年2月5日 星期二
2008年2月4日 星期一
我還是想把自己的文字放回這裡
應該是，當我看到世界的時候。不過說一世，也未免太遠了。我不說一世的。
有一次，在文化中心，看見了一片血紅色。那是二戰之後的一幅作品，畫家是Mark Rothko，名字叫《無題》吧。就那麼血紅血紅，如我生之血，我死之血，比我人還高。你永遠不會思考顏色，如永沒放慢腳步看天空。這是第一次我被一種情景淹沒。那種溫柔的暴烈……如火。曾聽過，經歷戰爭的人，不懂亦不能再表現美好的事物。我生之年，太平盛世，我城彷似沒有任何悲傷。可是，我永遠懷疑自己是戰爭之魂，處於不是自己的時代，無所作為，只能輕輕撫摸生命本身。
生命何其悲涼。
有一次，在文化中心，看見了一片血紅色。那是二戰之後的一幅作品，畫家是Mark Rothko，名字叫《無題》吧。就那麼血紅血紅，如我生之血，我死之血，比我人還高。你永遠不會思考顏色，如永沒放慢腳步看天空。這是第一次我被一種情景淹沒。那種溫柔的暴烈……如火。曾聽過，經歷戰爭的人，不懂亦不能再表現美好的事物。我生之年，太平盛世，我城彷似沒有任何悲傷。可是，我永遠懷疑自己是戰爭之魂，處於不是自己的時代，無所作為，只能輕輕撫摸生命本身。
生命何其悲涼。
2008年2月3日 星期日
mark rothko
Mark Rothko, Untitled,1968, Private Collection"I am not an abstract painter. I am not interested in the relationship between form and color. The only thing I care about is the expression of man's basic emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, destiny."
mark rothko
mark rothko
*** *** ****
There is only one word to describe me today- depressed.
I have an emotional breakdown even I was completely satisfied with my journey of my beginning of the 30th HKIFF.
For the Fallen, as you might see its style is very Hungarian Style (although the theme is seemingly different). No surprise afterall.
It was 2:48, I was sitting in the cafe outside the Museum of Art to have my lunch alone. I think I should be satisfied, at least for a peaceful moment in my life. After 24 mins, I planned to go to the seminar in the Science Museum. I was in front of Mark Rothko's Canvas however 10 mins later. I get lost. Like you are in the mist with unpredictable obstacles around your body. I am wounded without notice.
I once believed under the biggest format of art presentation, your soul will be healed. Quoted from Rothko, you could only appreciate a piece of art , or the form could only be communicated to their audiences with similar level. I wonder if I truly understand what it means. To me, any form of representation should be very personal, I appreciate the creature with personal touch.
Stepping to the untitled works. I felt like towards his death. I smell blood with violence. Emotion, tragedy, I smell the blood. He killed himself in 1970. His last painting is around my height. I then know that I am in deep depression. I tried very hard to be positive and strong person in the past few weeks, unfortunately all ruin in a second. Uncertainty is everywhere. I am fucking losing myself in front of his work. It's nobody's fault. The moment you feel there is hopeless and cold and couldn't yell.
There is a monster. Eaten my soul. Except these stupid words, I nearly can't express myself in a more accurate and precise way.
Repeated tonight, towards to the end of the 30th HKIFF Marcel Duchamp's Anemic Cinema. With me.
How to ease my sadness?
There is only one word to describe me today- depressed.
I have an emotional breakdown even I was completely satisfied with my journey of my beginning of the 30th HKIFF.
For the Fallen, as you might see its style is very Hungarian Style (although the theme is seemingly different). No surprise afterall.
It was 2:48, I was sitting in the cafe outside the Museum of Art to have my lunch alone. I think I should be satisfied, at least for a peaceful moment in my life. After 24 mins, I planned to go to the seminar in the Science Museum. I was in front of Mark Rothko's Canvas however 10 mins later. I get lost. Like you are in the mist with unpredictable obstacles around your body. I am wounded without notice.
I once believed under the biggest format of art presentation, your soul will be healed. Quoted from Rothko, you could only appreciate a piece of art , or the form could only be communicated to their audiences with similar level. I wonder if I truly understand what it means. To me, any form of representation should be very personal, I appreciate the creature with personal touch.
Stepping to the untitled works. I felt like towards his death. I smell blood with violence. Emotion, tragedy, I smell the blood. He killed himself in 1970. His last painting is around my height. I then know that I am in deep depression. I tried very hard to be positive and strong person in the past few weeks, unfortunately all ruin in a second. Uncertainty is everywhere. I am fucking losing myself in front of his work. It's nobody's fault. The moment you feel there is hopeless and cold and couldn't yell.
There is a monster. Eaten my soul. Except these stupid words, I nearly can't express myself in a more accurate and precise way.
Repeated tonight, towards to the end of the 30th HKIFF Marcel Duchamp's Anemic Cinema. With me.
How to ease my sadness?
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