Thursday, February 26, 2009


(Lava Fields of Kilauea, 2007)

Sometimes I feel at a maximum, sometimes I feel incapable of producing happiness for others. My words, as truth, as raw as the flesh of my heart speak of prospects, of the strength of the soul, but humor none for their source of seriousness. I try, and I try, and though many know me as a goof, there are those who know me as intense and very serious. Can it be said that the texture of the desert can be moved, but never for too long for what makes the texture and grooves of a sand dune is persistent, like the wind that matches such lands, they live in harmony; dependent of each other for their existence.
I am but a photograph; a vessel for your memory, and through time I retain that memory, holding it as true as the moment with my facilities. Over time I produce more and more meaning upon each visit, as you change yourself upon each moment. I take away from the on-going moment in stillness and mediation, I see a world that you never knew of, and I do it all for you. My words, my vision, and everything in-between, are mere reflections, reactions that are meaningless without the source of influence, and that I owe everything to those I have known, and the places I have been. Without, I am but a vessel, a space-like void upon a canvas; the pearl of a blank exposure. And with this, I say, I owe a lifetime, a history, to those I have known, and more, to those who I have loved and adored.
A narrative continues as my hands are guided by yours, as you, and I, paint the picture of our days, whether you know we are together on each and every moment we share.
Thank you.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

I Talk To The Wind

(Untitled #01, The Wanderer, 2008-2009, 11x48" archival inkjet)

"I've been here, and I've been there, I've been in-between."

Before my touch there is a film; a layer of rust from the many surfaces I have brushed, touched, and rubbed that covers my skin, hiding the boy I once was. And is this how I am, to have only words and images of where I have been, what I have experienced? What little reminiscence to speak of all of those faces, so many I see a friend I once known in a stranger of today. I have known of your face before my eyes I have seen for themselves. And yet I am surprised. I talk to a nothingness, to the very air that surrounds me. I only hear the air brush against my ear as I harvest for sound. It is in the wind I can tell of everywhere I have been, why my skin is so rusty, and why I am lost before found.

"I talk to the wind, my words are carried away."

I Talk To The Wind written by Ian McDonald and Peter Sinfield, performed by King Crimson.

Monday, February 23, 2009

We Have A History

Here it is, after almost a whole year in the making, with 24 photographs and 3 installation pieces from eight artists.

Interpersonal relationships come and go. The residue that lingers is a mark of their permanence, whether it is between person, object, or moment. Out of these relationships develops individualized notions of history estranged from traditional linear trajectories. Through themes of history and relationships, We Have A History presents a group of photographers and sculptors that explore relationships between individuals, generations, objects, and the past to the present.

Work by:
Danielle Bleackley
Michele Crockett
Alex Kisilevich
Brendan George Ko
Christina Kostoff
faye mullen
Raffy Ochoa
Amanda Rataj

Curated by Brendan George Ko

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Reaching For The Stars

(Leaving Is Hard, 2007)

I can hold about six good size stones in my hands before they become unmanageable when I start to run. I'll run, then pause, and throw as far as I can as if my momentum carries on into the sky, sailing as stones do so unnaturally in a flight to the moon. I hope they reach their destination, cracking the surface of blue cheese, diggin deep inside the crest until it finds a soft warmth to sleep in. The ripples swim into the shore and the rest of the stones skip over the surface of water, forming small rings of moon light over a blanket of ocean. Small diamonds shine on the sand as we carry along. It's a funny thing to close my eyes and see the city and think of how in the city I closed my eyes to be here, in this moment. It is all happening right now. I can feel it happen as my feet sink into moist sand. I can feel it in the anchor of our hands holding each other, and the roll of jeans around my knees. Our lungs are full of salt from the sea, and our pockets are selling the beach sand for souvenirs. What do I tell you once we have ran away? What more can I note or suggest, when all that I want is this right now, this everything, all of it; the palm leaves upon moonshine, the sea breeze hitting us with a coolness that doesn't steal warmth but reminds us how warm we are inside, and the orange glow of a lone streetlight looking over this small piece of our lives. There is no story to say on this account, nor a photograph to prove of this moment, and a single stone or a jar of sand cannot speak of how a perfect moment can turn into a dream-like existence beyond words, or even understanding. Right here, right now I keep telling myself, and before I know it I look into your eyes and its over. Just. Like. That.
I'll try and try to think of how to thank you for it all. Because without you this is just a pretty picture.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Without Mask

Without an image, without a situated comparsion I will invite the notions of words before image. To ask of silence for a needle to drop upon a record's history of grooves transcended through time. An echo appears at the end; for nights like this I can hear the ocean, far from my touch but close to my ear as my memory is clearer than my vision. Inside my chest lies not a heart but a nothingness to meaning, a void of words or conceptions, like a life seen by eyes of another holder, we only see what we want. It is in the truest light I say, without contraptions, without craft of words, in nakedness, of my soul. And what is said, for your memory to imprint upon mine, as share a moment, as I shed my skin for truth, and I am in your hands, as I seek warmth again with a cold world just beyond your reach. I ask of nothing and receive everything with surprise. And though all my rationale speaks to me with many questions I call silence, for what could be said of fresh discovery? It is upon your grip I find myself, as if I had known of this existence but have hidden it until it's location had been forgotten for many years. Upon you is all I value in myself, and for your hands to grip, for your eyes to pierce, for your soul to take part, as a fold, as a peel, as everything falls from all around, and we see the truth for what it has always been. Upon you, I have made a tunnel, and if you look deep inside you will see a light that is the brightest you have seen, this is how I address you, as my words shed double, triple meaning, to infinite, before us, and after, may I speak as though I was born to say, I hold nothing back with you. My everything.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

(dontworryi'mnotactuallyproducingabodyofworkthatlookslikethis, 2009)

If I knew how to write songs I'd write you a love song, but for now I'll write you a story of how things were.

It was many years ago I was in the supermarket with my father and I went to grab his hand. His hand felt rougher, though my father's hands are some of the roughest, so I'll just say it was a different rough, and they were also moist. I hear a voice let out a quarter yell, and I looked up and the owner of this hand looked down and realized he was someone's father, not mine.
When I think of my father, I think of the day I grabbed another man's hand and mistook it for my father's, that when I close my eyes and imagine my father I think of a mystery. It isn't how his image is a father to me, but who he is? I know he is relatively quiet. I know he is the handiest person alive, and is very hardworking. I also know that he is strong, and loving in his own way. He is a great painter, and he loves the news. But who is he?
When I'm with you, I often think of myself as my father, just a shade, and I think of how he must've been with my mother, back then, how he may have been awkward, perhaps shy and quiet; he just seems to hover there, taking in every detail. Did he create painted masterpieces for my mother? I think he did a lot more, he made a family with her, with three masterpieces.
It seems all I know is this effect and never the cause, and maybe I'll never know his love as I know my own, for such a subjective definition could never be the same from one person to another. And to attempt to answer that, is an attempt at explaining life, I'll need more space for that, a few years, and perhaps a few lives.
We met more than twice by now, shall we be foxes the next time we meet?

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Look Away

(Single Wanderer, The Wanderer, 2009)

Today my day took a course from stressful, tiring, long, and blue, and then in my mailbox I received a very special envelope full of hairpins, it was then followed up by meeting with a good friend, then a pleasant surprise encounter, which led to another delight-baring encounter, which then led to a nice dinner in one of my favorite spots in school, and then just when I thought things couldn't get better, I knocked over my dear plant and literally soiled my keyboard, desk, and floor and it felt good.

Not to mention I just got back two of my best rolls this year.

I would say that is that to a good day, I would like to thank all those who were a part of it!

F., B., M., R. & B., and Mr. Blue Sky

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Notions of Nostalgia

(Something in the works, 2009)

I would like to recall upon a time when words were new; being discovered everyday as we walked closer to the ground, and saw storms as what-could-be-the-end-of-the-world. I remember running throughout my house when thunder was striking all around, seeing windows light up and waiting for them to burst, covering my face from the shards of glass that will become of those windows. I remember the wooden floors and the parts where carpet started. I remember each and every step of the stairways of my childhood houses, and how there was that final step to the floor below or to that floor above that always wanted me to trip if I wasn't respectful to its edges. I sometimes think my father included those into his design; that he may have been a quiet father but his lessons were of old fashion; teaching us with touch and failure through pain as we would fall, only to get back up and do it all over again until we learned our lesson the only way; the hard way.
I remember when everything was fascinating. I remember when everything felt endless giving us time to stare and watch for what felt like hours as time slowed down, and moment after moment we watched the world take its course. I would like to imagine that child is still with me, and the person who I am today is just the layers upon layers that cover a tree for what it once was; the shape of the tree rounded on the corners and contours like a series of blankets over a once sharp object. I would like to think I am an impression of who I once was. That we once saw the stars as five pointed objects and now we see them as spheres; has time eroded us the same way as rivers for canyons?

(Test #2 from Untitled Project, 2009)

Thursday, February 5, 2009

A Time Without Words

(Deer, The Great Escape, 2009)

I remember when walls were the cage that kept me down. I remember when the world was seen through eyes that floated just above the ground. Now the ground blurs beyond my hands as I look down and I feel the roots disappear as I walk; each step taking me further into the future.
I want to forget who I am today. I want to meet my past as if I were a stranger speaking to a stranger; through odd choice of words. I want to rediscover my history, at the same time as disassociate myself from it. The world will run, and I will walk. And eventually I'll tire, I'll stop, and I'll rest, and admire the sun kissing the sea from a northern shore, with sand between my toes, I'll see the world end only to begin again once my eyes wake. Who will I be once the sky fills with color again? Will a reflection bring a mystery to my eyes? Will the past fade like my dreams, as I constantly change, even memories feel foreign to new hands, and to a new heart. As the echo goes, who am I, who am I, and fades to the question in a petition of millions in the valley of the past. It matters not for who I am today, or who I was, for what can be said for steps without a groove or impression, as we look to an uncertain future. It is the pressure I can feel in my feet as I stand on earth, it is this voice that tells me so, it is the life I am living now.