Moon turns to an UFO

Two days ago, as I was on a taxi home, I saw the biggest moon in my life.
It's abnormally huge above the skyline veiled by some thick clouds.
I had one tenth of a second of thought that it's an UFO.
Goosebumps all over me. It's strangely creepy.
I was filled with excitement and awe to come home and told my wife as she had the exact same experience many years ago.

Guess what. Last night,
I dreamed the moon turning into an UFO, over and over again.

The Reminiscence of a Sunbather

I went to swim during my lunch hour.
I didn't feel like pushing myself too far and opted to lie down after few laps.
The sun is not particularly strong.
As I closed my eyes and was soaking up the heat,
I realized I hadn't sunbathed for a long long time.

Blood red, orange, yellowish brown, blood red again.
I loved how we could still "see" the sunlight getting stronger or less through our eyelids
as blankets of cloud, thin and thick, in and out, was sheltering.
My mind went completely off for like eternity before a sense of happiness woke me.
It's in the shape of light.
The light that was dancing in the pool water.
You don't need to go to black hole to see how light was bent.
Swirls of light twisting and turning, onto the side of the pool, and off swimmers' flesh.

Then I thought of my past, good times, happy times.
I thought of what my first experience of beauty was...
Is it a picture of Mount Huang I saw on a calendar,
the singing of Karen Carpenter,
or rather my first experience of ugliness
when I was forced by my mom to "inherit" my sister's pants?
It's a hideous orangey brown.

I thought of my wife's face,
how one late afternoon light caught her face
and the outline was golden.

I thought of sunset
(our shared symbol of sublime beauty).
One time me and a friend were completely captivated by a beautiful sunset on our trip to Cornwall.
We felt it's an imperative to savour that very moment.
We pulled over on the side lane of a hectic motorway,
(it's meant for broken car, maybe lovers' fight, but definitely not taking picture!)
It's a risky romantic thing to do,
as cars and lorries were shooting past us (possibly with swearing).

I thought of this thought itself.
I thought when one was thinking, the world seemed to revolve around us.
I recalled at the age of 18 I think, one day I was on the backseat of a bus after school,
I looked, in the frame of my eyes, was a picture as banal as any other day –
some twenty to thirty people's back wobbling in front of me.
But time froze at that moment. A sense of awe, or the sublime beckoned.
A question was asked. But I wasn't aware of what exactly.
Later I figured it was something like this:
"Why everything exists, rather than nothing?"
"Why I am not that guy or that girl or he or she but a 'me' opposing all these otherness?"
From that day on, a part of me was awaken (or newly born).
Thought wakes up thought wakes up thought...
I realized, all these thoughts were reminiscent of some of the best time in my life.

I opened my eyes and sat up.
I wanted to know what the time was.
A piece of paper writing"out of order" on the public clock.
I knew anyway it was time to go.
Cool!
I thought,
Happiness cost exactly HK$19.
(The pool's entrance fee.)

The romantic salmon

My sister's fiancé Phil, is an American who fishes wild salmon in Alaska. Once we had a conversation around these delectable creatures. He told me the apparent absurdity of their life.

They hatch in the rivers and streams of Alaska. Their body will grow and adapt sea water before embarking on the journey of their life time – swimming across the Pacific Ocean all the way to Australia and heading back ultimately to their birth place. This is the brutal struggle you often see on the Discovery Channel – how they re-adapt back to fresh water, swim and toil up the stream, with miles and miles of rapids and even waterfalls to leap. Not all make it. Most arrive hurt and shattered. In the end, they breed, lay eggs and die. Then the next generation relive the same cycle again under the blessings of their fathers and mothers – their nutrient-rich remains, to be exact.

"What a poor sad little fellow." my sister quipped.

"No, I think it's rather romantic!" I said.

They were baffled. I can understand why. To most people, the word "romantic" means nothing more than the sentiment and feeling associated with love (a candlelit dinner or two lovers walking on a beach being the top romantic cliche). It's the first definition you find in most dictionaries. But look closer, it's actually a tricky word. Here is a list of the definitions given by Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary:

1: consisting of or resembling a romance

2: having no basis in fact : imaginary

3: impractical in conception or plan : visionary

4 a: marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized
b: often capitalized : of, relating to, or having the characteristics of romanticism
c: of or relating to music of the 19th century characterized by an emphasis on subjective emotional qualities and freedom of form ; also : of or relating to a composer of this music

5 a: having an inclination for romance : responsive to the appeal of what is idealized, heroic, or adventurous
b: marked by expressions of love or affection
c: conducive to or suitable for lovemaking

6: of, relating to, or constituting the part of the hero especially in a light comedy

Language can be a tedious matter. Too much analysis can kill off any...romance. Exactly! So I'm not going to make a linguistic fuss about it. (I'm not competent to, anyway.) All I want to do is to sing out my deep down yearning to be a romantic, roughly in the sense of definition 4th above.

Romanticism originated in the second half of the 18th century largely as a revolt against the rise of the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution. Briefly put, Enlightenment makes rational thinking absolute, while emotion and other sources of gaining knowledge obsolete. Industrial Revolution projected a whole new model for social advancement which many at that time feared the prospect of machine's dominance over human and ultimately our "humanity". I can sympathize with that.

While I don't take in all the Romantic doctrines, especially the glorification of a misunderstood heroic artist, I do cling to the importance of individual autonomy against the zeitgeist of the time, and the emotional aspects of us as human. We are each an unique individual who thinks, loves, cries, has dreams to chase, and is moved by beautiful things (oh no, I don't mean a LV bag!); not just 1 rational task-accomplishing executive in a corporation, 1 single-minded status-anxious wealth-seeking member of a social class, or 1 out of millions of targeted customers in a "market segment". But I'm afraid that's the sort of person (or specimen) our present world is shaping us to be.

Out of the window and onto the shimmering stream, a parrot was seeing for the first time a salmon leaping out of the water. She realized there's an alternative other than a caged life – a monotonous, calculative, cynical life in a materialistic, consumeristic, pragmatic and utilitarian cage. Breaking free became her pressing desire that no rational exercise could deny. Even that also meant the beginning of worries and risk of losing stable supply of food and all that. But what not.

"If you don't risk anything, you risk even more." – Erica Jong

When we think the salmon's life sad, of course we are asserting our values and judgement on them. We think if I was in their shoes – work and toil the whole life but to go back to square one and sacrifice for nothing but a cycle of the same recycle, what's the gain? I cannot answer for the salmon. But that's the thing. We were brought up to be ultra-utilitarian. The question is: Is everything a matter of utility? Even so, a step back, isn't the same cycle happening to us? Only ours is in the shape of a rectangle – waking up in a [bed], going into a glass-adorned [office-block], being stuck in a [cubicle] for hours, working on a [computer], back home exhausted and staring at a box called [TV] before burying ourselves in the [bed] again, day in day out, until our final burial, in a [coffin].

So at the end of the day, death makes us all equal for that matter (the sum of the balance sheet). We are pondering the life of our reflection in a mirror. Do I want to be a romantic salmon believing in a higher calling or a pragmatic parrot selling her soul?

Am I wandering too far? Sorry, that's the problem with romantics.

Giorgio Morandi and now George Shaw

Sometimes one comes to a point of life, you look back and regret.

You don't want to admit it but you have to be brave and be honest to yourself. I know some suggest that we should not regret because we cannot change the past, but the present. I find this argument lame. To regret doesn't necessarily mean we have to live in the shadow of the past. It's precisely the knowledge of the past that teaches us how to live our present. Besides, the most noble thing a human being possess is the ability to regret – the confirmation of the existence of our free will. We can choose, therefore there is always the possibility of another path, for better or worse. Then you can say to yourself: okay, I've been a jerk, should I continue to be a dumber jerk, or CHANGE to be a smarter one? There due comes the possibility of a fresh start, to be the person you always want to be, to do the things you always want to do, or should have done.

This is the profound thought I'm having at the moment.

Crossing, 1996, 30" x 39", Oil on canvas

On Way Home, 1996, 30" x 38", Oil on canvas

Let's rewind to thirteen years ago, to the time when I graduated from my art+design course. I showed four paintings on my final year degree show (didn't really learn any "useful" skills on design). They depicted street scenes of London at night. But looking closely, they are paintings of light – how street lamps or building lights illuminated the surroundings. The "chiaroscuro", you can say. All of them were real places I frequented between home and school. As I walked by everyday, the familiar scene looked stranger and stranger to me. I saw some invisible presence of something there. I am confused now whether it's the old masters or just me calling it "the vision". Whatever the term is, it's not as mysterious as it sounds. I believe all serious painters (and art practitioners) are familiar with it. Indeed it's the cornerstone of all creative endeavours. I painted or designed shit if I don't have it.

Pass Over, 1996, 30" x 38", Oil on canvas

The First, 1996, 30" x 38", Oil on canvas

The paintings were well received. It surprised me as initially no tutor fancied my realistic painting style. (Actually not many bothered to paint those days. Some even announced "painting is dead" in the art world.) I thought I did ok. I was a self-doubt (still am sometimes) Chinky in a foreign land, intimidated by the high and loud "exhibitionist" arts driven by the YBAs (Young British Artists, it's 1996, at the high of the tide). I ended art school somewhat disillusioned.

My best mate Steve, a student from Newcastle, said to me when I couldn't get a work-permit and had to go back to Hong Kong, "You are a fxxking good painter, you know man? Don't ever never stop painting!" His funny Geordie accent still rings in my ears.

But I stopped. I decided the only natural survival path is to get a design related job and make a living. And the rest is history. (Don't get me wrong. I love my job. Just a pity I didn't paint all along.)

Eventually the small voice inside me got his reward. About a year ago, I picked up my paintbrush again. But it's all a bit of stop-start. During the weekends, it's impossible not to find more "interesting", easier things to do than waiting for the "right mood", sorting out the subject matters, setting up the easel... oh just a minute, the Premier League matches is on the telly.

Geroge Shaw, Ash Wednesday: 8.30am (2004-5). Humbrol enamel on board

Geroge Shaw, Scenes from the Passion: Late  2002. Humbrol enamel on board

So it goes until one day, I was doing one of my favorite pastime – magazine-hopping in a book store. I picked up an Art World (an art magazine, any metaphor or irony here, I don't know.) I saw the works of a painter I've never heard of – George Shaw. I was shocked. Just like when I first discovered Giorgio Morandi. It's like I painted them myself, only suffering from memory lost. Or like a replica of me continued my unfinished canvases, quietly in a corner of England.

The more I read into it, the more I found our similarities. He felt the same disillusion when graduated from Sheffield Polytechnic before started to paint again in his MA at Royal College of Art in London, and would you believe it, in the year of 1996! I certainly share his sentiment in depicting unpopulated scenes of Tile Hill where he grew up, though the motive is different. His is one of remembering, the lost passions of youth. Mine was the visualization of a presence, between the physical and little beyond.

Without any warning, all the loveliness, passion and meanings of what it takes to paint rushed back to me. What was barren, now flooded. I was immersing myself in these nostalgia of empty streets of Camberwell, lights in the dark of Elephant and Castle, typical yellow brick houses of England, and most of all, the very act of putting paints on a canvas. It's poignantly sweet.

Of course, feeling comes and goes. A little healthy self-indulgence here has no value to me if it doesn't turn to some concrete actions.

Every good painter knows when to stop and call the work finished. Excuse me for this overdone self-retrospective. I'll end here by saying:
Let's not be afraid to admit our past stupidities, just make sure we regret lesser as we get older. When we are driving ahead, it would be foolish and even fatal not to look at the rear-view mirror, wouldn't it?

And my canvases are calling.

The Cat with Three Legs

Mimi belongs to the vet my cat seeing. She's a perfectly healthy cat, except her left hind leg were amputated.

Energetic and often vocal, she's more like a housekeeper in the vet, patrolling up and down, and meowing in a low tone to express her discontent of over-crowded dogs (or simply just to get attention).

Every time I see her, I feel lifted. I say to myself: if she can survive with three legs, I can survive with two, no matter what.

Remark: I got a lot of traffics coming from search words "cat with three legs". Some as specific as "Can a cat with three legs survive?" So, here's a bit more info about Mimi that may help:
Mimi was nine when she's badly injured and was brought to the vet. But her loveless owner didn't want to keep her because of the prolong medical expenses . So the vet decided to keep her their own. Eventually she got well and has no problem whatsoever in daily life. Now she is nineteen years old.

Wintry Thought

Finally the sign of winter comes as cold wind arrives from the north. The temperature drops to around 14ºC. It's enough to make many of us put our heaviest clothes on, while we stare in disbelief at some Westerners wearing nothing more than a T-shirt.

Few eyebrows were raised when I told others I actually quite enjoy wintry weather. To some who utterly despise coldness, it's just perverse. Let me clarify here, though I also very much enjoy a sunny day out on the beach, the chill of winter just doesn't bother me much. I find pleasure and beauty on the contrary.

Okay. I've long concluded that people in the world are divided into two opposite camps – Summer and Winter, roughly like Yin and Yang in the Chinese philosophy. On one side, you've got people who are extrovert, bold, hot-tempered, aggressive and most of all, winter-hater. On the other side, introvert, soft, timid, slower, melancholy and winter-dweller. (I didn't say winter-lover. They don't necessarily "love" winter but rather they feel relaxed about it, can be mellow in the cold breeze, the snow and the sight of leafless-trees.)

Here's a test. If you found pleasure in the video above, we are alike, "cold brothers and sisters". It's the trailer of the documentary film of the Icelandic band – Sigur Rós. What better place to represent winter than the Iceland? ICE-LAND. The land of ice. (For the "summer people", why on earth did someone decide to live there, it is madness beyond reason.)

When I first saw it, I felt rather like the title saying "Heima", "at home" in Icelandic. I just love the strange landscapes, the remoteness, the vastness, and the cold air that you can almost smell. And of course the music compliments so well with it.

Now here's the band one should at least memorize their name. It's the perfect kind of band that when conversation comes up around music, casual mentioning of their name can intimidate few and show off your distinctive taste and broad musical knowledge. But then again, that' s not the kind of thing that "winter people" do, we are low-profile, you see. What if you are the "summer people"? It's not your kind of music, is it?

Last point, I noticed that the lead singer Jónsi Birgisson wears only a T-shirt in the video. What? In Iceland? ...Whether hot or cold, it's a relative thing. 14ºC, It's summer in Iceland and everyone takes off their shirt and basks in the sun. 14ºC, It's winter in Hong Kong and everyone turns on their heater and sits around it.

What's your temperature? I'm 17ºC, I reckon. Perfectly happy on an autumn day when I can feel the coolness of the wind and the warmth of the sun.

Things I learnt from Travis gig

1. If you want to sound friendly and honest, speak with Scottish accent.

I love the funny sound of Scottish accent. Very down-to-earth. That's also my overall impression of Travis. ("We arrre from Scotland nee England", as Fran had to stress that during the show.) Polls reveal that people believe those with Scottish accents are more trustworthy and honest. Language reflects culture. Maybe they really are, generally.

One thing bothers me though, why when people sing, accent disappears?



2. Music connects us, emotionally.

I am reading two books at the moment – This is Your Brain on Music and Social Intelligence. Found an interesting correlation. A part of our brain called amygdala which is long considered the seat of our emotion is responsible for both our musical enjoyment and social interaction.

That may explain why music moves our emotion so much and we feel "one" with the band and audience when we are listening it live.

In the middle of the show, Fran did an unusual thing. He said, "it's funny that all you guys, total strangers, come together, standing and touching each other, all because of this same love for a band. That's actually quite amazing. Let's do a social experiment. Turn your face to the people around you and say 'Hi' to each other."...Oh, that's when the embarrassment came in. Our rational side took control. Most people reluctantly did as told...mostly to their own friends.



3. If you are really passionate about something, you'll be creative about it.

Their last song of the show was one of their best hit – Why Does It Always Rain on Me. As soon as the music started, two umbrellas were raised above a sea of heads at the very front row. (see one in the middle of the picture?) It surprised everyone including Fran, who couldn't help but smiled at them. That day was a fine day without rain. Some die-hard fans must have prearranged it. It's a small gesture but made a big impression on me.

Nobody is not creative. Just too many lukewarm souls.

Abstract Beauty

When I was an art student, once my art tutor asked me why I didn't paint abstract arts. I replied with some naivety, "To me, everything I look at can be an abstract art – a stained wall, a rusted steel. What's the point of making more?"

Of course, now I know things are more complicated (or cultivated) than that. But I still believe there were some truth in it. If you look at something harder and longer enough, you can discover art in almost anything.

If you don't believe me, take a simple test. Look at your palm. Look, like you've never seen it before. Stare at it. Gaze upon it. Follow every whorls and lines. Let them tell you that this is your hand – the very hand that you made the first touch, held your love one's, and probably felt the first pain.

For a moment. Take everything in. Now "screen cap" this image, imagine you can blow it up and frame it on a pure white gallery wall. Behold. it is a beautiful piece of art. (By the help of Lady Fame, it could be auctioned for a fortune.)

To further prove my point, can you tell what the below image is?


Take a deep breath and click this link to find out. (Hint: it's beauty above all.)

The Selfish Gene

This morning, when I was walking out of Starbucks with my blueberry muffin, a lady in front of me stopped and sided before the exit door, expecting me to open it for her. Hurriedly in automatic mode, I pushed the door open and she followed me out without a slight sign of gratitude.

After thought: I still would have acted generously if I had paused and examined exactly what was happening.

I feel sorry for her, for Hong Kong generally. Having lived in London, one virtue that really impressed me was how people of all classes (which they're so obsessed with) hold the door for others even someone is miles away approaching. Don't expect the same here. Instead you will find comical scenario where upon the first person opening the door, the others after will slip past it with silky moves comparable to those of Ronaldo, until, the door is closing to an impenetrable state. Then the cycle starts all over again.

It's funny. It's sad. Imagine this one particular moment of selfishness (or just utter laziness), multiplies by a thousand times, to become the total sum of all she does in her life. What would that be? A negative number, not even a zero.

I don't want to be self-righteous, feel superior and pass judgement on others. I want this to be my own exhortation. It's certainly not some big, philosophical teaching I discovered myself that I want to preach to others. (it's called Altruism, I learned.) No. I just don't want to waste my life DOING NOTHING. To me, that act of not opening the door for others and myself is DOING NOTHING. I may think it's doing me good, saving me some energy?...(I can't even think of anything else.) But in fact I have done NOTHING valuable to even my very ME.

"Hey you
Threw it all away
By holding everything in
...
a perfect combination of good etiquette and charm
You keep the chocolate biscuits wired to a car alarm
Oooooooooh
Selfish Jean"

Fran Healy, Travis

Staple it the wrong way

This was the "freak statement" made the other day by my usual trusted Staple who is happily going about his business normally. My first reaction was one of amazement with a cry out, "what's wrong with you?"

I showed it to my colleagues. Everyone was puzzled. Until there is always one Mr. Knowhow who came along and explained everything. My staple is actually one of a kind possessing built-in function that can change gears from the normal staple's ends in to the advanced version of ends out. This makes a pile of documents less bulky at the stapled ends. Wow! What a revelation! (Excuse me for my ignorance if you knew this mystery long ago.)

This incident alone made me feel that day was worth while living. A simple design solution was found in the wrong place. That's an enlightenment. A lesson worth remembering.

"Wrong can be the other way right."

Ok, I know what you mean, Staple.

How rich do you feel?

Attended a conference yesterday, there's a question about what's the goal we wanted to achieve in life. Not surprisingly, roughly 80% said they wanted to be rich.

Apparently, we all think somehow we are poor or at least not as well off as we would like to be (I'm no exception).

Came across this site: the Global Rich List.

Type in your annual income and you'll see where you would sit on a global scale.

See if you feel differently.

me VS the WORLD

Surfing through the WWW, left me with just one feeling – absolute despair.

Too much to learn, too little ti/me.

Incurable Is Nothing

Sore throat is something incurable. At least that's what I thought up until today. As far as I can remember, you could never stop it before it inevitably led to coughing, sneezing or even worse – fever.

Last week, funny enough, for the first time in my life I went to see doctor because of a sore throat. Yes, just a sore throat! But deep down I thought it's not going to help. Why? You may ask. It's not cancer, AIDS or anything! Well, my experience convinced me that "oh shit, bad, going to be sick, again."

I found no alternative plot in my past.

The truth is: I could not do anything about it because I had never tried to do anything about it.

Now, that vicious cycle breaks. I'll go see doctor every time I've got a sore throat.

Impossible is not always nothing (Adidas will disagree), but many times, it's something only in our mind.

Autumn in Spring

Nature must have lost her diary or something.

Autumn popped in this week. Gorgeous weather. Cool, dry and blue sky.

Love the smell that came along. That intense scent/sense of Autumn. Words are useless here. The closest description I can think of – a bit like, you're in love.

That's cute!

"That's cute!" – the compliments I've got wearing this tee lately. All from females.

This struck me that females, even in their thirties, adore cute things. I know a few friends who still keep stuffed animal by their side. They talk to them, sleep with them, and even goto gym with them. Once my friend was taken aback when someone introduced her little buddy to her.

Advertisers can use more cutie stuffs when talking to our ladies. Why not? It's immature, too playful and not "corporate" enough? Who cares? Apparently except the marketing people. And ironically they are largely female (Just ask how many cute merchandises on their office desk).

We may not be as Kawaii-laden as the Japanese, but surely we are not as grown-up as we think we are.

Loosen up a bit, stay a little younger. What's wrong with that?

The Omnipresence of Pun

Strolling around Central, found these 2 pieces of sign. If you know Cantonese, you'll see how the puns work.

"FORM PRINT" => "CONVENIENT" (in Cantonese)

"WRONG design" => "KING" of design

We call it "食字" (literally means "eating word") in Hong Kong. Arguably, THE most overused ad copy trick in the past decade and there seems no stopping.

Giorgio Morandi

Someone may notice the header image is a painting by Giorgio Morandi. He may not be very very well-known. But once you've seen his paintings, the mug you use to drink tea everyday will never be the same.

I remember my first encounter with the name "Giorgio Morandi". Many years ago when I was an art student, I was stuck not knowing what to paint. I picked up 2 rolls of toilet paper, put them in a "not so mundane" way and started to paint. My tutor saw and said it's very "Morandi". I didn't have a clue and looked it up. Shocked.

roof top2

In Hong Kong, we crave for space.

The roof top up high is our backyard. We hang our clothes and play with our kids. Taller skyscrapers engulf, privacy is a luxury. But then again, nearly everyone is too occupied to look out.

roof top

A moment outside my office window.