Dusun Issue 5

dusun5

February/March 2012 Ridiculously Free

Malaysian e-Journal of the Arts

It’s happening... honey khor rafiee ghani chan kok hooi chin kon yit ali rahamad cindy koh pua zhe xuan paul gnaselvan eileen lian martin bradley

dusun

it’s what you’ve been waiting for

contents

page 6

February/March 2012

cover editor

honey khor martin a bradley

email

martinabradley@gmail.com

Dusun TM

dusun is a not for profit publication

editorial

page 8 honey khor

paintings page 25 paul gnanaselvan

short story page 28 rafiee ghani

perfumed gardens page 40 chan kok hooi

sell out page 46 eileen lian

poetry page 53 chin kon yit

paintings page 60 ali rahamad

sarang seni page 66 cindy koh

art works page 76 martin bradley

short story page 80

pua zhe xuan

images

editorial

Welcome back

It is a spanking brand new year.There have been many changes around the world. Dusun too has changed. We hope to keep abreast of recent exhibitions, up and coming artists - in all fields, and present them here, in your favourite Malaysian Arts e-zine.

Dusun truly becomes a magazine with this issue.

Now we focus upon exhibitions and art criticism as well as upon the art works themselves - for that has always been Dusun’s strength. - it’s presentation of the artworks by Malaysian artists.

This issue features far too many people to mention them singularly, but we hope that you will enjoy this feast of fantastic imagery, and spare a thought for artists all over the world - interpreting their worlds and their realities, for us.

Spare a thought also for the writers and poets.

Those brave men and women who construct and reconstruct narratives for your delight and edification, often with little pay.

So here it is Dusun 5, do enjoy.

Now read on...........................................

Ed.

honey khor

flying III

flying II

Khor Pei Yeou (Honey Khor) is like a breath of fresh Butterworth air on the Malaysian art scene. Since graduation from the Malaysian Institute of Art - Honey Khor (the name she prefers to be known by), has gone on to produce a cornucopia of stunning artworks reminiscence of artists such as Friedensreich Hundertwasser, Paul Klee and the early Marc Chagall.

Honey Khor has re-awakened Malaysian art. Gone are those endless monotonous boat scenes and twee kampongs.

Expressionism and its pretenders have also all been thrown out in favour of symbolism and reoccurring organic motifs – hence the reference to Friedensreich Hundertwasser. Honey Khor dazzles and astounds with much imagery which would not look out of place in an Australian art gallery - with her depictions of nature, natural fauna, and flora. In many spectacular paintings, and much clay work, Honey Khor creates her own symbolism and striking visual language to delight and to inform the delighted viewer.

This is not naive, naïf or modern primitive art, but an exciting melding together of symbols and representations in an almost spiritual narrative. It is no wonder then that Honey Khor favours Buddhism, has an interest in mandalas and is close friends with a shaman. In her telling imagery, Honey Khor sets up her own shop and reveals the wares that are uniquely hers. Those wares – her paintings and pottery, have that spiritual dimension which seems to speak directly to the heart, if not the soul. The gallery visitor leaves feeling a profound sense of thankfulness for having been in the presence of such meditative and yet invigorating works.

An early oil painting – Blessings of the Earth, becomes reminiscent of Aboriginal art. The painting has a lack of traditional perspective, repeated pattern (at the top) and flat rendered heron and fish. Love, and a reverence of nature, spills from this painting - it is the type of painting which can only be painted by

a child or an adult in tune with her spiritual side, but in truth it is far too sophisticated to have been rendered by a child, unless precocious, and precocious is something this gentle artist is not. It is a nature scene, but Honey Khor’s symbolism captures something way beyond mere mimesis, it sings of the language of the psyche and reaches those parts of the soul that other artists cannot reach. It is therefore a triumph of communication, and a song to Mother Nature.

Honey’s work has been likened to those of the French artist Séraphine Louis, and in the painting Blossoms, you can understand why. But, ultimately, it is a superficial resemblance, and just a passing nod to an artist Honey admires for her strength and determinism. Love, and falling in love - as well as depictions of nature, is reoccurring in Honey’s work. One small series of paintings, unsurprisingly called Falling in Love, presents a series of dream-like states where a male and a female appear to be in symbiosis - attached at the feet and floating through a stylised rural scene. The male/female union are earth coloured in the first, and yet seem to be air spirits. They sore and sway, watched by birds and a tamed countryside. A large blue postimpressionist leaf oversees the tumbling and pulling of the couple while a Kandinsky yellow sky enhances the dream-like essence. In the series of three works the figures seem channelled by a road, or river, which guides the movements of the co-joined couple.

There is no reason to suspect disharmony as the colours of the couple change from brown to dark brown and then white, with each painting.

That organic feel to Honey Khor’s work is never far away.

In the painting – Fantasy in Nature, flora curlicues dance little arabesques to the right of the painting, while trees denuded of their leaves force upward and into the mainframe of the picture. A purple sunflower-like mandala peeks in from the right and is echoed by another on the bottom left. There is balance and harmony in this painting, with just a hint of discord.

There is beauty but, overall, this work leaves the viewer with a glimpse into a darker place – as intended by the artist. In the second Fantasy in Nature, the artist reveals her mastery over the watercolour medium, blending a variety of techniques to produce the organic whole. This set of two echoes Honey’s other work, but reveals a slightly unnerving place where, perhaps, all is not quite what it seems.

There are many more delicious images by this fascinating artist a veritable feast for the eyes and the soul. I urge the powers that be to rush to buy some of these intriguing works before they are all snapped up and taken out of the country, as many have all been. Balai Seni Visual Negara needs to capture one or two of these works before it’s much too late.

unamed sculpture

unamed sculpture I

falling in love I

falling in love II

falling in love III

nature within us

being together

nature in the eyes of the beholder

blessings of the earth

blossoms

story of nature I

story of nature II

the wonders of nature III

the wonders of nature II

the wonders of nature I

short story

Sellama and Curried Prawns paul gnanaselvan

“Hmmm…” sighed Selamma hearing the subtle halting of a car.

“Amma,” greeted a familiar voice.

“Come in. How is your wife and children,” she asked formally as she peered outside.

“At home and school amma,” answered Dorai rather complacently.

“You want some tea?” Sellama offered.

“No ma, did the mortgagers come today,” he asked.

“No they didn’t,” said Sellama ruefully. “Would you like to have lunch? I have cooked your favorite,” she continued.

“What amma? Prawn and drumstick curry?” Asked Dorai, as he sat down at the dining table.

“Amma,” he began with the unmistakable tone but stopped.

Instead he concentrated on mixing up the rice with gravy before scooping a mouthful.

“Why have you added so much chili?” he asked in between chewing the fibrous pods of the drumstick.

Sellama ladled up some more gravy and poured them on Dorai’s

rice.

“Hot? Too much chili?” she asked doubtingly. “It’s been the same; your father liked it this way.” she said, noticing the small beads of sweat that had begun to dot Dorai’s forehead.

“Why not sell the house,” proposed Dorai, “and move into the Good Shepherd Home.You won’t be so lonely ma.Your meals and chores are taken care of. Shalini says there are doctors who will check on you twice a day, nurses who will remind you to take your pills, no cooking, cleaning, or laundry,” he said.

“I know, I know,” said Sellama, scratching her head and wounding back loose hair into her tiny bun.

Silence ensued.

“Shooo…shooo…,” Dorai blew out softly.

“Here, take some more,” Sellama offered more prawns-anddrumstick-in-coriander gravy.

“No ma, they’re too spicy,” protested Dorai.

“When are you taking me home?” she asked fervently.

“Home?” asked Dorai.

“Your house,” said Sellama, “that’s where I belong.”

“But amma, Shalini says you will have difficulties climbing up the staircase, and we won’t be at home most of the time,” said Dorai.

“Shooo…shooo…Can I have some water please?” Dorai pleaded.

Sellama looked about the kitchen cabinet for a cup. And when she found one, she left it on the table, empty and began to fill the water jug.

“I insist on staying with you and the children, we can put up this house for rental,” suggested Sellama. “That’s what your father would ask you to do,” she emphasized, still holding the jug to herself.

“Amma, I need to go, said Dorai,” as he wiped his forehead.

“Here,” said Sellama, handing him a glass of water, finally.

Dorai gulped down the water in a hurry, spilling some on his collar and shirt pocket.

“I’ll see you on Saturday, amma,” he said as he got up from the table.

Sellama smiled.

“What about the mortgagers, are they coming?” she asked importantly.

“No amma, right now I need the air-cond,” said Dorai, hurrying out into the comfort of his big car.

Paul GnanaSelvam has published short stories in e- Mags: AnakSatra and Dusun, Anthologies Write Out Loud, Urban Odysseys: KL Stories, Body2Body and ASIATIC- a Literary Journal. Apart from Creative Writing; his reading interests include works of writers from the Indian Diaspora and New Literatures in English. He teaches Academic Writing and Interpersonal Communication at Universiti Tunku Abdul Rahman in Kampar, Perak.

There is radiant splendour and vibrant beauty to India which Rafiee Ghani captures well in his latest exhibition – Perfumed Gardens, at Galeri Chandan, Bukit Damansara, Kuala Lumpur.

Amidst russet forts, towering minarets, eggshell blue skies and the vermillion of northern saris, there is the vivid perfumed romance of all that is rich and stunning about Rafiee’s India.

Though the title ‘Perfumed Garden’ is perhaps best known from Sir Richard Francis Burton’s translation of the Arabic erotic manual, it suits the vibrancy of Rafiee’s exhibition well.

The wandering visitor to Galeri Chandan becomes ‘perfumed’ with colour exuding from canvases and watercolour papers throughout Rafiee’s stunning display. Those rich, lively, visual, aromas permeate consciousness in an almost subliminal way, leaving the visitor heady, intoxicated by their sheer beauty.

As you might expect - vermillion, cardinal, crimson, cerise – the colours of India, dance and swirl from Rafiee’s paintings, often counterbalanced by walls of blue, or simple Indian skies.

Red in all its facets presents as the bonding colour, uniting works throughout the well-spaced gallery. Galeri Chandan’s unique architecture only enhances the exhibition. The visitor is allowed a certain voyeurism when peeking through arches, around corners, down staircases – like the small children we all secretly are, excited at the next find in the treasure trail of that Perfumed Garden.

And it is an excitement. The journey that Galerie Chandan and

fly by Rafiee Ghani take us on is a journey of spills and trills, a secret journey bound in symbolism, closeness, and distance, a voyage of re-discovery, root finding and whole-making. India has that effect.

Once sampled it is never forgotten.

Be it the bounce and brashness of Bollywood, or the dank misery of Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay, India gets into the blood like an incurable virus, forges love/hate but it is never forgotten. Like Rafiee’s paintings, India always calls, sometimes we heed that call, sometimes we simply listen and reflect, surround ourselves with its hues and scents and recall the heat, the passion, and the perfumes which linger in oh so many gardens.

the escort

the farm

tea drinker

the king goes hunting

one corner of the 6x4 print has become creased, revealing the paper beneath the photographic coating, the image nevertheles In the photograph I am twenty years, and hold my first child of a few months. I wear a newly purchased two tone leather jac daughter a little towards the camera so that her mother can take the photograph, and clearly see her puffy cheeked daughter.

It is the tail end of winter and we are all a little fresh faced from the cool of the wind. I rest against a wooden gate, a prop fo from the elements and, after the photograph is taken, the child is placed back in the buggy, strapped in for safety and comfort newly rented council house.

Times are a little lean. I have recently accepted an appointment as a carer to eleven elderly men - at a home for the aged. I ha week cleaning and caring for the men whose relatives prefer the dirty work done by others, shaving and bathing the ex-husba dren’s children, because growing older is a messy business. Perhaps some of this is evident in the leanness of my face, or the through, the camera holder.

The child’s mother had given up her job in the bakery, selling fresh yeasty bread in the mornings from the home bakery whic mence her working life as a domestic helper, cleaning in a residence sheltering nurses and enabling them to continue to care It was not an easy time and the white frame surrounding the photographic image puts a neat boundary around that image of f in the 1970s. The photograph is unable to depict the smallness of the lives we lived then, unless the observant viewer can see captured resemblance of father and daughter.

The fact that this photograph never had a frame perhaps indicates choices we had to make, between the decorative and the fu not thinking to protect this image from time’s ravages and the future yellowing of the paper from the sun as it frequently brus We were a young couple caught up in the living of life, unable to afford a thought for the future, wrapped in the present and s On days other than that depicted in the photograph I would enjoy the company of my small child, she in her buggy and I push snow giving us both cause for a smile until, out of fatherly concern, I fix the plastic protection over the front of the buggy, sh Alternatively, the child, now growing beyond her years in the photograph would attempt to catch snow and meld it into a sno mitten covered hands as she does so, with small clumps of snow relentlessly clinging onto the wool of the gloves. She slips a parental concern, to see that she is fine and once again struggling to her feet and tasting snow on her face with her pink tongu cence of the child.

But it is another time. The photograph is an aide memoir. It brings back the child from thirty eight years in the past and del ness in the recalling, but a little sadness too that I am unable to reach out and touch that child, take her, once more, in my arm I can only look and remember, and in remembering consider what is lost from memory and what little still remains of that ph

the red gate

ss remains clear – that of a proud father with his first born child. cket, bought as a birthday present from the sales in a local leather store. I hold the young child firmly in my grip, tilting my

or the image. Behind, the slightly cloudy sky reveals a pale chilled blue. We are glad that the child is well wrapped, safe t. The small canopy is rearranged to protect the child from the chilling wind. The three of us turn and walk back towards our

ave bought a cycle to help me travel the two miles to work, twice daily, as the job entails split shifts. I spend most of my ands, fathers and grandfathers who are tucked away, out of harm’s reach, and out of sight of their children and their chile trimness of the cut of the leather jacket I wear, or maybe in the smiling, yet somewhat distant eyes that look towards and

ch scented Head Street with its satisfying essence, to look after the child she had borne but, in time, would have to recomfor the sick and the injured. father and daughter, slicing but a fragment from the reality of life beyond the lens, denying the complexity of our lives lived e from the size of the photograph that we were unable to purchase a larger size, to place upon our mantelpiece, to admire the

unctional with the functional, inevitably, and constantly winning out. We were a couple with a small child, living in the now, shed our mantelpiece, glancing through infrequently cleaned windows. struggling to have a future, any kind of future, as long as the future was there. hing, walking behind, making sounds and noises I expected a small child to recognise or appreciate, the slight feathering of heltering the child from the weather and also from the connection we had. owball, failing as the loose white frozen water falls apart and onto the ground, but nevertheless laughing and clapping her and falls in the snow, laughing but with a slight quiver to her lip as the surprise of the fall gives her a shock. I rush out of ue and laughing in that endearing way a very small child has, drawing you into her moment and sharing the joy and inno-

livers her to my sight, stirring my recollections, memories and emotions in a way that little else can. There is much happims and pose for a photograph. hotograph, of my memory and of the bond we had when she was young.

the school bus

I always remember Saadi visiting his rose garden

traversing the songs of the universe

saffron sky

goa iii

fire in the mountain

redemption song

chan kok hooi

singapore exhibition poster

prosperous spring

prosperous spring detail Chan Kok Hooi is a full time artist.

He was born 1974, in Penang, Malaysia, and currently lives and works in Penang.

He graduated from the Malaysian Institute of Art, majoring in painting, in 1996, and has had a number of very successful solo and group exhibitions since.

His work has featured in a number of magazines and foreign exhibitions.

windows to the soul detail

windows to the soul

windows to the soul detail

poetry

again and again dreaming eileen lian There is no end But wait!

There was no beginning It starts in the middle…

I’m in free fall Down!

Down!

Down!

First, it’s a hole Going deeper and deeper into the ground Then it’s the side of a cliff and I’m gliding southwards into the ocean Afterwards, it could be… falling off the roof of a house or a really tall table or a very high bed!

But they are always long and treacherous downward journeys!

Not once, not twice.

But many times throughout my childhood!

Was it a loss of control?

Did it signify fear?

Was it too much wondering?

Real life translates into dream life Dream life solidifies into real life Which is which, though?

Always, my legs melt into nothingness And gradually I enjoy the feeling of falling, of flying through the air.

In spite of the deep fear, which I always manage to sweep away into a rarely-visited corner of the mind.

Lucid thoughts rush through my head!

Strange, how one can be so‌ aware at times like these Perhaps there is nothing else that one can do while falling.

But fall, and think, and think!

different lives eileen lian Traffic chokes the city I get a Starbucks

On the go Elevator: level 28 Bodies crushed against bodies A lady finds the space to comb her hair A man with brown Gucci briefcase and Mont Blanc pen

Clears his throat, incessantly The rest of us

Stare straight ahead

Inhaling perfume and body odours

Pretending not to notice each other

Shuffling our feet

Giving way Each time the door opens My desk: The in tray full The out tray empty The KIV tray spilling over The computer screen blinking

Excel spreadsheets Emails demanding attention Client calls HR calls Marketing calls Boss yells Colleague shouts across the office partition Oi, where to go for drinks tonight?

I look at my watch It’s only 11.11 a.m.

Too much activity Too much go go go

For a quiet morning Ten o’clock and no alarm Just a sleepy stretch

A swallow’s warble

A lawnmower’s whirr

The veggie man’s horn

Neighbours’ chatter My baby nudges the inside of my skin Orange juice—freshly squeezed Avocado, from the SS2 market Toast and butter No coffee All lazy, lazy, lazy Then, sharp at 11.11 a.m.

Out it all comes Orange juice—freshly squeezed Avocado, from the SS2 market Toast and butter No coffee Small price to pay

For a human life!

A shower first? Or a Naipaul?

Maybe a twist around the lounge to Rod Stewart’s rasp?

What to have for lunch?

So many decisions to make On a quiet morning.

the power of nude eileen lian I AM Nude Naked Unclothed and unmasked Stripped ‌ bare Stark, pried open Transparent Wearing only my birthday suit I AM Pondering, contemplating Brooding over things Sometimes knowing, sometimes not Wishing and hoping Being, but not yet Doing I AM Hungry Cold and shivering Trembling, occasionally shaking Wanting to escape my fate Uncertain of life and such AM I Shy or just embarrassed?

Ashamed, shameful, degenerate?

Beautiful? Not beautiful enough?

Confident? Too confident?

Not confident enough!

Butterflies uncover all the empty spaces inside me I recline

Waiting for the artist I AM Reposed Exposed Posing. A poser?

Replete with possibilities All for RM770 Not bad For four hours work On a languid Saturday afternoon in Ampang Jaya I BECOME Sri Permata A painting that hangs on walls A piece of decoration A collector’s item A generational heirloom: witness to crimes, bystander to furtive affairs A corporation’s pride: a collector of secrets, of financial mischiefs A masterpiece that breaks all previous records—US$7.7 million An asset class that yields top returns: a fund manager’s dream An object of passion and love—fierce love—and rivalry An obsession equally cherished protected defended by its possessors And (finally) a curator’s triumph; an observer of all things Of poverty and riches Patience and impatience Kindness and cruelty Jealousy and rage Tenderness and devotion

Brutality and utter despair And Hope and joy and faith and love.

AM I Powerless or Powerful?

Eileen Lian has worked as group editor with a regional trade publishing firm in Singapore before leaving to be a full-time mum.

She has been freelancing since 2004, contributing to newspapers and magazines such as the South China Morning Post, Asia Asset Management Journal, Cathay Pacific’s Discovery magazine and Kerry Properties’ The Dress Circle.

Her first short story ‘Teatime in Bangsar’ was published in the MPH collection ‘A Subtle Degree of Restraint’ earlier this year.

Another story “Staying Alive’ appeared in the Selangor Times in August and a poem “The Power of Nude” was recently published in MOMA’s art catalogue ‘Proud to be Nude’.

chin kon yit Chin Kon Yit is best known for his many series of delicate watercolour images depicting national and heritage buildings.

Presently, he is in the midst of a new series of works - this time collecting sketching the nation’s heritage in one magnificent volume of intricate images.

I met with Kon Yit, at his home, on Chinese New Year’s day.

There was a slight moistness in the air as I travelled to Petaling Jaya. The traffic, reduced to a mere smattering of vehicles because of the holiday, eased my passage and my hand phone’s GPRS eventually nudged me in the right direction.

Kon Yit was all smiles and welcome as he ushered me into his home. Stepping through his threshold, I was to receive my first real surprise of the day - the traffic was but a precursor. Kon Yit’s home was a museum. It was a veritable cornucopia of design antiques, teeming wall imagery and a whole troop of significant, but miscellaneous, items. His house held a collection of objects d’art drawn from near and far. They sat in near perfect harmony - watching him as he painted the latest series of watercolour artworks for Didier Editions (Malaysia).

A tin of Campbell’s Select Harvest Garden Recipes Vegetable Medley watched a small fish bowl of coloured pencils - worn with the pressure of an artist’s skilled hand. A small replica Eiffel Tower sat on a rolled wooden blind – the dust barely noticeable amidst the profusion of items. There were towering stacks of National Geographic magazines, stacked like skyscrapers - their yellowness radiating sunshine towards an antique kewpie doll, and small (Malay) woven parcels hanging on the wall.

Kon Yit’s early oil paintings accompanied those of his wife.

Those paintings hung amidst photos of their family and a sense of growing together with mementos from home and abroad.

There was a wall full of masks. They were grinning, scowling at the myriad objects before them - it was as if Kon Yit was displaying his whole life before him, projecting memory and

kuala lumpur a sketchbook

penang sketchbook

malacca sketchbook

after deliveries personality in the way we all do, but bigger, better. The house and he melded, became one. I did not know where the one started and the other finished. It seemed some strange sort of equatorial symbiosis. The house decoration was as organic as his small front garden. Instead of creeping vines and Bunga Raya, the house’s interior grew cans of Sprite, 7Up, Coca Cola.

It sprouted rattan ‘Coolie’ hats, small figurines of the elephant headed god – Ganesha and myriad other things which sparkled with Kon Yit’s personality.

Thinking Kon Yit was a watercolourist, I was in for another shock that day. On the walls were the proof that he had mastered acrylic and oil painting many years before. His early work, though very different from the more illustrative work we know and love, was superb. I had forgotten just how good that man is. Inwardly I queried the change from oils/acrylics to watercolour, but accepted that all artists must journey and that progression was as normal and as natural as breathing to many true artists.

Moving towards me like some schoolchild proud of his homework, and negotiating his way through his objects, Kon Yit proffered me his latest set of drawings. They each exhibited painstakingly drawn detail. He told me that those images were priceless to him. He even carried them on holiday with him – afraid that something might happen to them in his absence and he would have to re-draw them all to achieve his publisher’s deadline.

Those pre-watercolour drawings sang with delicacy and sheer hard work. I looked at that man in his 60s and wondered just what it was that egged him on, drove him to finish illustration after illustration in such minute detail. It was, of course, his professionalism. As well as mastering his various crafts, Kon Yit is a professional. He renders his images using all his artistic power and then rigorously sticks to deadlines, as any other

the artist at home

professional might. He is an artist whose creative personality spills out into his immediate environment. I had stepped, that day, into Kon Yit’s unique environment and gazed with awe, and a certain amount of wonder.

a collection

every day is a good day

kepala batas 1

kepala batas 2

kepala batas 3

9.30am at Jalan Pudu Lama

tropical garden

tea break

Born a poor young country boy--Mother Nature's son*, those simple, elegant Beatles lyrics seem to describe the artist Ali Rahamad well. They might, perhaps, allude to Ali’s association with the Malaysian artistic splinter group - Anak Alam (Sons of Nature), his apparent world view and the theme for many of his paintings – man’s place in nature.

In an exhibition of two hundred and fourteen paintings - begun 30th November 2011, finishing 30th January 2012, Ali Rahamad finely eases his attentive audience from one year to another and, perhaps, one world to another. Within the freshly named National Visual Arts Gallery, Ali Rahamad has fashioned a unique space in which to develop his concerns about nature, and to reveal his personal umwelt. With his finely wrought creations Ali delights and fascinates us as, uniquely engaged, we – the gazers, the viewers, those who come to gape at his works become mesmerised by the splendour of those images he has formed.

Forever a ‘Mother Nature’s son’, battling rampant materialism in the Malaysia of 1974, a much younger Ali Rahamad turned his thoughts to the idea of artistic communalism. He and a band of like individuals - painter and poet Abdul Latiff Mohidin, Zulkifli Dahalan, poet Siti Zainon Ismail and Abdul Ghafar Ibrahim et al began to shape Anak Alam which, according to Syed Ahmad Jamal (The Encyclopaedia of Malaysia – Crafts and the Visual Arts, p11) was a breakaway group of the younger members of Angkatan Pelukis Se-Malaysia (APS). Anak Alam was a more experimental group who, to quote Sabapathy... ‘...turned towards cultivating intensely subjective reflections on nature, both natural and human, digging deep into and exposing fragile, and threatened conditions of man and the ecology’. P113 ed T.K.Sabapathy,Vision and Idea – Relooking Modern Malaysian Art, 1994.

While that band of creative individuals who comprised Anak Alam eventually disbanded - with Siti Zainon Ismail going on

to an illustrious career in literature, art and poetry, Abdul

Latiff Mohidin becoming known both for his poetry and his Expressionistic paintings, Ali continued to develop a style of art which allowed him to ‘talk’ about nature and ecology. To an extent Ali has never given up that reflection on nature which formed the core of Anak Alam, but expounded upon it. This continuity is witnessed in his one thousand plus paintings, over the last three decades, which echo his concerns about man, the environment and an ever fragile ecology.

To achieve the experience, and depth of understanding necessary for his purpose, Ali was drawn to travel far and wide from Malaysia. At one point he lived in Germany, travelling there via India (which, under the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was also inspiration for The Beatles Mother Nature’s Son lyrics). Ali finally settled in California.

That travel broadens the mind is an old cliché - but it is nevertheless true. Travel has keened Ali’s sensibilities until he metaphorically brims with notions, symbols and images to reveal his perceptions of the suffering and beauty that he has witnessed, and continues to witness, in the world in which we live.

There is something of the Peruvian artist Tilsa Tsuchiya in the works of Ali Rahamad. Maybe it’s in the curvaceousness of Ali’s figures, or the organic fluidity of his lines that brings Tsuchiya to mind. Or perhaps it is the deep concern with the preservation of our planet that they both comment upon, which enables the viewer to extract semblances of the one from the other.

Like Tsuchiya, Ali too had been labelled a ‘Surrealist painter’, or a painter of the ‘surreal’ whatever that may mean in actuality.

Surrealism has largely been foreign to Malaysian art - under represented. While the grand old dames of Expressionism, Abstract and Pop Art have held free reign for far too many decades, few Malaysian artists - returning from their European or American art schools, have accepted Andre Breton’s notion that;-

surrealist manifesto andre breton

Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of previously neglected associations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested play of thought. It tends to ruin once and for all all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solving all the principal problems of life. P26, Andre Breton, Manifestoes of Surrealism, University of Michigan Press (June 15, 1969).

If an allowance may be made, and a label must be attached, it would not be beyond the bounds of possibility to consider Ali Rahamad a painter of the ethereal, a painter of the extraordinary or the phantasmagorical. If the label ‘Surrealism’ must be considered to explain Ali’s exquisite visions, then perhaps we might consider that Ali’s work has more in common with the Surrealism of Leonora Carrington, or with the pre-Surrealist Hieronymus Bosch, whom Ali admires, or with that supreme ‘Naive’ artist Henri Rousseau whom Breton admired so much.

The spiritual Ali Rahamad could not have been considered amongst the ‘hard core’ Surrealists such as Victor Brauner, Max Ernst or even André Masson, but perhaps more a painter of the fantastic, and therefore more of a Baudelaire than a Comte de Lautréamont.

Hollister Sturges reminds us that for painting to be considered ‘fantastic’, it must adhere to ‘..the juxtaposition, distortion, or amalgamation of images and/or materials that extend experience by contradicting our normal expectations formally or iconographically. Devices such as metamorphoses, incongruous hybrids, dislocations in time and space, and shifts in scale and materials create fantastic images which break the rules of the natural world.’p38, Holliday T. Day and Hollister Sturges, Art of the Fantastic: Latin America, 1920-1987, 1987.

This Ali does with his curvaceous non-erotic, exotic women who dance or lay with violins/ birds. Ali’s women are seen against rocks, with hearts, highly textured, symbolic and as if stepping straight from strange, mythic, Jungian dreams to pose for the

aztec journey

veil series

eric gill east wind

artist and his ever ready canvas. Ali half reveals women wearing veils, scarves. A very Renaissance under-painting of earthy red ochre overlaid with yellow enough to fool the viewer they are witnessing gold, forms the melody which sings through one series of Ali’s work. In others Ali juxtaposes fish with human heads, women with trees – their hair resembling branches or roots. Bodies peel away revealing the congruence of mankind and nature, scalps and brain matter transform into knotted branches, landscapes whose texture barely differentiates human from all encompassing, living, breathing nature. Such is Ali’s visual and intellectual allegiance to the tenets of Anak Alam, and coincidently forever remains as a monument to it.

Through the execution of drip-paint splash-colour Pollacklike background textures, Ali Rahamad reveals what could be mistaken for the sculptural hand of the British artist and sculptor - Eric Gill. Ali’s images are reminiscent of Gill’s gentile curvatures and fluid lines as they appear in an almost trompe d'oil fashion, momentarily perplexing the viewer. It is as if Ali’s images had been hewn from stone, ready to adorn some London city building like Gill’s large-scale East Wind sculpture which hovers over St James's Underground station and therefore graced

by Cockney pigeons. At other times, and again with sculptural references, the viewer can imagine influences from, and interests in Aztec art, as they reveal themselves in Ali’s work. Images of squat figures seep from Ali’s milling subconscious, phallus looking or boxed - squashed into their fames they leak onto his oil or acrylic canvases and produce works such as his 2007 series Aztec Journey.

There is no doubt that there are some influences of Expressionism within the one hundred and twenty paintings in Ali’s War series (since 1985). Those paintings range from the Twin Towers series (2008) up to those depicting the atrocities in Dafur (2009). Perhaps the Expressionism is from his association

the work shop of deadalus andré masson

with Latiff Mohidin, or maybe because it has become a mainstay for many Malaysian artists to touch base with Expressionism at some point in their artistic careers. But there is a kind of Surrealism too. The starkness, anger and red violence of some of Ali’s War series recalls André Masson’s The Workyard of Daedalus (1939), and the symbolism of Edvard Munch (The Scream – 1893).

This blood redness of anger and devastation is followed through in Ali’s Twin Towers series which, though full of hopeful birds, also depict raging, desolating infernos and falling figures which seem intent to be forever etched onto our collective consciousnesses – and succeed. Gaza (2009) screams, bound tightly with red and white ribbons which may be bandages spotted with blood. The anger and the angst of a Belsen is there in the Gaza series, the heat and horror revealed in Holocaust, the melting bodies, and terror seen in Ali’s Remembering Hiroshima (2009). But just as Guernica (1937) was Picasso’s rail against the bombing of that Basque town, so Ali’s more intensive works of revulsion and war are but moments of unbridled horror – islands of unrest amidst a sea of seer-like images of beauty, colouring the majority of Ali’s stunning canvases and commenting upon that eternal congruence of man and nature.

Death and birth are the finite ends of our material existence and somewhere in between comes love. Where, above, I remarked that Ali’s works seemed Jungian in nature, and implied a mythic dimension to his works, that was not to deny the Freudian side of Ali’s artistic nature. Eros and Thanatos – Libido and Mortido - Love and Death duel their endless Freudian contest and result in images which might have delighted any connoisseur of Japanese Shunga, if they were not stripped of their erotic poignancy. Ali’s phallus faced fish inhabit canvases which blend fish heads, human heads and phallus heads. Those images, naked of their sexual charge, appear to represent Storge (ancient

Greek for affection) rather than Eros (Plato’s romantic love) due to the non-erotic nature of those images. Ali treads that fine line between artistic revelation and wanton pornography, but judge for yourselves, view – Rise from the Darkness (2010), Fires in the Water and My life in Your Hands (2010), and decide upon the extant or extinct erotic nature of those works.

Elsewhere in Ali’s mythos, maidens dance, they face to the sun and are glad to be alive – as in Love in the Air (2010), they float in the Blue Night Sky (2010) and emulate any number of women holding flowers in Diego Rivera’s murals in Blue Lillys (2010), while love and sadness mix in Blue Breeze Blues (2010).

Now this Mother Nature’s son has returned to the verdant bosom of his former equatorial home. Ali’s work is welcomed by the Malaysian national gallery of art. For those eager to stand before his images there are surprises in scale, and delights too.

But surely the greatest delight of all is that the works are there at all, and finally being shown in Kuala Lumpur. Anak Alam balik kampung. *(The Beatles White Album – 1968)

gaza

cindy koh

yoga 1

yoga 8

Cindy Koh Yeen Leng Born 1973, Graduated from University of Evansville Indiana, USA in 1995 with a Bachelors of Sc. in Arts (ceramics) and Associate Studies in Business Administration.

Selected Group Exhibitions 2011 Fire & Earth Contemporary Ceramics, Shalini Ganendra Fine Art Gallery, Petaling Jaya, Malaysia.

2011 MASif, Petronas Gallery, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

2010 Bakat Muda Sezaman 2010(Young Contemporary’s exhibition) National Art Gallery (BSLN), Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

2010 Art Triangle, National Art Gallery (BSLN), Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

2010 Artist of Selangor, Galeri Shah Alam,Yayasan Seni Selangor, Malaysia 2010

yoga chess 1

yoga chess 2

yoga 4

symbiosis II

symbiosis IV

Symbiosis With this series of work, I have chosen to use 2 very different mediums. Metal and Clay.

Metal has always been portrayed as a hard and strong medium whereas clay gives us the impression of pliable And organic. The perception is an illusion as when clay is hardened, it is strong and it’s form is inflexible. Metal on the other hand may always be altered to another form.

The symbiotic relationship between the two materials in my work reflects the relationship between humans, where our adaptability and changes are examined.

In this series, the work is fluid and rhythmic as the two materials flow in and out together creating a symbiosis III -1 harmonious flow of energy.

symbiosis V

symbiosis I

short story

no way to end a marriage by martin bradley The February sky promised rain. Gopeng’s dust still clung to the back of the black SUV. It was a short drive from the birthday party to that house, but in memory the journey lasted seven years.

It all could have, should have, been resolved in a civilised way – through dialogue, it wasn’t. The ending of the marriage, though deeply regrettable, should have been an opportunity to wrap up the differences, cast them aside, make amends, and move on.

The writer arrived at the kampong house he had paid to build, only to find it padlocked. There were new, steel, padlocks on the front entry gate and all around his home. He was a writer, but he was barred entry to his studio (containing his reference books).

He looked at the new locks with dismay, it was as if his heart and soul had been locked away too Then, as an afterthought, he climbed back into the black SUV and sought a locksmith - failing that, anyone who could cut at least one of the imposing padlocks from off of his property.

Sparks showered the gentle dusk. Suddenly it was Guy Fawkes Night - he celebrated alone, and with some anxiety. That one odious, anxious ridden task completed - the young Chinese boy (helping the writer) was set upon by a grossly annoyed secondary school teacher. Astounded, the Chinese boy rode off in fright. Soon, the perplexed writer was approached by a villager (a misogynist) one former prisoner and one adulterer. They were demanding to know what the writer was doing. He replied that he was trying to gain access to his home, and to the books he needed so badly for his work. A torrent of abusive behaviour and racial name calling came from the three villagers. The writer shrank back out of fear.

The misogynist blocked the car the writer was driving The writer continued to try to collect his books, but it was soon evident that he would not be allowed to take them to his car.

There was a storm. The mining-pool area grew dark. The

electricity in the house went off. The writer’s hand phone died.

He was unable summon help.

The crowd (mob) outside got larger. The writer’s ex-wife -a university lecturer, came hurling abusive insults at the writer.

She punched the writer on the arm, almost in the same spot a mosquito had bitten him, weeks before, when they both still dwelt in that house, now locked. She threatened him, wielding a broken tree branch. The mob, behaving without the rationality of the individual, cheered her on. The university lecturer, her decorum vanished and replaced by anger from her roots, threatened to smash the glass in the writer’s car. More racial insults followed from the university lecturer, the misogynist, the adulterer, and the former prisoner.

Dark thundered down like a collapsing theatre curtain. The writer, still afeared, requested the mob to let him collect his books - then leave. He was not allowed. Another car came to block him in further. The mob urged the estranged wife on.

Smitten with the potentcy of violence they watched and coached.

More viscous insults ensued. The estranged wife, the university lecturer of our tale, admitted stealing the house the writer had paid for, She laughed a maniacal laugh, telling him that all he did, everyday, was to ‘sit on his fat arse, pretending to write’ - which itself was eerie. The estranged wife said that she had got the better of the writer – had stolen his money and his car. She and her kampong gang shouted that it was her house and he had no proof it was his, practically in unison.

There were further insults. Eventually, after enduring many taunts, the writer broke. He hurled insults back - reminding his estranged wife, and those present, of some of the things she had done. He was not proud to tell that his estranged wife had been sleeping around with married Australian men, in sordid hotel rooms - having internet sex with all varieties of white men. It broke his heart to recall the day that he discovered those things

– just weeks after they had been married - her lies to cover it up, his walking out, and her begging him to stay.

It was dark. The writer made a run for his car. In the poor light he turned the car around, squeezed it through a space not covered by the two blocking cars. The mob and his estranged wife hit the car - threatening to smash the glass and grab him.

He moved off, slowly, so as not to injure those attacking him. He was panicking - too much adrenalin. He drove down the road, stopped the car, and shook.

That night he couldn't sleep. He had reoccurring visions of the mob thumping his car. There were disturbing flash-backs of the incident. It was a frightening experience. He had sought to communicate, to talk with the woman he had known for seven years, but it was all to no avail. Humanity was stripped bare, animal instinct remained, confrontation steered its damaging course through a love gone sour.Violence - physical and mental abuse set the writer and his former paramour on opposite sides of an unbreachable chasm, that surely was no way to end a marriage.

A new day dawned, perhaps a little brighter than before. The writer, sadder but certainly a little wiser, collected his past memories, gathered them into a heap and tucked them away.

It was, after all, a new day and the upset of nightmares become washed away with the new sunrise. What is lost is lost. The soul needs no weight of encumbrance to sore. The writer smiled a slightly sad little smile, and began to write.

Martin Bradley is a writer/poet/designer. He was Guest Writer at India’s Commonwealth Writers Festival in New Delhi (2010) and Guest Writer at Singapore’s Lit Up literature festival (2010); he has read in Kuala Lumpur and Ipoh Malaysia (2011). Martin writes articles on Art & Culture for magazines and newspapers and designs digital images. He has been the editor of Dusun – a Malaysian Arts and Culture e-magazine and founder/host of Northern Writers – a venue for ‘readings’ in Ipoh, Malaysia.

pua zhe xuan The need to create, the need to communicate and to use our imagination is in all of us – the young artist Pua Zhe Xuan is no exception.

Pua Zhe Xuan was born with autism. According to Kid’s health (America) - Autism causes children to experience the world differently from the way most other children do. It’s hard for children with autism to talk with other people and express themselves using words. Children who have autism usually keep to themselves and many cannot communicate without special help.

Pua Zhe Xuan has developed skills in communication which are fresh for him and exciting for us. He has taken to making images to help him communicate his thoughts and feelings to the outside world. Over time, he has built up a portfolio of stunning imagery to tell his personal story and to reflect his thoughts and feelings about the world around him. Art has truly become a language for Pua Zhe Xuan, giving him a connection to a world he was born disconnected from.

As he has developed his artistic skills, Pua Zhe Xuan has been able to render complex patterns and eventually produce works of art worthy of notable artists such as the Swiss ‘Outsider’ artist Adolf Wölfli. Outsider art is that which is created outside the boundaries of the official art culture, and has included many fascinating artists and their work. Many of Pua Zhe Xuan’s images also resemble ‘naive’ artworks from places such as Haiti and more specifically the works of Hector Hyppolite, or the paintings of Frenchman Henri Rousseau (Le Douanier or the customs officer).

Within Pua Zhe Xuan’s paintings there is often an unwitting comic element, such as cute overweight birds that should never fly – but do. They leap and fly from the boy’s imagination into our own. It is there they nest and nurse remarkable eggs of creativity. The boy’s unique artistic freedom captures our

the seven-headed cat on the orange tree adolf wölfli

nude hector hyppolite

multi butterfly and animals (white)

multi butterfly and animals (red)

imaginations, helps us to fly, and enables us to imagine impossible but glorious worlds of his heart, and of his gentle spirit.

In those drawings by Pua Zhe Xuan, smiling lions and/or moustachioed tigers stand transfixed, as if spotted by an all too obvious camera, and pose. The comic nature comes from the all too human expressions on the animal faces. It is as if Aardman studios are in mid-capture of some comic animation, and the boy acting as their cell painter. But it is not a studio break, there is no studio and the boy reveals himself as the champion of his personal dilemma by communicating so precisely and so floridly to a multiple audience who clamber to see his slightly humorous works.

There are times when a doting parent guides his eager hand, but mostly Pua Zhe Xuan is resolutely his own person. Like any artist aware of his own mind, Pua Zhe Xuan shrugs off guidance in favour of a mind free to travel into unknown, and possibly unknowable, worlds. Like Wölfli or French naive artist Séraphine Louis, amazing floral themes re-occur within his unimaginable forests. Sometimes they dance like Heinz Edelmann’s cartoon illustrations for The Beatles ‘Yellow Submarine’. At other times séraphine Chinese lanterns and trees sway to an unheard, but universal, rhythm knowable only to the boy - Pua Zhe Xuan himself.

Ferns and expressive leaves remind us of both Séraphine and of Hyppolite, their closeness to nature and the brightness of their imaginations. Pua Zhe Xuan blesses us with his visions of a warm, comfortable nature where the worst thing that can happen is we split our sides laughing at butterflies and dragonflies, which are far too plump, or having our ribs tickled by

by those comic cats.

Over a few years, aided by an enlightened teacher - Honey Khor of the Honey Child Development Centre, Pua Zhe Xuan has grown and acquired unique skills and boundless imagination to create his formidable imagery. There is little doubt that, as time slides forward, the boy Pua Zhe Xuan will become a remarkable young man who will delight in taking his audiences on spectacular visual rides. This is but the beginning of an incredible career in art. Already Pua Zhe Xuan has exhibited in Kuala Lumpur and journeyed to Cambodia.

lay lady lay

string theory

date line

green

house of straw

coming soon....

by Martin Bradley