The boundaries of reality are the area of play…

I took this twice, as I often felt that both answers to the questionnaire rang true. Did I mention that I was a chameleon?

What’s Your Personality Type?

I took this quiz, and this time I didn’t have to fiddle for the answers. You should do it too, and post your results here.

You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational. Cultural Creative 100% Postmodernist 81% Existentialist 75% Idealist 75% Romanticist 50% Materialist 38% Fundamentalist 25% Modernist 19% What is Your World View? created with QuizFarm.com

Is it possible that I’ve been operating all these years despite severe brain damage? I have developped a paranoia for missing appointments, and for seeing phantom appointments on my calendar.

Sunday evening, I streamlined all my calendar events to make sure things add up, but the paranoia did not go away. I just feel so disconnected from the timeline proposed by the rest of the world. These days, I feel a bit disconnected in general…

And today, I double-booked myself again, and caught myself right before I almost missed an important appointment - could have cost me my job - well one of my several jobs (I’m doing too many things and none very well).

I hate letting people down like that. Secretly hoping that I’m faking it well enough that no one suspects anything, even though most people get the hunch that I am pulled by a different orbit. Being out of synch is my natural state of being. I am an (un)natural disaster set in a time bomb, programmed for fatal explosions.

In Moroccan artist photographer Hicham Benohoud’s black-and-white photographic world, we observe an ingeniously controlled excitement where what goes up does not necessarily come down, and what should have been chaos appears to be business as usual.

During his time as an art instructor in Marrakech, he and his students used the classroom as the stage of his series Salle de Classe (classroom), creating posed photographs that follow a stringent set of rules - no objects outside the classroom environment are introduced; student(s) are called by the teacher in order to assume an often outrageous pose; the uncalled students continue their class assignment in an obedient fashion, utterly undisturbed by their surrounding environment; once the student finishes posing, he resumes his class assignment as if nothing had happened. These are master studies in the juxtaposition of incongruities: funnily serious, obediently defiant, seamlessly absurd, unpretentiously spectacular; Benohoud touches in his photographs the fundamental questions of non-conformity, civil disobedience, and the impulse to break free in an oppressed culture (Islam) and a repressive environment (traditional classroom), all the while maintaining a disciplined distance that allows for a subtler and quieter contestation to emerge.

© Chin-Chin Wu

Monographic show currently running in Galerie VU (2, rue Jules Cousin, 75004) until March 3, 2007. Below are jpeg images of the press release (please click for full-size viewing), including a biography of the artist.

Madame D was our history of photography teacher, an “eminent” historian (she sometimes appears on the radio, and I always recognize her voice), and a formidable presence that epitomized all that vielle école française stood for. She was not very happy about my taking these pictures at the time - I was only able to take these 12 before she snapped. Now that I am no longer a student, I hope she is every bit as amused as my former classmates are. These are such classics!

I woke up from a hang-over and late-night avid msn chat with P..kinoise Interactive after house party was over at 4:00 am. This is the weekend that I really wanted to use to set my priorities straight. A poor start, I know I know, but who would have guessed that people older than me would have had more party staying power?

I turn on the computer and log in MySpace, and I get a new comment from Tygrett. It says:

This poem is about answers that are within the system, the movers, shakers and money makers who have the means to solve the problem but choose not to.

Answer Me!

Secrets of a million minds pulling together as a force of one
Answers to riddles begin to fall in place
Answers are not allowed here!

Fear sets in amongst the strong
Confidence corrupts the timid
The world is turned upside down, yet only for a moment
Then sweet, sweet silence…
Interrupted
Laughter bellows from the city walls
Dark alleyways summon you by name
The secrets of a million minds whisper softly down cobblestone streets
Answers are not allowed here!

Sunlight cannot reach the homeless
Towering masses of brick and mortar shadow their existence
Their “mere existence”
Such angry hatred dances on wicked fingertips down cobblestone streets
And the tear stretches down
Like fire, it burns from the soul
Eyes upturned, begging for answers
As the secrets of a million minds, although as loud as thunder
Whisper too silently to hear the answer
For, answers are not allowed here.

 

I sent an answer straight back, even though I hadn’t had my dose of morning coffee:

That was beautiful Tygrett,

Really! Was that a picture of yours also? Why is there so much sordidness, poverty of the spirit, vacancy of the soul? I haven’t been engaged in politics since when I was 16, and have been thinking about these things. Have a friend in the UN who works on the war in Iraq from Jordan, and there’s so much unnecessary suffering caused directly or indirectly by American policies. I do not have an answer to these immense problems, except to respect the human dignity of all individuals and look beyond the surface to the soul.

Are you still in Morocco? Send me some pictures of your new place?

Sorry it is Saturday morning and I feel a bit dim. I’m sure you were waiting for another answer. Did you read that article in my blog on Jacob Holdt? He’s what I call an activist, and I think the Danish mode of governing is perhaps the most humane as well as egalitarian. But should we impose that upon Americans? The American people have to choose ourselves, and we have a huge responsibility upon our shoulders. Because we are the richest and the most powerful country in the world, our policies directly influence people all over the globe. Most average Americans don’t realize that or choose not to look further than their pocketbooks…

Much love,
China Doll

As I took my first sip of coffee, I realized that had I been more awake, I’d probably have said fewer words. There’s a well-known Chinese poem that says, “In the follies of youth, we contrive poems to express the pathos and grandeur of our love and deceptions; Later, when we have experienced all the pains and joys of this world, we open our mouth to speak, only to decide against it; there’s something beautiful about words unspoken and hanging on the tip of the tongue.” (sorry about the poor paraphrase, it’s really very poetic in Chinese )

I hear the voice of a tiny tiny Indian man, “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” Mohandas Gandhi, my 5′3″ frail super-hero, the man who ignited the flickering candlelight in my inner temple, who crossed space and time to sow a tiny seed in my tiny being.

Some other of my favorite quotes by Gandhi:

“Love never claims, it ever gives. Love ever suffers, never resents never revenges itself.”

“A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave”

“Where there is love there is life.”

“Where love is, there God is also.”

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty”

“Action expresses priorities.”

“Interdependence is and ought to be as much the ideal of man as self-sufficiency. Man is a social being.”

“Man should forget his anger before he lies down to sleep.”

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.“

“Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is most important that you do it.

“In a gentle way, you can shake the world.”

“I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

“Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.”

“Everyone who wills can hear the inner voice. It is within everyone.”

“Those who know how to think need no teachers.“

“An ounce of practice is worth more than tons of preaching.”

“There are just as many religions in this world as there are human beings.” - I read this one when I was working in an ashram, so I may have just been hallucinating - I was definitely in an alternate reality…

Now on to my insignificant but important tasks of the day.

Update (2nd Episode, Feb 11)): Tygrette’s despair and rage stuck in my mind. Where does it all come from? Nothing would have prepared me for the following (Feb 11):

I was born in October 1961 in Cincinnati, Ohio. My father was a mechanic from West Virginia and my mother was a painter from Kentucky. My father says we are Seminole Indians and he was proud of that until I told him that the Seminoles took in black slaves to hide them from the whites and interbred. Which all makes sense, since one summer when I was about 23 and I saw my father holding my daughter and I thought he was a black man. Regardless, I have never found any ancestry regarding the fact that I am or am not Seminole, although I would have to believe it because we have all the traits and disease processes that come with being an Indian. There was a Seminole alligator wrestler in Florida that was on the show 20/20 or 60 minutes. I went all the way to Florida to find him but didn’t. I just wanted to meet a man that was like me.So, China Doll, I am an American, perhaps more full-blooded than most. I just want you to believe that when I write, I am not mad at Americans. I am mad at the simple fact that all the morals, values and trust regarding the American way is fading away. Back in the 50’s and 60’s, at the peak of changes initiation, what had made America the greatest country in the world began to fade away. There used to be a time when a neighbor was truly a neighbor and they wouldn’t stab you in the back if they thought it would increase their property value, and American’s didn’t used to put their parents in nursing homes because they either couldn’t or wouldn’t take the time to care for them…

I feel so bad for all the young people fighting a war that is a political power play. Who are we to think that we have any right to invade a country and do whatever we want? Why isn’t Bushes daughter over there fighting? Why isn’t he? Now they are talking about drafting young people, all of my children are of the age that they would have to go and risk losing their lives while the creators of this disease sit in their mansions sipping brandy. My father was in Korea, a jeep rolled over on him and the U.S Department of Veteran’s affairs says it never happened, even though other soldiers say it did. They say the records burned up, yet all the Veteran Laws say that if their is doubt, not only does it go in the Veterans favor, a combat Veteran takes priority…he’s been fighting that war for over 50 years and he is old now, but that doesn’t make a difference. There are published statistics regarding not only in wounded, but as detailed as what month, day, type of injury…but none of those are my father? Then I would have to believe it is all a lie. My father fought for this country, along with many other man and women and all of them should be living in mansions…

Answers, anyone?

My Reply:

Dear Tygrett:

This song is called “Find the Cost of Freedom by Pura F.., a Tuscarora tribe descendant. I saw her in concert this past summer. She sang in an outdoor amphitheater with 9000 people, and her voice was pure and clear and penetrating. It is about all the indigenous people and indigenous cultures of the world.

Somehow, the embed doesn’t function, so here is the link.

I do not have the answer as to why we continue to hurt each other. Our blood all bleed red, as you say.

You can kill someone, but you cannot take away her spirit. The spirit, once ignited, will never die, and you have that spirit.

Much Love,
China Doll

It is clear that I have a MySpace addiction, characterized by mindlessly clicking the “home” icon every five seconds for God knows what reason. Therefore, I decided to draw a pact with myself concerning my MySpace behaviors. This is the first draft:

1. I will log in once a day maximum (and not in the mornings), except to post new entries on my blog. The time spent interacting socially with fellow Myspacers will be limited to under 30 minutes.

2. If you want me to stay informed of your life, invite me for subscription to your blog and make it a work of art (I really do read my subscription posts and post blog comments when I see fit). Otherwise, I will not visit my friends’ profiles on any regular basis.

3. I’m always looking for literary and artistic affliations. If you are a brilliant writer/poet/theorist/artist, I’d love to continue our exchange on MySpace. If you’d like to collaborate with me on an art project, or model for me, please contact me in order to meet in person. I’ll do the same.

4. I’ll read the bulletin boards sporadically but probably won’t feel the urge to respond. I really appreciate people who post thought-provoking bulletins sparingly. I’m also a big sucker for striking imagery and/or surprising juxtaposition of words.

5. I’ll continue to respond to blog comments if I think it contributes to going deeper into the subject matter discussed. I can’t decide if this counts as interacting socially with MySpacers or not , but I am the sole person responsible for my behavior and I take full responsibility for any breach with this pact.

I’d be interested in hearing your pact with the MySpace devil.

Life, death, and hair, so resumed legendary French actress Catherine Deneuve the critical moments that mark our short passage on this earth.

I could’t agree more, especially after getting the haircut that I have been yearning for for the past 2 months, by none other than Tié Toyama the consummate hairdresser, most wanted master hair stylist, the darling of Paris’ fast fashion industry - freshly returned from NYC! If any of you live in Paris or the surrounding area, please contact me for her service. It will be an experience that you won’t likely forget. And you know your hair deserves the very best!

I’ll post a picture tomorrow

© Post-Modern China Doll

I’m slowly putting up some of my articles. This one accompanied an interview of Danish vagabond Jacob Holdt:

“Since I am not a photographer, most of my pictures are not self-standing.” -Jacob Holdt

One of the highlights of L’Eté photographique de Lectoure (Photographic Summer in Lectoure) was Danish vagabond Jacob Holdt’s exhibition “American Pictures.” Arriving in America in 1971 with only $40 for a short visit, Jacob Holdt, a 24-year old Dane, ended up staying over five years, hitchhiking more than 100,000 miles and 48 states throughout America. He sold blood plasma twice weekly to be able to buy film. He lived in more than 400 homes - from the poorest migrant workers to America’s wealthiest families such as the Rockefellers. The result was a unique body of work called American Pictures, a 5-hour multimedia slideshow containing 3000 photographs, music, interviews, and narration.

American Pictures is also the name of Holdt’s self-printed book venture in 1978, an illustrated account of his vagabond years across the American underclass. Sex, murder, poverty and glamour are intimately interwoven in Holdt’s photographic world. Relentlessly documenting his journey by photographs and lengthy letters to family and friends, the unfiltered rawness of his images and the almost symbiotic empathy with the fringes of society clearly puts Holdt in the quintessentially American tradition of Larry Clark, or Nan Goldin, both active in the 1970’s. From the racial activism of the Black Panther to the Native Indian rebellion in Wounded Knee to the cross burning ceremonies of the Ku Klux Klan, Holdt has always been as much an actor as an observer of tragic and tender moments in history, creating a personal mythology that is inseparable from his work. Possessing an intuitive sense of lighting and composition, the poignancy of Holdt’s visual testimony is only heightened by the amateurish (because uneven) treatment of poignantly photogenic subjects - Holdt does not edit out pictures that are blurry, faded, over/under-exposed, or with harsh flashlight shadows. As a result, the sheer denseness of his output is mind-boggling. While he rejects all efforts to assimilate him as a “photographer”, he is resolutely allergic to the word “artist.”

A descendant of three generations of ministers, the only message that Holdt wishes to preach is love, and he has been practicing what he preaches, as many of the poignantly photogenic subjects aforementioned are his former lovers. “Even Klan members crave love,” Holdt has controversially proclaimed, “Try to greet a Klan member with loving thoughts. As you realize how hard it is, you realize that hate is not monopolized by the KKK.” Photography, for Holdt, serves the social purpose of getting people to think about racism, institutionalized poverty, and class oppression. his slideshow has become an immensely popular campus event throughout America. But why does Holdt’s photography do the job so particularly well? We are suddenly struck by our affluent society’s uneasy fascination when beauty and poverty intersect, as private misery becomes sublimated into iconic symbols of human dignity, worthy of activism and compassion. It is unsettling to think that between his work and what we call “art,” the difference only lies in the packaging. The carefully curated exhibit in Lectoure, where Holdt’s pictures are shown in well-balanced prints hung on the wall, clearly demonstrates this point. But Holdt maintains: “These pictures lie. Only the slideshow reveals the whole truth.”

© Chin-Chin Wu

It is Monday morning and as I walked along the canal to get to my 8 am class, people turned heads and looked at me strange because they have made it a crime to look this happy. This afternoon I will ride my bicycle, and it will have wings and take me to that magick place, just for 24 hours’ time so that I can kiss my honey bunny in his sleep. We’ll make love like bunny rabbits, my legs wrapped around his belly, float down a warm current of hot chocolate and cool bubbly champagne, fall on a giant goosefeather bed, him thrusting from behind, on top, from the front, on the bottom, magick-gasming, kiss-gasming, love-gasming, as my body twists in and out of order, heart colonized, mind x-rayed, conquered, reset to zero,  thoughts exposed, spilled on the bed sheets, reformatted, sewn back in, spirit reformed…

“Baby, where did you put that magic wand? I closed my eyes shut. Abracadabra! You have turned me into a kid on her very first honeymoon!”

6 hours later: I crashed from that bike ride and had a terrible accident. This was apparently predicable for everyone except myself.

There are only streaks of that supreme happiness drying on my pillow sheet.

Dearest friends,

I have been pretty shitty about blogging, but am really doing fine. Decided to put a stop to writing bad poems and start concentrating on socially constructive activities. Feeling very inspired these days about starting new photography projects, which is something that can’t be said for the past few months. I also decided to stop worrying about the details of my writing, and just get on with the program that I predetermined. Being a journalist and working on deadlines has really helped me with unnecessary blocks. Everybody talks about dividing writing and editing, but I’ve always been doing both activities simultaneously. Is that the root of my writer’s plight. Who knows. But this post is entirely free from all edits, except I’ll probably glance it over for spelling at the end.

I should really go to sleep in order to get up tomorrow. Strangely, I’ve been needing less sleep ever since I’ve been teaching this monday morning 8 am class. It is rather invigorating to walk along the canal to school as the winter wind cuts into the face. It wakes anybody up immediately, even on Monday mornings. I’ve been needing anywhere from 5 to 7 and half hours, whereas previously, I’d try to get as much sleep as I possibly could so as to shorten my work days and the agony that’s associated. That thesis of mine really made me grow old, in the space of less than a year. Computers cannot be too good to the soul. I remember that coming from 10 days of Vipassana meditation, everything on screen became 3-D and darker colors had more depth and came out of the screen. The keyboard also had a funny feel. I’d type and it’s as if the keys pushed back at me. Pretty trippy! That whole meditation event was pretty trippy, and revelatory at the same time. I should write about it when I get the time.

Had lunch with beautiful Designer Doll and made our way to the Marais to do some research and brainstorming on our next project. On the metro, I tried to explain to her about f-stops, speed, depth of field, white balance, but she kept insisting that some of her best pictures are made in a stream-of-consciousness state with the camera set on automatic. Of course, when she gets her hands on my digital single reflex, she will be begging me to teach her all the tricks, as usual…

When I met her 3 years ago, she was a stylist looking for a photographer to photograph some of her pieces, and I immediately said yes because she had some amazing ideas. She was spotted by a model agent while she was visiting a gallery, and was a part-time professional model at the time. We got really involved in the picture-taking, and I finally persuaded her to pose nude for the pictures (her first time). She later told me that it was the turning point of her life. She was so pleased with the results that she showed them at her agency. Strangely (or maybe not so strangely), she stopped getting calls. This happens to a lot of my models and people around me, the epiphany that we were working in an environment that was stifling our growth and that we were much better off without it.

They had some books on sale at the gay and lesbian bookstore in the Marais where we were flipping through image books, and I bought 4 books for 24 euros, which was a bargain. The boy at the desk gave me a sweet smile: so you like Fellini? (I bought I, Fellini for 5 euros!). He gave me a rather soiled Robbi Sommers poetry book Unstrung Heart and a very nice literary magazine named Quoi? for free - feels like Christmas! On the way back and for the whole evening, I’ve been devouring the poetry.

Here are the first two stanzas from the poem “Spring”:

Spring slips into her ruffled skirts
draws me to her gauzy ways
talks me sweet and I succumb
open that first stubborn button.

She’s left me breathless -
wanting to fall into a feather bed,
float down a warm stream
with you between my legs.
I’m circling like the greedy hawk
with dips and swoops on the could-be-crisp breeze.
One more button, I unhook
hoping you’ll come after me,
slow dance under the old oak tree.
Spring’s made a temptress out of me.

Good night and sweet dreams,
China Doll