Currently I am in need of nude models for a new project. If you are interested, please contact me - cspenardko@me.com.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Lately
I have been doing photo shoots for some friends who just launched a new website called “Live Your Fashion” and now that the cat’s out of the bag I can finally put my work up.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"Excuse me, What are you?"
There is something I really need to get off my chest. The odd part is what I am about to discuss is an issue I have had for as long as I can remember, but that I never gave much thought to until now. I have always dismissed it like many other aspects of my life. As luck would have it, I am currently taking a Critical Reading class that recently touched a very personal aspect of who I am, the very aspect I've been dismissing. When I say "who I am" here I am not talking about my personality, but my nationality - the essence of my being. I feel shaken to the core and I need to vent.
My full name is Celia Won Kum Spenard-Ko. For some, this may come as a shock because they see me as your average caucasian woman. However, I'm not. I am half Chinese, half Canadian (hence the Chinese middle name and the hyphenated last name). My father was born and raised in Hong-Kong; my mother, a green-eyed, red-headed, freckled Montrealer. What is the result of combining two complete opposites? A kid that looks nothing like either of them.
Growing up was hard. My father was never home, therefore I was with my mother a lot - alone. People would come up to us and say "Oh she's so lovely! How long have you had her for?". My mother would have to then awkwardly explain that I actually wasn't adopted and that my father was Chinese. Embarrassed, the nosy inquirers would usually apologize. I remember one day my mom had to pull out a photo album containing photographs of her pregnant self because I started to doubt she was my real mother. She also gave me a diary she kept during the whole pregnancy from the moment she found out I was coming. This reassured me for a time.
At school, people used to wonder what I was. I imagine the Italian name "Celia" would easily throw them off. I hated my name for that reason. I felt it didn't fit me, but I didn't know what "me" was. I remember the first time I saw the Disney animated film "Balto", the half dog half wolf that never fit in anywhere and for the first time, I felt like I could actually relate to something.
My parents divorced when I was eight and my father left the country to go back East. When he left, he took all that was asian in me with him. I hated being half. I wanted to be a pure Canadian. I hated having two last names, because I felt like the "Ko" was the only thing standing in my way of ridding myself of Chinese culture once and for all. Perhaps this was my way of coping with my father's departure. He wasn't around for me to hate, so I hated the part of myself that represented him.
Slowly, my eyes got a little wider, my face was less round, my hair started to lighten and freckles appeared on my cheeks. I no longer looked like the little china doll I was as a kid.
I remember my first visit to Hong Kong. I finally went to visit my dad. When he would introduce me to his friends, they all laughed and said there was no way I could be his daughter... I didn't look Chinese. Then they would examine me more closely as I fidgeted shyly. OK, maybe a little Chinese. I remember sitting at the dinner table with my aunts and uncles, not understanding a word they were saying. Every now and then, they would look at me and say something very slowly in Cantonese, I would smile and nod, they would laugh and continue talking amongst themselves. I don't recall a time where I ever felt more white.
Back home, my friends would ask me how my trip to the "homeland" went.
After visiting Asia several times I began to reconnect with my other half. I stopped wanting to deny my Asian roots. Maybe you could say I began to be proud of them. Too bad I didn't look very Chinese anymore. Those close to me will deny this, especially if you ask my mother, according to her I could be pure, but sometimes I feel she doesn't have the most objective perspective. My high school friends also see me as "Ling Ling", the only Asian girl in the Laurentian Academy than wasn't an exchange student. "Highlighter" and "TV face" (due to my bangs) were also frequent nicknames. Nowadays people ask me if I'm Italian, South-American, Icelandic... A man asked if I was Russian once. Even today in the subway some stranger came up to me and said "now you must be a pure Quebecer!". For some reason I was insulted and spat back "no, I'm Chinese!" The only thing he could think of to say was "ah yes I should have known... your hair".
This got me thinking, perhaps it is not so much that I have physically changed, but that people are so caught up in there fast paced lives that no one takes the time to really look before they speak anymore. Everyone simply assumes. They don't have time for details. When you talk to someone, are you really giving them you're undivided attention or is your mind elsewhere? When you talk to me, do you not notice that I barely have eyelids and that my eyes are slanted? Is it that hard to stop and really look at someone intently, especially when they are speaking to you? Give them your undivided attention, otherwise who knows what you could be missing out on. Details are so beautiful, so why not seek them out?
Yours truly,
The Eurasian.
My full name is Celia Won Kum Spenard-Ko. For some, this may come as a shock because they see me as your average caucasian woman. However, I'm not. I am half Chinese, half Canadian (hence the Chinese middle name and the hyphenated last name). My father was born and raised in Hong-Kong; my mother, a green-eyed, red-headed, freckled Montrealer. What is the result of combining two complete opposites? A kid that looks nothing like either of them.
Growing up was hard. My father was never home, therefore I was with my mother a lot - alone. People would come up to us and say "Oh she's so lovely! How long have you had her for?". My mother would have to then awkwardly explain that I actually wasn't adopted and that my father was Chinese. Embarrassed, the nosy inquirers would usually apologize. I remember one day my mom had to pull out a photo album containing photographs of her pregnant self because I started to doubt she was my real mother. She also gave me a diary she kept during the whole pregnancy from the moment she found out I was coming. This reassured me for a time.
At school, people used to wonder what I was. I imagine the Italian name "Celia" would easily throw them off. I hated my name for that reason. I felt it didn't fit me, but I didn't know what "me" was. I remember the first time I saw the Disney animated film "Balto", the half dog half wolf that never fit in anywhere and for the first time, I felt like I could actually relate to something.
My parents divorced when I was eight and my father left the country to go back East. When he left, he took all that was asian in me with him. I hated being half. I wanted to be a pure Canadian. I hated having two last names, because I felt like the "Ko" was the only thing standing in my way of ridding myself of Chinese culture once and for all. Perhaps this was my way of coping with my father's departure. He wasn't around for me to hate, so I hated the part of myself that represented him.
Slowly, my eyes got a little wider, my face was less round, my hair started to lighten and freckles appeared on my cheeks. I no longer looked like the little china doll I was as a kid.
I remember my first visit to Hong Kong. I finally went to visit my dad. When he would introduce me to his friends, they all laughed and said there was no way I could be his daughter... I didn't look Chinese. Then they would examine me more closely as I fidgeted shyly. OK, maybe a little Chinese. I remember sitting at the dinner table with my aunts and uncles, not understanding a word they were saying. Every now and then, they would look at me and say something very slowly in Cantonese, I would smile and nod, they would laugh and continue talking amongst themselves. I don't recall a time where I ever felt more white.
Back home, my friends would ask me how my trip to the "homeland" went.
After visiting Asia several times I began to reconnect with my other half. I stopped wanting to deny my Asian roots. Maybe you could say I began to be proud of them. Too bad I didn't look very Chinese anymore. Those close to me will deny this, especially if you ask my mother, according to her I could be pure, but sometimes I feel she doesn't have the most objective perspective. My high school friends also see me as "Ling Ling", the only Asian girl in the Laurentian Academy than wasn't an exchange student. "Highlighter" and "TV face" (due to my bangs) were also frequent nicknames. Nowadays people ask me if I'm Italian, South-American, Icelandic... A man asked if I was Russian once. Even today in the subway some stranger came up to me and said "now you must be a pure Quebecer!". For some reason I was insulted and spat back "no, I'm Chinese!" The only thing he could think of to say was "ah yes I should have known... your hair".
This got me thinking, perhaps it is not so much that I have physically changed, but that people are so caught up in there fast paced lives that no one takes the time to really look before they speak anymore. Everyone simply assumes. They don't have time for details. When you talk to someone, are you really giving them you're undivided attention or is your mind elsewhere? When you talk to me, do you not notice that I barely have eyelids and that my eyes are slanted? Is it that hard to stop and really look at someone intently, especially when they are speaking to you? Give them your undivided attention, otherwise who knows what you could be missing out on. Details are so beautiful, so why not seek them out?
Yours truly,
The Eurasian.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Perception
Tricky thing perception… especially since it’s so skewed. Ever been convinced of something to a degree that you would take risks in accordance with it? Now ever have something like that blow up in your face? The sentiment equals pretty much being the only fully dressed person in a horde of naked people: you feel confused, out of place, uncomfortable and strangely over dressed. Initially, you were positive that you held the ultimate truth and that you could run with it far and wide until you pull a Wile E. Coyote and look down only to realize that what you are running on is not a solid foundation at all but thin air. The fall can be hard.
Then again, how do we know that it is truly our perceptions that fail us and that we are not simply being duped into thinking we are wrong? This is when you start talking to yourself: “am I crazy?” No, people just have their own reasons to be dishonest at times or simply screw with your head out of sport.
As much as I’d like to say my perceptions never deceive me, they do. And if I could physically beat them with a stick I would.
This week I got some rather disconcerting news: I have “tinnitus” in my left ear. In other words I perceive sounds that aren’t really there. No, I don’t hear voices, but I hear gurgling, screeching, high pitched buzzing, basically every unpleasant sound you can think of – I have the pleasure of hearing every day. The cause of this is none other than abuse. When I was younger I’d go to shows every week or so, I was in a band, I listened to loud music, etc. Now I’m stuck with something that plagues about one in five people between the ages of 55 and 65. Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t just hit me out of the blue. I’ve had this problem for about two years now, but I kept ignoring it until it became as unbearable as it is now. The only thing I can do is get a custom ear plug made and pray I don’t go completely deaf.
All this to say… I can’t even rely on my damned ears anymore is how much of an invalid I am when it comes to perception.
Then again, how do we know that it is truly our perceptions that fail us and that we are not simply being duped into thinking we are wrong? This is when you start talking to yourself: “am I crazy?” No, people just have their own reasons to be dishonest at times or simply screw with your head out of sport.
As much as I’d like to say my perceptions never deceive me, they do. And if I could physically beat them with a stick I would.
This week I got some rather disconcerting news: I have “tinnitus” in my left ear. In other words I perceive sounds that aren’t really there. No, I don’t hear voices, but I hear gurgling, screeching, high pitched buzzing, basically every unpleasant sound you can think of – I have the pleasure of hearing every day. The cause of this is none other than abuse. When I was younger I’d go to shows every week or so, I was in a band, I listened to loud music, etc. Now I’m stuck with something that plagues about one in five people between the ages of 55 and 65. Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t just hit me out of the blue. I’ve had this problem for about two years now, but I kept ignoring it until it became as unbearable as it is now. The only thing I can do is get a custom ear plug made and pray I don’t go completely deaf.
All this to say… I can’t even rely on my damned ears anymore is how much of an invalid I am when it comes to perception.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Self-Portrait: Series?
What is a self-portrait? A just representation on one’s self? A representation of only a facet of one’s self? A representation of what one isn’t? The truth is there’s really no point in trying to define what it is, because someone is going to come along and push the boundaries of the definition anyway. A self-portrait can be all of the above and more. In July, during my mental meltdown, I even made a self-portrait using objects that represented my state at the time. Self-portraits can even be carried out by someone other than the actual artist; as long as proper instructions are given (photographer Cindy Sherman is known for such works).
One of the practical things about self portraiture is if you are suddenly hit by an epiphany and you have no one to use as a subject, you can always turn to yourself!
A few years ago, a close friend told me that David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel” reminded him of me. Being a die hard fan of his, I thought to myself “sweet”.
Last night I decided to integrate that aspect within a self portrait and I feel this might be the beginning of a series… who knows.
I’ll spare you the analysis. I’m all analyzed out at the moment.
One of the practical things about self portraiture is if you are suddenly hit by an epiphany and you have no one to use as a subject, you can always turn to yourself!
A few years ago, a close friend told me that David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel” reminded him of me. Being a die hard fan of his, I thought to myself “sweet”.
Last night I decided to integrate that aspect within a self portrait and I feel this might be the beginning of a series… who knows.
I’ll spare you the analysis. I’m all analyzed out at the moment.
Friday, January 15, 2010
$36 later
In my defense the idea seemed at lot simpler than it actually was to execute. I mean how many social commentaries can one portray using a photo booth?
The finished product?
I call it “The Economy”
Observe how I will now bullshit/justify the purpose of the peculiar attributes of these images (in other words pretend like they were done completely on purpose, but when in reality there was actually almost no control over the whole thing).
The individual in the bottom frame (thanks again Ry!) has his neck severed by the borders – this symbolizes the cut throat mentality of humans when it comes to money. Notice how he is at the very bottom, struggling to support another individual and that she too is struggling to hold someone up. The continuity of the images from frame to frame is not smooth (more so throughout the top three) and this is to create the impression that there could possibly be more people constituting this formation that you don't see. The person at the very top sits with a blank look, calmly holding up a big wad of cash. She represents the high society (the money) way up at the top, completely at ease, supported by the working class that dish out blood, sweat and tears just to perhaps get a fraction of the loot.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
There’s Only so Much I can do With you Lying on the Floor…
Said my brain to my inert body.
Good point...
Good point...
Friday, January 8, 2010
Portrait of Overindulgence
As I have already stated a few months back, I have a HUGE penchant for vanitas paintings, also more widely known as a type of “nature morte”, often depicting subjects relating to excess and overindulgence. So when I came across this Christian Louboutin campaign I was taken by its cleverness and its execution. I mean what better way to represent something that oozes excess.
This fantastic work is credited to photographer Peter Lippmann.
As a side note for Louboutin owners: if you want to keep those red soles from looking like you just ran through gravel, I highly suggest you bring them to Carinthia (1228 St Marc) and get thin red rubber protectors placed underneath.
This fantastic work is credited to photographer Peter Lippmann.
As a side note for Louboutin owners: if you want to keep those red soles from looking like you just ran through gravel, I highly suggest you bring them to Carinthia (1228 St Marc) and get thin red rubber protectors placed underneath.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
One, Two, Three… *Bang*
Last semester was brutal and I barely made it out alive. As for the holidays, well frankly they didn’t feel much like holidays. Now somehow for some baffling reason I began this semester with the will power of a salmon swimming up a waterfall, however where to find the energy to do so is beyond me. Every single offer I was given in the past week I gleefully accepted without thinking twice about how much work and time it would entail. In a way, I see it as going to a wonderful restaurant and ordering everything that makes your mouth water, even if you know deep down you won’t be able to stomach it all.
Nonetheless I have decided to disregard my insecurities and do it all even if it kills me! Some projects I cannot disclose just yet, but stay tuned – you’ll be the firsts to know.
As for now, I am off to the races!
Nonetheless I have decided to disregard my insecurities and do it all even if it kills me! Some projects I cannot disclose just yet, but stay tuned – you’ll be the firsts to know.
As for now, I am off to the races!
Monday, January 4, 2010
Household Jitters
It’s happening again. I feel an extensive urge to remodel every room in my apartment.
Actually, what I really want is a great white wall (the result of spending too much time in studios).
Note to self: next move, look for high ceilings and at least one big smooth wall, preferably ending in a slight slope.
Oh the possibilities…
Photo taken from NY photography team Russ and Reyn.
Actually, what I really want is a great white wall (the result of spending too much time in studios).
Note to self: next move, look for high ceilings and at least one big smooth wall, preferably ending in a slight slope.
Oh the possibilities…
Photo taken from NY photography team Russ and Reyn.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
At Last!
As an aspiring writer, I’ve always dreamt of owning an Underwood, such as Ernest Hemingway, Charles Bukowski, William Faulkner, E.B. White, (Christian in Moulin Rouge), etc. Its beauty, its sound, its font, everything about an Underwood typewriter is perfection. I always believed every writer should have one, yet I never found mine up until two days ago in an antique shop on Saint-Laurent. The best part – she works! As I am writing this, I can't help glancing over at her and smiling. I have never seen one in such mint condition, not to mention that she was manufactured in 1929.
That being said, now all I have to do is actually write something.
That being said, now all I have to do is actually write something.
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