Doing My Part

It had been well over two years since my last hair cut and four months ago I gave myself a goal: grow it long enough to donate to Cancer. Yesterday was d-day (I had managed to reach 20 inches in length). I am now giving 14 inches to Locks of Love.

For: Cancer

From: Celia

Till we find a cure…

Ballerina Project

For the first time ever, someone “suggested I become a fan of” (no choice but to bring out the Facebook lingo) something that actually interested me… a lot!

That’s right! Thanks to Facebook (so odd to write) I discovered the stunning work of Dane Shitagi, a Honolulu-born photographer based out of New York City, and his Ballerina Project. This project is essentially the visual embodiment of the struggle faced by artists attracted to the creativity Mecca that is New York City. The subject matter and composition of these photographs are breathtaking and inspirational.

Hellooo Cashmere!

These past few weeks I have been eagerly scouting for unique finds from the various Fall/Winter 2010 collections to add to my wardrobe. Today, my buddy Vuk showed me the new Club Monaco men’s Cashmere jumpsuit from their “Luxe Winter Collection” that he wanted and it instantly became a must for me as well. I’m just hoping they get it in tiny!

Blackberry Photography

Photos taken with my Blackberry for fun.

As Long as you Have your Health

This phrase has become a mantra for me since Friday, July 23rd, which will now be etched upon my memory as the day my precious Nikon D90 got stolen from right under my nose and I couldn’t do a damn thing. I wish I could explain what happened, but I can’t and frankly, I rather not think about it. As soon as I realized it was gone, I was in a state of shock – being parted with my camera seemed as implausible as being parted with my very own eyes. The excruciating chill caused by this shock is slowly thawing, which now enables me to actually discuss my loss, but I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. I feel completely violated.

My best friend told me “as long as you have your health… that’s what matters. A camera you can replace.” I have been holding on to these words like a life preserver or maybe sanity preserver is more of a fit description. He is right, I know he is because it’s absurd to value material things in such a way, but this ‘material thing’ in particular was my numero uno creative outlet.

Today is day four and I still haven’t shaken the impulse to walk towards my camera bag, wanting to shoot something – at first figuratively, then literally. I think I’m experiencing the phantom limb syndrome.

That being said, I realized how incredibly lucky I am to have certain amazing people in my life and if you are passionate about something, the way I am about photography, you find the means to overcome any obstacle separating you from what you love.

So rest assured, I should have a brand new D90 by end of week and I’ll be damned if anyone so much as tries to breathe on it.

All photography projects will carry on.

A Girl can Dream

I’m a big sap when it comes to anything romantic, so you can imagine the impact Jen Campbell’s site Green Wedding Shoes had on me when I first stumbled upon it: combining beautiful photography, vintage accents, exceptional creativity and of course – weddings!

All I can think of now is “some day, some day…” sigh.

It was extremely difficult for me not to go photo-crazy here, but I really think the site deserves a visit... or two, or three!

Tears

The room was dark. The only visible light was coming from above the curtain rod. It was a soft, glowing light. She lay on her bed, gazing up at the ceiling. Like timid little creatures, they crept up to the corners of her eyes. It only took one blink to send them running down the sides of her cheeks. They took refuge near her ears. “There, now” she could almost hear them say. Fresh tears kept pooling beneath her eyelids, patiently awaiting their send-off. She turned on her side. At a slower pace, one tear gently traced a half moon beneath her cheekbone before nestling itself between her lips. It tickled just a bit. There is comfort in crying silently, she thought at that moment. No touch is as gentle as the caress of your own teardrops. There is no need for explanations, for they know everything and never will they take offense by your silence – they find it all the more pressing. Her face felt feverish, yet the grouping that had accumulated at the nape of her neck had a cooling effect. She skimmed the surface of her pillow in search of a cooler and drier spot to lay her heavy head. Although unaware of how much time had gone by or how long it would take for the pain to subside, she knew her supply of tears would not run dry until that time had come.

Lightning Fields

In an era where digital technology reigns supreme, it is always a breath of fresh air for me to stumble upon some analog work. In his series Lightning Fields, Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto has eliminated the use of the camera altogether. Instead, he uses a 400,000 volt Van de Graaff generator to produce an electrical charge that is directly applied to photographic film. The resulting textures and patterns are quite spectacular. Sugimoto has managed to somewhat “influence” the electric current into producing a desired effect. “I have a kitchen’s worth of utensils that produce sparks with different characteristics, but there are many variables — weather, humidity, perhaps even what I had for breakfast — I’m never sure what influences the results.”

Photographs and quotation from Wired Magazine.

Sick Youth

I’m still trying to get over what just happened…

A few of hours ago, as I was coming home from work, a group of teenagers assaulted me just a few blocks from my home.

It all started when a girl kept yelling and yelling until I finally turned around – she was yelling after me. Once at my side, she asked me to wait a minute. I saw her look in the direction of an advancing group of kids her age; they couldn’t have been older than fifteen. I was confused, but I thought perhaps they needed directions. As soon as the others were among us, she suddenly got a confidence boost and began running her mouth about me having beaten her and her friends up in a park not far away from where we were. Incredulous, I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. She called me a liar, then asked me for all my money and threatened to take out her gun. I gave a quick glance at the lot of them and couldn’t believe what was happening… these were KIDS! I told her I didn’t have time for games and started walking away. One of her friends ran up behind me and grabbed me by the hair, trying to pull me back towards them. I spun around, furious and a little spooked, to face them. The girl let go of me and shouted some bullshit about me having beat up her sister and that I wasn’t going to get away with it. I tried to keep my composure, as I didn’t feel kosher beating up tweens. I sternly told them that they were mistaken, impatience heavy in my voice and walked off at a normal pace. To my surprise and relief, they did not follow.

I was shaking, it took everything for me not to give in to my anger and beat them all to a pulp, but you don’t hit kids. At least that’s how I was raised. Which got me thinking… what the fuck got these little shits to think they can go around acting like petty criminals? I always thought that our youth was rotten, but today’s events had the effect of kerosene on embers and my hate for what this society is becoming has never burned so fervently.

The diseased seedlings will sprout into sick growths that will later mature and bear rotten fruit, assuming they even survive that long with roots the likes of theirs. How can the future of a forest hold promise when such a promise lies upon a sick youth?

Color me Purple

With all the biking I’ve been doing lately, I’ve developed a fondness for backpacks and their practicality. I’ve always liked THE NORTH FACE for their outerwear and I recently discovered they have a special line called the “Purple Label” which is exclusive to Japan (naturally, anything outstandingly cool is reserved for the fashion elite). When I came across this Purple Label backpack on the WonderMountain "irie" shop blog, I immediately began checking flights to the Land of the Rising Sun.

If Trainspotting Were a Sculpture

Maybe the fact that I am once again completely submersed in Irvine Welsh’s novel skews my perception, so when I came across artist David A. Smith’s work, I could not help but make a connection in my mind.

I’ve grown very fond of the following pieces. I think the young British artist is quite promising.

Please have a look at his other oeuvres. He is rather versatile, I simply happen to have a penchant for the more macabre lot.

Street BBQ

Who needs a yard when you have a big quiet street?

Great way to end the weekend.

I Curse you, Bottle

It was very cold for a midsummer night. However I preferred to grab a table on Figaro’s deserted patio rather then spend another minute surrounded by loud, sweaty people and their prying eyes. My boyfriend had lent me his jacket before rushing back into the Ukranian Federation for the band’s encore. I sat eyes fixated on the wooden doors. The waitress gracefully made her way over to the table and asked if there was anything I would fancy. “A crème brulée and a tall glass of milk, please.” I tried to sound pleasant. As soon as she was gone, my eyes wandered back towards the venue. I desperately tried not to think of the disaster our outing had become.

My comfort food hadn’t even arrived yet when I saw him walking across the street. He spotted me instantly and took a seat at the table, eyes glazed from all the Jameson he’d been drinking – he doesn’t even like Jameson. He began rummaging through his backpack and pulled out his iPod. He sat there trying to untangle the wires of his earphones. I watched him as he struggled and the vivid image of a child came to mind. The waitress came back with my indulgences and before she could turn to leave, he ordered a grappa. My insides tightened, but at least I had something to occupy myself with – food.

Although I tried not to look at him, his swaying back and forth on the chair and sudden outbursts of lyrical gibberish was making it extremely difficult. I don’t remember ever finishing a crème brulée so fast. I just wanted to leave, but of course, what I want is never easily attainable when he is in his drunken stupor. As soon as I caught a glimpse of our waitress I beckoned for her to bring the check. At this time he was rambling on about what a beautiful concert it was and how he was so happy I was there to share the experience with him. My stomach tightened a little more. I downed the rest of the milk. His grappa went down like water.

As soon as everything was paid for I looked up at him. The spectacle made me nauseous. He was definitely in a trance: eyes closed, lips mumbling, hands gesturing. If he weren’t my boyfriend, I would have found the spectacle quite amusing. If it weren’t his health that was at stake, I would have been lighter hearted. If my grand mother wasn’t dying from the same affliction he had…

Finally I managed to coax him into going home. It was like pulling teeth. Like dealing with a bratty toddler. Once across the street, he had to piss. He found that the Bixi bike stands next to the sidewalk were a decent spot, so he there he pissed for a while as I waited by him, people glaring at us. At this point all I wanted to do was be home so badly I didn’t care about anything else. I didn’t even realize he was finished until he started fumbling with his iPod again, trying to replay that “beautiful part” in the song he was listening to, all the while shifting around in his piss. Tears started streaming down my face as I looked up at the night sky asking myself “why?” I wasn’t the only one crying, his cheeks too were tearstained as he began singing louder and more incoherent. I asked him what was wrong. All he could muster was “thank you” and “so beautiful”. I gaped at him incredulously.

It seemed like hours before I spotted a cab. I begged him to behave, in vain of course. He sang the whole way home. It began to rain and the water on the windowpanes mirrored the tears on my face. The knot in my stomach felt like a cancer. I cried in silence.

Once in front of my house, I tipped the cab driver generously. Upstairs, I discarded my clothes and washed before burying myself under the covers of my welcoming bed.

He lay on my kitchen floor and sung on and off till sunrise.

Loving you is going to kill me, therefore I’d best remain at bay.
You chose the bottle over Love, there’s nothing more to say.