Catalogue

am in the midst of getting ready my catalogue for an upcoming photo fair

*a full version will be made downloadable later

The 4th Affordable Photo Fair

21st November 09'

56A Arab Street, Singapore

11am - 7pm

organized by Objectifs

i'll be featuring and selling digital prints of my film work. polaroids. medium format.

and colors.

hope to see you there

of fate, freckled pages, & an uncracked spine

i just finished reading Veronika decides to die by Coelho. i've been meaning to read it for a while now but didn't for i believe that my relationship with books, like love, exists and is run by fate. i read a book when i am fated to read it, even if the book is within my possession and i find my hours in the day sauntering away. each time i finally read a particular title is when, at that point in time i find myself searching for an answer, to something. answers that most amazingly grow in the pages of the book. as we are all permitted our idiosyncratic ways of reasoning, pray, leave me with mine as i sway a little into another story about fate.

i believe that i am fated to do 'art'. i took art classes when i was a youngling. an eager girl who spent her afternoons after school tracing pictures of flowers and animals from huge encyclopedias. words didn't interest me. i derived immense pleasure from holding a crayon in my hand. second skin. its somewhat hard clay-like texture felt normal against my rough skin. i also loved it when crayon got under my nails. as i was a nail-biter, i found myself on several occasions swallowing small deposits of crayon buried under my nails. i've since however, stopped.

art class. i won second prize for the school's art competition drawing dinosaurs (long necks). using crayons, i drew three long necks, a mom, a dad, and their child. the typical family unit. mother insisted that i not draw the 'm' birds -those that children would usually draw- as those were 'modern' birds which did not exist in the time of dinosaurs. in her eyes, my drawing would lose its authenticity. she specifically said that if i wanted to draw 'birds', they would have to be those 'dinosaur birds'. the pterodactyl. winged lizards. not birds after all. but i didn't know how to draw those 'dinosaur birds' and my sky in the drawing was looking too empty. and so i drew in the 'm' birds. the fake birds. a lot of them. i won the second prize. there was however a girl in my class who knew how to draw a real bird. she drew a parrot so perfectly shaped and colored for the competition. it was green and had a sharp beak. she won the first prize.

i'm sure it wasn't because i didn't win the first prize, but my parents soon reprimanded me whenever i decided to draw and trace. i should have been studying instead. and so i studied.

i took art for my 'O' levels and did very well in it. i got an A and with encouragement from my art teacher, was determined to head to the local art college. this didn't sit well with my parents, especially my mom. no future in being an artist. and so i headed to college to do my 'A' levels. and then university. and then had thoughts of doing a PhD, until finally, i reach this point in my life where i'm revisited by art yet again. through photography, tea bags, and ink, i've become addicted to art and it is something that i plan to start and finish, even if it means i'll have to learn to draw a 'real bird'. i've since recently purchased, after 14 years, a new box of crayons. pastels!

they're still delicious!

so yes. i believe that i am fated to do art. even though it took me many, many years to actualize and chart its path in my life. i believe it as much as i believe that i was fated to finally read Veronika decides to die, for, having refused to spend $26 on it at BORDERS, i finally got to it at a second-hand bookstore at Bras Basah complex two days ago. it was priced at $5.90. and even though the cover and pages have been freckled by time and the sun, its spine was still uncracked. i fell in love. instantly. and i got some answers.

condoms

it's fun coming up with titles

especially when it's funny

and slightly disturbing to some

some

2010

was out and about yesterday, running errands. went to get some paper and envelops at a local bookstore and saw a table filled with 2010 planners. next year is looming ahead. already. i have always been a firm believer of planners. daily planners. this doesn't necessarily make me a 'planner'. at least i think not. doesn't matter anyway. so i bought my 2010 planner. black. as usual.

feels like 2009 is already running out of time.

Fabio Scacchioli | dead SEEquences

dead SEEquences - Fabio Scacchioli from Fabio Scacchioli on Vimeo.

extract any part of the human body
flanked against a setting
and it is seen differently
recognized differently

rulers

there is so much to learn from the young.

last night, as my 9-year-old brother, ammar, was preparing and packing his bag for his exam today, he took out three rulers and showed them to me. i simply went 'wow' and said nothing else. this was part of my 'i-don't-want-to-ignore-you-but-i-can't-give-you-all-the-attention-coz-i'm-doing-something' routine. evil me.

later this morning, my mother told me that as she was checking his pencil box to make sure he had everything he needed for his exams, she found the three rulers and asked him why he needed so many.

he replied saying that last year, during the final-year exam, one of his friends forgot to bring his eraser. in the middle of the paper, out of desperation, he stared begging to borrow an eraser from the other kids, but nobody helped. everyone was engrossed in their exams. and some, for fear of being caught by the teacher. ammar however, did.

so this year, he told my mom that the reason why he wanted to bring an extra of everything is so that should any of his friends forget something, he could lend it to them. my heart melted.

there is so much to learn from the young. even as we're teaching them.

i am guilty

i am guilty. for having it all. beyond the basics. surpassing my needs. abusing my wants. demanding. craving. more. more. without thought of time. time it takes to create. time taken to destroy. i am guilty. for being born in a privileged position and yet, idly pressed onto seats, giving nothing back. and despite knowing and having, am doing, nothing at all.

chand | an engagement

chand from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

crutches

there once was a man who, unwilling to allow himself, even for a moment, to forget about the poor, the desperate, the tortured, the dying, the hungry, the crying, the raped, or the saddened bombarded himself with an unbroken chain of images, sounds, and records that sustained him in a state of constant sorrow about happenings around the world. his body, mind, and heart etched to the desk. his laptop. his TV. his radio. googling. shuffling between channels. tuning in and out. listening for grave voices that report disasters. searching for sombre faces amidst footage of war. scanning for words like victims, flood, Taliban, destruction, die, violence spike, Rwanda. it took him that much effort to wallow in that state of catastrophic depression about the world. he died young. his face embedded with deep frown lines like that of an old man, and his heart, still crying.

a goddess of moments

in a sea of blue she sits.

fingering the thoughts of centuries.

away she sails. away she sails.

unlimited prints edition

Unlimited Printed Edition | http://nurulh.carbonmade.com/

dear friends,

in light of all that is happening now, 50 cents from the purchase of each print will be put towards the donation to Mercy Relief

prints can be mailed or personally collection from me

email to order or for further details | newrule@gmail.com

tell your friends.

thank you!

xx

n.

a dream entwined

a friend dreams of another

from a far away land

16 hours apart by air

2 seconds apart by IM

words that sculpt truths

met you face to face

woke up

what is my mind processing here?

distance

thoughts

love

a friend dreams of another

it is night here

but day over there

art art

mimic & murmur

looking, all i see are mimics. listening, all i hear are murmurs. similar forms of different things. each called by its own name. chartered out by its own boundaries. carved out within its own means.

i often get asked, why do you have so many non-Muslim friends? where are your Muslim friends? don't you have any? sometimes, i pretend to not understand such a question. just so i can make them explain. sometimes, they can't.

as to the question, well, i just do. because, despite our religious differences, we're the same. mimics. murmurs. of the same tune. the same beat. cliched. yes. but, only because, it is what it is.

do not undermine the value of the cliched. there is power in mimics and murmurs.

a birth

artist | Rage

cookie

dear world,

how is it fair that i get to eat a subway cookie, when there are children everywhere without food?

words

and now, for some emptiness

breathe

exhale

*

o silent shout

of conflict dreams

her vaginal tear

upon thy feet

a babe's born

his mind is weak

I Polunin | the 'exotica'

we are always intrigued by those different from us. the exotic other. they fuel the imagination, offering a glimpse into a reality of the alternative. wedged in Colonialism and in the study of Anthropology, this concept of the other is one that hosts companions such as romanticism, nostalgia, the exotica, and 'the past'. although the I Polunin exhibition was meant to be reflective of the I, the self, some fragment of being 'Singaporean', i could not help but feel extremely othered.

we walked into the gallery and instantly, we were caught in both excitement and awe. there were photos of three men, each shot in the manner shown above. each a specimen. each with a number labelled onto their bodies. markings. documenting. it reminded me of the kind of photos i saw in my introduction to Anthropology and the Human Condition module. the beginnings of the study of 'race', as determined by the physical. the biological makings of a man. stereotypes. the first two were photos of 'native men', as clearly recognized and marked by their othered faces. the Asian. the tribal. the exotic. the third photo however, caught us by surprise, for it was a photo of the filmmaker himself. the Western male. ironically, without a loincloth (for no Western man wears that), but also rather comically, covered modestly only by socks and shoes. unsettling. but also potently symbolic.

walking further into the gallery, we were then greeted by panaromic shots of old Singapore. 'old' being a mere 60 years ago. and yet, a 60 years ago we could not recognize, or imagine. it was vastly different. more vibrant. we also caught sight of something in one of the old photos. something so inconsequential, and yet, historical, existing both then and in our present day. something that ought to be historical, and yet, often unnoticed.

there were also old objects. most of which, recording devices owned by the Dr. Polunin himself. snapshots. documents. notes. we then came to a film reel. old footages of what is perhaps a village in the 1950s, Singapore. again. it was starkly different. unimaginable. how could 60 years change so much? they had a baby bear as 'pet'. a real one. the made their own boats. children carrying coconuts, pineapples, jackfruits. some children these days do not even know how these fruits look like on the outside. we sat there for the duration of the film. watching. gasping. wondering. where are these people now? the children in the film would be about 70-80 years old by now. why don't they look like any of the ethnic selves in present today? where did they go? how did they accomodate such a shift in their living environment? would we have been able to live like that? if we were born in such a reality, of course we would. socialization. a part of me felt a huge wave of nostalgia. nostalgia for a world so divorced from me, and yet deeply felt for it was 'Singapore'. the mere reference to a name. a superficial emotional affinity. othered.

the exotica. that became the main motivation, the main 'visual tool' for the capturing of what was then Singapore. to the eyes of a Western man, the mundane everyday of this world was exotic to him and thus, worthy of capture. and in time, these mundane captures became fragments of what we now deem as 'history'. our history, as shaped by this other. how do we look, consume, and manipulate it? what does this say about the makings of our history? how does this reflect upon the method(s) upon which we thus begin to historicize our today?

i do not deny the importance of the mundane, the everyday, as essential aspects of historicizing. but i also know that to be consciously aware of its existence and importance as a part of what will be archived as history, is something that might be hard for the self to be actively realize, for there is nothing sensational in the mundane. only the sensational is often remembered. only the sensational is documented. history is often made up of bnly the sensational. the mundane, is remembered, by others. there is thus perhaps a need for the presence of an other in order to exoticize what we would deem to be mundane. unless, we possess within a self-reflexive thought and emotive system which would allow us to nostalgize, in advance, the things that would soon be deemed ‘ancient’ or historical, and to make that effort to memorialize it, now.

look around you. and look at the rate of change that exists within the world right now. is there anything you can imagine being gone, depleted, or erased of its use in the near future? if the world that is presented within the films and documentations of Dr. Ivan Polunin is but 60 odd years ago from our now, what can we envisage to change in 60 years to come? at the age of 80, would my generation of people be nostalgizing about the pencil? would handwritings become a thing of the past? would laptops? and what of certain rituals. with the advent and presence of media that can replace these older traditions, along with the influx of the visual media, would nobody tell stories anymore? would all the bards be silenced? or perhaps, they already are. have we documented them? or are they already gone.

how long does it take to museumize a generation of objects, rites, moments? how long to realize that there is a need to museumize it?

and with a world that is each advancing in a mirroring pace, is there even an othered reality? or has everything become the same? selfed.

I Polunin
NX Gallery, NUS Museum
more info here

into light. fall.

dear world, what has Love made us into?

the butterfly

My Bohemian Butterfly
Fly Away
Away from the world of the iron cage
A world where your garden wilts
The petals of your bud
Crushed beneath the cold stab of iron
Where your Love, Beauty and Freedom
Will never blossom
So fly away
My Bohemian butterfly
Fly to the place which exists not
But in the flutter of your wings.

tracings

i've never really been good with still life

and so, i trace

there is something powerful in repetitions

"second nature" Taussig says

replication

makes the mundane

but also empowers

tracings

mimic

building up symbols

that which brought back the 'whee'

*thanks to bon*

ghost thesis excerpt

There are rules in telling ghost stories and both storytellers and audience recognize these rules, which are continuously used and hence, reified, with every ghost story told. Furthermore, one’s experience of a ghost story, be it sacred or secular, is mediated concurrently by a set of instruments triggered by the bodily sentient, when faced with variables that are socially shared within a community of people. The latter acts as a far more interesting ethnographic study as it enables us insight into the dimensions beyond that of macro structures (like religion and Science), allowing instead for an introspective look into a more micro discourse of how we as humans negotiate our boundaries between the self and ghostly other. Additionally, the processes of crafting ghost stories and the telling and re-telling of them, mimics the form of water in a reservoir- collected and stored for use. What are we then collecting from our reservoir of ghost stories? And what is retrieved from it?

'Leaky Bahloons' now for SALE

the 'Leaky Bahloons' series

is now for sale!

yaay!

handpainted

watercolor/pencil/ink

cartridge paper (folded in the middle like a card)

125 gsm | A5

plain white on the other side

or

8 by 5 plain postcards

plain white on the other side

am currently still working on some more designs

*which can be found on the nuruL H. facebook page | link on sidebar

will mail to faraway places

yaay!

for more details, email me: newrule@gmail.com

the macabre mundane

the fruit of thy womb

an apple a day keeps the doctor away

mapper of families

i've decided to embark on a project to document and archive the people, memories and moments of both sides of my family. mom's and dad's. figured i do it now, since i have the means - camera, scanner, research tools - to do so. will start with my dad's side of the family because there was recently a wedding- my cousin's. zakaria.

nenek's house

will be adding more as time/space allows.

i decided to call it nenek's (granny) house as that's where we usually go to. the headquarters.

documentary. i will be scanning old photos and will perhaps be interviewing my granny, aunts, & uncles about their memories and knowledge/perceptions of the family history. i was also told by my other uncle (mom's brother) that there is possibly an old film reel of my great grandmother when she was young. what an awesome source of family history. will be looking into that as well.

mapping family genealogies. a fun, yet time consuming project.

a rusty repertoire

the black blot whizzed by the entire visual area of the window. a bird. i think so. or at least, i'd like to think so. they're the only beings flying around early this morning. well. hopefully most of the time.

the connect. or the disconnect. i recently watched Waltz with Bashir. to a certain extent, it was a great disconnect. an animated documentary about a war that took place even before i was conceptualized as a human being. yes. conceptualized. to become, human. on levels of the intellectual, emotional, and moral. on the other hand, it wasn't a context that i was entirely estranged to. o, the bane of such incidents. incidents. if it could be lightly termed that. the bane of such horrors in its refusal to become History. its refusal to end and become a chapter in History. instead, it keeps Time as a constant mistress. a neverending affair with Time. an eternal patron. each feeding on the other. sustained.

the film. my greatest connect/disconnect surfaced through the film's use of animation. like the film Persepolis, the use of animation presents us with a different experience/perspective/representation/performance of reality. the reality of real events such as wars and revolutions. expressed, illustrated through motifs. comic style colors. surrealism is expected. picturesque dreams. grotesque nightmares. epic scenes. room for the visually-idiosyncratic. an animated film can easily create all of this. blood begins to look, artistic. in fact, it is no longer red. but black. brownish-red. maroon. it becomes symbolic. and we, as the audience, recognize it, nonetheless. connect. even death as expressed through animation, is made artistic. unreal. and perhaps, surreal. however, when this light-hearted use of animation is suddenly juxtaposed, mirrored, 'mimicked' by footages of the real, that is when the greatest connect and disconnect happens. both, at the same time. footages. terminology.

and then the realization. and then the tears. and then, the end.

the ability to finish looking, seeing, feeling something, as time passes, as a footage ends, as a memory fades, is perhaps the greatest disconnect between us. as one. the human race. can one perpetually look, see, feel, remember, and do?

momentaries

there are certain things in life that are just hypnotic. mechanical. like staring at the moon. it gets brighter and brighter. as everything else around it diminishes in sight. like watching fish swim in a tank. around and around. becoming blurs of colors floating around a landscape of blue. like the flailing arms of fire, etched onto a stove. its unachieved potential to soar. blue. orange. mild tints of pink. licking the bases of pans. limited. like peeling off dead, dry skin from a nasty cut. can't stop until its all gone. even if it's bad to do so. scars. like a face in the fan. sitting in front of it, on a hot day. the constant wind, blowing secrets into the eyes. closing to contain. closing to contain. ruptured blinks. like waiting for the moments. the perfect moments. when they come. will they come?

leaky bahloons

found a new character
i love him

plans.plans.plans.

this is a final resolution. i shall and will and must finish the thesis draft by mid next week. after which i will and must send out my resume. i will patiently wait for my supervisors to get back to me and let time, life take its own course. in the meantime, i will start on my many projects and collaborations. those i've been archiving in my mind for the past year and a half. will. must. shall.

i will not become the legless toad. never.

6.52pm

love at the end of life

heard something mildly hilarious today. and yet, wildly intriguing. the person who, for the whole of his/her life, has hated, loathed you, will, towards the end of his/her life, love you the most. meaning. if i suddenly find my worst enemies being utterly nice and lovely to me, it means that they're going to die. soon. it’s akin to getting revenge. but without having to do anything.

but why? well, it’s just a superstition. an old wives’ tale. nothing to it. perhaps. but even these usually deemed ‘illogical’ systems of thought possess a form of rationalization. nothing is unexplained. almost nothing.

maybe it’s because, it’s fate’s way of allowing that person, who has wronged you your whole life, a final chance to make up for all the bad, and do good onto you. a chance to repent. for all the misdeeds. hmm. or maybe it’s just a way of knowing if you are the person who has been most mistreated by that particular person. as in, if that person suddenly dies, and he/she never did suddenly love and fawn over you, then you’ll know that you were never the person he/she hated the most. and won’t that be a good thing? perhaps.

so maybe, we shouldn’t really worry about having enemies. they’ll love us. soon. because, well. everyone dies. perhaps, just make sure they go first.

evolution

layers. on & off

layered on. and off.

i often wonder, if an art piece is ever finished.

artist | Alexandre Farto (Vhils) | site

by the window

from the 'black & TEA' series

the sit & stare routine

the sit & stare routine
newly developed
it involves the act of sitting at any random space that is permitted in both public and private spheres. although. in private, you can sit anywhere you want. worst case scenario: you'd be compromising your own comfort
and staring at anything as long as it does not stir chaos or uneasiness of any sort to the person or object being stared at
and although I have been in a state of utter ugh
this new sit & stare routine has become effective for me
let me explain
because I have been trained to never waste time
a trait I believe most, if not all of us, have been taught to instill in our everyday
seize the day!
it is because of this very socialized trait, idea, thought
that the sit & stare routine is successful
as I sit & stare, I subconsciously realize that to merely sit and stare is a time waster
and yet I sit & stare
why?
because
I can
I must
but after a while
I snap out of it
because I actually realize how much time I’m wasting
engaging in this very act
and so
guilt crawls in
and I snap back into work
I become a more productive worker
in doing what I know I must do
making up for lost time
having sat
and stared

the sit & stare routine
do not disturb

dear diary

it is getting harder to write in a diary. to a certain extent, people are more willing to share personal thoughts, emotions, with strangers. with friends. twitter. facebook. blogs. postsecrets. it takes an extra effort to discern between that is really, really a secret or a 'truest' feeling, 'authentic' enough to be written into a diary. more layers to the self. most of which are lost and owned by the world wide web. are we really getting more open? or just less layered?

Time. like a twitch.

Time is a constant shift when there is an ‘old folk’ in the house. flanked against the fast paced rush of the working adult, Time is not only different in its form as ‘matter’, but also in its spatial estrangement: each from the other. it exists as two separate entities for both individuals. one nestles within the lull of each minute, each moment. in thought. in wonder. amidst questions. of whys and what ifs. awaiting the intervals of meals. breakfast. lunch. tea. dinner. supper. the intervals of medication. before each meal. after each meal. white tablets. blue. plastic coated colors. to-be-quickly-swallowed ‘raw’ pills that cling to dry throats. is it painful to swallow so many, all the time? or has it become just another part of a routine. like plucking eyebrows. shaving. bikini wax. Time is also spent, un-spent. sleep becomes a needy companion. the bed. a comfy overture to the grave. why so morbid? well, isn’t it? the working adult, battles with Time. against it. alongside it. deadlines. dead-lines. they appear on the face, skin. termed ‘wrinkles’. there are creams for them. a multi-million industry. Time boxes up activities and days. lunchtime. weekends. planners. dates. pay day. a slave to time. watches. alarms. sleep is shortened to accommodate more time, more work. more. the light bulb. an invention created to conspire with Time, to extend it. faux daylight. more day. more time. less time.

and then there is the liminal being. suspended in the space where she is expected to conform to the rush of the adult Time. and yet, she wanders with the free-floating Time of the old. lulling. each moment. in thought. in wonder. what an anomaly. she needs an alarm clock. wake her up to reality. yes. but perhaps, at another time.

playful parts

she flies

tomorrow is the day she abandons all hopelessness as she attempts to make that flight back up to the world of dreamers

hook in the eye

her world was an ocean. a vast spread of a universe that contained within, pockets of life. habitats enriched with vibrant beings that bump into each other, like frenzied atoms. touch. leave. touch. leave. there were also spaces of void. empty in its echoes. like a swallow of air. a residue of nothing. she swam amidst this ocean like a bulb. darting from place to place. on and off. but one day, appeared from above, a shiny blur that sparkled. calling. enticing. come forth. it said. and she did. a hook in the eye.

she escapes her world of the ocean.

in darkness dwells our truest form

the cynic killed the cheerleader

the fallen storyteller

it is good to recognize ones strengths and weaknesses. it levels you. it makes life more realistic, amidst this crazed world of illusions. I know now, for sure, that I do not make a good storyteller, not an oral storyteller anyhow. I can’t really tell stories. the presence of a physical audience inhibits. me. the one who has never really been good with people. a social butterfly with clipped wings. the method of the oral storytelling inhibits my thought process, that which is usually left loose during the moment of its construction. all is jumbled up and there is no Goffman’s ‘back’ stage for me to run to, for all becomes part of the theatrical performance. i then leave it up to my medium to provide for its own 'front' stage.

a story requires a multi-dimensional layered perspective, one that does not give up its inner secrets instantly. the moral of the story should only be revealed in the end. elements of climax or the crescendo to a plot are narrative tools to be properly crafted by the narrator to deliver a story that sustains the interest of the audience- an audience who has been spoilt by the bombardment of the visual enterprise. and so, the revelation: I am not a good oral storyteller. I am however, better with the written and visual media. this is because they are secondary media that exists, in itself, as a coded form. a picture is a story already told, as it has been captured out of the series of happenings that we call life, events. and so, it is already packaged. it only has to be delivered, viewed, to fulfill its purpose as narrative. the form of the written word mirrors the latter. the clever and painstaking choice of words, each after the other denotes the process inherent within- masked. and so, like the photograph, it estranges the storyteller from its audience, to a certain extent. I am not dismissing oral storytelling as being a one-dimensional narrative form that requires no coding process, for it certainly does. I’m just saying that I suck at it, or to put it nicely, i am not well-versed with its method.

I started with the form of the written word, and then onto the visual and perhaps, that is where I should keep myself parked in, for now.

Chronique d'un été

staggering. it still staggers.

bred into water

manufacturing a reverse osmosis mechanism back into nature

Big Fish

momentary me

photo by seuty | edited by me

need to start the photography. again.

writing in air

there lies a huge disjuncture between the person she would like to be, to that of the person that she is. a self of the past, to one awaiting the turn into a future. the ever vigilant to change and the world around, to the myopic individual who casts merely side glances to those around her. hair in the wind. the fan blows. it is constant. each strand suspended in the air in accordance to an exact timing. methodical shifts of the blades. how fast per second? how much wind artificially created per rotation? maths. method. there is no uneven rhythm. waves have begun taking up a pattern. too much certainty. the old man could predict the next wave in its exact moment. where is spontaneity? no more messages in a bottle. he reaches in but falls behind. the landing is uneven. like the bumps on his skin. do two unevens make it even? she toasted the tip of her bottle to the sunset sky. plastic against the now virtual sky cut up by the rectangular window. the disjuncture is forgotten, forgotten for a while. sirens on the road. someone is dying. they sit in the dark. the people are coming.

Free Aung San Suu Kyi

Free Aung San Suu Kyi from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

a peace vigil for the freedom of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

Speaker's Corner, Singapore
31st May 2009
organized by MARUAH

o gracious body. o gracious being

the form, the bodies, of old people are beautiful. the curves in their backs, an act of humility towards the land. earth. edged nearer to it. face to face. conversations. waiting. getting ready to return to it. ashes to ashes. dust to dust. wrinkled skin. sunk into bones. revealing the human form. we are but skin and bones, when all else is eaten away, wasted away, worked away. ashes to ashes. dust to dust. their slow steps. the return to a beginning, when all will end. to remember the discovery of all things, anew. a re-discovery. letting birds in flight enthrall. letting light sit upon the skin, longer. letting it bless. ashes to ashes. dust to dust. hair of white. pristine. all the colors spent, living, breathing, creating, doing. like fuel, burnt up into ashes of white, worn like a crown. of kings and queens, scattered across our lands, etched free from their rule. becoming bards with tales of the world, if we but ask. 

o gracious body. o gracious being. 

hello

photo by seuty

when someone said 'no'

when there was no reply

when someone said 'it's over'

when they shut the door

when doubt became flesh 

when she insisted she was shy

when he insisted he didn't care

when she fell asleep

when he woke up

when they said 'stop'

when the first tear was shed

when there were no tears

when the silence wasn't broken

batcave

the girls love the batcave 

We Are AWARE

a tad bit overdue but no revolution is ever 'expired'. it has to be constantly documented, and redocumented. remembered, and re-remembered. so here it is. 

for more, visit AWARE

grandmothers, being ill, & time

the combination of having ill grandmothers and having little time to spend with them, is both a painful and guilty feeling. how necessary it then becomes, to know their stories from before they became grandmothers. 



my nenek (in Bahasa Melayu, paternal grandmother)



my nani (in Bengoli, maternal grandmother)

note to the twitching eye

dear twitching eye,

why do you twitch? is it because you're feeling neglected? but do i not see with you every day, in every moment? how is that neglect? or perhaps i'm over-using you? do you need me to rest and close my eyes more? but i can't! because i am awake for most of the day, doing work and living my life. i think it would be very unfair of you to ask of me to sleep my life away, wouldn't it? what? use an eye patch? and look like a pirate? i don't think i can do that, especially when most people already think of me as a freak, talking to myself within the public sphere. you do understand, right? oh! it's the laptop screen? i see! is that what's making you twitch a lot? you're sensitive to the screen? hmm. that is something i really can't avoid, as most of what i do revolves around having me sit in front of the laptop, staring straight into it as that's where all the information, data, and text are located within. and these are information that i cannot do without, as you know, the 'thesis' needs to be done. or wait? is it the 'thesis' that you're 'allergic' too? well, i'm not surprised. i'm rather allergic to it myself. but it's finishing, soon. i promise you. and i've noticed that being on campus makes you twitch as well, especially when the trip is made in relation to the 'thesis'. the museum was nice, wasn't it? and so were the picnics and the lunches with friends. but the 'thesis', bahh!! so, ok. we've identified the source of your twitching. it's the 'thesis'. oh, oh, ok. i'll stop using the word itself. we'll call it the 'T'. i will endure your twitching for a while more as i finish the 'T' and promise to take 5, oh, ok, 10 minute eye breaks from time to time. we'll stare into other people's houses or look for goblins in the clouds, something far away from the laptop. i promise.

much love,

n.

Cove Red EP Launch

here's a shout-out for my girls of Cove Red. they're having an unofficial EP Launch this month. 

24th & 31st May 09

Earshot Cafe @ The Arts House, Singapore, 1 Old Parliament Lane 

5.30 - 7.30 pm

their sound

their blog

i'd also like to thank them for giving me the opportunity to photography and design their EP. it was loads of fun and it's something i enjoy doing. am looking forward to the awakening of their many dreams. 

Site, Situation, Spectator opening

i meant to write something about this a while back, but procrastination always wins me over. it went well. the audience were intrigued by the exhibits and for a student project, it was well executed and presented. for me, however, the experience and thrill was derived more through the conceptual and curatorial process of it all, as it's something that i'm interested in. i'm never good with openings but i think i managed it well. was asked to give an impromptu closing mini-speech, and as usual, i spoke too fast, as i always do when i know what i'm talking about. taking pauses to breathe seems unnecessary during these moments. nonetheless, it went well. am happy about it, and am looking forward to creating and curating my own projects soon. 

first up, The Classroom. 

a journey

she reaches for...

the beautifully imperfect...

thinking thoughts, bundled in boxes...

that lead her into blinding light...

only to withdraw into shadow.

palette

entity exchange

i started off this project with the aim of instilling words into this realm of the urban unvoiced. to instill narratives that we engage in our everyday - be it the banal or the sensational - posted onto symbolic (or not) white papers that are anthropomorphized to 'become' that said narrative- a very much 'alive' entity. i went about pasting/releasing/voicing them into the public sphere, open to the contact of entities who will recognize the words as part of their medium of sense-making. how they relate to it, however, is left purely ambiguous. to each his own. *this is an ongoing project. more releases can be found here*

The Ambiguous ‘Alternative’: a Method to Narrative Others

i am one of the curators for this exhibition. opening 15 may 09 @ the NUS Museum, Singapore. below is an excerpt of my curatorial. 

Conventionally, our idea of the ‘alternative’ is one that is thought of as held in juxtaposition to an ‘other’, as a subversion, or as a dichotomy to the official, the formal, the State-owned. This is however, no longer a viable approach, as narratives do not exist as a duality. It is no longer one or the other, but one or the many others. Experiences of a singular event, entity, or moment in history can be multiplied manifold, sparking the existence of a multifarious range of stories, narratives. Water, for example, is no longer seen as merely an essential for living (drinking, agriculture), or as nature (in relation to man), but it was also once thought of as symbolic of conquest, discovery and freedom (travel, Colonization), and in more contemporary times, disaster and death (tsunami). To merely engage in the process of subverting ‘official’ narratives would deem the content produced inadequate in representing the diverse narratives that exist. Instead, we are forced to engage in a more nuanced approach to the ‘alternative’. 

the ambiguous alternative

"Ambiguity may be the clue: there is the material, and there I am intruding my private intent. I know the imminence of the world and experience with full sensuality; at the same time I am involved with the projection of myself as idea. Strong tensions are inevitable, pleasurable and disturbing. Is not the aesthetic optimum order with the tensions continuing?”

 

                      - Aaron Siskind

and just because tears come easily

i wonder. if you grow 5-10 years within a year itself, does this mean that as you actually grow (chronologically & physically) older, you won't grow (metaphorically) anymore. or perhaps, the growth process decelerates. learning lesser things. merely a stoic squirm amidst the world of the happening. i've seen that. i've lived through it. that, is life. degrees of inaffection. stagnance. you can die now. you've seen, done it all. 

or perhaps, our inner growth far surpasses the 'life expectancy' number limit that chains our bodies to 'mortality'. perhaps, our inner selves encompass a more accentuated concept of the immortal. a 26 year-old with a 70 year-old soul. a 70 year-old with a 218 year-old soul. she dies, but fragments of her self survives. the photos she's taken. the cameras now in the hands of great-great grandchildren. stolen moments with the people she loved. pieces of words embedded into cracked walls. fibres of world she existed within. even as her body perishes under the laws of mortality, she continues to grow. a growth that is not dependent merely on the memories of the people she knew (because people are never really enough), but within the entities - even the intangible - that she had created, touched, breathed, owned, discarded. because, in a way, nothing is ever really gone. nobody is ever really lost. 

 

it merely transforms. pocketed, from one form to another.

bodies, into earth. persons, into memories. memories, into objects. objects, into other objects. living amidst one and all. 

and for those gone from our touch, may they linger in our thoughts. and just because tears come easily, it doesn't mean it brought sadness along as a partner. 

grotesque surrealism

may messages

so here comes the month of may. i peak whenever it comes to this month of madness, mayhem, merriness, melancholy, moods, muffins, myopia(?). well partly coz it's my birthmonth but also because may is magic! 

may messages

for the lightless

slideshow

trickster's theory to everything

a fresh new perspective
"humour is the body, asserting itself against the head"

inner core

life worlds

like it or not, we often relate to our 'reality' through the life experiences of those around us - those who reside within the same cultural and social circles of our everyday. i remember being a young girl, influenced by the concept of 'wanting'. wanting certain things, to experience them just because the other girls had them. freedom. being able to get a haircut from a salon and not mom's brutal bowl-shaped 'bob' style. Polly Pockets. small girly worlds encapsulated within cute, colorful pocket-sized compact cases that, well, fitted our pockets, but not without the existence of a huge bulge on the side of the pinafore. an intrusion to the girlish figure.

the teenage years are harder. association. belonging. peer pressure. we begin to form ideas about friendships, boy-girl relationships (BGR, as they termed it). we begin to develop ideals of who we are in relation or in constrast to others. we create fads to differentiate ourselves from the masses. black bracelet bands. short socks. never tucking in our blouses. solidarity in defiance. in juxtaposition, or in agreement to one another. the teenage years, filled with carefree moments of fun and play, indented by major examinations that bring about misery. solidarity in misery. great milestones of the education system. all hail.

leaving the teenage years. university. everyone seems motivated. some are motivated to play. others, motivated to work and work. get on the dean's list. get that perfect CAP score. score. and then there are those motivated to cause impact. impact. looking at the motivated ones keeps one in check. am i doing enough? should i do more? should i care? what can i do? it shapes the way we begin to make choices. choices about what we want to experience, and how we choose to experience them.

and then comes the mid-20s. for those who go on to become 'real adults', they move into the working world. but for some of my friends and i, we chose the postgraduate path. resisting reality for a little while more. looking at our friends who are working and earning, we are reminded of the need, the want for money. savings. zilch. postgraduates are usually financially-challenged (FC) people. yes they have a lot of free time, but they're FC. to a certain extent. the mid-20s also introduce another 'necessary' step to ones social evolution to adulthood - serious relationships and marriage. being a single 25-year-old (soon to be 26) woman in Singapore, who also happens to belong to an ethnic community that prides the value of a woman on her being married, is agitating. i repeat. agitating. looking at friends and cousins who are married, some with a child, reminds us that they're either going too fast, or we, too slow. and so, this period of mid-20s has lately been alot about marriage. when. who. where. how does the dress look like. why are you still single!? SPG. single. picky/petty. girl. hmm.

i'm not sure what the patterns will be as we progress into our 30s and 40s. perhaps it'll be about job security. are you earning your first million? or about the family. are you pregnant yet? are you getting your own place? divorce? or maybe about achievements. nobel prize!? who knows. but i'm very sure that we will all reach a phase in our lives when we start conversations with Death. that person we went to primary school with, passed away last week. recognizing familiar faces on the orbituary page. people we've grown up with, now gone, reminding us of our mortality in this world. reminding us of our regrets of the younger days. the good moments. the bad ones. reflections. the past summed up in stories told over casual dinners. the 'future' embedded in that present day, in and of itself. of life, and living.

dreaming of reality

often, one wakes up astounded or mystified by their dreams. crocodiles under the bed. large snakes that envelope. doors that lead nowhere. making love to a man with no face. biting down on metal fingernails. getting eaten by a wild boar. what do these dreams mean? these convoluted concoction of metaphors and imageries, mixed and intertwined across content and context to cohere within this level of the subconscious that intrudes into reality through our dreams. heavy-laden symbolisms to be deciphered. dream dictionaries can be found on the www. they offer pretty interesting interpretations to the symbolisms in our dreams, encompassing a nice mix of the good and bad connotations of each object or situation dreamt about. but perhaps, we can also turn to self-reflection in aiding the deciphering of our dreams.

i once had a dream about this large crocodile that was discovered somewhere - dreams are usually either very specific about sites, or not. and so, in this dream, this enormous crocodile was dug out, preserved in its semi-alive state, and kept frozen in time. it was placed in a garden, surrounded by bushes of roses, as if it was a Greek statue, posed. everybody loved it. a spectacle. when night came, they all went home. somehow, the crocodile 'thawed' back to life and it was on a prowl. it swallowed up buses of people, eating everything and everyone in its path. i was sleeping in my bed and suddenly it came in. i saw myself asleep. the crocodile coming into my room. i was still sleeping. it crawled under my bed and stayed there. it just stayed there. and then i woke up.

heart racing.

i'm not a believer of dream dictionaries but this time around, i thought i'd check it out, for fun (and curiousity)

To see a crocodile in your dream, symbolizes freedom, hidden strength and power. It forewarns of hidden danger. Someone near you is giving you bad advice and is trying to sway you into poor decisions. Because crocodiles can live in water and on land, they also represent your conscious and unconscious and the emotional and the rational. Perhaps something is coming to the surface and you are on the verge of some new awareness.
Alternatively, the crocodile may be an aspect of yourself and your aggressive and "snappy" attitude. Or it may reveal that are being insincere, displaying false emotions and shedding "crocodile tears".
To dream that you are chased or bitten by a crocodile, denotes disappointments in love and in business.

i also refered to an Islamic interpretation of dreams and 'crocodile' churned out:

represents a cunning enemy without compassion

hmmm.

and so, i did my own assessment of this dream. why a crocodile? i recalled my obsession with the Sarcosuchus or 'Supercroc' that was unearthed a few years back. the massive reconstruction of a dino-croc that swam the deep waters of what is now Africa. (it's both fascinating and scary how much our earth has evolved) i followed the excavation documentary on the National Geographic Channel and when it was on 'tour', i remember heading to some mall here in Singapore to witness the 'Supercroc', in its 'real' form. the majestic reconstruction of its bones. how small we humans are. i have been secretly in love with crocodiles since then. in love and yet fearful of it. i never did manage to decipher the dream. didn't care to. i got caught up with the 'Supercroc' and started reading up on it once again. the crocodile under my bed. i've left it in my journal for a possible story, someday.

the most recent dream that inspired this post is one that disturbed me the most, because it was so real. in fact, it IS still real. i dreamt that i kept missing my thesis submission deadline. this is in fact, true. it is very much real. and so i woke up that night thinking, hmm. ok. so what else is new? my reality has infiltrated my dreams, in absolute terms. no masked symbolisms. no picturesque metaphors. no room for deconstruction. damn.

dusk

it is too dark, not enough light
but that is the point
oh alright

Henry Darger | in the realms of the unreal

he was sent to a school for feeble-minded children. a simpleton of a boy who grew up into a man, ousted by normalcy. he didn't talk to anyone, moving around the world, awkwardly. his neighbors remember seeing him rummage through waste, thinking him weird. unknown to them, he was actually turning it into art. upon his death, they found what could perhaps be the world's longest illustrated novel. stories of children warriors, fighting those against the ways of the Christian world, as he believed it to be. conceptualized in juxtaposition to his life, he creates another world where he belongs, encapsulating within the many other imageries muted in light of this 'real' world. an artist extraordinaire, weaving art within his fingers and mind. moved by feelings and colored by the reality that he deemed real. through his art, we are given a glimpse into the world of a man nobody really knew. In the Realms of the Unreal. perhaps a most realistic world of worlds.


trailer

what makes a woman, a self?

i acknowledge that a person is the sum of all her attributes, her beliefs, her causes, her ideas. but i also strongly believe that in essence, we are all humans and in being human, we are all equal. or at least, should be. regardless. this is especially so in relation to who we help. who we include and exclude from our circle reflects greatly on who we are as a person. as an individual, i am not only a woman, but also a Muslim, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a postgraduate, a photographer, inclined towards activism, human. if the argument pertains to the question of the 'secular', all, except for one of the above-mentioned identities is secular in nature. if it pertains to that of gender, only three of them are gendered identities. and yet, we constantly embed gendered stereotypes onto those other traits. woman. feminized. bodily. roles within private and public spheres. perspectives. decisions. Muslim women are repressed. Mothers are mothers, not full-time professionals. Women are weak. an age old discourse that has been debated over and over again. a new discourse should be encouraged with regards to women & society, women in society. one that reflects a humanistic perspective. one that includes, not demarcating boundaries. one that enables us to dispel judgment and stereotypes. all sisters. all humans.


Woman to Woman from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

breathing with colors

breathing with colors from nuruL H. on Vimeo.

a life
pacing in and out of
a moment
instances of a past
recollected
living still
amidst it all
breathing with colors

making magic moments

a friend told me she finds magic in the moments when she is alone. moments of the mundane, which she transforms into magic. making them as she is living within each moment. skipping to a soundless tune. the breathe of color from the wind. an orchestra of leaves tapping to the beat of the forest. plunging into civilizations of the alternate through uneven surfaces of a puddle. playing narrator to lives of the bodies that float around. people. beings. she is thinking of getting plastic surgery but her husband actually prefers her 'flat'. he goes home each day at exactly 7.08pm to polish his furniture whilst tuning in to songs from the 80s. they have sex every single night. and so, the lives of the mass of meaningless faces become a little more interesting, a little more magical within each concocted moment. the narrator is pleased. imagination is magick!

storytelling inc.

in 2008, the 10th of May was devoted to Pangea Day. a day devoted to film, to be shared by people from all over, watching the same films, at the same time. it was broadcasted via the www and hosted across the globe, forstering a shared community of people experiencing the same stories that created laughter, evoked awareness, saddened hearts, and enlightened spirits.

Pangea day was born out of a wish of a TED Prize winner, Jehane Noujaim. her wish was simply, to have "a day, when the world comes together, through film." featuring the contributions of a diverse pool of creative filmmakers across boundaries, Pangea day was indeed a success and it brought out, once again, the ability of stories to unite people, despite differences. unfortunately, Pangea Day was not set to become an annual event, for there are currently no plans for a Pangea Day 2009. that is indeed sad news. however, not all is lost for from it, we are once again reminded of the importance of storytelling.

STORYTELLING



i have always believed in the power of stories, in its ability to do more than just tell. but also to affect. a story is never just a story. and so i've lived my life surrounded by them. from Enid Blyton, to the cinema, onto the news, documentaries, reality shows, ghost stories, stories through songs, music, art, photography, interviews, conversations, gossip, people. continuously exploring a diverse range of media that i have begun to recognize as stories, for they become reflective of deeper concerns, issues, innuendos, symbolisms, realities, and nuances that would otherwise go unrealized.

every society has storytellers. for most of us, it comes in the form of digital media, for that is the medium through which we create and channel our packaged expressions and thoughts. in Jeffrey Snodgrass' study on Rajasthan, there exists a group of people known as bhats (akin to the bards). they are storytellers, historians, and poets who spend their days telling. they collect and tell. they retain history and help disseminate and perpetuate it within the community. they embody all cultural, social, and political information and transmit it, person to person. generation to generation. they become the stories.

and so, i believe that each person is a storyteller. all he or she requires is a platform to tell.

i have been thinking about this for a while now, and have discussed it with a few friends. i also recently came across a most interesting read by a friend on facebook. Shao Han. his thesis thoughts on stories and mythmaking. a highly intriguing piece. i myself have been working on stories, as a narrative medium and method to how we - within our culturally-created canon of symbols and ideas - experience the inscribed meanings and realities of our everyday.

why do we tell these stories? and how do we do it?

and then i realized that to merely answer those questions would not suffice. what become more important to me was the telling of stories, as the more we tell, the more we share, the more we are made aware, the more we understand, and hopefully, the better we act.

and so, the project. it is not a TED Prize, but a personal undertaking i wish to share and include anyone who might be interested in it. anyone who wants to tell a story. their stories. any story.

visit STORYTELLING INC.