1

Summer 2014
Ng Foo Cheong
Cheah Thien Soong
Rajinder Singh
Honey Khor
Ng Swee Keat
Foo Kwee Horng
Nugroho Heri Cahyono
e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture
dusun
quarterly
2
Dusun Quarterly 2 cover by Ng Swee Keat Editor Martin A Bradley email martinabradley@gmail.com Dusun TM Published by EverDay Art Studio and Educare June 2014
Dusun remains an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asian arts and culture to everyone
3
Dusun Quarterly 2 cover by Ng Swee Keat Editor Martin A Bradley email martinabradley@gmail.com Dusun TM Published by EverDay Art Studio and Educare June 2014
Dusun remains an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asian arts and culture to everyone
e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture
dusun
quarterly
4
inside....
6 Editorial
Transcendent Purity, Ng Foo Cheong 10
26 The Long Drop, short story by Martin Bradley
Cha with DrCheah Thien Soong 36
52 Rajinder Singh
Band of Brothers, poem, Paul GnanaSelvam 62
64 Honey Khor, Chinese Ink Painting
Ng Swee Keat 72
5
Summer 2014
86 Rafns Rich Tapestry, Nik Rafn
Scenes of Singapore, Foo Kwee Horng93
115 Nugroho Henri Cahyono
Angkor Childrens Hospital Mural 127
139 Poems from India
Imaging the Oriental147
164 Food Dusun, Dumplings
6
Summer brings forth images of beads, fowers, bells, poetry and all
manner of heady marvels. Well, heady marvels we do have though there
is a distinct lack of beads, and bells. Poetry is here as are fowers so,
maybe, the old hippie isnt quite dead after all.
Dusun Quarterly rolls on into its second issue, a little tardy but that is
the nature of free enterprises where time is freely given out of love for
the subject, and not concerned with any fscal gain.
Dusun certainly is unique..........it is free!
This issue is, as usual, crammed full of all kinds of visual and textual
goodies to delight and bring awareness. Once more we have news
from Cambodia, poems from India, images from Malaysia, Philippines and
Singapore. Your Summer basket of sweetmeats over foweth as do all
good cornucopias.
Sniff the air, it is once again full of promise.
Birds sing their songs of peace and love, were we but to open our ears
and listen.
Breezes whisper in greened trees and all is well with the world.
Now read on................
Martin Bradley Editor.
editors note
e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture
dusun
quarterly
7
03-7772 6193
Email masterpiece.malaysia@gmail.com
Website http://www.masterpiece-auction.com/
http://mpauction.tumblr.com/
8
Malaysia...
8
999
10 10
transcendent purity
11 11
ng foo cheong
12 12
13 13
14 14
I frst caught sight of Ng Foo Cheongs artworks when I was writing the
monthly back page for Malaysias The Expat magazine. To date Cheong
has been featured three times in that magazine, and I had followed his
exceptional work since the very frst. But to see his actual artworks, in
the fesh as it were, I had to travel to a splendid art gallery, hidden like a
prize of a gem in the Fo Guang Yuan Art Gallery, at the Fo Guang Shan
Dong Zen Temple, in Jenjarom, just outside of Kuala Lumpur.
The grounds of the temple were spectacular, calm, tranquil, serene,
inviting, all, in fact, you might wish for from a Buddhist temple. It was
a sheer pleasure just to be in that environment, however there was a
slight rain so we (my wife, I and my youngest step-son) hastened inside,
to see Ng Foo Cheongs artworks. We had been wanting to see this
new series of work since the exhibition opened, but had left it late due
to other commitments. I had no idea what I was expecting. The works
themselves would be fascinating, I knew that, but had no expectations of
the gallery. It was, after all, in a Buddhist temple, and the last place you
15 15
might expect to fnd a professional
looking gallery.
We were shocked to fnd
that gallery, part of the cultural
structure of the temple, to be as
fne as any Kuala Lumpur gallery,
and better than most we have
visited. The display cases and the
lighting were all you could have
hoped for, as was the space. We
were a little taken aback. It was
not what we were expecting.
The experience only got better
as we started to look at Ng Foo
Cheongs works, collectively titled
Transcendent Purity, and with a
very good reason.
Never had a gallery so perfectly
suited enlightening artworks
better than the Fo Guang Yuan Art
Gallery had suited the works of Ng
Foo Cheong. The ambiance of the
gallery and the innate spirituality
of the works themselves set off
a welcoming resonance, greeting
our timid entrance into that well
appointed space. The carefully
placed lighting revealed physical
depth to the multi- layered mixed
media imagery, while gracefully
hinting at other depths. Being in
the presence of the works of Ng
Foo Cheong was to bring another
kind of depth, a more poignant,
spiritual, transcendent depth as
Cheongs images engaged not just
with eyes, but with the heart, the
mind and the soul of the visitor
too.
Cheongs artistry, craft,
knowledge and spiritual growth
were all evident in a magnifcent
display of cosmic transcendence. It
was an uplifting awareness brought
forth not from any hallucinogen,
no mystical mushroom, revelatory
cacti or mind expanding cube of
sugar, but from a mind and soul
attuned to genuine mindfulness and
a greater source than materialism
and attachment. There were hints
at doors, reached not through
Huxleys peyote, but by meditative
16 16
transcendence and their opening
occurring through the opening of a
mind, not its dulling through quick-
fx self medication.
An immense imperturbability of
Buddha cutout masks occupied
many of Cheongs expansive
canvases. Those iconic images
were intriguingly familiar, an
amalgam of all the Buddha faces
foating in an eternal calmness, all
the serene smiles and the knowing
peacefulness. Those images glided
as an enigma, existing and not-
existing, resonant refection yet
painted image, free yet grounded
in texture and therefore static
yet fuid foating, separate and
at one with the canvas. In his
works, Cheong presented a visual
dhamma talk, an expression of
cosmic consciousness, oneness,
the disappearing and the bringing
forth of a truth or purity in
transcendence. The intricate
path of dhamma is strewn with
metaphorical pebbles, true
suffering occurs, real and unreal
obstacles appear to distract,
as textures mask reality, yet
perseverance, mindfulness and
meditative practice enables the
seeker to see the path clearer,
and follow wherever it may lead.
Cheong was providing the catalyst,
an introduction to dhamma.
The intricate cutting of paper
is a time honoured tradition
amongst Chinese peoples. From
the invention of paper, in the
Han Dynasty, to the modern day
cutting of paper for festivals and
cultural events paper cutting
continues to be very much part
of Chinese culture. Cheongs
work engages that paper cutting
cultural history as he painstakingly
cuts out a Buddha face, layers it
onto his canvas and melds it into
a transcendental statement, a
physical as well as a philosophical
prayer.
There is much to the making
17 17
in the paintings of Ng Foo Cheong, many layers giving depth to what
at frst seems to be one rich surface. As well as his attention to detail,
his practical knowledge, it is the varied methods that Cheong uses to
create his stunning works, that reveal him as a modern master.
Nothing is quite what it seems in those layered images. Cut out masks
sit with three dimension fowers, lengthy paper cuts, appearing like
stencils, but in reality raised, above other textured surfaces. Each object,
each image accompanies and enriches the others, drawing the visitors
eyes deeper and deeper into the magnifcence and mystery of his
making, and into the intriguing dialogue of Cheongs exquisite imagery
and imagination.
The series shown as Transcendent Purity comes as close as it is
possible to visualising Nibbana or the Buddhist concept of non-
attachment. Nibbana remains the goal after the cosmic cycle of birth,
death, rebirth. Nibbana is dhamma which is "unborn, unoriginated,
uncreated and unformed." Hence, it is eternal (dhuva), desirable (subha),
and happy (sukha).
18 18
19 19
20 20
21 21
22 22
23 23
24 24
25 25
Each piece in that exhibition was a silent prayer, but more than that,
each piece was an inspiration, an invitation to the way (dhamma), and a
reminder of the innermost being that we are, and our infnite connection
to the cosmos, not in any ethereal way but a very tangible way - in the
realm of particles, sub-particles, quark, strangeness and charm. With
thanks to Ng Foo Cheong those works were at once a meditation and
each an object for meditation. An unfettered mind might seek to open
those presenting doors, or glide along the raised lines, head for infnity
or gaze upon the majesty that is within us and without us.
26
It was March, it was raining slightly, in Kent........
It was not a good day.
Andrew Goodchild was falling.
True to his luck, Mr Goodchild, whom we shall refer to as Andrew,
was frmly embraced by the full force of Earth's gravity and inescapably
descending rather too rapidly towards an underlying lake. The lake
seemed quite eager to welcome him into its watery bosom - if lakes
were to have bosoms, watery or otherwise.
He was falling. That was preventing Andrew from drifting off into space.
It was quite a small detail, but signifcant nevertheless, considering the
circumstances. Andrew appeared quite thankful in his own small way.
Coping with falling was bad enough without being oxygen deprived as
well.
Andrew was falling. But not for him the airy fairy metaphysical,
existential, or phenomenological falling, but rather an actual falling. There
was no way that the falling of Andrew Goodchild could be mistaken for a
metaphor of religious fallen angels - no. Andrew, through the interaction
of his body and gravity was really, actually, bloody-well falling and praying
to whichever God or gods who could hear him. It turned out that it was
the gods Bank Holiday and even the telephonist was away.
A ridiculously cool March wind whisked past Andrews protruding
ears. It gave chilling depth to the general cold of the depressive grey
winters day. If Andrew hadnt been so concerned about falling, he might
have shared a thought or two about the cold but, as it was, his mind was
otherwise occupied with his enforced decent, that and the drip at the
end of his nose.
It was a psychological diversion, however real and inconvenient it was.
The weather was cold and Andrews nose was running. It had begun on
the ascent and now was a damned nuisance on the descent. Sniffng did
no good whatsoever; another drip simply replaced the vanquished one.
Andrew thought about itches and scratching, but there was just no way
that he could stop the fow, or wipe the offending article away.
His nose dripped. Being upside down, meant that the drips ran across
by Martin Bradley
Short Story Dusun
the long drop
27
Andrews mouth and shot upwards from his chin and into his jacket.
Sniffng, Andrew continued his plummet towards the obsidian-looking
lake below. While falling, Andrew had time enough to consider only one
thing worse than rapidly descending - and that was drowning. If he had a
choice - Andrew would probably have opted to continue falling. At least
there seemed some small measure of hope in the falling, as opposed to
actually arriving at his destination. Drowning appeared to be a defnite
dead end.
Andrew trembled. He nearly lost the contents of his bladder. Maybe
he did, it was so cold that he wouldnt have noticed. Fear and Britains
onerous weather conspired against Andrew in their own particular
way, keeping him cold - mentally and physically, pirate shivering without
timbers.
There was a noise - an eerie nerve splintering howl.
It sprang from nowhere.
Somewhere, in some bizarrely lucid part of Andrews brain, he thought
that there might there be a fox falling at the same rate as him. On a
parallel trajectory as it were, and dropping like a proverbial stone - just
like Andrew.
Why a fox? It was not a question that a falling mind cared to grapple
with. Andrew didnt see any falling foxes. Why had his mind sprung to
the conclusion that whatever was dropping and making the noise, was
a fox? Of all the unlikely mammals, why a fox? But Andrew just could
not shake that notion of falling, and calling foxes. It was most bizarre. As
far as Andrew could literally see, and admittedly he could not see far -
there were only clouds rushing higher. They seemed quite desperate to
get away from him, or the fox, or both. It was diffcult to see anything
- hanging, as he was, upside down like the proverbial Tarot hanged
man - without the hallo, unless you count the hallo of fright which was
beginning to surrounded Andrew and maybe a slight whiff of fear too.
Boffns, profs etc. - those who deem to know, say that animals can
sense fear; so maybe thats why the fox was howling - it sensed Andrews
fear, that is if there was a fox - and if it were falling, and that was no
means certain.
I wish that bloody noise would stop, Andrew said to himself as he
fell, perhaps to emphasise the fact that he was a) still alive, and b) still
conscious . No one replied which only sought to emphasise his
aloneness and desperation.
28
The long, and one could ascertain quite heartfelt, piercing scream
sharply assailed Andrews conscious stream of thought. Bloody foxes,
who would drop a fox from this height he thought, Actually, I might, I
cant stand bloody foxes especially those that howl it seemed, to
Andrew, quite reasonable given the circumstances.
And given the circumstances fear of heights, fear of falling, fear of
drowning and generalised fear of death it was not unreasonable for
Andrew to take it all out on one of the animal species he cared least
for, second only to snakes. He had detested foxes from young. Andrew
suspected foxes to have killed a one of his cats, when he lived in rural
Essex. Besides he thought theyre, wellfoxy, arent they.
Maybe projecting onto some poor and probably defenceless vulpes
vulpes was Andrews way of coping with that fall. He was distracting
his mind from his imminent demise, a mental sleight of hand as it were.
Plunging to your death, na dont worry about that, here have a fox to
think about said Andrews brain - on the very edge of panic. And, for a
moment, it worked. Andrew was mildly more interested in where the
sound came from, and who allowed the fox to fall than he was in falling,
and that was good, well, in a way it was.
It was a loud wailing. The sound was eerie. It was uncomfortably
reverberating in Andrews befuddled head. It was strange, in a remarkably
familiar sort of way. Perhaps its not a fox then, a banshee, but were not
in Ireland, do we have banshees in Kent. Andrew argued to himself, nicely
keeping his mind from its and his bodys sudden death. Those agonising
banshee/fox screams seemed to last an eternity. They threatened to
become a permanent fxture in Andrews conscious reality. Maybe they
had. Maybe this was hell, and for all eternity Andrew would hear the
noisome screech of the fox, well vixen, for Andrew remembered that it
was vixens, and not foxes, which screeched.
On an altogether different plane of reality (that is to say the consensus
reality many of we humans share), barely a few moments had passed.
And, as the clich goes, Andrew found that the scream was issuing from
his own mouth. Bugger was all he could think in response to this news.
Andrew continued to fall, and he continued to scream.
The wind rushed past. It carried Andrews voice upwards and away
into profoundly unpleasant skies. Andrews body continued to plunge
at a constant rate downwards - thanks to good ole gravity which was
entirely effcient but not exclusively Andrews best mate at the time.
29
Andrew was never good at maths. If he were to reckon, he might have
said that his descent was at the rate of bloody fast feet per second, per
second and cold, bloody cold, maybe even colder than that.
He fell with his arms crossed, desperately clinging onto his black nylon,
padded, winter jacket and barely clinging onto his sanity. Andrew was
unsure if holding the jacket was to prevent it catching the wind, as he
plummeted towards the winter wind ruffed lake, or out of a desperate
need for comfort, any kind of comfort, in that most fraught of situations
quite probably the latter, for at moments like that you dont reason -
you panic.
The screaming stopped.
Curiosity got the better of Andrew.
His previously falling body seemed to linger, momentarily, in midair.
He could sense his body start to relax.
Andrew had just enough time to see the darkened water of a lake
inches from his face. He caught sight of himself, grimacing, in the black
waters mirrored surface, practically drowning.
Then...
Then Andrew was jerked upward, back into the sky.
More adrenalin.
More cold.
More panic.
Andrew was being whipped about like some pathetic human weight
on a giants fshing line. He was caste towards the un-welcoming lake
and then, teasingly, pulled back towards the heavens and re-caste back
towards the lake. Maybe he was not the weight after all, but the bait, a
tasty morsel to lure some monstrous bloody fsh, a lake bound kraken
perhaps, lurking, hidden in the lakes sinister depths.
There again, from an entirely practical point of view, Andrew had, in
fact, reached the extent of his latex bungee rope's stretch and, without
any form of warning, no ringing of bells, no warning light, no excuse me
but I think .... the tightly stretched elastic whipped him back up into the
air again.
The bungee rope whisked Andrew by his strapped ankles, backwards
towards the clouds, then down, then up, then down, then up, then down
as Andrew danced and bounced at the mercy of gravity and the elastic.
One moment his head was pointing directly towards the lake and his
heels towards the heavens, the next it was vice versa. Andrew felt green
30
- as in the need to vomit.
Andrew didn't know whether to be thankful not to have drowned in
the lake, or to be concerned that he was doing everything in reverse. He
probably would have screamed again, but his mind became preoccupied
with his feet - making sure they were not getting twisted in the thick
elastic rope which was snaking around, threatening to either hang him
or break off some vital limb or other.
Idly Andrew considered the newspaper headlines, as you do at such
moments - Quirky accident: ELDERLY Bungee jumper hanged by bungee
elastic at charity jump.
Each yanking bounce was, thankfully, a little shorter than the last. But
each bounce seemed to replace Andrews stomach back into his mouth.
His face was turning even greener as the motion continued. At each
disruptive bounce Andrew casually wondered if he would spray vomit
over the wind-swept lake, and on the various gawping onlookers; and if
this was, perhaps, expected and all part and parcel of their voyeuristic
experience.
Andrew had been a victim, chiefy of his own charity. He was at the
mercy of a very vicious gravity and, he hoped, securely attached to a
strong elastic rope bound to his ankles. From his precarious upside-
down position and, craning his neck, Andrew could see a small lake
getting slowly bigger. There was a sadistic crowd of gawkers gathered
by the lake shore. Briefy he pondered -is this what a hanging crowd
might have looked like, ghoulish spectators waiting for the plunge! He
turned his head away.
Looking up, past his feet and to one side of his bungee wrapped ankles,
Andrew could just about see the great arm of the 300ft high crane and
the, now small, metal cage from which he had, eventually, jumped.
It has to be said that Andrew was not the bravest of souls.
Some three hundred feet above ground, in a small, shaky, metal cage his
nerves, not strong at the best of times, had given way. Andrew had been
asked to jump - perhaps a little too insistently by the young muscled
male New Zealander. Andrew stood defantly holding onto the sides of
the cage - for safety, unable to move a tendon let alone enough muscles
to jump. There were all sorts of doubts assailing Andrews mind. Do
these cords break What happens if they got the weight measurement
wrong - actually no, dont tell me, I dont want to know.
The young bungee coach matter-of-factly repeated his request for
31
Andrew to jump. There was something in his tone which added or else
return to the ground - others were waiting to jump. With a faint heart,
and a weak grin, Andrew considered his options.
Somewhere in an almost logical cul-de-sac of Andrews brain he weighed
mocking shame against almost certain death, and perhaps martyrdom.
Not an easy decision and certainly not one to be recommended, but,
nevertheless, many fraught moments later Andrew insisted on going
through with the jump, and martyrdom. He needed a few moments
to persuade himself that there might, possibly, be a slim chance of his
survival.
Finally, a stressed-out coach said Look, just do as I say will ya. Stretch
your bloody arms out to the sun there, now jump and try to catch it
in a New Zealand accent, which somehow made it worse for Andrew.
Andrew stretched, but not without a second thought, or three, and
found himself falling. He felt completely unheroic, stupid and more than
a little terrifed - hence the screams. Like Icarus, Andrew
didnt catch the sun either.
It was not an ideal way to spend a Sunday. Being naked and wrestling
pigs in mud would have been a better choice, but a promise is a promise
and there Andrew was falling headlong through the March chill. He was
hoping that the bungee rope was as securely fxed to his ankles as he
had been led to believe and praying, yes praying, that he would survive
with all limbs, and hopefully everything else, intact.
Like the other lambs to the slaughter that day, Andrew had been
weighed. A measured thickness of bungee cord had been fastened to
his ankles. After being roped and bound in a non-erotic way, Andrew
was not in a position to distrust the young New Zealanders who had
trussed him up. To all intents and purposes, Andrew was at their mercy.
The bungee minders herded a group of people into the small metal
cage and started to hoist it up into the sky. Painfully slowly, Andrew and
his selected elite inched towards the top of a 300 ft high crane arm.
The words lambs and slaughter sprang instantly to Andrews mind. He
subconsciously bleated.
Aside from my acute fear of heights - which had not manifested until
Andrew stood in that all-metal cage, Andrew would confess that he
was just not an adrenalin junkie. He was, at forty-two years, getting
far too old for such macho posturing. Andrew was feeling decidedly
uncomfortable, buffeted by stray breezes on his journey towards the
32
top of the crane, worse at the top, and decidedly in multiple minds as to
whether to jump at all.
After it all - After the ignominy of the cage freeze, the screaming fall
and the bungee bounces which left him with a sickly feeling, Andrew was
barely able to restrain from vomiting over the on-looking crowd below.
It didnt help that his already over-active imagination was running on
overtime, no doubt on account of the adrenaline running speed races
through his veins and pumping into his stomach.
Andrews vivid imagination was running riot. He had been envisioning
cubed carrots and sundry fuids spraying on the faces of bystanders, who
always seemed to be waiting for him to break his neck.
No doubt, had it been a straightforward fall, curtailed at the very last
minute by the bungee elastic, Andrew would not have minded quite so
much. But the incessant bouncing and being tugged back and forth had
severely upset both his stomach and his frame of mind. Andrew was not
so much encountering an adrenalin high, as being really, really pissed off
with the whole damnable business and looking for someone to blame.
In the brief time it had taken to climb to the clouds, deliberate about
jumping and then plummet the 300 or so feet towards the lake, Andrew
had plenty of time to regret his decision to bungee jump for charity,
and ruing the day that his so-called mate - Tristram had talked him into
doing it. With the idleness of his mind and its eagerness to distract itself,
Andrew remembered that day so very clearly, as he fell...
Andrew had been sitting in Blicton-On-Sea sports centre, supposedly
facilitating the Tuesday Club, playing board games with sundry mental
health clients, but actually listening to Tristram elaborate on the wonders
of bungee jumping.
Somewhere between half-hearted games of Trivial Pursuit which,
depending upon the player, were either taken way too seriously, or not
nearly seriously enough, Tristram had rambled on about kudos and being
noticed in the local community for efforts. He was playing the old
hero game, trying to persuade Andrew that they would be champions -
the frst in town to collect over a thousand pounds for Blicton-On-Sea
(mental) Heath - the local mental health charity and frequently called
just BOSH.
Tristram wove a tale of grand heroics, status, derring-do while
simultaneously peering through the large interior sports complex
picture window, ogling the young college girls learning to swim in the
33
heated swimming pool. Fit, blonde, trim Tristram seldom had problems
with the ladies. Trist liked to show his interest in the fairer sex, as often
as possible. Generally, they reciprocated. No ageism for Tristram, he
took all comers cute sixty year olds and even cuter sixteen year olds
and that, sadly was, later, to be his downfall.
So why, after Trists sleek advertising campaign didnt Andrew feel like
a hero, why was he left feeling like a king-sized prat instead. The answer
was easy. Andrew had always been far too easy to persuade. It had said
so on numerous school report cards - and so many teachers couldnt
have been wrong, could they. The term they had used, back then, had
been easily led. This had brought a few school cannings by a thin
weasel of a headmaster who seemed to enjoy the process a little more
than he should have and many, many tears - all of them mine.
All this was back in the bad old days, when corporal punishment was
rampant in Britains secondary schools. Caning of boys was practically
a pastime among certain headmasters. They could be heard practising
in their wood lined offces - if you stood outside the door for long
enough....one, two, three, whoosh - one, two, three, whoosh - one two,
three, whoosh some weird waltz. The caning aimed to punish repeat
offenders, but it deterred us not one iota. The upshot was that students
like Andrew left school with no qualifcations, only bad memories of
sadistic and quite possibly sexually deviant heads of school. That was
one reason why Andrew found himself still being an assistant Mental
Health Social Worker at the age of forty-two, and just one-step up from
being a complete waste of space.
Yet, in the curious depths of Andrews quite often rambling mind,
he still preferred to think of himself as being adventurous. Some self-
destructive impulse perhaps which frequently had him saying yes, when
it should have been a resounding no. Andrew frequently regretted
saying yes, especially when what he really meant was - well yes, but up
to a point. That vital point had been quickly reached. In this case about
fve minutes after Andrew had agreed to Trists bungee jump - but there
was to be no way out.
Almost immediately Tristram - being the unsuppressed showman that
he was, began spreading the news of Andrews involvement. Andrew
was doomed, no honourable way out. When youre living just above
the bread line you have very little else apart from your honour except,
perhaps, a sense of humour, luckily Andrew still had both, though the
34
latter was in severe danger after the jump.
The queasiness Andrew had felt then - with everything to look forward
to/regret had nothing on the queasiness he felt on dangling from the
bungee cord. Andrew could feel the bouncing slowly beginning to
cease. He sensed the elastic, and therefore his body too, lowered slowly
towards the lake. During those few seconds, Andrew allowed himself
to look. What he saw was the cold depths of the black lake now rising
slowing up to greet him. It didnt help his mood any.
At the very last minute, just before Andrews head entered the water,
the overhead cranes long arm swept him over to the waiting ground
crew. They eased him down and began to unfasten his straps. It was a
moment or two before Andrew was capable of scrambling to his feet
and walking over to the recovery chair.
Involuntary nerves twitched all over Andrews legs, his muscles felt
weak. He lay for a moment on the wet winter grass, feeling dejected,
washed up and sick. Andrew didnt care that he had just completed a
bloody bungee jump for charity, he wasnt bothered about the money
they would be able to collect for Blictons mentally ill.
When he was able to, Andrew sat in the recovery chair watching other
jumpers preparing for the forthcoming ordeal, or already in full fight - as
he had been but moments beforehand.
Fuck, he said under his breath, as the full realisation of what had
transpired hit him.
That fucking bastard, Andrew said to no one in particular, but aimed
the insult squarely at Trist.
When his anger began to subside, he took off, staggering from the chair,
merging back into the crowd. He was looking for the van he had come
in. Andrew aimed to seek some sort of solace in familiarity - even if it
was only the familiar faces of the clients he had come with.
35
36
Golden Joy
Cha with
Dr Cheah Thien Soong
36
37 37
38
Art Article Dusun
38
Dr Soong in his study
39
Trees in the Jungle
39
Practising Zen
40 40
Dr. Cheah Thien Soong is a gentle, sage-like, unassuming gentleman
who was born in 1942, Negeri Sembilan, Malaya (now Malaysia). He is
a well known, and much revered, Malaysian contemporary Chinese ink-
painting artist. Dr Soong hails from the second generation of Nanyang-
style contemporary ink-painting artists, and graduated from Singapore's
famous Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts, where he studied both Chinese
and Western painting under the tutelage of artists such as Chen Wen
Xi, Choong Soo Peng, Chen Zhong Rui, Shi Xiang Tuo, and Georgette
Chen. Later, 2002, Dr Soong received a doctorate from Universidad
Interamericana de Puerto Rico (Interamerican University of Puerto
Rico).
Dr Soong held his frst exhibition in 1962, and has since won a number
of awards from art institutes in Malaysia, Singapore, and Taiwan. He has
served as a lecturer at the Malaysia Institute of Art (MIA) in Kuala Lumpur,
then returned to his hometown to found the Seremban Institute of Art
(Cao Tang Men Eastern Arts Society)
41 41
Traditionally, Chinese ink painting revels in symbolism, is multi- layered
with swift determined brush strokes revealing the artistry, mind and craft
of the artist, and can be read simplistically or profoundly. Typically there
are few brush strokes to Chinese ink painting, and therein lies the skill of
the painter for the Xuan (or Shuan) absorbent paper allows no mistakes
from the causal artist, but glorifes the mastery of the professional.
Typically Chinese ink/brush painting is coded, revealing time honoured
symbols such as junzi' The Four Gentlemen (Four Paragons in
Japan) since the time of the Chinese Song Dynasty (9601279).They
are the orchid, the bamboo, the chrysanthemum, and the plum blossom.
The orchid represents Springtime, and specifcally the cymbidium
orchid (Chinese: lan) has lengthy associations with friendship, loyalty
and patriotism. Bamboo represents Summer, modesty, or virtue. It is
evergreen and therefore also a symbol for longevity. Chrysanthemum
represented autumn, courage, longevity (because of its health giving
properties). Plum blossom are the frst fowers to appear in the calendar,
and stand for renewal, perseverance and purity. Birds, rocks, mountains,
42
The Landscape
42
43 43
rivers, many and varied fowers,
fruits and animals are all symbolic
in Chinese ink painting, and change
meaning depending upon their
conjunctions.
Dr Soongs diligent Chinese ink
painting bears echoes of its ancient
history, and yet has successfully
created a fresh, modern and
innovative style to further the
ink on paper medium. Using
symbolisms and iconography from
various Chinese philosophies,
including Confucianism, Daoism
and Buddhism, Dr Soong creates
vistas and landscapes to intrigue
and entice. Dr Soons strength of
line is unparalleled as he guides the
watchers eye along his paintings,
revealing and hiding exactly what
the artist wishes, with deft brush
strokes available only to a practised
master.
Words like balance and harmony
spring readily to the mind as the
watcher enters into Dr Soons
created world of bamboo groves,
swimming or standing lotus buds
and fowers, serene dhamma forests
and trickling, cooling streams
radiating calm, peacefulness and
the intrinsic majesty of life hewn
stones.
Absorbing Dr Soons Chinese ink
paintings engages the watcher to
be a partner in the countryside of
his making, to hold conversations
with nature, trees and birds. Dr
Soong enables our minds to
begin a lifelong transformation, to
encounter Zen in stones and under
moons, to gain satisfaction when
facing clouds, colourful or drab for
they form a symphony in a loving
world which is both exterior and
interior, but ultimately in harmony
44 44
with the universe.
In 2003 Dr Soong visited Jiangxi,
China,and added painting on
porcelain to his list of growing
talents and capabilities. He has
created many works with Malaysian
subjects painted onto Jingdezhen
clay and still looks forward to
more innovation and creativity. To
date there are three major books
written about Dr Soong and his
works.
45 45
46 46 46
47 47 47
Dr Soongs studio is a cornucopia of brushes, ink, books and
Chinese seals. It is a haven for Chinese ink painting. His Xuan
paper scrolls nestle on wooden shelving, holding their precious
cargo for posterity.
48 48 48
49 49 49
A myriad Chinese seals await the master. Some
are made of stone, ivory others or jade. He
impresses the seals. Using red ink, made of
cinnabar, in water and honey or suspended
in sesame oil, hemp seed oil. They remain
as reminders to his craft, signatures to be
remembered through the years.
50 50
Semi Circle 05
51 51
52 52
Rajinder Singh
In the early 1900s, Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso introduced collaged
elements into their Cubist artworks. Braque, familiar with decorating
techniques, often used a decorators comb to replicate wood effects in
his work. Both used found paper images and other found items - rope,
wallpaper etc, to enhance the three dimensionality of their artworks, to
question ideas of representation and illusion.
Max Ernst created La Femme 100 ttes [The Woman with one
Hundred Heads] (1929) and Rve d'une petite flle qui voulut entrer au
Carmel [A Little Girl dreams of taking the Veil] (1930), and Une semaine de
bont, collage novels. In the 1950s and 60s Pop artists Richard Hamilton
and Eduardo Paolozzi experimented with cut out or torn imagery from
newspapers and magazines, and other found printed items to create
collages of new meaning. In a similar manner Rajinder Singh confounds
and confuses, though with a mixed media style of bitumen, acrylic paint,
oil paint, varnish, glitter, stencil and print etc etc etc, he emulates both
Blockbuster Southgate
53 53
Dramatic Taiping
54 54
Censored
55 55
56 56
collage and commercial enamelled
signs, making a semiotics of signs.
Using a variety of mediums,
Rajinder Singh renders images
reminiscent of wood pulp paper,
browning under exposure to
light. He draws from historical
narratives, dialogues rooted in his
homeland - Malaysia, referencing a
host of material including comic
books, advertising and Pulp
fctions. The reoccurring iconic
image of a standing Punjabi (Sikh)
ties the reader to the artist,
reminding us of whose narrative
we are reading, exposing the
double bind of how the artist sees
us seeing his representation in his
imagery.
An aside..in British Malaya (known
later as Malaysia), there was the
myth of the punitive Punjabi, a darkly
negatively racist image, a boogeyman
fgure. Parents would threaten their
children that the Punjabi would come
and take naughty children away. It
began, no doubt, due to the large
number of well-built Sikhs used in the
police force by the British, in Malaya
and Singapore from the late 1800s
onwards.
In Rajinder Singhs M.O.L.C,
which we are informed is
constructed of bitumen, acrylic
paint, oil paint, varnish and glitter
on Polyester cloth, a circular icon
cameos a black and white head
and shoulders of a Sikh, the word
ALIVE is above, next to a crest
of scooters rampant, ridden by a
Backstage-1
Backstage-2
57 57
Sikh. Like his countryman Zulkifi
Yusoff (who, ultimately) becomes
entangled in retrospectives
concerning Malay sovereignty
and perils of colonialism, Singh
engages in a narrative of imagery
either created to represent his
country of birth (Malaysia), or
gleaned from posters, advertising
etc from Malaysia, juxtaposed in a
semi-Dadaist, semi-surreal way to
provoke his intended meaning in
regard to an identity quest.
The words Oddity, Living
Wonders, Curiosities, Other
Worlds create an atmosphere of
difference, spectacle, reminiscent
of the Victorian Freak Show.
Throughout the M.O.L.C series
the duality of Malaysia, its heritage,
its stories under a colonial
power, are highlighted by words
in Malay, counterbalanced by
those in English. In works such as
Heartstoppin Hang Tuah, Sensational
K.K., Backstage-1and others, the
words Freak Show appear, in
Blockbuster Southgate we see the
R, part of E and A and the K
of the work FREAK. Freak Show
streaks across the background of
Blockbuster Alor Star.
Yet, who are the freaks? Frank
Zappa, 1960s/70s counter culture
guru from his album Freak Out
used the term Freak (specifcally
in the song Hungry Freaks Daddy)
to denote fellow denizens of the
counter culture, new Beatniks,
Avant-garde, reversing the
Backstage-3
Backstage-4
58 58
59 59
negativity of the Freak Show
sideshow performer. Zappa
displayed what Daniel A. Foss
(in Freak Culture; life-style and
politics, 1972) suggests is a
gentle display of magical ethereal
inner liberation, self identifying.
Questions arise, is Rajinder
Singh revealing his mixed emotions
concerning the multi- cultural and
multi- conficted land he has left,
or mirroring the West back to
itself with all it prejudices, racism
and curious fascination with an
East that never was. Malaysia being
a stunning example, as Chinese,
Indians and Malays coexist
supposedly harmoniously, but in
reality separately, as religious and
cultural cliques under persecution.
Is the irony that those
Extraordinary Human Beings
really are extraordinary, and not
just freaks to be gawped at, and the
Living Wonders really wonders
but in the sense that we are all
unique, separate, different and
wonderful in our exteriority and
otherness, rather than objectifed,
wondered at.
MOLC
60 60
Marvel Malacca
61 61
Sensational KK
62
Rest in peace my brothers,
this life lest complete,
by karmic- replace
a noble rebirth,
from this life-
livid of a notorious utopia
ganglands and hoodlums
branded and numbered-
immolated off humane sense,
desolate, despair and defeated.
Rest well my brothers,
for the summation of fate,
unruly, calloused, lacking,
*band of brothers
63
*band of brothers
in the paths set forth,
an oblivion choice- for
blood thirsts blood,
of those you carelessly stole,
of those drawn from yours;
Rest assuredly my brothers, and
Let be-
the debts of your birth, if-
bestowed by dharma,
in those remains,
lay herein the future seeds, be
purifed and dignifed,
in the league of your children.
*to those rounded up, detained, shot or annihilated (OPS CANTAS KHAS: JANUARY- DECEMBER 2013)
by Paul GnanaSelvan
64
Honey Khor
From the mire, comes beauty (series)
One
65
Two
66
Three
67
Four
68
Five
69
Six
70 70
Seven
71 71
72 72
NG SWEE KEAT
Ng Swee Keat is a native of Alor Star and a graduate of the Malaysian
Institute of Art, where he majored in oil painting and Chinese ink
painting. His works have been collected by the National Visual Arts
Gallery of Malaysia, as well as the Sultan of Perlis and Nokia (M) Sdn.
Bhd. The artist has been exhibiting since 1999 locally and internationally.
Group exhibitions participated by Ng include Measuring Love at
Wei ling Gallery, Recent Work at HOM, North Kedah Art Society
Art Exhibition and Father & Son. In terms of international level
exposure, Ng participated in the Cao Tang Men Eastern Art Society
Contemporary Chinese Painting Exhibition Province of Fu Zou, China
in 2007 and last years Affordable Art Fair, Singapore.
Ngs achievements to date include being awarded the Best Student
prize at his alma mater and in 2011 he emerged with the top prize at
the UOB Painting of the Year competition and was also recipient of the
bronze prize of the same competition in 2013. In 2009 he became the
Grand Award Winner for the MRCB Art Award and in 2007 he received
frst prize for the National Teow Cew Society Chinese Painting
competition. A winner of the 1999 Nokia Art Award Malaysia, Ng was
one of the lucky ones to receive The One Academy of Art Competition
Scholarship in 1997. He is also recognised as Malaysia Emerging Artist
Awardee in 2011. HOM Adopted Residency program or A-Res is the
artist frst debut in residency program.
(from Civilization, HOM Art Trans.)
73 73
Life is Like a Drama 5
74 74 74
Life is Like a Drama 2
75 75 75
76 76 76
Life is Like a Drama 7
77 77 77
78 78 78
Life is Like a Drama 8
79 79 79
Life is Like a Drama 4
80 80 80
Life is Like a Drama 3
81 81 81
82 82
Life is Like a Drama 1
83 83
84 84
Life is Like a Drama 6 - Old
85 85
86
Rafns Rich Tapestry
by Martin Bradley
What initially intrigues the tentative viewer of Nik Rafn's paintings, is
the vibrancy of the colours that the artist has chosen to speak for his
feelings. No tablet or computer screen viewed JPEG, or four-colour
print reproduction, is able to fully satisfy that sight, or capture the sheer
beauty of the work of art as you gaze wistfully before it. Catalogues and
brochures, as important as they are, and as expansive and informative
as they are, cannot compete with being face to face with a work of art.
This is true of meeting an object, soon to be desired, in an adroit artisan
temple set aside for such adoration (e.g. Artisan Fine Art Gallery).
Eckhart Tolle has mentioned that Presence is needed to become aware
of the beauty, the majesty, the sacredness of nature. That presence exists
in the uniqueness of the moment when attending a work of art. It is a,
practically, sublime moment of viewing which in Sanskrit is Darshan ,
and in Japanese Satori. Walter Benjamin, (in The Work of Art in the
Age of Mechanical Reproduction, 1936) states that The presence of
the original is the prerequisite to the concept of authenticity. In other
words, we can only be certain of authenticity, or realness, when we are
in the presence of the actual work of art. Likewise a work of art reveals
its own realness, its own narrative and not simply a mirroring of its
M
a
je
s
tic
F
r
e
e
d
o
m
87
surrounds or of society (Platos mimesis).
This uniqueness of the viewing moment, of the gaze if you will, is espe-
cially true when in the company of the vibrant paintings created by this
up-coming artist Nik Rafn. Rafn studied in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and
brought a soul full of experiences back from America to his motherland,
Malaysia. Practising variously as a graphic artist, illustrator as well as a
fne artist, Rafn has nursed a bond with the simplicity and cleanness of
line work and a need to give depth and volume to his acrylic painted
canvases. The fusion of the woven and inherent depth of barely seen im-
agery demonstrates itself in Rafns Mindscape' and Earthscape' series.
In these there is an intermingling of circles, demi-circles and oblique
abstractions, which the artist holds together by an entanglement of
strands which could, in a creative future, become the double helix of the
painters own DNA.
In his earlier works, Rafn has rendered visual dances of line, explor-
ing colour and shape relationships (Earthscape Series) with the need
for a defnitive subject matter. At times he has injected subjects into
his work, melded them with the abstract and, as time has progressed,
we see more and more subjects resonating with the vibrancy of his
abstractions. His timely paintings of 8 Wild Horses, coming in the Chi-
nese year of the horse, refects the multicultural nature of Rafns home
country - Malaysia. The horses prance and dance, some spot lit in white,
manes fowing to the energy of the canvas, others turning heads in the
Sunscape
88
mid-ground, neighing, stallions rampant with the luxury of their freedom.
Other horses, tamed for the race, remind the visitors of Malaysias love
for the racing horse. Another eight horses, this time ridden by diminu-
tive jockeys, their boots standing in race stirrups set high near the light-
weight saddles, thunder in the race. Orange abstractions, circles, weave,
help place the browns of the horses and lighter colours of their riders.
Rafns canvases portray the swift energies of constant movement.
Gazing at Rafns work, you might wish to recall those images of the Ital-
ian Futurist painters Natalia Sergeevna (The Cyclist, 1912 - 1913), and
Pablo Piccasos friend Carlo Carra (The Red Horseman, 1912) as they
attempted to capture movement onto their canvases. Carra, like Rafn,
was intrigued with the motion of horses, painting them time after time
(The Horsemen of the Apocalypse, 1908, Horse and Rider, 1913, Pur-
suit,1915). Could we, perhaps, refer to Rafn as a new Malaysian Futurist,
painting fuidity and the grace of movement? Rafn, like Carra (Football
Match,1934) renders all the rush of the football tackle, as his colourful
footballers (Football Celebration, 2014) dash towards the viewer from
out of the rich tapestry of a green woven background, their rush and
their deftness as sportsmen revealed in Rafns painting.
Throughout these more recent images, Rafn has intricately rendered
an organically woven background into his energetically multiple-layered
paintings. A background, perhaps representative of weft and warp of life,
a weaving together of intricate and infnite narratives with his graphi-
cally complex strands. Together, it is those myriad painstakingly painted
strands which adhere the narrative to the artist's telling yarn (story).
It is with these deft, carefully placed and carefully chosen, ribbons of
colour that the artist becomes a wanton weaver of skilfully chosen cul-
tural narratives. The artist images the strength and the resilience of fully
engaged riders, as they push their burdened beasts to the all-important
8 W
ild Horses
89 89
The Dance Vibration
90
fnish line. Rafn reveals the dedication, and power, of race horses gallop-
ing, legs pounding, stretched at full thunder of hooves with lust for the
race, at one with their mounts. In other scenes, Rafn presents the ex-
plosive energy of the dhol, dholak and tabla with their high energy beats
vibrating a rhythm to which the movement of Bhangra dancers (2014)
cavort. Rafn is a precise painter.
In other, older, heads stylistically Rafns works might remind gallery
visitors of The Beatles' (black and white) 'Revolver' album cover (1966).
The popular music hero foursome, peeking from Klaus Voorman's sub-
lime illustration of strands of graphic hair. The visitor may gaze and re-
member the painted (not photoshopped) works of Makinti Napanangka,
revealing the aborigine Womens Hair String Ceremony (karrkirritinyja)
for, according to Paul Klee, drawing is simply a line going for a walk, and
this is something that Rafn delights in, amidst the spaces of his wonder-
fully woven, acrylic strands.
The artist Nik Rafn, is a delicate delineator. He is an enricher of sight,
with canvases spinning multifarious multicultural tales of Malaysia, from
the hoof pounding thrill of Penang races to ebullient Bhangra dancers
leaping from the Punjab. It is as if art historical (Italian) Futurism has
liaised with an Asian present, producing a fresh style which becomes
engaged with all the excitement and dynamism of carefully captured
movement.
Whatever the painterly references of these stimulating works, there
is little doubt that the artist, Nik Rafn, has successfully captured all the
exertion, endurance and potency of a variety of fgures in movement.
He has put before us remarkably stimulating colours, against a sublime
background of an essential weave. It is for us to gaze into these works,
become one with them and discover the artists movement and imagery.
The Race Series
T
he R
ace
91
Football Celebration
Football
92
Singapore
93
94
Foo Kwee Horng
Little India
95
Wet Market
96
Queueing
97
98 98
Yu Sheng
99 99
100
Nasi Lemak 2
101
FOO Kwee Horng received his initial art training while he was at Junior
College. In university, he was trained as a social worker but continued
practising watercolours on his own. In 1995, he became one of the
youngest artists to join the Singapore Watercolour Society then. Foo
also realised his aspiration and became an art teacher a year later.
1999 was a good year for him; his works were exhibited at the UOB
painting of the year exhibition and the Philip Morris Singapore art
awards exhibition. Foos interest in local art history got him enrolled
for a M.A. programme, researching on the History of Woodcuts and
Cartoons of prewar Singapore. In 2010, Foo left the teaching profession
to concentrate on his artistic practise that he felt he has neglected.
After he sold-out his works at the 2011 Affordable Art Fair, followed by
more sales at the Ion exhibition in 2012, Foo felt very encouraged. His
solo exhibition, A Nation of Shopkeepers coincided with the National
Day period and was reported in the Straits Times. Besides painting, he
now spends his time doing part-time teaching to children with special
needs, the elderly and students of mainstream school. Other than art
and art teaching,
Nasi Lemak 1
102 102
K Kaya Toast
103 103
104 104
Botanic Gardens
105 105
106
Hot Soup!
107
Buying Garlands
108
Kopi
109
Selling Salted Fish
110
Dim Sum Chef
111
112
Durian Seller
113
Peranakan Kamcheng
114 114
Indonesia
115 115 115 115
Dahulu, Sekarang Dan Masa Yang Akan Datang, Kita Tetap Kaya Raya
116
Nugroho Heri Cahyono
116
Keretaku Tak Mau Berhenti
117
Nugroho Heri Cahyono
117
118 118
Nugroho Heri Cahyono was born
in 1981 at Yogyakarta, Indonesia,
Heri pursued his formal art
education at Indonesia Institute of
Art (ISI), Majoring in Printmaking,
from 2001 until 2008. Fresh
from his graduation, Heri had his
solo in 2008 at Katamsi Gallery,
Yogyakarta, in an exhibition
entitled Tekstur in Print Making.
Heri exhibited sparingly over the
years, focusing instead on quality
instead of quantity.
He received a total of 5 awards, most
recently received Consolation
prize of 'Asean Graphic Arts
Competition', Hanoi, Vietnam in
2012. Finalist of 2013 UOB 3th
Painting of the Year competition
as well as nominated for Jakarta
Art Award 2010. In 2009, he was
also nominated for 'The Power of
Dream' Art Competition. Prior to
the nominations, he had received
his award for Best Printmaking, in
ISIs 29th edition of 'Diesnatalis'.
Aside from being an active artist
in Yogyakarta, Heri is also involved
in workshops and performances.
His latest international effort was
his most recent show entitled
'ConCurrence' in West Gallery,
Philippines.
(from Civilization,
HOM Art Trans.)
Welcome To The Machine no 3
119 119
120 120
Keretaku Tak Mau Berhenti no 1
121 121
122 122
To Enlightenment 1
123 123
124
Every so often a book appears that reveals and illuminates a
project that might otherwise remain largely unknown by the
outside world: Colors of Cambodia is such a book. This is
a highly personal and passionate account written by Martin
Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter
with a remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in
Cambodia, and how she was drawn into practical involvement
with the children for whom the project exists.

Richard Noyce, Artist, Wales 2012
follow artist Honey Khor
as she sets out to volunteer for the charity - Colors of Cambodia, for the frst time
125
follow artist Honey Khor
as she sets out to volunteer for the charity - Colors of Cambodia, for the frst time
cocthebook@gmail.com
h t t p s : / / w w w . f a c e b o o k . c o m /
groups/138402846288849/
http://colorsofcambodia.org/
on sale from
proceeds from all sales go to the education of children in Siem Reap, Cambodia
written and designed by Martin Bradley
126
C
ambodia
127
128
Charity: Colors of Cambodia
students and staff paint a mural for
Angkor Hospital for Children
in Siem Reap, Cambodia
Staff and student helpers of C
olors of C
am
bodia
129
Charity: Colors of Cambodia
students and staff paint a mural for
Angkor Hospital for Children
in Siem Reap, Cambodia
Staff and student helpers of C
olors of C
am
bodia
130 130 130
December 2013, Colors of
Cambodia was contacted by a
Singaporean architect working on
renovating the Angkor Childrens
hospital, in Siem Reap, Cambodia.
He asked if Colors of Cambodia
might be interested in painting
a mural to cheer the children
up as they waited to be seen by
doctors, in the new wing. It was an
opportunity too good to miss.
O
n
e stu
d
en
t w
h
o
h
as gro
w
n

w
ith
C
o
lo
rs o
f C
am
b
o
d
ia
a
concerted
effort
131 131 131
Over the next few months drawing
were made, and plans drawn up
to facilitate painting the mural.
There were questions about the
right materials, the time frame,
the crew to physically paint the
murals (plural as the project kept
expanding). The date was set for
March 2014, just before the launch
and opening of the new wing.
Friends from Singapore joined
Honey Khor, staff and students of
Colors of Cambodia, even their
husbands and children joined in
to make the new area fun for ill
Cambodian children. Two major
murals were painted, and twelve
room signs, using the twelve
animals of the Cambodian zodiac.
Honey painted the original work,
which she and her crew enlarged
to fll one side of the waiting area.
Under the counter, another mural
grew to fascinate the younger
children, taking their minds off
ailments.
Even the teachers small son helps out
a
concerted
effort
132 132
T
e
m
p
la
t
e
s
fo
r
s
ig
n
a
g
e
many hands
make
light work
133 133
Friends and children from
Singapore cam
e to help
O
n
c
e
a
s
tu
d
e
n
t w
ith
C
o
lo
r
s
o
f C
a
m
b
o
d
ia
, n
o
w
a
te
a
c
h
e
r
many hands
make
light work
134
E
v
e
n
In
te
r
io
r
D
e
s
ig
n
e
r
s
fr
o
m
S
in
g
a
p
o
r
e
h
e
lp
making
the
mural
135
E
v
e
r
y
o
n
e
w
o
r
k
s
t
o
g
e
t
h
e
r
C
hildren too
making
the
mural
136
Uniquely Toro
is the story of a remarkable artist
known only
as Toro.
He has diligently tested the norms
and
conventions
of artistic society,
and shaken
a poignant fst at corruption
and prejudice.
It is a bold book
about temerity
and bravery
written and designed by Martin Bradley
Available through Waters Publishing House, Manila, The Philippines
136
137 137
138
India
139
poems from
India
139
140
There are subtle things in the
unexplored fathoms of the heart,
which no costly pen could wield,
nor any mouths could pour out
into eager ears.
They stick to the walls
like slimy glowing star fsh,
sucking warm blood to live on
unseen and unsaid.
It is too elusive,
its nature beyond comprehension.
This is strange, it keeps on sticking,
a strange headed shark
at times with its aligator mouths wide open,
and yet at times like a docile dolphin.
To have a being within the being
is awkward.
The sea shore is ideal
to smoke out this state;
to let the surfng sea
blot out this strangeness
to be diffused into the horizons,
far away.
Arun prasad
141
The sea had kept its poise,
it is deep and infnite,
yet comprehensible and straight.
It had tales to tell the shore
with its each dash,
feeling the sandy earth,
touching, kissing, and carrying with
it,
in its millionth effort to comprehend
the creation.
This is the stage mimicking life,
with the sun glimmering
and heating it until its bowels
had boiled,
and the moon gently caressing
with a silver shade drawn all over,
lulling it to sleep
creating an aura of mystery
for you to adventure
in the day's sheen.
Arun prasad
142
Walking Home from Camden
Some days it is just easy to say
I want this voice of mine to echo
In an empty blue house
Become a song about all my gentle sinning, yet
I want my dreams to cover your thighs shivering under the ceiling fan
I want to be able to look at smokestacks at dusk and see how
Beautiful and sad they rise from the shadows
I want to hear the midnight shock of birds
That forget the color of dawn
I want to hold my broken umbrella up like a crow-ower
That can smell the clouds. I also
Want to win over the brown hens in the rain
When I walk down the carpeted stairs of a home
I want it to wait for me with the fragrance of beans and sh
At the end of the day I want my coffee face
To imprint you, my slowness to conquer you
The smooth moonlit calves to rule your nights
A secret wish only for a secret you
I want to smell of old leather-bounds
Want to glow like the china behind cobwebs
I want to walk not knowing where to go
Stare at the local trains segmented grace, the river mist and so
I want to know how we can bring to life
A rusted roadside sign, a misspelled word, a minute that ies
These days its just so wonderful, nothing special though
In a life without jasmines clinging scent that I want to be mine
And a few other things such as puddles to reect the sky
Shoes to start telling wandering rhymes
Or children to stuff metaphors in their bags

I also want to twist all my wishes, before they wriggle out
Flutter, turn into irreverent sparrows on green iron rails
Sometimes, I want to walk from Camden to nd home.
Nabina Das
143
into the migrant city
on her feet
migrant grit and grime
spirit and rhyme too
two and three and four
before the hours split
lit up with sun and moon
deep-hewn steps she takes
slip across lips of ash-dust
rust mashed rose petals
tall masts and tangled hose
an angle of her marigold face
as she goes and shes gone.
Nabina Das
143
144
145 145
146
Art Article Dusun
Vladimir Tretchikoff - Chinese Girl, 1952
147
Oriental
imaging the
The Wests Love Hate Relationship
with its Asian Population
Vladimir Tretchikoff s now iconic painting of Chinese Girl (1952) is
arguably the most bought, the most revered, the most hated, most
recognised print of a Chinese girl from the 20th Century, and is the
highest selling print in history. The painting is of Monika Sing Lee,
who modelled for Tretchikoff, in Cape Town, South Africa. Incidentally
Tretchikoff grew up in China, and so knew his subject well, and later
said In painting Chinese Girl I had a lot of experience to draw on
My mind and soul went into this painting, and perhaps there lies the
explanation for its success. Somehow perhaps I caught the essence of
Chinese womanhood
There, in a wooden frame, sits Portrait of a Chinese Man. A photograph
taken by Isaac Wallace Baker, in 1851, at a time when intellectuals and
artists were still interested in positive images of Chinese in America.
The man holds his pigtail or long braid in one hand. It has not yet
been cut off. A few years later the painter Theodore Wores, who was
born in San Francisco, captured the essence of that citys Chinatown.
The Chinese Fishmonger was his frst (1881),and in the same year
he painted New Years Day in San Franciscos Chinatown; the Chinese
Restaurant was painted in 1884 at a time of social unrest with the
Chinese population of America.
It is estimated that at least 25,000 Chinese immigrants entered
California, due to the gold rush in 1850. During the mid 1800s, that
new wave of Chinese immigration into the New World (especially from
Canton) was a case of mutual need. The West needed labour to build
the new world, China supplied that labour on the railroads and for
mining as indentured labour (a fscal form of slavery) because many
Chinese were escaping from Opium Wars and changes of leadership
in their own country. Having not learned from previous importation of
labour from Africa, the west grew to be ambiguous towards these new
Eastern immigrants. However, studies show that Chinese people had
been in America long before white settlers came. This is proven through
countless sources, including genetic evidence and further confuses the
status of Chinese in America. By 1860, again it is estimated that there
were some 34,900 Chinese (mostly males) in America. Ten years later
that fgure had grown to 63,100.
The Chinese abroad suffered persistent racial abuse and the sense of the
Perpetual Foreigner Syndrome (constantly targeted as being foreigners
Theodore Wores:
New Years Day in San Franciscos
Chinatown, 1881
148 148
Images of immigrant Chinese in America 1880s, 1890s
149 149
Images of immigrant Chinese in America 1880s, 1890s
150 150
151 151
despite generations having settled
in a particular country). It has
been a love/hate relationship.
Caucasians have depicted Chinese
as the yellow peril, chinky, slant
eyes, and reminds us of incipient
racism against people of Chinese
origin. Chinese were seen as
unwanted, especially so with the
Chinese Exclusion Act of 1892,
which aimed to restrict Chinese
immigration into America, and
prohibited Chinese from becoming
citizens. Before the Exclusion Act,
the 1890 census reported 107,488
Chinese in America, after the Act,
in 1910 only 71,531 Chinese were
recorded.
This racism has persisted in The
West since the 19th century, and
has been demeaning and degrading
to people of Chinese origin from
those days of early settlement
in places like America, until
the present day. The red neck
mentality has insinuated itself deep
within many aspects of Western
culture, to such a degree that it
has become practically invisible.
Certifcate
of Residence
in America,
1894
Matthew Philips Shiel
Novel - The Yellow Danger, 1898
152 152
Wallace Baker, Portrait of a Chinese Man,1851.
Ching Ching Chinam
an, 1922
153 153
While Chinese Americans engage in all aspects of American daily life,
and at almost all levels, glass ceilings still prevent them from parity with
their white brethren. Maybe, in some distant ideal world, we can all move
on from racially based discrimination by dropping insulting slurs such
as Chinaman and remember that there is only one race, and that is
human.
It is a love/hate relationship with Chinese. Americans have happily sat
down, eating Sweet and Sour, breaking open Fortune Cookies, inventing
Chop Suey and still reviling the Chinaman, the Yellow Devil and laughing
at Charlie Chans Number One Son. Charlie Chan, supposedly a Chinese
detective, was rarely played on screen by an oriental, the last flm -
Charlie Chan and the Curse of the Dragon Queen was played by White
Russian actor Peter Ustinov. This overt racism, and its fip side the awe
struck longing for the oriental, is captured in photographs, paintings and
later in graphics such as advertisements, cartoons and comic books/
graphic novels, in America.
It is as if America both desires and discards the oriental. Chinese
or Japanese/Korean women are drawn/painted as seductive, desirous,
overtly sexy yet dangerous to the extreme, their enigmatic slit eyes
continuing the allure of their slit dresses (cheong sams) or slipped
sarongs revealing poignantly pert breasts. There is always the viciousness
of the cats claws hidden in velvet paws, as with Milton Caniff s Dragon
Lady (from Terry and the Pirates, circa 1934), who was fashioned after a
real 1920s/30s Chinese female pirate - Lai Choi San, yet never played by
an Asian actress in the radio, TV or flm series.
Theodore Wores: The Chinese Fish Monger, 1881
U
SA
1892
154 154
Yet it is the oriental male who has suffered most from humiliation
and ridicule. When not vicious, unnecessarily cruel and barbarous as
in The Shadow The Chinese Discs(1934) with the villainous Wang
Fu. In 1934 another pulp hero Doc Savage encountered a Mysterious
black Chinaman in Indo-China while Fu Manchu (Detective Comics
no.18, 1938) and Sen Yoi in the Claws of the Red Dragon, on the cover
of Detective Comics (no.1, 1937, and no.8 1937) appear as dastardly
villians. And, not forgetting Flash Gordons nemesis Ming the Merciless
(frst appearing in Flash Gordon comics, 1936) and the Asian master
villain Ras al Ghul (Batman comics no. 232, 1971), while Chop Chop
from Blackhawk, (Military Comics 1942) begins as a stereotype but
evolves into a full blown hero. Thomas Kalmaku (an Inuit not a Chinese
character) aka Pieface was similarly a sidekick to Gil Kanes Green
Lantern (1960s).
On the other hand, an attempt was made to bring the mystic Asian into
the world of burgeoning super heroes, with The Green Lama (originally
in Red Ryder Comics, 1940). The Green Lama was Dr Pali, a Buddhist
monk from Tibet, though in reality a wealth American -Jethro Dumont
and at this point shares an uncanny resemblance to Marvels Dr Strange
(1963). International detective Fu Chang (Pep Comics 1940) was a less
than stereotypical Chinese character, though his many of his adversaries
were. Fu Chang had no powers of his own, but had a magical chess set
given by a magician called Sing Po. Still in the 1940s there was Dr Fung,
called Master Sleuth of the Orient, who apparently used Ancient
Chinese Lore to combat modern crime.
The martial arts expert Kato is but a sidekick of The Green Hornet
from the 1930s radio show. Originally Kato was Japanese, but during the
Second World War Kato became Chinese. In the 1960s Bruce Lee played
Lee Ya-ching in True Aviation Picture-Stories (1943)
The Shadow
M
agazine, "The Chinese D
isks"
originally published in 1934
Oriental Stories, a pulp maga-
zine (1931)
mystery and seduction in the pulps
155 155
The Shadow
M
agazine, "The Chinese D
isks"
originally published in 1934
O
riental Stories, a pulp m
agazine (1931)
mystery and seduction in the pulps
156 156
Tales of Chinatown, Sax Rohmer, 1950
T
h
e

M
agic
C
arp
e
t
M
agazin
e

(V
o
l. 3
, N
o
. 2
), A
p
r. 1
9
3
3
Oriental
other
157 157
The H
arem
of H
si M
en, 1953
in books
Pulps
and
comic books
158 158
M
y
C
h
in
e
s
e
w
ife
, K
a
r
l E
s
k
e
lu
n
d
, 1
9
4
5
T
h
e

C
r
i
m
s
o
n

A
v
e
n
g
e
r
s

s
i
d
e
k
i
c
k

W
i
n
g
a
p
p
e
a
r
e
d

D
e
t
e
c
t
i
v
e

C
o
m
i
c
s

#
2
0

O
c
t
o
b
e
r

1
9
3
8
C
h
o
p

C
h
o
p

-

J
a
c
k

C
o
l
e
'
s

1
9
5
0

B
l
a
c
k
h
a
w
k

B
a
c
k
-
U
p

F
e
a
t
u
r
e
D
e
te
c
tiv
e
C
o
m
ic
s
V
o
l 1
#
1
, 1
9
3
7
159 159
C
h
o
p

C
h
o
p

-

J
a
c
k

C
o
l
e
'
s

1
9
5
0

B
l
a
c
k
h
a
w
k

B
a
c
k
-
U
p

F
e
a
t
u
r
e
M
ilt C
aniff D
ragon Lady print, 1943
Dragon Lady
from the comic book Terry and the Pirates
Milton Caniff 1941
160 160
Kato, but still only a sidekick to Van
Williams as The Green Hornet.
As time karate kicked on comics
began stereotyping Chinese as
martial arts experts, and not just
Kato either. Following on from the
1970s Hong Kong Kung Fu flms,
came the TV series Kung Fu (1972
to 1975), with David Carradine as
Chinese monk Kwai Chang Caine,
a martial artist roaming America. It
is believed that the TV series idea
was stolen from one proposed by
Bruce Lee, and to star himself as
The Warrior.
A comic book series followed
- The Deadly Hands of Kung Fu
(1974 to 1977). In those issues
featured Iron Fist, The Power of
the Tiger and Shang Chi Master
of Kung Fu. Later comics included
Savage Fists of Kung Fu, then The
Hands of Shang Chi, KIng Kung Fu
and much later - Kung Fu Fighter
and Karate Kid. In 1973 Mantis,
a Vietnamese super heroine
appeared in Avengers (no.112).
She trained in the martial arts, but
was part alien and part human.
Outside of America (Belgium)
Tin Tins Blue Lotus raised a few
eyebrows for Herges manipulation
of line to humanise Chinese
characters and dehumanise
Japanese ones in The Blue Lotus.
Kato Origins: Way of the Ninja #1, Dynamite Comics; April 2010
T
h
e
G
re
e
n
L
am
a an
A
m
e
rican
p
u
lp
m
agazin
e
h
e
ro
o
f th
e
1
9
4
0
s
T
h
e
B
lu
e
L
o
tu
s
(F
re
n
ch
: L
e
L
o
tu
s b
le
u
)
o
rgin
ally 1
9
3
6
M
a
s
t
e
r

o
f


K
u
n
g

F
u

#
8
6

1
9
8
0
161 161
Many years later sees the graphic
novel American born Chinese,
by Gene Luen Yang, tell his own
story about growing up Chinese
in America, replacing The Journey
To The Wests Buddhist values
with Christian ones. Many Asian
Americans now work in the comics
industry, including Gene Luen Yang,
Derek Kirk Kim, Thien Pham, Lark
Pien, Jason Shiga, GB Tran, Jerry Ma,
Larry Hama, Alex Joon Kim, and
Christine Norrie, Bernard Chang
(Supergirl), Sean Chen (Iron Man),
Cliff Chiang (Wonder Woman),
Larry Hama (G.I. Joe), Sonny Liew
(Malinky Robot), Takeshi Miyazawa
(Runaways), Christine Norrie
(Hopeless Savages), Greg Pak (The
Hulk), G.B. Tran (Vietnamerica).
Chinese from other countries,
including China and Malaysia now
draw, ink and tell stories for the big
two American comics companies -
Marvel and D.C.
T
h
e
G
re
e
n
L
am
a an
A
m
e
rican
p
u
lp
m
agazin
e
h
e
ro
o
f th
e
1
9
4
0
s
T
h
e
B
lu
e
L
o
tu
s
(F
re
n
ch
: L
e
L
o
tu
s b
le
u
)
o
rgin
ally 1
9
3
6
Chinaman, Dutch comic book, 1982
mixed
emotions
162 162 162
Understanding China through Comics, 2003
Fu
C
h
an
g In
tern
atio
n
al D
etective
in
Pep
C
o
m
ics #
1
1
9
4
0
from negative to positive
163 163
Graphic N
ovel American Born Chinese, 2006
Fu
C
h
an
g In
tern
atio
n
al D
etective
in
Pep
C
o
m
ics #
1
1
9
4
0
from negative to positive
164
Food Dusun
"They're not dumplings", I said knowingly! "Dumplings are sort of round
and squishy, they belong in stews, beef or lamb, they stick to your ribs in
the cold English weather, give you a warm coating to protect you from
the full awfulness of the British weather. Dumplings, real dumplings are
made with suet, four and a pinch of salt. Some, the posher ones, have
dried herbs". I took a deep breath.
"These things are parcels. Chinese parcels, wrapped with bamboo
leaves containing a whole host of things which does not include suet.
Chinese parcels, loosely called dumplings by the unknowing some, are
made with two types of rice, have pork, chestnuts, dried prawns and all
sorts of goodies to fll eager starving tummies. They, in no way, resemble
those gooey lumps found loosely associating with over boiled lamb,
demolished potatoes and disintegrated barley."
I was in high dudgeon. I was on my high horse, which was standing on a
soap box and I was getting very bloody annoyed at the whole misnomer.
I was irrational, true, but I was making a point.
"Chinese parcels are not dumplings".
It was like the whole bloody turkey bacon saga all over again, or that
of the non-alcoholic beer. What next, non-pork pork and non-alcoholic
alcohol?
"Other things are Chinese dumplings. Things that are made of pastry.
Things that are fried and dunked in vinegar with ginger strips, or steamed
with minced pork and chives inside, or boiled with long fowing tresses
of wet pastry trailing like Won Ton but much, much larger. Chinese
dumplings surface in Dim Sum eateries, alongside Siu Mai, steamed ribs,
feet of chickens and wide rice four made noodles called Cheong Fun,
which fairly drip with favour (not to mention hoisin sauce) and are
hauled around on shaky, rambling, trolleys in restaurants in Londons
China Town."
We British have translation problems when we try to talk about
Chinese Dumplings. We are out of our depth, out of our culture, lost
amidst a veritable ocean of succulent Chinese morsels, each being called
dumplings
165
dumplings by we foreigners who know no difference. And, be honest,
which would you choose - Chinese parcels, which are called Chang
(Chung) or dumplings, soggy English dumplings. Chinese dumplings are
dumplings but tastier than any from British cooks. They far out strip
our humble British dumplings which swim, but most likely sinking, in
stews like those of my dear departed mother; thin, lifeless stews, stews
existing purely to make her robust dumplings buoyant.
Yes, you guessed it, it's that time of year again in Malaysia. A time of
remembrance of ancient Chinese poets and their sacrifces for Emperor,
and country. A time of dragon races and over eating, and yes I know that
just about every week there is an excuse for that in Malaysia, but this is
a time honoured tradition so, of course, I have to comply don't I, dont I?.
June is a time when, once again, Chinese sons and daughters return
home to help ageing relatives consume those heaps of Chinese, bamboo-
leaf-wrapped, parcels that loving relatives have tenderly made for their
eagerly returning kin. Let's face it, anything concerned with food is
practically sacred in Malaysia, and more so if you are Chinese. Chinese
love to eat, they live to eat, they long to eat. The 'Dumpling Festival'
provides a Spring excuse to consume weighty amounts of rice and meat
flled parcels, until consumers can consume no more and have to remain
seated, bloated, unable to rise from the table.
Home-made parcels are simply the best. They are fragrantly imbued
with all those family and cultural heritage tastes/remembrances. It is
that poignant combination of culture, memory and a full stomach which
entices sons and daughters to return 'home', dragged away by cultural
consciences from that other Chinese love -that of making money.
Martin Bradley
166
nurture yourself with
dusun
asian arts and culture emagazine
166
167
remembering
whiteness
& other poems
by martin bradley
downloadable as a free pdf
from
http://correspondences-martin.blogspot.com/2012/04/open-publication-free-publishing-more.html
167
ebook
168
http://www.amazon.com/Buffalo-Breadfruit-Unwary-Malaysia-ebook/dp/B008BHM91C
From Britains East Coast to South East Asia, surprises were in store for
this author as he attempted the rural life amidst sand, sun and slithering
snakes.
It is the tale of a seven year journey. A journey into the mind and soul of
one deluded Englishman trying desperately to do the right thing and be
the right person, in the wrong place amidst the wrong things.
ebook