Woohoo! Breakthrough!
My (drawing and painting) skills have upped one level. I'm actually wishing now that I didn't scorn those Dota/computer games lingo, so I'd have some vocabulary to release some of this chest-pounding, grunty eruption.
I am now quite sure that I have a remotely enviable artistic talent. Okay, okay, if I'm going to be disgustingly arrogant about this, I'm going to be disgustingly arrogant about this. I think I'm on fireeee!
Take that, Limmy.
(:
Showing posts with label Victory Wiggle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Victory Wiggle. Show all posts
Saturday, 15 December 2007
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
A word on photographs
Why you've been seeing photographs of me on this blog recently, when you previously couldn't even pry one out of my room
For a while I seriously thought my fate was sealed in the way of lonely old women with too many cats - only my cats were cameras. How my hand finished with a camera, had less to do brilliant photography skills (I like to believe that's my hidden talent), than a love for photographs laced with a dislike of being on the other side of the lens. It always made me feel somewhat like Captain Hook, whose appendage was obviously for brandishing at others, rather than catching itches.
Modern psychoanalysis has provided me with the perfect explanation for my almost hypocritical behaviour (Worship Freud! He who paved the way for excuses): my dad's a hobby photographer, who enjoys shoving his giant cameras up my nose for clinical mugshots. The result is always the same. He exclaims the sharpness, the detail, the colour balance of the me pinned onto a wall, mortified, while I agree, becauase thanks to his new thousand dollar gadget, I've discovered new flaws I never knew I had. All photographs taken by Daddy dearest never vary - always cropped closely around the head, with an engorged nose.
My affair with photographs rarely has anything to do with the masculine talks of resolution, high-tech cameras and other gadgets. Naturally, I recognize the value of a good camera, but I like it better when the people I photograph are not excuses to showcase the latest technology. (The only lighting I use is sunlight, the only skill, spontaenity.) They are people framed in a way I want to remember them, or slices of time frozen to last forever. When I see a person beautifully, I get to take it down and send it to him or her and keep a copy in my heart.
I think maybe that's why I'm afraid of having my photograph taken. I suppose I would say I know how to make someone look good in a photograph, only because I know the contours of his/her face by heart - which precise angle shows off the beauty I know so well, and which exact moment exhibits the person I love so well. Great insecurity, and perhaps even a tiny bit of narcissism, prevents me from placing this responsibility in the hands of someone else - would they see me in a nice way? Could this terribly flawed and human me be seen in a nice way? If my own dad, who loves me more than anyone has and ever will, can't, what hope should I place in anyone else?
But thanks to a couple of friends, I am learning to let others look at me - learning to curb my control-freakish nature, learning to let go of my insecurities. They send me photos saying "look, this is the you I have been looking at." And I have found that sometimes, regardless of how ridiculous the expression on my face, how wide my forehead looks, or how embarrassingly much I have accidentally exposed, what they really are showing me, is a nice, warm glow of friendship and the me they know and love.
For a while I seriously thought my fate was sealed in the way of lonely old women with too many cats - only my cats were cameras. How my hand finished with a camera, had less to do brilliant photography skills (I like to believe that's my hidden talent), than a love for photographs laced with a dislike of being on the other side of the lens. It always made me feel somewhat like Captain Hook, whose appendage was obviously for brandishing at others, rather than catching itches.
Modern psychoanalysis has provided me with the perfect explanation for my almost hypocritical behaviour (Worship Freud! He who paved the way for excuses): my dad's a hobby photographer, who enjoys shoving his giant cameras up my nose for clinical mugshots. The result is always the same. He exclaims the sharpness, the detail, the colour balance of the me pinned onto a wall, mortified, while I agree, becauase thanks to his new thousand dollar gadget, I've discovered new flaws I never knew I had. All photographs taken by Daddy dearest never vary - always cropped closely around the head, with an engorged nose.
My affair with photographs rarely has anything to do with the masculine talks of resolution, high-tech cameras and other gadgets. Naturally, I recognize the value of a good camera, but I like it better when the people I photograph are not excuses to showcase the latest technology. (The only lighting I use is sunlight, the only skill, spontaenity.) They are people framed in a way I want to remember them, or slices of time frozen to last forever. When I see a person beautifully, I get to take it down and send it to him or her and keep a copy in my heart.
I think maybe that's why I'm afraid of having my photograph taken. I suppose I would say I know how to make someone look good in a photograph, only because I know the contours of his/her face by heart - which precise angle shows off the beauty I know so well, and which exact moment exhibits the person I love so well. Great insecurity, and perhaps even a tiny bit of narcissism, prevents me from placing this responsibility in the hands of someone else - would they see me in a nice way? Could this terribly flawed and human me be seen in a nice way? If my own dad, who loves me more than anyone has and ever will, can't, what hope should I place in anyone else?
But thanks to a couple of friends, I am learning to let others look at me - learning to curb my control-freakish nature, learning to let go of my insecurities. They send me photos saying "look, this is the you I have been looking at." And I have found that sometimes, regardless of how ridiculous the expression on my face, how wide my forehead looks, or how embarrassingly much I have accidentally exposed, what they really are showing me, is a nice, warm glow of friendship and the me they know and love.
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Victory Wiggle
I think I have earned myself a victory wiggle today.
You see, I have this neighbour who lives three storeys above me. He was the tall, basketball guy of the Blue House - my House. He was quiet, I was loud. We took the same school bus, but never so much as looked at each other. Except one time, which I still chronicle as Most Embarrassing Moment No.134. Mr Tall, Silent Basketballer came down with dengue fever, and creative, generous and stupendously stupid 11 year old me decided, upon learning that Dengue fever could be fatal, decided to put my creativity to good use and made him a Get Well Soon card. Bad news doesn't at all spread too fast, I can assure you, because by the time I got my card ready, Mr Tall, Silent, Dengue Fever Patient was already recovered and waiting for the school bus. I don't know WHAT possessed me - actually I do, I think it was the ego that refused to have made a card for nothing - I gave a Get Well Soon Card, to the perfectly healthy neighbour. Of course, he stared. And stared. And I ran away.
But yes, conversation never came easily. Or rather, never came.
He went to SJI, I to NYGH, with an amazing coincidence of bus routes. When we met every so occassionally, we waved and exchanged perfunctory greetings. Then he would sprint in the opposite direction, while I looked for a convenient hole to disappear into.
Then in yet another amazing coincidence (Why can't Fate be this accurate with Johnny Depp and me??), we both got Direct School Admission to this college. And got into the same faculty. So Mr Tall, Silent Basketballer became Mr Tall, Silent Canoeist, but nothing beyond the last descriptive changed. I guess things warmed up, we began talking a little bit more. Conversations averaged about 20 words - a huge difference from the previous three. ("Hi." "Oh, Hi." or "Hi, okay bye!")
But today, AHAHAHA today, we met at the bus stop, talked through a gruelling 10 minute wait for the bus, then whizzed through a 25 minute bus ride! My social skills amaze me. Actually, his social skills amaze me.
So anyway, I was really glad and ran home to tell Mom and Dad.
"Is that supposed to be a success? I mean, for all you know, it could be that he couldn't stand you previously."
I expostulated, of course. But now that I'm sitting here thinking about it, maybe they were right. After all, if someone doesn't talk to you for ten whole years, it must mean something, musn't it? Hmmm.
But anyhoo, that won't stop me from wiggling victoriously. If anything, that means he dislikes me a less now right? (:
You see, I have this neighbour who lives three storeys above me. He was the tall, basketball guy of the Blue House - my House. He was quiet, I was loud. We took the same school bus, but never so much as looked at each other. Except one time, which I still chronicle as Most Embarrassing Moment No.134. Mr Tall, Silent Basketballer came down with dengue fever, and creative, generous and stupendously stupid 11 year old me decided, upon learning that Dengue fever could be fatal, decided to put my creativity to good use and made him a Get Well Soon card. Bad news doesn't at all spread too fast, I can assure you, because by the time I got my card ready, Mr Tall, Silent, Dengue Fever Patient was already recovered and waiting for the school bus. I don't know WHAT possessed me - actually I do, I think it was the ego that refused to have made a card for nothing - I gave a Get Well Soon Card, to the perfectly healthy neighbour. Of course, he stared. And stared. And I ran away.
But yes, conversation never came easily. Or rather, never came.
He went to SJI, I to NYGH, with an amazing coincidence of bus routes. When we met every so occassionally, we waved and exchanged perfunctory greetings. Then he would sprint in the opposite direction, while I looked for a convenient hole to disappear into.
Then in yet another amazing coincidence (Why can't Fate be this accurate with Johnny Depp and me??), we both got Direct School Admission to this college. And got into the same faculty. So Mr Tall, Silent Basketballer became Mr Tall, Silent Canoeist, but nothing beyond the last descriptive changed. I guess things warmed up, we began talking a little bit more. Conversations averaged about 20 words - a huge difference from the previous three. ("Hi." "Oh, Hi." or "Hi, okay bye!")
But today, AHAHAHA today, we met at the bus stop, talked through a gruelling 10 minute wait for the bus, then whizzed through a 25 minute bus ride! My social skills amaze me. Actually, his social skills amaze me.
So anyway, I was really glad and ran home to tell Mom and Dad.
"Is that supposed to be a success? I mean, for all you know, it could be that he couldn't stand you previously."
I expostulated, of course. But now that I'm sitting here thinking about it, maybe they were right. After all, if someone doesn't talk to you for ten whole years, it must mean something, musn't it? Hmmm.
But anyhoo, that won't stop me from wiggling victoriously. If anything, that means he dislikes me a less now right? (:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
