A collection of impressionist artists postcards collaged on the wall, obtained during her visit to the Musee d’Orsay
A vintage clock patterned with floral print, no batteries, clock hands wait at 12.20, given as a present from my mother
Photograph of girl in a bright yellow dress running through trees, obtained when I was 17
A door leaning on the wall, encasing a mirror, rustically marked in white, acquired from a thrift shop
A pair of pink imitation ballet shoes sitting on a pile of magazines, very thin soul, never been worn. Obtained in Sydney
An elaborate tea cup, pearls overflowing the rim. Received as a gift
A copy of On the Road, Jack Kerouac, stolen from my sister a year ago
A white imprinted ribbon with bold black letters repeating Chanel, tied to my mirror last year, obtained from gift wrap
A worn white glove, not by me
A doll keychain wrapped around memory stick, from Japan a present from a friend
A glass globe which my mother put on the right hand side of my windowsill
A draw full of unused ribbons, lace, old love letters
A box of saved childhood teeth
A French dictionary, used during high school
Ophelie Linkous
Biography-
Conceived and raised in Toulouse, France 1978. Born to a French mother, Ophelie Linkous was raised by strict catholic rules. Her mother was a ballet teacher and a dancer. She commented on her melancholy childhood, “I was able to save all my teeth as a child; there was no such thing as a tooth fairy in my house”. Constantly compelled by her mother’s stern methods of parenting, Ophelie Linkous left her native country as soon as she completed high school. In search of new beginning she ran away from home taking her beloved friend Kerouac with her. This young dreamer had a romantic openness and wanted to find freedom. She ran and 5 years later her search of success and new purpose was found. She showed an early talent in drawing and collating a manner of nonsense.
She followed her desires to the San Francisco Art Institute, California. With dreams of being a successful artist, she studied Visual Arts (2001). Completing her degree she collaborated with Kota Ezawa and Xing Danwen which lead her to her first exhibition at Haines Gallery, San Francisco (2008).
Her journey in life has taken her from a Visual arts student to a scruffy studio in east of London. Ophelie Linkous moved to the UK where she worked as a freelance illustrator for the magazine le gun. Her favourite haunts include fashion illustrations, sombre colours, soulless ballerina’s and clocks that never tick. She is now an artist based in London.
5.16.2011
The pearl writing to Jovana
You held me when you were feeling sad
You carried me when you were smiling,
I listened to your heart beat faster
I glistened even when you weren’t trying –
You twirled me,
You broke me,
You restrung me.
Your hands seized me, when you tried to run
But you didn’t realise I wasn’t going anywhere,
I was stronger,
I was never done.
You used me as a thrill
A fascination,
Beauty, charm and kill.
Don’t you understand I’m by your side,
I’m something you cannot set free,
Because you know I’m tied.
I love it when I dance with you,
I love the rhythm of your body.
I love when you’re cold you wrap me under your layers,
And in summer you charm me in your silk—
If I asked you to lay me down,
You would take me to the safest place,
I was never in line for the chase,
Lay down your guard.
I’m sick of feeling so small,
Against you,
I constantly feel like I have hit a wall,
Why do we keep clashing together? –
I’m never first
Is it because I’m an ornament to you,
I’m underestimated,
Why do I constantly have to get in this queue?
I’m fixated on only you. –
How many times do I have to prove this?,
I’ll be there today,
I’ll be there tomorrow,
I’ll only leave if you throw me away.—
I’m always speechless,
I’m stone cold,
Just wear me today.
Don’t leave me astray
When you know I’m the gleam of your every smile.
You can see when you press down on me,
Even when you walk all over me,
I’ll stay strong and never break.
It’s you, who has to learn to trust,
That even if I’m an ornament to you,
I will stay by your side
And walk with you,
with pride.
You carried me when you were smiling,
I listened to your heart beat faster
I glistened even when you weren’t trying –
You twirled me,
You broke me,
You restrung me.
Your hands seized me, when you tried to run
But you didn’t realise I wasn’t going anywhere,
I was stronger,
I was never done.
You used me as a thrill
A fascination,
Beauty, charm and kill.
Don’t you understand I’m by your side,
I’m something you cannot set free,
Because you know I’m tied.
I love it when I dance with you,
I love the rhythm of your body.
I love when you’re cold you wrap me under your layers,
And in summer you charm me in your silk—
If I asked you to lay me down,
You would take me to the safest place,
I was never in line for the chase,
Lay down your guard.
I’m sick of feeling so small,
Against you,
I constantly feel like I have hit a wall,
Why do we keep clashing together? –
I’m never first
Is it because I’m an ornament to you,
I’m underestimated,
Why do I constantly have to get in this queue?
I’m fixated on only you. –
How many times do I have to prove this?,
I’ll be there today,
I’ll be there tomorrow,
I’ll only leave if you throw me away.—
I’m always speechless,
I’m stone cold,
Just wear me today.
Don’t leave me astray
When you know I’m the gleam of your every smile.
You can see when you press down on me,
Even when you walk all over me,
I’ll stay strong and never break.
It’s you, who has to learn to trust,
That even if I’m an ornament to you,
I will stay by your side
And walk with you,
with pride.
4.11.2011
a FLICKER-
It belongs to our eyes. It’s the information we see through our eyes. It travels in straight lines and bounces off mirrors. It’s developed through a stream of particles. It corresponds to the slits in our eyes. It springs off shadows and open spaces. It’s a radiance of energy. It does not need a medium to travel through, it rebounds from peak to peak. It’s the ultra violet colour energised by rapid movement. It’s scaled by kilometres. We can sense it through our eyes even when it’s pitch black. Our eyes absorb its presence. It runs in circular movements around our eyeballs. It’s deceiving and often lies to you.
A momentary flash of light. It moves back and forward very rapidly. It’s the frames that consist in a film. It’s an unsteady flash of light. The burn and shine with a wavering light. To disappear and appear after short moments. Alternating from light to dark. A quick show of something. Its the movement of light. It’s a light wave. A packet of energy. Its the colour of covering a flashlight with cellophane swatches of every colour. It’s a perfect absorption stronger than a crayon. It can pass through in a scatter. It captures the energy of light. It vibrates yet it’s constructed tightly. It jumps readily from fixation to fixation. It never penetrates yet trickles loosely. It never hits paper therefore we can read text.
A flicker tastes sour darting quickly across the tongue. A flicker makes you giggle as it jumps like a jester. It is as light and tight as a swimming cap. It is the colour of neon lights. It runs across your skin raising all your Goosebumps. It is buoyant and flouncy. It smells like acid and dissolves in a heartbeat. It behaves as up and down as a mood swing. It’s the cord hit by the vocal of a soprano. It’s the pitch hit by Ricky Ponting. It’s the vivid texture of a pixel.” It’s visible now and gone in a second, leaving no train it seems to belong in a another world.”(Anke Jakob) It leaves the fusion of a megapixel. It dances detached and disruptively. It flutters like fireflies. It has a mischievous way of thinking. It can weave and slide its way through any incision. However, it has this ironic distance. It’s ongoing addiction never letting it impede. It’s apparent yet precise.
A momentary flash of light. It moves back and forward very rapidly. It’s the frames that consist in a film. It’s an unsteady flash of light. The burn and shine with a wavering light. To disappear and appear after short moments. Alternating from light to dark. A quick show of something. Its the movement of light. It’s a light wave. A packet of energy. Its the colour of covering a flashlight with cellophane swatches of every colour. It’s a perfect absorption stronger than a crayon. It can pass through in a scatter. It captures the energy of light. It vibrates yet it’s constructed tightly. It jumps readily from fixation to fixation. It never penetrates yet trickles loosely. It never hits paper therefore we can read text.
A flicker tastes sour darting quickly across the tongue. A flicker makes you giggle as it jumps like a jester. It is as light and tight as a swimming cap. It is the colour of neon lights. It runs across your skin raising all your Goosebumps. It is buoyant and flouncy. It smells like acid and dissolves in a heartbeat. It behaves as up and down as a mood swing. It’s the cord hit by the vocal of a soprano. It’s the pitch hit by Ricky Ponting. It’s the vivid texture of a pixel.” It’s visible now and gone in a second, leaving no train it seems to belong in a another world.”(Anke Jakob) It leaves the fusion of a megapixel. It dances detached and disruptively. It flutters like fireflies. It has a mischievous way of thinking. It can weave and slide its way through any incision. However, it has this ironic distance. It’s ongoing addiction never letting it impede. It’s apparent yet precise.
4.02.2011
FAT presents: Design Assembly [Pale Blue Eyes]
(http://fat4.com/conference/
14.02.11)
15 March, 2011
A Critique of,
Pale Blue Eyes Conference:
Is there a balance between the business side and creative side in design industries, and how do we create this balance before business “crushes the soul of design”? Fat presented a group of pragmatic guest speakers at the Pale Blue Eyes conference held at the Toff, who were able to discuss between one other, both the design and business side in national creative industries.
The conference was broken into four ideas, Design, Creative, Media and space. Vanishing Elephant and Carly Hunter introduced the challenges of balancing the creative and business ends when working with a fashion label. Huw Bennett comes from an accounting background so therefore his strengths with his fashion label were mainly with market research. Hunter on the other hand stated that she was in charge of the entire production line of her label. Her method of designing was quite interesting as she stated that she made what she wanted to wear and that she did not look at trends. As a design student myself, we take a very analytical and thorough view in research when producing collections. She appeared to be quite vacuous in her train of thought when she stated her working method as an ‘original’ way in producing collections.
Tin&ed followed with Barrie Barton establishing the fine line between art and design. Tin&ed, (Tin Nguyen and Edward Cutting) captivated everyone’s attention with their creative design process. Quoting Tom Waits and working with clients such as the Australian Bellet, Nike, MTV and many more, I was infatuated. They talked about the lighter, more creative side of designing and encouraged young designers to collaborate together in all different disciplines. They had a quirky, fun charisma with their ideas about marketing and juggling a business along with their design. For example, their story about getting drunk and handing out business cards on the dance floor was random, even though it somehow generated positive business outcomes. They had a humorous spin on the business side of things, yet were able to deliver the goods to clients and seem to have made a good name for themselves with the help of specialists.
Penny Modra, editor of the subcultural guide to Melbourne, ThreeThousand.com.au, is obsessed with the scoop and her readers. She writes a weekly visual arts column for The Age and the Sunday Age. She references the growth of new media in the design industry. As her work with ThreeThousand is based online she has strong ideas about online forums and discusses her antagonism with Twitter and Facebook. She believes they can be useful resources in advertising information however they also can be quite critical and insulting as the forums are open to anyone. She mentions how people can be opinionated with their feedback and quite hurtful in their critiques over the internet. She encourages young designers to get out there and use new media as it can promote upcoming designers.
The conference launched a great range of opinions, advice and topical conversations around design, which would have been valuable to a lot of young designers. I gained insight to what is waiting for me when I enter the industry, and also awareness of decisions one should make when they graduate from university. The speakers definitely depicted an interesting perspective on the Australian design industry.
writing about objects:
OBJECT: HER SOAP
My salty substance is greasy and smooth—
It lathers into a creamy delight,
Compounded like a caramel slice—
It behaves as an organic calico coloured cube—
Its lubricating smell, mesmerises my nostrils—
This oily greasiness, smears onto my fingers,
Behaving like my lipstick,
Leaving an invisible trace.—
When water exchanges contact,
It starts to foam and fizzle—
My hands loose grip, it becomes slippery and slimy,
like a snowboard in contact with ice.—
It’s off on its own tangent now,
Riding along surfaces,
it’s so thick you can cut it with a knife.—
You can leave your nail marks,
As the block sinks into your roots, leaving a saline feeling behind.—
Your hair can get caught under its coat of grease.—
It melts in your mouth,
Casting an oily substance,
On your lips,
However stays at room temperature. –
It feels like the whisking, of vanilla essence and butter in a mixing bowl.—
Butter always leaves
this a greasy remark on your hands –
You can never see butter, but you can feel it.—
As your teeth grind against,
This flaky matter,
It shreds along the increments and dents,
Decaying with friction, like parmesan cheese on a grater.—
It can dissolve away layers of molecules;
Instantly awakening with a fresh flavour of cleanliness.—
It drops with a muffled sound, dressing the underlining outskirts of ointment.—
It sticks to your lips, like a lip balm would to jelly.—
This block tucks away a therapeutic aroma,
It triggers your nerves like petroleum on ice.—
As soon as it hits your skin,
Its translucence slithers down your spine,
However this salty substance,
When in contact with an eye, it can sting as sharp as a stingray,
Aggravating the thigh,
Gripping the veins of your eyeballs,
Leaving you helpless,
Streams of tears begin,
Washing away this oily sheet that surrounds your veins. –
You’re left with nipping bloodshot eyes,
it’s too strong to break in half,
Yet too weak to withstand tears.
OBJECT: THE PEARLS OF YOUNG DEE
I once knew a young girl named Dee—
Hailing from Colchester
Young Dee,
Rode her bike into the sea—
She fell into an army of tiny oysters,
The oysters clasped onto her dress—
She shone like Henry Croft and the Pearlies,
As it rained the oysters swallowed less and less—
Impregnated and carbonated by crystalline saliva
Creating 500 “frozen tears of the gods” (Judith Thurman)
The tiny oysters behaved in their odds
As they spat out,
These jilted clusters like my Nona’s gnocchi.
They were the colour of milky coco puffs,
However the substance was quite rough—
She was in pain from the bite of this jawbreaker,
These little irises of luna crescent’s
Could only be picked up by a girl
A women’s fertility is enhanced by a pearl (John Clarke)
However they jingled like the teeth she kept in her jam jar,
They clattered like dancing heals in a bar—
These lacquer seeds represented a dented life,
It was believed that every wife
Who wore a pearl would be cured of madness,
So Dee strung these pearls into groups of three
They were proven to guarantee
Her ticket to a white ball
Under the sea—
She wore each pearl in her hair,
They looked like Christmas ornaments, everyone stared—
As she swished lavishly from side to side
Her heavy hair would drop tiny stones
Leaving a path of tears behind her
Each pearl would glide
All over her desires
When finally they inspired
Dee to encrust her gowns—
With the finest gems
Arranged like a goodly bird’s eggs,
Girls from all over Colchester
Were ordering young Dee’s lacquer seeds,
Soon these luminous charms
Were discovered by a diver—
Their glamour came to his surprise
Young Dee’s pearls were no survivor,
Something as so rare
That the diver couldn’t dare.
Eliminating all the pearls from the sea,
Dee found it hard to see
That her beloved bourgeoisie—
Would never be the same,
As the diver was playing a whole new game—
And this is the story of young Dee
My salty substance is greasy and smooth—
It lathers into a creamy delight,
Compounded like a caramel slice—
It behaves as an organic calico coloured cube—
Its lubricating smell, mesmerises my nostrils—
This oily greasiness, smears onto my fingers,
Behaving like my lipstick,
Leaving an invisible trace.—
When water exchanges contact,
It starts to foam and fizzle—
My hands loose grip, it becomes slippery and slimy,
like a snowboard in contact with ice.—
It’s off on its own tangent now,
Riding along surfaces,
it’s so thick you can cut it with a knife.—
You can leave your nail marks,
As the block sinks into your roots, leaving a saline feeling behind.—
Your hair can get caught under its coat of grease.—
It melts in your mouth,
Casting an oily substance,
On your lips,
However stays at room temperature. –
It feels like the whisking, of vanilla essence and butter in a mixing bowl.—
Butter always leaves
this a greasy remark on your hands –
You can never see butter, but you can feel it.—
As your teeth grind against,
This flaky matter,
It shreds along the increments and dents,
Decaying with friction, like parmesan cheese on a grater.—
It can dissolve away layers of molecules;
Instantly awakening with a fresh flavour of cleanliness.—
It drops with a muffled sound, dressing the underlining outskirts of ointment.—
It sticks to your lips, like a lip balm would to jelly.—
This block tucks away a therapeutic aroma,
It triggers your nerves like petroleum on ice.—
As soon as it hits your skin,
Its translucence slithers down your spine,
However this salty substance,
When in contact with an eye, it can sting as sharp as a stingray,
Aggravating the thigh,
Gripping the veins of your eyeballs,
Leaving you helpless,
Streams of tears begin,
Washing away this oily sheet that surrounds your veins. –
You’re left with nipping bloodshot eyes,
it’s too strong to break in half,
Yet too weak to withstand tears.
OBJECT: THE PEARLS OF YOUNG DEE
I once knew a young girl named Dee—
Hailing from Colchester
Young Dee,
Rode her bike into the sea—
She fell into an army of tiny oysters,
The oysters clasped onto her dress—
She shone like Henry Croft and the Pearlies,
As it rained the oysters swallowed less and less—
Impregnated and carbonated by crystalline saliva
Creating 500 “frozen tears of the gods” (Judith Thurman)
The tiny oysters behaved in their odds
As they spat out,
These jilted clusters like my Nona’s gnocchi.
They were the colour of milky coco puffs,
However the substance was quite rough—
She was in pain from the bite of this jawbreaker,
These little irises of luna crescent’s
Could only be picked up by a girl
A women’s fertility is enhanced by a pearl (John Clarke)
However they jingled like the teeth she kept in her jam jar,
They clattered like dancing heals in a bar—
These lacquer seeds represented a dented life,
It was believed that every wife
Who wore a pearl would be cured of madness,
So Dee strung these pearls into groups of three
They were proven to guarantee
Her ticket to a white ball
Under the sea—
She wore each pearl in her hair,
They looked like Christmas ornaments, everyone stared—
As she swished lavishly from side to side
Her heavy hair would drop tiny stones
Leaving a path of tears behind her
Each pearl would glide
All over her desires
When finally they inspired
Dee to encrust her gowns—
With the finest gems
Arranged like a goodly bird’s eggs,
Girls from all over Colchester
Were ordering young Dee’s lacquer seeds,
Soon these luminous charms
Were discovered by a diver—
Their glamour came to his surprise
Young Dee’s pearls were no survivor,
Something as so rare
That the diver couldn’t dare.
Eliminating all the pearls from the sea,
Dee found it hard to see
That her beloved bourgeoisie—
Would never be the same,
As the diver was playing a whole new game—
And this is the story of young Dee
4.01.2011
Language of Emotion
SKIP JAMES-
DEVIL GOT MY WOMEN
I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
Aw, nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind
Was nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind
I laid down last night, laid down last night
I laid down last night, tried to take my rest
My mind got to ramblin', like a wild geese
From the west, from the west
The woman I love, woman that I loved
Woman I loved, took her from my best friend
But he got lucky, stoled her back again
And he got lucky, stoled her back again
This song is by Skip James, 1930. When I hear this song I think of a mournful character. Quivering the pain through this rhythm found in his voice. “You don't sing to feel better. You sing 'cause that's a way of understanding life."(August Wilson)
DEVIL GOT MY WOMEN
I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
Aw, nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind
Was nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind
I laid down last night, laid down last night
I laid down last night, tried to take my rest
My mind got to ramblin', like a wild geese
From the west, from the west
The woman I love, woman that I loved
Woman I loved, took her from my best friend
But he got lucky, stoled her back again
And he got lucky, stoled her back again
This song is by Skip James, 1930. When I hear this song I think of a mournful character. Quivering the pain through this rhythm found in his voice. “You don't sing to feel better. You sing 'cause that's a way of understanding life."(August Wilson)
3.26.2011
OBJECT: HER GLOVE
Casting a bodily appetite
the weaker vessel “one of nature’s agreeable blunders’ (Hannah Cowley) camouflages her desired thoughts
The framework of her poignant fingertips vulnerable for touch
Crammed into this veil of secrecy
suppressed by an interlace of webs
knotting and wrapping frivolously
She walks tall concealing her nerves in a mist of lace
A promised sassiness discloses her hunger
hunger for touch
Her skeleton shadow constantly patronises her
Breathing down her escape
Constantly denying fulfilment
Her “flexible parcels of flesh” (Susan J. Vincent)
are enveloped and coated in daintiness
She Paces down the path of superiority
the warmth of her fingertips melt
engraving behind, her scent
Her clammy flesh is tucked away
in every vein of thread
Yet she stands so tall
tightly bandaged by elegance and poise
Her skin is guarded by waves of frills
each ruffle iced with milky lace
Her blushing warm hands brush
each crumb of thread sprinkled with cinnamon
Drenched in a sugary and sweet stain of peach
Against her chalky complexion
She stands garnished
The shadow of her glove
whispers along the contours of her existence
Her vanity draws an outline of each lingering finger
Her chalky hands lay untouched
Unattained by the trickles of rain
Concealed from the bitter crystals of snow
Protected from the “whitening shower” (James Thompson)
As “white petals from the flowers that grow”(George W Bungay)
She sits on her cushion above all
her gloves charging and flickering warmth
Shooting through her veins like the fusion of summer
Insulated by a puree of peppers
melting in your mouth like
a floss of sugar
gliding across your gums
She is polished by this distinguished flavour
Her nose prances up in the air
The gloves imprison her libido
They lash at her hands with sophistication
They sew the seams of her tongue with grace
Gagging her inner sins
They fashion a lady
Lavender ribbons of rain sang (Cocorosie)
Sweeping the insides of these gloves
Burnt sage outskirts the walls
Hiding away every freckle and hair
She sits down for her riots
Sipping away at her tea
only a lady would know
one needs to remove ‘g,
/ then glove is love, and that I send to thee’(William strode)
the weaker vessel “one of nature’s agreeable blunders’ (Hannah Cowley) camouflages her desired thoughts
The framework of her poignant fingertips vulnerable for touch
Crammed into this veil of secrecy
suppressed by an interlace of webs
knotting and wrapping frivolously
She walks tall concealing her nerves in a mist of lace
A promised sassiness discloses her hunger
hunger for touch
Her skeleton shadow constantly patronises her
Breathing down her escape
Constantly denying fulfilment
Her “flexible parcels of flesh” (Susan J. Vincent)
are enveloped and coated in daintiness
She Paces down the path of superiority
the warmth of her fingertips melt
engraving behind, her scent
Her clammy flesh is tucked away
in every vein of thread
Yet she stands so tall
tightly bandaged by elegance and poise
Her skin is guarded by waves of frills
each ruffle iced with milky lace
Her blushing warm hands brush
each crumb of thread sprinkled with cinnamon
Drenched in a sugary and sweet stain of peach
Against her chalky complexion
She stands garnished
The shadow of her glove
whispers along the contours of her existence
Her vanity draws an outline of each lingering finger
Her chalky hands lay untouched
Unattained by the trickles of rain
Concealed from the bitter crystals of snow
Protected from the “whitening shower” (James Thompson)
As “white petals from the flowers that grow”(George W Bungay)
She sits on her cushion above all
her gloves charging and flickering warmth
Shooting through her veins like the fusion of summer
Insulated by a puree of peppers
melting in your mouth like
a floss of sugar
gliding across your gums
She is polished by this distinguished flavour
Her nose prances up in the air
The gloves imprison her libido
They lash at her hands with sophistication
They sew the seams of her tongue with grace
Gagging her inner sins
They fashion a lady
Lavender ribbons of rain sang (Cocorosie)
Sweeping the insides of these gloves
Burnt sage outskirts the walls
Hiding away every freckle and hair
She sits down for her riots
Sipping away at her tea
only a lady would know
one needs to remove ‘g,
/ then glove is love, and that I send to thee’(William strode)
3.05.2011
week 1. The draped mind
(list of words you like to use)
Torn
Melting
Bubbling
Crawling
Clatter
Crucify
Burnt
Fade
Rich
Lavishly
Mesmeric
Sweet
Sticky
Confined
Bloom
Floral
Love
Desire
Fresh
Drenched
Ugly
Exhausted
Torn
Melting
Bubbling
Crawling
Clatter
Crucify
Burnt
Fade
Rich
Lavishly
Mesmeric
Sweet
Sticky
Confined
Bloom
Floral
Love
Desire
Fresh
Drenched
Ugly
Exhausted
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