Despite their reputation for emotional restraint, Victorians indulged in complex and elaborate rituals surrounding death and mourning. No better example is the case of Leland Stanford Jr., the only son of Leland and Jane Stanford, who died at the tender age of 15 from typhoid fever while on a visit to Florence, Italy. The family’s immense loss became the impetus for several commissioned monuments and works of art that perpetuated their son’s memory… [such as] paintings, photographs, and documents relating to the life of Leland Stanford Jr., as well as objects such as chalkboards from séances held by Mrs. Stanford after her son’s death…

Text and paintings by Darren Waterston.

“Being perfect artists and ingenuous poets, the Chinese have piously preserved the love and holy cult of flowers; one of the very rare and most ancient traditions which has survived their decadence. And since flowers had to be distinguished from each other, they have attributed graceful analogies to them, dreamy images, pure and passionate names which perpetuate and harmonize in our minds the sensations of gentle charm and violent intoxication with which they inspire us.”

“So it is that certain peonies, their favorite flower, are saluted by the Chinese, according to their form or color, by these delicious names, each an entire poem and an entire novel: The Young Girl Who Offers Her Breasts, or: The Water That Sleeps Beneath the Moon, or: The Sunlight in the Forest, or: The First Desire of the Reclining Virgin, or: My Gown Is No Longer All White Because in Tearing It the Son of Heaven Left a Little Rosy Stain; or, even better, this one: I Possessed My Lover in the Garden.”

Text by Octave Mirbeau. Paintings by Bobbie Burgers.

“Hello Mr Ibrahim. Hello Mrs Ibrahim. How are you today? I am going to the water park this weekend with my parents. It’s a long drive from Batu Gajah but I don’t mind the drive. It’s fun to be in a car on a nice bumpy red soil road and see it turn to asphalt half way through the journey. I bet you’d like it at the park. I always get aiskrim potong when I am there. AND I get to play with all the city kids there!”

Mr Ibrahim was the rooster my brother refused to eat at dinner. Mr Ibrahim was survived by Mrs Ibrahim (if only for a month or two) and quite the handful of chicks. Such is the life of a farm boy.

Florida Farming by Jake Stangel.

The big city: the life that pulses through the highways promises limitless possibilities. The bright garish lights, the mechanical bleats on the streets, the dead soulless stares, the invisible waves from every direction, the constant change – yes, they quench the thirst of the ambitious. It simultaneously drains and refuels me. Enough, it is time to go back to the soft glow of my computer…

Paintings by Jennifer Seymour.

I never cared much for sports involving men or women racing to reach a ball and then to get it through the net or into the goal. Sure, it requires concentration, skill, and very often, teamwork, but is that all there is to athleticism?. In sports where participants are racing against each other; it becomes a test of strength and endurance. Somehow, I find that much more meaningful. Nevertheless, these past few days, thanks to the FIFA World Cup, I now see sports rather differently. Sports, especially those involving a ball, attract rabid fans. I rarely see or, more importantly, HEAR, fans who cheer as wholeheartedly as those eying the ball. And that’s the point…

Images of African arenas by Thomas Hoeffgen.

… and we march up to the mountains
With our torches
Wielding picks and wires
We shall take the world by storm
With little more than sparks and fires
We will do all that our hearts desire
when we lay claim to the lands
that once belonged to the skies
So bring your spades and pliers
There will be light in sight
It will be bright tonight…

Images by Thomas Kneubühler.

Her hair was once lush
Her skin dewy
as the early day
She used to greet me with a smile
and she would say
How do you do?

But now there she lays
Her legs splayed
Wasting away
Her gift of life stolen
From the caress of her thighs
Slayed and flayed
Her empty gaze
Sullen and soulless
Dwells on yesterday
and she faces what lies ahead

Images by Jason Koxvold.

I walk into the masses of people. I look up into the sky and see the buildings, majestic and tall, obscured by the glare of the sun. This is the beehive – the heart of the city. People buzz past me. The car engines whir in traffic jams, their exhaust pipes huffing and puffing. Soon, they are off to the next block, leaving a trail of toxic gas billowing skyward. Chaos is the very essence of this environment. Without it, the buildings that otherwise stand so proud seem lost and confused. They thrive on pedestrians and motorists fawning over them. They really crave the attention they get from 9 – 5.

Long exposure images by Atta Kim.

I have always had an interest surrounding social interaction and architectural space, though throughout the past few years I have been articulating the compositional elements within my work and highlighting the dynamism of spaces in my work through exposing my process. I explore a variation of paint application, expressive mark making, bright under-painting and optical mixing. The bright under paintings act as unifying devices that localizes colour and provide the viewer with entrance and exit points throughout the painting. The layering of colour and forms and the combination of existing, familiar forms with imagined components acts as a visual dialect that expresses my interpretation of the urban dynamic. I want my work to allow for the viewer’s engagement on multiple levels. It is my intention that the artificial constructions I create will generate contemplation of the ongoing development of the social spaces in which we live. The spatial relationships that exist between humanity and architectural spaces are integral to an understanding of our visual world, as we make deliberate choices to define our surrounding spaces we are ultimately defined and affected by the spaces that surround us.

Images by Canadian artist James Olley. Additional text sourced from Artist’s Statement.

I do not deny that I fear snakes. I am not ophidiophobic, but my heart has thus far raced each time I encountered one. Why do we fear snakes so? Yes, some are venomous, but is it really the venom that instills fear? As terrifying as they may be, they are stunning works of nature. Such slithering sensuality, such grace…

Images by Guido Mocafico.