I have always lived in a house - a single-family house. So I cannot help but wonder what it is like to walk through front door and into a cold foyer with nary a soul around. It’s odd you know - you’d think that, with the number of people living in such large complexes, it’d be more welcoming. But no, no one seems to remember that the foyer is the first space you experience before diving into the depths of the narrow hallways and dank elevators. It is the first opportunity to evoke that homey feel that I am so accustomed to…

Images of Vancouver Apartments by Chris Gergley.

I wish I could see all that is around me in mere shapes and forms; stripped of all realism and minimal in details.

Paintings by Chris Langstroth.

Time flies.

Images by Erwin Olaf.

There are few works of art that move me as this particular self-portrait did. Staring myself in the eye is not something I enjoy - it frightens me to see past this carefully constructed mask and into the depths of my soul. That requires a tremendous amount of courage: courage to face the facts - that time inevitable consumes our youth, that sickness inevitable consumes our strength, that death inevitably consumes our dreams and aspirations.

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.