On the flight from London to Shanghai, the man sitting on 49c asked if there’s yet anything new still to be discovered in Art, and what the point is anymore. I say that, an artist is not here to calculate, analyse, or persuade. We are here to feel, resonate, and create. If there’s already space for my flesh body to stay here, there must be space for my creation - the extension of my existence to live on. Then he asked who gets to be called an artist? So I asked who gets to be called the judge.
I stood up and squeezed pass him to brush my teeth. As the feeling of the statelessness traveling on flights always makes you pounder, a rush of thoughts flooded my veins. It was the determination that I am going to live, in the name of art. It had never hit me so clear and thorough, reminded me the one time I’ve snorted coke, instead, a fat line of the cold air in the deep night of the siberian sky this time.
Then there came my realisation that maybe, my love to my men, my women, are essentially my devotion towards art, through the hands of my freedom. So as we all know, a woman like this, is always perceived, as a bitch.
A bitch, with mental disorders, who behaves hysterically through stillness to fuel her freedom to feel, I say is a real lady who speaks the words of truth, in style. She wears those diseases as the perfectly balanced pearls and chains on her flat chest. The bitch came here to feel, falls in love, deep and hard, then she sways away, forever leaving a dimmed candle light in the cave of your heart. Her life is as such, for her love comes from the embrace of the eternal loneliness of death. Can you resonate with this love? Eventually, she would’ve lived as art.
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