Photographs – stories and more.

With a SLR in hand, I feel an aura of invincibility brimming from within –

You see, for someone illiterate with a paint brush—or any drawing device for that matter—the camera is a saving grace fallen from the heaven of heavens.  I do not consider myself a complete philistine, but I have, by cruel fate, been precluded from the artistic talents that propelled my mother and siblings to neat careers in arts in design; when my elementary school buddies drew vivid 3-dimensional portraits of the girls in their dreams, I gave life to hideously disproportional creatures that resembled crosses between Mr. Potato Head and Stick Man.  Well, if they looked like creatures at all.

I was given my first camera at the age of twelve, prior to attending a summer camp in Pebble Beach, CA; it was a Yashica FX3 super, an economic manual SLR that came with a plastic 50mm lens.  It was the most bare-bone model that one could find on the back shelves of stores; but for me, it was an instrument of pulchritude and the best thing that occurred to me outside of the girl who took my virginity.  It became an extension of me in the twelve years that followed, channeling the wee bits of creativity that I never knew I had.  It recorded my first dark-room photograph, and the best projects I have produced; it captured moments I still cherish and, well, moments I would not tell you about even if I had to wrestle a hippo.

The slew of things that a camera can be is more than awe-inspiring.  Depending on the context, images it produces ranges from art, corroboratory evidence, documentaries, decoration, escape, fantasy, portraits, postcards, snapshots of life, tabloid, voyeurism, to visual information source, and proof to your anxious mother that your boy/girlfriend is not an ogre.  It is the multi-purpose Swiss Army Knife of imagery, providing its operator countless means to indulge his/her senses and vices, while serving as a utilitarian tool for a variety of setups.  Like other photo heads, the camera has become my long-time companion in both play and work.  Through images of people and structures I find beauty, and through beauty I learn of urban forms and social dynamics that exist within them.

I write this as I give my Yashica a rebirth.  For three years I have come to rely on digital cameras that, while error-proof, fun and versatile, do not possess the same lush, mechanic clicking sound when I press on the trigger.  As great as digital images can be, they do not quite rival the occasionally grainy poetry yielded by a treasure-box armed with T-Max 100 film and a 50mm lens – Just ask Nickie.

Languages: between the lines.

While listening to a story about the revival of the Ukrainian language (naturally, in ex-soviet Ukraine) on the radio today, I was reminded of the immeasurable importance of the media we express ourselves in. I have always been fascinated by languages, amassing casual knowledge of three or four on top of my native Cantonese; the prospect of communicating with people from opposite ends of the globe was just too tempting to resist. Like other self-proclaimed enthusiasts, I typically view languages as vehicles of verbal and written exchanges, with the potential to be morphed into beautiful, eloquent art forms. But they are a lot more.

To the more inclined, languages provide direct links to cultures’ history, roots and particularities. They are also viewed as integral parts of people’s identity, and have often occupied the center stages of political contentions. Unfortunately, depending on geographic whereabouts and the socio-political contexts of the regions concerned, they can also form grounds for discrimination. By imposing—to varying extents—their mother tongues on colonial subjects, imperialists from the 17th to the 20th centuries (the Belgians, British, Dutch, French, Japanese, Portuguese, Russians and Spanish) not only sowed the seeds of modern global commerce and diplomacy, but also forever changed local and regional concepts about class and social dynamics: in many ex-colonies, the upper strata take pride in their mastery of the colonizers’ languages, while those who rely on indigenous dialects are often poor or despised upon. And I have yet to mention the tragic losses of entire traditional writing systems—Mayan variations, Vietnamese and Tagalog just to name a few.

The esoteric relationship between the Eastern Bloc and the Russian language has long been noted by casual observers and pundits alike. Although many ex-satellite states have reinstated their indigenous tongues as national official languages following the USSR’s dissolution, Russian still dominated daily affairs for much of the past twenty years, and was viewed by many as the language of sophistication; after all, decades of Soviet rule had left its marks. This, however, is changing. According to Kiev-based journalist Brigid McCarthy, Ukrainian is making a strong resurgence in the midst of Viktor Yuschenko’s movement to strengthen Ukraine’s national identity; it has become the language of choice of recording artists, and is considered fashionable by younger generations. What is interesting though, as McCarthy notes, is Russian’s persistent prominence due to the region’s cultural and political landscape; combined with the re-burgeoning Ukrainian influences, a peculiar cultural phenomenon arises. It has become commonplace to see soap and film characters converse in an amalgamation of Russian and Ukrainian. Subsequently, ordinary Ukrainians have become the products of Ukraine’s past and present; despite of their disdain for Russia and the country’s soviet ties, they have embraced facets of the Russian language as their own.

The circumstances of Ukraine is just one of many examples of what is happening worldwide. As nations and localities continue to engage in the tug-of-wars of identities, I am reminded of the role played by the various facets of languages—languages, dialects, accents, vernaculars—in the debates, or worse, conflicts at hand. Does it alter my desire to learn new languages? Hardly, but I may think twice about the meaning behind my language acquisition, and practice them with care, thought and sensitivity.

For this week’s fun edition of “The World in Words”, check http://www.theworld.org/

Fog. A tribute to Halloween and Los Angeles.

The Westside of Los Angeles has been hit by an unexpected tide of fog that is only seen in Harry Potter sets. For once, the rollicking waves that bombard against the vast shoreline were invisible from the bike trail; I could hear them, smell them, feel them, just not see them. To confirm my distance from the waters, I had to rely on the sight of seagull friends who in the past only approached me opportunistically, or rather, predatorily, for the salami sandwich clasped firmly in my hand.

I welcome the fog that comes once in a blue moon; venturing through these dense white veils of water dew offers opportunities aplenty to open my floodgate of creative juices, and to escape from the duress and stress of daily living. Depending on my whereabouts—urban jungle, the woods or wherever it may be—each experience is worthy of its own tale. On the streets of Los Angeles, ordinary pedestrians emerge from nothingness like the princes of darkness, with their silhouettes shimmering in and out of the mist from afar; I suppose when J.K. Rowling wrote about “Death Eaters” in her epic stories, she had something in mind that resembled what I described. Of course, being in flick country, there is always the off-chance that the poor slob I cross path with did actually play a Death Eater in the films.

Driving in the fog can be as hazardous as it is fun. I gaze out to the murky orbs of orange light that line up the oft-congested roads, imagining that they are the flickering candles of pilgrim horse-carriages on their way to the land of divinity and truth. As I run away in my quasi-mythical-medieval fantasy, an incessant screech brings my holy pilgrimage to an abrupt halt; it is not a witch’s battle cry, but a motor vehicle’s devil of a horn alerting me of the green light ahead – after all, I am in buzz-friendly Los Angeles. In many ways, for those of us who reside in concrete metropolises, aren’t we all running around in circles searching for our own sanctums of divinity and truth?

The invisible shoreline and the seagull friend.

The public dilemma: me vs. the collective.

I was struck by a piece of news while listening to the NPR today: state and local judicial systems across the nation are confronting a shortage of jurors in the midst of tough economic times. This inevitably raises an age-old dilemma that has thinkers of different realms scratching their scalps and is confronted by ordinary citizens on a daily basis.

Most of us—barring the possibility that any readers are hardliners from the libertarian and republican schools of thought—have been indoctrinated with the concept that ‘the individual serves the collective, while the collective serves the individual’; this idea of reciprocation has long been an undisputable tenet that underlies the relationship between us and our governments and forms the fabric of our communities. We obey laws, pay taxes, and participate through voting (if democratic in any form) and other media of civic engagement, while the public sector provides us with access to basic amenities of health, welfare, and safety. Yet this usually-taken-for-granted assumption comes under siege in times of flux; when both the individual and the collective are hurting, what gives?

Despite recent news of economic recoveries, improvements have been slow to trickle down in the form of jobs. States such as California and Illinois are still seeing unemployment rates upwards of 10 percent and many of those employed have seen their benefits, hours, and salaries trimmed. Unlike most in the past, who skirted civic duties due to a mixture of ambivalence and inconvenience (sadly, I am guilty as charged), those who ask for jury responsibility postponements nowadays are handcuffed by the dwindling economic reality – taking any days off work can be costly. The fact that most courts pay a measly per-diem of twenty-two dollars or less does not help the matter.

This challenge of declining civic engagement is not only hindering the judicial system, but is also manifesting in other facets of societies. Since the financial tsunami hit in the middle of last year, the United States and elsewhere have witnessed dramatic declines in levels of volunteerism, with the popularity of taxes reaching new lows. As I have come to learn of the importance of civic participation, I typically argue that these are the kinds of times when altruistic acts of citizenry can make a difference; after all, without public involvement, the communities that we ourselves reside in would disintegrate. Yet who can deny an individual’s right to fight for his / her family’s minimal well-being?

This taxing puzzle is faced by many communities across the board and will likely remain unsolved in the foreseeable future. Governments may want to devise more palatable incentives to encourage public participation, but for the meanwhile, those who can afford the effort and time—like myself—should give a little bit extra to the sustenance of communal goods and services. That is the least we can do.

Want to waltz with these guys?

Rain.

Drip, drap. Hearing raindrops during the steaming months of Los Angeles is as rare as hearing donkeys’ grunting on the streets in New York. I apparently heard donkey’s grunting over the last few days, or rather, witnessed some consecutive days of downpour that had Angelinos throwing their four limbs, twenty digits and themselves in the air.

While many Californians immerse themselves in what they conceive to be the ultimate variation of weather conditions, I openly weep together with the grey fluffy stuff that lies on top of our domes. My inner sanctum feels deprived, drenched and wretched in the rain, as my brains, heart and sun-starved skin uniformly yearn for the unadulterated blue sky that makes California legendary. When will I get to ride my bike? How am I going to get that bronzed backside to show others? Where did I stash that quickly-disintegrating-due-to-non-use umbrella? Rainy days are marked in my calendar as official brooding days, in which I am allowed to devour three cases of brownies while telling others I ate omlettes of worms prepared by my mother.

But then I realize the importance of rainfall in an arid region that is plagued by years of draught and observable layers of contaminants in the air. I also realize that it is god’s antidote to the ever spreading flames that are rapidly ravaging the state’s already-shrinking range of vegetation. It is perhaps ok to embrace rain; after all, a few dog days during the year is a healthy way to remain human. Not to mention that heart-warming glisten of rain drops beneath the sun. If only we can shift some thunder storms from flood-prone Asia this way, and to other regions hampered by draughts. If only we can ship George Bush and his crew to the black hole as a deal to reverse the intensifying trend of extreme weathers. If only…

These guys can use some help.

The ocean knows.

As many complaints as I have about Los Angeles and its imperfections, they melt away the instant I step on its portion of the pacific coastline during the early evening hours. The scenic composition of the famed Santa Monica State Beach has long casted its spell on veteran Angelinos and fresh-faced tourists alike, and inspired dozens of epic and small-time Hollywood cinematic creations. With the setting evening sun caressing my face with radiant-yet-gentle rays of gold, and amorous, balmy sea breezes blessing my sense of smell and skin, I begin to comprehend this mystical obsession that believers have for Los Angeles: it is not about the movie industry, it is not about Disneyland. It is the vast and sandy beaches that look like ribbons of gold in aerial maps, and the Ocean that lies contiguous to them. The beaches inspired the inception of the movie kingdom, and they inspired Mickey to bring his “happily ever after” friends here.

I curse at the coastline as I ride my bike down the Melvin Barnes trail, “how dare you lay your claims on me when I am determined to leave this patchworked city of dichotomy!” Like those who tried to brave the path before me and struggled, I am entranced, hooked and entangled in a web of sand that feigns the tender loving care expressed by a mother’s embrace.

My will to leave Los Angeles remains firm and unshakable, but I will leave with a mark in my memory bank, one left by the oh so sweet shoreline of Southern California.

A California special.

可喜可賀: 用中文寫作. Let’s recover the roots: a forray into Chinese writing.

我剛滿二十七歲, 自離開香港到現在少說也有＋五年, 當中用中文認真寫作的機會可謂近乎於零. 雖然一直也嘗試保留閱讀中文書籍的良好習慣, 但不知不覺間很多常用字莫名奇妙的從腦袋蒸發了; 就像把基本語文知識還給了老師般, 一去不復返. 前天心血來潮, 把我廣州之行的一些趣事發表在網上, 結果給老娘笑了個面黃. “錯別字甚多. 臘肉不是用蠟造的.” 老媽, 懇請你不要挖苦我, 尊嚴這東西可是很脆弱的.

雖然在這期間我的英語及西班牙文水平也算突飛猛進, 但自身的中國語文能力點滴流失畢竟還是非常可惜. 這次暑假有機會到國內考察三次, 燃燒起對中文寫作的興趣. 起碼, 能用自己的家鄉話描繪喜愛的美食 (如乳豬, 燒鴨, 叉燒), 會讓生活增添不少情趣.

今天下午到灣仔２９８電腦商場買下小蒙恬書寫板一塊; 知道今後能執筆用中文暢所欲言, 大樂.

As I turned 27 a week ago, I came to the stunning realization that it has been fifteen years since I wrote Chinese in a serious manner (I was packed and banished to the gulag at 12). Fifteen years, equivalent to 105 years of aging in dogs, is a long, long time; long enough for me to forget many basic characters utilized in the everyday Chinese language. Perhaps some of you would remember the irrelevant, tedious calculus classes you took during the first year of uni: whatever material taught during lectures entered your left ear, then exit the right. That is somewhat akin to my knowledge of Chinese – it evaporated without a trace, just like the soap. Simply put, I don’t think I make Confucius proud.

Although my English and Spanish abilities improved drastically in this time frame, losing mastery of one’s native tongue is always a shamockery (i.e. shame + mockery). I have had the opportunity to visit the motherland three times during my eight-week sojourn in Hong Kong; some good times and feasting later, I realized the importance of retaining my Chinese composition skills. At least, the ability to vividly depict beloved food items (roast duck, roast pork, wontons etc.) in the mother tongue should add joy aplenty to my life.

I wandered into the mall this afternoon to purchase myself a brand spanking new Chinese input tablet. The chance to regain–and for those of you who don’t speak it, gain– mastery over this language of two billion should be well embraced.

Yes, I might have forgotten some of these too.

與廣州結下情缘.

我老爸祖籍廣東台山，母親是江浙人氏。娘雖在台北長大，其實對上海文化還是廷偏心的；還記得小時候她跟我們三姊弟說‘廣東在古代只不過是南蠻地帶罷了’。可能是受了娘親影響吧，雖然一家人之間一直也主要以廣東話作交談，我不知不覺間變得較崇尚北方文化，而忽略對自身家鄉的了解。更甚，覺得南粤一帶只不過是香港文化的附屬地。說到底，自己認識的廣東歷史要人也莫過於孫中山，袁崇煥等寥寥數人而已，遠不及山東及江南等地般人才輩出。這兩天到廣州一遊，才知道自己井底之蛙，對廣東文化未免是小看了。

今天午後冒雨到陳家祠觀光，發現經典嶺南建築雖沒有北京古城那種宏偉氣派，但優雅清静的格局卻能與江浙的小橋流水嫓美。深黑色的天花與橋樑，襯托着灰色圍牆和夾着翠綠的庭園，给剛從繁撓市面到訪的旅客一種脫俗的感覺。再加上彩色斑爛的屋簷雕刻訴說着中國燴炙人口的故事，令我在一小時內看了個飽。觀賞完畢，到祠對面的臘味小店吃一大碗香噴噴的燒肉飯；我想，在天堂享福也不過如此光境罷。

對自己家鄉的偏見，一掃而空。

廣州陳家祠. The temple of the Chen clan.

和尚,六榕寺.

地道粤式便宜菜款: 六元一碗澳門燒肉飯.

Noodles and I. 敘愛: 北京拉麵與我.

I never knew eating roast duck while watching the creation of handmade noodles can be such an once-in-a-lifetime experience. The honey-dripped, delicate duck skin slowly dissolves on the palette of the tongue while the chef bashes, smashes, and morphs a ball of dough into fine strands of noodles that put even the most alluring female hair to shame. Fold after fold, twist after twist, the amorphous flour ball becomes one with the magician in white garments. Chef and noodles, noodles and chef. Art in god’s eyes must resemble something like this, I think.

The finished product is even better. Fresh, chilled and powdery, these angelic white strings of life have driven the Asian race to years upon years of innovation, production and survival. Five minutes of bubbling in hot water followed by one in the drainer, and you are ready to sear the batch with a dash of sesame oil and scallions. The immaculate after-party to the Peking Duck’s royal carnival.

Ancestors, I marvel at your unparalleled genius. Art in god’s eyes? It is in mine. With the taste of love.

The Magician.

Love-hate relationships: Hong Kong.

Love-hate relationships. I am certain most of you are familiar with this term, perhaps a little more than desired. It goes something like this: you want to give that cute, spoilt prince/princess tender loving care when he/she puts up a smile, but break the bugger’s wrist when he/she throws a tantrum. Over the next couple days I am going to talk about two entities that fall into this category for me: Hong Kong, and change.

Hong Kong
Hong Kong for me is like a mother’s womb. It provides comfort, familiarity and warmth. When I return home, I have the family’s undivided attention and that same pillow I have sucked on for twenty years. I pig in an infinite selection of quality restaurants, cheap and expensive, and indulge in world-class services and transit options that make New York’s seem Jurassic-aged. Problem is, the city is too much like the said womb—at least in terms of climate. The temperature hovers consistently around 35 degrees Celsius, and humidity at 80 plus percent during the summer. Just ask Zenas what that means.

Hong Kong is also like that full-of-potential-but-constantly-underachieving brat you struggle to raise. You smack him once, you smack him twice but instead of learning, he turns around and gives a full moony that makes veins burst out of your forehead. Since I am immersed in the field of planning, I evaluate cities in terms of access, connectivity, cultural offerings, equity, quality of public spaces, walkability and all those other truths that urban planners typically spill. Hong Kong’s prospects don’t look too bright: Access yes. Cultural offerings, limited and diminishing. Equity, you kidding me? Public spaces, no no no no no. Walkbility, yes but deteriorating. I rage and rant to whichever poor slobs that cross my way, but it gets a worse each time I return; it has progressed from a moony to a moony and a finger.

Transportation planner Owen Thatcher pretty aptly describes Hong Kong as an “over commercialized” city populated with “podium development”. “Podium development”, exemplified by Elements in West Kowloon, has become the most common form of development in recent years. Characterized by residential high rises on vast platforms consisting of parking spaces and retail malls (http://www.globalphotos.org/hongkong/20070418/IMG_1816.jpg), these monstrous structures are constructed without regards to their surrounding communities and streets. As one podium development becomes connected to another by privately constructed, insulated hanging bridges (http://www.flickr.com/photos/hkdigit/1505597917/), Hong Kong’s roadways have become increasingly auto-oriented and less pedestrian friendly. Gone are the old days of public parks, flea markets, moms and pops stores and street chatters. Indoor shopping malls have become the only spaces for social interaction, and street levels have become filled with dead spaces; the city’s urban fabric is gradually torn apart by disconnect, single uses and siloed developments. Meanwhile, affordable housing is of zero concern to private sector developers as high-land value policies—grounded on speculation—remain in place. As all other comparable cities move ahead, Hong Kong regresses. I fear my hometown may forever fall behind.

A loving child/parent does not give up on his/her mess of a child/parent. My relationship to Hong Kong is the same. I continue to cajole and cuss it with the hope that it will change for the better. There is still hope. The city has a democratic platform that allows opposing voices to be heard; they just need to be better directed, stronger and more unified – this is where progressive developers, educators, legal experts, planners and policy makers can help. I can stand the womb-like conditions, I just don’t want to see no more exposed backsides.

Elements under attack.