關於 painting for study room ，我們在網路上蒐集到這些相關的討論、資訊與評價

【Non-Confined Space 非/密閉空間】首張專輯《Flow, Gesture, and Spaces》Bandcamp已經上架，附上英文版的介紹。

Between the spheres of free improvisation, jazz, trap, and musique concrète, lies Non-Confined Space. The name of this Taipei-based duo – saxophone polyglot Minyen Hsieh and audiovisual electronica experimentalist Ge-Chun Cheng (aka Sonic Deadhorse) – aptly describes their approach to exploring the fertile space they find themselves in. Drawing inspiration from their differing musical approaches and worlds, plus energy from the lively Taiwanese music scene, Non-Confined Space is a bold and future-facing hybrid. Cheng deploys piles of samples alongside Hsieh’s versatile saxophone, resculpting the results into a sublime and boldly experimental debut album of beats and processed improvisations unlike anything you’ve heard before.

Taking its title from a philosophical textbook about free-jazz, Flow, Gesture, and Spaces is a revelatory introduction to the duo, mixing the utterly free improvisations of their live shows (exemplified with spontaneous straight-to-tape takes on two of the album’s ten tracks) with an approach to studio composition inspired by the philosophy of improvisation. Basic outlines – often borrowing chord movements from the likes of Coltrane and Wayne Shorter, or pulling beats from Cheng’s huge library – would be cut loose in studio sessions, later augmented by psychedelic post-production. Utilizing methodology from the eponymous book, Flow, Gesture, and Spaces is nonetheless based on “simple elements” as the duo put it, “rhythm, intervals, timbre, and energy.

As a pairing, Non-Confined Space seem to come from polar opposite ends of the spectrum, musically. Performing professionally since the age of 19, Minyen Hsieh first picked up the saxophone back in high school, going on to study with local jazz musicians, and eventually studying the instrument at Koninklijk Conservatorium in Brussels. He’s since made a vast array of music, from traditional swing to the loosened bop of his debut solo album Firry Path, and collaborations with pianist Shih-Yang Lee and legendary Japanese free-drummer Sabu Toyozumi. Non-Confined Space is Hsieh’s first deep foray into the art of electronic processing.

Ge-Chun Cheng’s primary solo project since 2007 has been Sonic Deadhorse. A sample-hungry outfit blending the “indulgence of the 70s, melancholy of the 80s, nihilism of the 90s, and isolation of the new century”, the project has produced a wide-range of sounds from post-Flying Lotus fusion beats to wild live performances of a club-influenced mix of post-rock, dubstep, and chiptune (documented on a 2016 live set for Boiler Room). Working as something of a one-man band has left autodidact Cheng well prepared to not only match the classically trained Hsieh, but to push his partner into wild new directions. “I can always get organic feedback and responses from Minyen,” explains Cheng. “It makes me want to put more elements and processing into the music, and to change style more often.”

Since first meeting at a jam session in Taipei City, Non-Confined Spaces have evolved into an improv outfit for the 21st century, as indebted to Aphex Twin and Squarepusher as they are to Archie Shepp and Sun Ra. The road to Flow, Gesture, and Spaces has seen the duo play for dance performances, visual exhibitions, and even live-painting. Their own live shows also include various interactive and audiovisual elements, consistently focusing in on those three core elements checked in the album’s title. Non-Confined Spaces is a project far from tied down, flirting with bass-heavy tropicalia on ‘Serotonin Cell’, psychedelic post-Madlib hip-hop on ‘Melodic Gesture’, and noisy electrified free jazz on ‘Entropy’. The latter is one of two live takes featuring drummer Weichung Lin and keyboardist YuYing Hsu – allies from the Taiwan scene – capturing the explosive spontaneity and uncannily wonky sounds of this unique duo reconstructing samples live on the spot. Flow, Gesture, and Spaces is a true journey into the heart of the unknown.

Tristan Bath

【辯證堪輿學】
Becky Soh knew of me through Renotalk. She was looking for a Feng Shui practitioner for her new home renovations, and was recommended to look for me.

As with many people, Becky too wish for good health, wealth, smooth sailing life and happiness after moving into the house.

Becky went on to ask me a series of questions. I think the answers would be useful for my readers.

Thank you to Becky for her gracious permission to share them here.

Here are some of them ~

I told Becky that I do not encourage hacking of kitchen walls and room walls. Reason being such hacking cause upheaval in marriage harmony and health issues. Sometimes it also affects pregnancy. Hence if that is what she prefer, I may not be the right Feng Shui consultant for her.

Q1.
Becky:
We are considering hacking a wall between MBR and common BR to enlarge the MBR. This is also considered not favorable from your perspective?

Me:
To be more specific, this will depend on the Luo Pan directions, whether it is favourable.
I would also suggest keeping a room as a study/work room, for yourself or your children. And not work in an open area like the living room.

。

Q2.
Becky:
May I know what kind of advice will you give during the audit? Like arrangement of furniture? Need to sleep in the correct room? facing the correct direction?

Me:
I will cover all that, plus also the most auspicious colours, based on the Bazi and Feng Shui needs of your house.
I will also give the auspicious dates for major home events like
• Renovation
• Setting of stove
• Setting of Wealth Storage （安財位）
• Placement of bed （安床)
• Move-in
I do not sell or encourage Feng Shui ornaments btw.

。

Q3.
Becky:
Do you strictly advocate arranging beds or study tables in order to tap into good directions? Do you also go out of the building and check the surrounding?

Me:
I would have checked the surroundings before I come up to your unit. That is my usual practice.

I would then tell the clients the pros and cons, if any.

I leave it to my clients whether they wish to adhere to my recommendations. But every recommendation I give, I would explain why, so that the clients are aware of what they are doing and not just blindly following my words.

If the clients have other preferences, they are most welcome to voice out and I will evaluate for them on the spot the Feng Shui impact.

At the end of the day, if clients choose to do otherwise, and do not achieve their goals of wealth, marriage harmony, career growth etc, at least they know how they have compromised on themselves in terms of Feng Shui, and not think that Feng Shui is ineffective.

。

Q4.
Becky:
Do we need to do annual audit after this first audit?

Me:
The Nine Flying Stars fly into different directions every year.
These stars bring about good things like Wealth luck, benefactors, descendants and Peach Blossom luck. At the same time, they also ignite conflicts, illness, mishaps etc.

So yes, an annual audit is to ensure that the occupants are ready to tap on the good energies and avoid the bad.

But don't worry, this doesn't call for major works like renovation, room changing, painting etc.

Sometimes after a year, the clients may have added things or remove things from the home. And certain things are done well or not so well, so an annual audit is like an annual medical check up for the home.

。

Q5.
Becky:
I have friends who did Feng Shui audit by other FSMs. Some of the advice include bedhead facing a diagonal corner of walls, saying that that is their best direction. is that real?

Me:
I have heard of such cases, but I don't subscribe to that school of Feng Shui.

I find it impractical and awkward. Most importantly, it doesn't help to achieve the desired Feng Shui results.

Nobody’s Fool　　( January 2011 )

Yoshitomo Nara

Do people look to my childhood for sources of my imagery? Back then, the snow-covered fields of the north were about as far away as you could get from the rapid economic growth happening elsewhere. Both my parents worked and my brothers were much older, so the only one home to greet me when I got back from elementary school was a stray cat we’d taken in. Even so, this was the center of my world. In my lonely room, I would twist the radio dial to the American military base station and out blasted rock and roll music. One of history’s first man-made satellites revolved around me up in the night sky. There I was, in touch with the stars and radio waves.

It doesn’t take much imagination to envision how a lonely childhood in such surroundings might give rise to the sensibility in my work. In fact, I also used to believe in this connection. I would close my eyes and conjure childhood scenes, letting my imagination amplify them like the music coming from my speakers.

But now, past the age of fifty and more cool-headed, I’ve begun to wonder how big a role childhood plays in making us who we are as adults. Looking through reproductions of the countless works I’ve made between my late twenties and now, I get the feeling that childhood experiences were merely a catalyst. My art derives less from the self-centered instincts of childhood than from the day-to-day sensory experiences of an adult who has left this realm behind. And, ultimately, taking the big steps pales in importance to the daily need to keep on walking.

While I was in high school, before I had anything to do with art, I worked part-time in a rock café. There I became friends with a graduate student of mathematics who one day started telling me, in layman’s terms, about his major in topology. His explanation made the subject seem less like a branch of mathematics than some fascinating organic philosophy. My understanding is that topology offers you a way to discover the underlying sameness of countless, seemingly disparate, forms. Conversely, it explains why many people, when confronted with apparently identical things, will accept a fake as the genuine article. I later went on to study art, live in Germany, and travel around the world, and the broader perspective I’ve gained has shown me that topology has long been a subtext of my thinking. The more we add complexity, the more we obscure what is truly valuable. Perhaps the reason I began, in the mid-90s, trying to make paintings as simple as possible stems from that introduction to topology gained in my youth.

As a kid listening to U.S. armed-forces radio, I had no idea what the lyrics meant, but I loved the melody and rhythm of the music. In junior high school, my friends and I were already discussing rock and roll like credible music critics, and by the time I started high school, I was hanging out in rock coffee shops and going to live shows. We may have been a small group of social outcasts, but the older kids, who smoked cigarettes and drank, talked to us all night long about movies they’d seen or books they’d read. If the nighttime student quarter had been the school, I’m sure I would have been a straight-A student.

In the 80s, I left my hometown to attend art school, where I was anything but an honors student. There, a model student was one who brought a researcher’s focus to the work at hand. Your bookshelves were stacked with catalogues and reference materials. When you weren’t working away in your studio, you were meeting with like-minded classmates to discuss art past and present, including your own. You were hoping to set new trends in motion. Wholly lacking any grand ambition, I fell well short of this model, with most of my paintings done to satisfy class assignments. I was, however, filling every one of my notebooks, sketchbooks, and scraps of wrapping paper with crazy, graffiti-like drawings.

Looking back on my younger days—Where did where all that sparkling energy go? I used the money from part-time jobs to buy record albums instead of art supplies and catalogues. I went to movies and concerts, hung out with my girlfriend, did funky drawings on paper, and made midnight raids on friends whose boarding-room lights still happened to be on. I spent the passions of my student days outside the school studio. This is not to say I wasn’t envious of the kids who earned the teachers’ praise or who debuted their talents in early exhibitions. Maybe envy is the wrong word. I guess I had the feeling that we were living in separate worlds. Like puffs of cigarette smoke or the rock songs from my speaker, my adolescent energies all vanished in the sky.

Being outside the city and surrounded by rice fields, my art school had no art scene to speak of—I imagined the art world existing in some unknown dimension, like that of TV or the movies. At the time, art could only be discussed in a Western context, and, therefore, seemed unreal. But just as every country kid dreams of life in the big city, this shaky art-school student had visions of the dazzling, far-off realm of contemporary art. Along with this yearning was an equally strong belief that I didn’t deserve admittance to such a world. A typical provincial underachiever!

I did, however, love to draw every day and the scrawled sketches, never shown to anybody, started piling up. Like journal entries reflecting the events of each day, they sometimes intersected memories from the past. My little everyday world became a trigger for the imagination, and I learned to develop and capture the imagery that arose. I was, however, still a long way off from being able to translate those countless images from paper to canvas.

Visions come to us through daydreams and fantasies. Our emotional reaction towards these images makes them real. Listening to my record collection gave me a similar experience. Before the Internet, the precious little information that did exist was to be found in the two or three music magazines available. Most of my records were imported—no liner notes or lyric sheets in Japanese. No matter how much I liked the music, living in a non-English speaking world sadly meant limited access to the meaning of the lyrics. The music came from a land of societal, religious, and subcultural sensibilities apart from my own, where people moved their bodies to it in a different rhythm. But that didn’t stop me from loving it. I never got tired of poring over every inch of the record jackets on my 12-inch vinyl LPs. I took the sounds and verses into my body. Amidst today’s superabundance of information, choosing music is about how best to single out the right album. For me, it was about making the most use of scant information to sharpen my sensibilities, imagination, and conviction. It might be one verse, melody, guitar riff, rhythmic drum beat or bass line, or record jacket that would inspire me and conjure up fresh imagery. Then, with pencil in hand, I would draw these images on paper, one after the other. Beyond good or bad, the pictures had a will of their own, inhabiting the torn pages with freedom and friendliness.

By the time I graduated from university, my painting began to approach the independence of my drawing. As a means for me to represent a world that was mine and mine alone, the paintings may not have been as nimble as the drawings, but I did them without any preliminary sketching. Prizing feelings that arose as I worked, I just kept painting and over-painting until I gained a certain freedom and the sense, though vague at the time, that I had established a singular way of putting images onto canvas. Yet, I hadn’t reached the point where I could declare that I would paint for the rest of my life.

After receiving my undergraduate degree, I entered the graduate school of my university and got a part-time job teaching at an art yobiko—a prep school for students seeking entrance to an art college. As an instructor, training students how to look at and compose things artistically, meant that I also had to learn how to verbalize my thoughts and feelings. This significant growth experience not only allowed me to take stock of my life at the time, but also provided a refreshing opportunity to connect with teenage hearts and minds.

And idealism! Talking to groups of art students, I naturally found myself describing the ideals of an artist. A painful experience for me—I still had no sense of myself as an artist. The more the students showed their affection for me, the more I felt like a failed artist masquerading as a sensei (teacher). After completing my graduate studies, I kept working as a yobiko instructor. And in telling students about the path to becoming an artist, I began to realize that I was still a student myself, with many things yet to learn. I felt that I needed to become a true art student. I decided to study in Germany. The day I left the city where I had long lived, many of my students appeared on the platform to see me off.

Life as a student in Germany was a happy time. I originally intended to go to London, but for economic reasons chose a tuition-free, and, fortunately, academism-free German school. Personal approaches coexisted with conceptual ones, and students tried out a wide range of modes of expression. Technically speaking, we were all students, but each of us brought a creator’s spirit to the fore. The strong wills and opinions of the local students, though, were well in place before they became artists thanks to the German system of early education. As a reticent foreign student from a far-off land, I must have seemed like a mute child. I decided that I would try to make myself understood not through words, but through having people look at my pictures. When winter came and leaden clouds filled the skies, I found myself slipping back to the winters of my childhood. Forgoing attempts to speak in an unknown language, I redoubled my efforts to express myself through visions of my private world. Thinking rather than talking, then illustrating this thought process in drawings and, finally, realizing it in a painting. Instead of defeating you in an argument, I wanted to invite you inside me. Here I was, in a most unexpected place, rediscovering a value that I thought I had lost—I felt that I had finally gained the ability to learn and think, that I had become a student in the truest sense of the word.

But I still wasn’t your typical honors student. My paintings clearly didn’t look like contemporary art, and nobody would say my images fit in the context of European painting. They did, however, catch the gaze of dealers who, with their antennae out for young artists, saw my paintings as new objects that belonged less to the singular world of art and more to the realm of everyday life. Several were impressed by the freshness of my art, and before I knew it, I was invited to hold exhibitions in established galleries—a big step into a wider world.

The six years that I spent in Germany after completing my studies and before returning to Japan were golden days, both for me and my work. Every day and every night, I worked tirelessly to fix onto canvas all the visions that welled up in my head. My living space/studio was in a dreary, concrete former factory building on the outskirts of Cologne. It was the center of my world. Late at night, my surroundings were enveloped in darkness, but my studio was brightly lit. The songs of folk poets flowed out of my speakers. In that place, standing in front of the canvas sometimes felt like traveling on a solitary voyage in outer space—a lonely little spacecraft floating in the darkness of the void. My spaceship could go anywhere in this fantasy while I was painting, even to the edge of the universe.

Suddenly one day, I was flung outside—my spaceship was to be scrapped. My little vehicle turned back into an old concrete building, one that was slated for destruction because it was falling apart. Having lost the spaceship that had accompanied me on my lonely travels, and lacking the energy to look for a new studio, I immediately decided that I might as well go back to my homeland. It was painful and sad to leave the country where I had lived for twelve years and the handful of people I could call friends. But I had lost my ship. The only place I thought to land was my mother country, where long ago those teenagers had waved me goodbye and, in retrospect, whose letters to me while I was in Germany were a valuable source of fuel.

After my long space flight, I returned to Japan with the strange sense of having made a full orbit around the planet. The new studio was a little warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo, in an area dotted with rice fields and small factories. When the wind blew, swirls of dust slipped in through the cracks, and water leaked down the walls in heavy rains. In my dilapidated warehouse, only one sheet of corrugated metal separated me from the summer heat and winter cold. Despite the funky environment, I was somehow able to keep in midnight contact with the cosmos—the beings I had drawn and painted in Germany began to mature. The emotional quality of the earlier work gave way to a new sense of composure. I worked at refining the former impulsiveness of the drawings and the monochromatic, almost reverent, backgrounds of the paintings. In my pursuit of fresh imagery, I switched from idle experimentation to a more workmanlike approach towards capturing what I saw beyond the canvas.

Children and animals—what simple motifs! Appearing on neat canvases or in ephemeral drawings, these figures are easy on the viewers’ eyes. Occasionally, they shake off my intentions and leap to the feet of their audience, never to return. Because my motifs are accessible, they are often only understood on a superficial level. Sometimes art that results from a long process of development receives only shallow general acceptance, and those who should be interpreting it fail to do so, either through a lack of knowledge or insufficient powers of expression. Take, for example, the music of a specific era. People who lived during this era will naturally appreciate the music that was then popular. Few of these listeners, however, will know, let alone value, the music produced by minor labels, by introspective musicians working under the radar, because it’s music that’s made in answer to an individual’s desire, not the desires of the times. In this way, people who say that “Nara loves rock,” or “Nara loves punk” should see my album collection. Of four thousand records there are probably fewer than fifty punk albums. I do have a lot of 60s and 70s rock and roll, but most of my music is from little labels that never saw commercial success—traditional roots music by black musicians and white musicians, and contemplative folk. The spirit of any era gives birth to trends and fashions as well as their opposite: countless introspective individual worlds. A simultaneous embrace of both has cultivated my sensibility and way of thinking. My artwork is merely the tip of the iceberg that is my self. But if you analyzed the DNA from this tip, you would probably discover a new way of looking at my art. My viewers become a true audience when they take what I’ve made and make it their own. That’s the moment the works gain their freedom, even from their maker.

After contemplative folk singers taught me about deep empathy, the punk rockers schooled me in explosive expression.

I was born on this star, and I’m still breathing. Since childhood, I’ve been a jumble of things learned and experienced and memories that can’t be forgotten. Their involuntary locomotion is my inspiration. I don’t express in words the contents of my work. I’ll only tell you my history. The countless stories living inside my work would become mere fabrications the moment I put them into words. Instead, I use my pencil to turn them into pictures. Standing before the dark abyss, here’s hoping my spaceship launches safely tonight….