I hate New York!

From the day I've stepped into the city, I've been feeling this way.

It has never left my mind, and never denied, except for a few minor surprises or some little goodness.

Eating brownies, or the dazzling lights of the Broadway, reduced my dislike of New York. It's like when I repeatedly write ‘I HATE NEW YORK’ on the blackboard, at the same time erasing it with a duster, but yet, traces of the words remain, as though I haven't had any intention to rub it off more forcefully and deliberately.

This is a very uninteresting game, where you cannot hide too far in, you cannot hide yourself completely, or camouflage yourself as any item in the darkness under the bed hoping that you won't be found, whilst listening to the noises outside, you feel safe as you hide.

All because, you want to be found, and this is no longer innocent child's play. You can recklessly hide, because of anger or simply because you wish to hide away with a friend, just the two of you. You can no longer do that! You must be found, and you must show yourself, and face the music!

This indeed, is no longer child's play.

Ever since I came to New York, I've unconsciously begun to force myself to get along with myself, and even though I’m pretty used to getting along with myself. From the time back in my home country, the solitary me, has been forced to go out and face plenty of things, and this had been repeating itself. And eventually, I took a 15-hour flight and arrived in New York, and I'm left with only myself. It is really a test of inner strength, when you're all alone, and the only thing you can rely on is the lingering scent of your home country that's left in your suitcases.

All I want to do is to curl up and sleep while embracing the scent, and even more often, I stay indoors, inside this so-called temporary apartment of mine. I confess about my initial insecurity. Amidst the noise that goes on every hour of the day, there is hardly any serenity, and any freedom to ponder. One thinks he can travel to many places, but the truth is, you can't. The so-called travelling, is merely a physical shift of territory, and subsequently imprisoning oneself again. Forgive my use of vocabulary – imprisoning.

I'm imprisoned. By myself, by words and speech, by this conformity of a life that isn't mine, by the responsibilities and obligations which I need to bear. I am imprisoned. I'm so perturbed in the winter of New York, that I can't even be sure of the magnitude of the effects that this major illness that I'm going through is bringing me.

I only recall the many feverish nights, dry-coughing, which kept me awake. I groaned with a slight growl, but still I can feel the trembles from the subway beneath my apartment.

And I saw a kid, facing me, all curled up, and watching me restlessly, or at least I think he's watching me!

Perhaps......his gaze isn't at all on me. He may be simply staring straight, as though a beast is approaching. Or like stealing glances curiously, or perhaps not. I am unable to interpret his feeling. The complexity is preventing him from focusing. It's a thought of speaking up, but he can't, except for the urge to speak up, displayed through the shivering of his lips.

How to work :

Kids are often the theme of my works. It is a habit that I find difficult to shake off. I always picture a child standing before me, like a story-teller, a character, and I let this child speak as I set a scene, time and space, but I'm always absent. Instead, I invite a narrator to narrate the storyline.

In this piece, I relate my emotions and thoughts of visiting New York for the first time, extracting directly the images from my mind.

I've selected 21 kids from various parts of New York, from Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens County, Bronx, each displaying a different face of New York, different family backgrounds. 21 kids to tell a tale – mine. I've always felt that digital imagery is a simplistic form of presentation, and this time, I've used digital pen to doodle on digital pictures, continuously overlaying the images in my head. The various layers are just like an oil painting, where layers and layers of paint go on a sheet of canvas.

This image is like a painting where the background colour has just been washed on, and I add on my emotions and instincts to the image, thereby presenting a seemingly familiar and warm, yet unfamiliar and chilling feeling.

Every kid hides in his own room, gazing the outside. He knows he cannot hide too deep in, he knows he has to be found, but the world outside scares him like dark shadows in his own room, as he sees the world with curiosity and apprehension at the same time, while waiting for something to happen, or waiting to make something to happen.

This is what I want to relate.