Patterns have always interested me and pattern-making somehow lingers within my visual language. It could explain why I love the complex structures in Bach’s compositions or the serene metamorphoses that one senses in Steve Reich’s music. The concealed and the revealed are ideas that I relate to patterns as they create in-between spaces and points of negotiation that can potentially bridge polarities. It is a matter of utter delight for a viewer to be seduced by illusions, like Escher making us see birds and fish infinitely within each other, seeming to unify the sky and water. The famous jaalis of the Siddi Sayyed mosque in Ahmedabad and the exquisite collection at the Calico textile museum in the same city are again things I return to again and again. I can lose myself looking at an intricate trellis  or even an elaborate tile pattern. Do they conceal something unpleasant, or do they protect the vulnerable; does it bring light into darkness, or does it make us pause mid-way to lead us into a deeper contemplation through beauty? Here’s an interesting exhibition  at the Powerhouse museum in Sydney, that presents artworks by 130 artists from all over the world, using the repertoire of lace-making to explore their ideas.

Guernica – a magazine on art and politics features this poem amongst many others. Also read the interview with Israeli-born sculptor Tomer Sapir

Love Tokens
By Tran Da Tu translated from the Vietnamese by Linh Dinh

I’ll give you a roll of barbwire
A vine for this modern epoch
Climbing all over our souls
That’s our love, take it, don’t ask

I’ll give you a car bomb
A car bomb exploding on a crowded street
On a crowded street exploding flesh and bones
That’s our festival, don’t you understand

I’ll give you a savage war
In the land of so many mothers
Where our people eat bullets and bombs instead of rice
Where there aren’t enough banana leaves to string together
To replace mourning cloths for the heads of children

I’ll give you twenty endless years
Twenty years seven thousand nights of artillery
Seven thousand nights of artillery lulling you to sleep
Are you sleeping yet or are you still awake

On a hammock swinging between two smashed poles
White hair and whiskers covering up fifteen years
A river stinking of blood drowning the full moon
Where no sun could ever hope to rise

I’m still here, sweetie, so many love tokens
Metal handcuffs to wear, sacks of sand for pillows
Punji sticks to scratch your back, fire hoses to wash your face
How do we know which gift to send each other
And for how long until we get sated

Lastly, I’ll give you a tear gas grenade
A tear gland for this modern epoch
A type of tear neither sad nor happy
Drenching my face as I wait.

Saigon, 1964