Guinevere/Guineverer
25 May 2012 @ 12:17 am


I forgot to mention yesterday that i'm planning on doing a watercolour every day for a week, so hopefully I do stick to it. Here's today's one, a fake potted plant in my parent's bathroom. It was quite fun doing this, I felt like I was bringing a new plant to life. I wanted to capture the fat roundness of the leaves, and had to figure out the shades of green. It's quite therapeutic! I did this listening to a bunch of SMAP songs while sitting in the airy bathroom.






The colours are a bit strange here because I finished the watercolour at night so I had to photograph it under fluorescent light which doesn't bring out the true colour much in photographs.
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Current Music: 夜空ノムコウ - スガシカオ
 
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
23 May 2012 @ 11:26 pm

I did a watercolour today:



I inked in the outline first, then coloured it in using watercolours.


I prefer painting while sitting on the floor, so this was my workspace.





It's inspired by a dream I had right before I woke up. Everything was in ruins around me - I was in some sort of war. I was telling a man it was alright, his children were safe. Then from behind us a giant fire ball rose - an explosion. From then on everything was in slow motion - I saw the flowering flames coming closer, and the people around me running. I turned to run too - grabbing the shirt of the man I was talking to. I closed my eyes as I felt my feet leave the ground, and we were airborne - then after what seemed a long time we were dropping back to the ground, a sickening feeling in my nose and head. I opened my eyes to find a piece of fabric in my left hand - all that's left of the man I was talking to.

Where there were ruins before, there was nothing left, except people crouched on the ground. My tongue was swollen in my mouth, and as I tried to talk, I spat out blood and grass. Then from a distance, a group of people started singing - Ah Tutti Contenti from the fourth act of Mozart's Mariage of Figaro. Realising that the man I was reassuring and my family was dead, I started to sob uncontrollably - until I woke up.
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
20 May 2012 @ 05:23 am
Written by Sherilyn Lim for English National Opera's Mini Opera script competition, based on Neil Gaiman's The Sweeper of Dreams.

Summary: The Dream Sweeper cautions the dreamer against recalling their dreams, but eventually leads them to his categorised archive of dreams. At the end he makes them forget again, because he must.

Toasted Rakes

Don't try to remember. But if you must -
Come with me, into the dead of night.

I am one of thousands.
You know us. You've always known.
It is not that we are hidden -
We are here.

When you wake up in the morning
Seeing your face in the mirror
You sense a flickering memory
That quickly fades.

Don't try to remember. But if you must -
Come with me, into the dead of night.

I have kept them here in wooden boxes
Neatly stacked behind bowls of tears
Nestled beside bottles of smells
It is not that I've hid it -
It is here.

Look through the view-master -
What do you see?
Feel the thunder upon cold glass -
What do you hear?

You try to remember. And so you must -
Come with me, into the dead of night.

I have your every dream in these boxes
Sorted alphabetically, numerically,
And colexicographically.

Does it come under Z for Xylophones,
K for Nettled Aunts?
B for Glowing Rabbits,
Or R for Crimson Blood?

Are they labeled Lisping Thespians,
University Captains,
Foundling giants,
Or Corrugated Dials?

And then you remember, because you must -
Talk with me, into the dead of night.

A whiff of dog you say? A candle burning bright?
A jet black pebble lying on a red-paved road?
You hear the growling echo of the hound in your mind
And you wonder: when will it be time?

Ah! Here it is, I've found it thus:
Darling citrus, Prancing lake,
Hushed animals, toasted rakes.
23 minutes and 7 seconds -
And you hear that sound of scuttling beetles.

You remember. And so you do.
Come with me, into the dead of night.

All this you will forget when you awake
Even now as you clutch your box of dreams.
When you try to remember
I will sweep them away
For fear you will never dream again.

Your tears continue to fall
Although you don't know why.
There whispering
My broom a-whispering
As you try to remember it all.
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
20 May 2012 @ 01:51 am

Desperado | Acoustic cover
 
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
15 May 2012 @ 03:19 am

As I plod along quite happily through my first few weeks of freedom from uni, I've been gorging myself on two of my favourite things: books and films. In the last week or so I've finished the hunger games trilogy (which dwindled to a disappointing end in the last book) and also The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams, which was very entertaining! I've still got a huge pile of books to get through, but let me talk about the latest one I've finished, just 15 minutes ago -


Enduring Love by Ian McEwan. What an amazing novel. It's been so long since i've read a book that completely blew my mind away. It's that kind of book that sets you thinking about aspects of life and psychology of humans, that you've never thought about before.

On the surface, the novel seems to revolve around a ballooning accident - what from the blurb and the fancy cover art (designed by an architecture firm, no less) it does give that impression. But it is much more about the complexities of human communication and our relationships with one another, when tossed into a psychological case of de Clerambault's syndrome. De clera-blah-wah? Well, it's a 'type of delusion in which the affected person believes that another person, usually a stranger, high-status or famous person, is in love with him or her.' [Wiki]

Having picked up The Daydreamer earlier as a tentative dip into McEwan's writing, I knew before I began Enduring Love that his writing is like no other - vivid, startlingly fresh and never bogged down by plot or an overload of details. But The Daydreamer was really just a teaser to the full prowess of his writing.

I know he's been around quite a long time, and a few of you out there might be rolling your eyes thinking 'this naive girl, going on and on about how brilliant his writing is - we know already!'. But forgive me! I've only found out about him recently.

From the very beginning of the novel, I was seduced into McEwan's narrative. Images, sounds, smells, entire scenes are conjured up in my mind in a matter of seconds as my eyes take in the words and my brain registers each detail. His use of foreshadowing casts a dreamlike quality over key moments in the novel - the balloon accident, then the incident in the restaurant. The last part where they have a picnic with Mrs Logan, is like a sigh of relief from the oppressive circumstances in the middle of the novel.

Then the little bits of description, where Joe Rose with his rational mind, takes on an almost holmesian attentiveness to articles of clothing and the depression of the bed where Clarissa lay, but not overshadowing the flow of the plot. Joe's description of the river to the children; the conversations about Keats and DNA over lunch; the elegant portrayal of Joe and Clarissa's emotional and physical relationship; the pondering insights to life as voiced by the characters through the first person narrative - every single bit of this book was such a joy to read.

The real thriller of this novel was how 80% of the time I doubted Joe's sanity. Even when Parry was on the phone with Clarissa, I thought he was imagining everything. Casting doubt in the audience/reader of the protagonist's sanity and integrity. It has probably been employed in many different narratives - Shutter Island, Inception, and even The Reichenbach Fall episode of Sherlock. But it is very effective, especially in this novel where psychiatry is involved. Another double-take awaits you at the end of the novel, with a psychiatric report on a similar 'real-life' case of de Clerambault's. A little googling later, I found out that it isn't actually a real report, and McEwan fooled a bunch of journalists and doctors.

I think - and this is my inner lit geek speaking - that the structure of the novel is 'circular' - in that the end and the beginning features a picnic. But probably what is more significant is the foreshadowing of the ballooning event and it's significance, makes it very natural for the reader to go back to the first page, and feel the goosebumps rise from reading the line: 'The beginning is simple to mark.'

A myriad of significances can be linked to the circular, no-end, no-beginning reading of the structure. The title Enduring Love is quite obvious, bearing connections to the enduring love of Parry who suffers from de clerambault's - and maybe Joe's enduring love for Clarissa, to fix their relationship.

Another is to look at the novel as a whole and realise the connections of fate and circumstance in altering our lives, how these are all interconnected ('THE INTERCONNECTEDNESS OF ALL THINGS!' - as Dirk Gently would exclaim.)

But quite simply I like how the narrative is retrospective. It's like the narrative was built from the inside out, which creates a reflective journey for the reader who can only 'travel' through the narrative from front to back, while the narrative voice takes control, pointing out significant moments in the timeline, then withdrawing at other parts to let the reader make up their own mind about the situation.

I really do recommend you to read it if you haven't, and I've also just realised through googling, that there was a movie made of this novel, so I'm going to watch that next.
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
14 May 2012 @ 03:06 pm

Here are some photos from last Friday, and under the cut are some food photos as well.



+++ )
 
 
Current Music: Muse - Stockholm Syndrome | Powered by Last.fm
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
12 May 2012 @ 02:05 am





A bitter wine\\
Soft blues and greens in a 50s frock, capped sleeves for the humid weather\\
Nestled in the crooked arm of a lover\\
'Fly the ocean in a silver plane, see the jungle wet with rain'\\
'Just remember till you're home again, you belong to me'\\
The music echoes far away, while the pair of figures\\
Bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun\\
Slowly oscillating\\
Framed by a white arch\\
And the twisting wrought iron stair\\

The frock fades, those red lips whisper\\
Goodbye\\
And the man's crooked arm is empty.\\

'Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle'\\
But alone, wrinkled\\
A tear appears\\
Rolling down the twisted wrought iron face\\
That turns to leave.
-~-

Written based on Hester and Freddie from The Deep Blue Sea by Terence Rattigan; I had this idea of a similar pair of lovers escaping to the crown colony of singapore in 1952, finding respite here in the tropics, described in the song You Belong To Me by Jo Stafford.

Having watched the 2011 film of The Deep Blue Sea recently, I was having a quiet rest at the National Museum of Singapore, when the song (which featured in the film) popped up in my head. It was perfect, somewhat dream-like, and probably too much of a romantic view of Singapore as a colony in the short period after world war 2, till independence in 1959.

Have some more photos of the museum. It is maybe my favourite place in Singapore after all. I might want to go back to read a book on one of the window sills, if the guards don't chase me out.


more photos )


Photography and poetry by GUINVR.
 
 
Current Music: Jo Stafford - You Belong To Me | Powered by Last.fm
 
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
05 May 2012 @ 04:03 am
53s  


53s of a thunderstorm in faux film noir style, complete with soundtrack.
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
04 May 2012 @ 04:27 am



now that was a fun song to cover!
 
 
Guinevere/Guineverer
26 April 2012 @ 11:53 pm

I've sung in a choir since secondary school, but I didn't know about Eric Whitacre until I was in Junior College. It was probably because he hasn't written a lot (or any?) pieces for a SAB (Soprano, Alto, Bass) choir, and my secondary school choir only had enough boys to make up a small Bass section, let alone a Tenor section to form a SATB choir.

When I encountered Eric Whitacre (not literally) for the first time, there was no face to his name, nor his voice, nor words in praise of the man through an article. In fact, I didn't even know his name. But it was an encounter of the most memorable kind.

In 2008, I applied for a place in Anderson Junior College. The only reason why I chose Anderson was because I knew they had a good choir under an excellent choral conductor. The first time I stepped into the school was to audition for a place in the choir.

I could have left after the auditions, but I decided to stay for their practice, standing beside my friend who was already in the choir. So there in that sunlit choir room overlooking the school field, I stood; shoulders brushing with other sopranos I haven't gotten to know yet. The room was a tad too small for a choir that size, but it didn't matter. It felt right. Quite suddenly, the chatter faded, and everyone faced the conductor. Scores ruffled, bodies postured, feet rooted slightly apart.

A collective breath - then -

The tiny, crowded choir room was filled with a golden sound, buzzing, humming as the voices formed the first few chords of the phrase that spoke of a darkness deeper than the darkest night you've ever seen, that glittered and gleamed with secrets, flitting. The voices of these people came together to form a architecture of sound that would and could only possibly make perfect sense, as it was a composition of sound that formed music of the purest kind, the kind that hits you like a wave, then dissolves over you as the next phrase formed.

I stood there in the soprano section, third row from the front, goosebumps rising up the back of my neck; I was absolutely overcome with emotion. I felt privileged to be standing in that room amongst such people, amongst such music.

At some point I think the conductor cut off the choir to work on the first section of the piece. I glanced at my friend's score, and there was his name at the top right corner of the score. But it didn't say anything, except that it seemed like a posh type of wafer biscuit. Biscuit or not, it didn't matter, because everything about him was already said through his music. That he was firstly a genius, and secondly a bloody genius, and thirdly - could the choir please start singing again?

After two years in that choir, I subsequently learned a few other pieces by Eric Whitacre together with that first piece I heard, and his music never fails to evoke wordless emotions in me.

3 weeks ago, Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir 3.0's performance of Water Night was released. I was part of the 3000+ strong choir, made up of people around the world, singing alone in their rooms. I'm so proud to be part of it.

He has inspired me to work towards being a composer, and while i'm no where near his level of genius (nor on any level that I could deserve being called a composer) I will tirelessly work and seek to learn how to write music with such sincerity and depth as he does.

Here is the first ever piece of work i've heard by Eric Whitacre, and also the first ever virtual choir i've been part of.