I've got to tell a ***damn story and
I didn't know where to start,
so I stole some words—words others
so cleverly placed next to one
and the other. I've got a list:

/Tower of Dreamers / People can die of broken hearts / It's the magical mystery kind / A remorseful organ thief / A drunken fish killer / A girl with gold doorknobs where her eyes used to be /

Ok, it's not exactly a list.

And I have some random thoughts...

— Never trust me with mornings /

I keep them wrapped under broken dreams

And will be later for lunch, than usual /

— I told them I am fond of words /

Truth is, I'd forgotten how to love them

and lost them on my way to you /

— About today:

1. All I could say was, "hey."

2. Then I lost my vocal cords.

3. In the end I said, "no I haven't got one."

Well, today y'all can punch me in my face.

3 times! I had the chance and

I could not put my act together.

First, the black drawings, then the gold ones and the blue ones.

The green drawing today was not good. Wasted another day. Bravo'

"I'll do it tomorrow"

Untitled Manuscript - Intuitive lefthand drawings
Felt marker on paper, 297mmW x 420mmH

Royal College of Art, 11/10.'10
MA Communication Art & Design Work In Progress
Lower Gulbenkian Gallery, Kensington Gore

/ Artists in this room / Lola Halifa Legrand / Marine Duroselle /
Rose Blake / Samara Scott / Yann Le Bec / Yi Lin Juliana Ong - Juls O /
/ Pages from an untitled manuscript / Pen on paper / Intuitive left hand drawings

/ Part of Royal College of Art 2010 Work In Progress / Communication Art and Design / November 25th through December 3rd /
Selected pages from Ahrkahyvf No.1

Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle / Paris

Sarhr Hvne

Waytr Cjare

Dhenny Lutel

"The limits of my language means the limits of my world."
Ludwig Wittgenstein
"A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket." Charles Péguy
[...] yw/re s-\r-\ng -\o |.e dhr ~hle ~rld -\o mv
rltye eys ryg-\ ehrnd dhr krnr [...]

. |<









" Cvt is the branch that might have grown jvll straight. Bvrned is Apollo's lavrel bovgh. __ "

[...] if you mess with my death, it will be your last breath [...]
Friend—A word I have not truly grasped. Nor the letters that made up their names. They come and go like the London rain, washed down the drain. Who becomes one and the other not. I don't know them anymore nor them of myself. It flows back into the ocean and gets lost in the clouds. Then one fine day you get drenched walking home from the party and blame it on the weather for giving you a cold. Now, who was not prepared?


Bruno saw Jasmine on her supposed 9th birthday. She returned, only in memory. Bleeding wrist, broken hearts that will never be mended. His grief never understood as the man who raped and murdered his daughter laid undead in the basement of the rented cottage in the woods. The dead deer floating in the lake as Bruno was drowning in his sorrows echoed his helplessness and the lost of hope. Nothing is left as the sky fell. Bottles of beer one after the other, as he paralyzed the murderer of his child—a scalpel on one hand and the photograph of his dead daughter on the body he worked on as a testament of vengeance and regret. An eye for an eye—does that ever work? What if's that should have never been asked. Blames pushed to every corner of the empty house. Darkness that covers eternity and only death unproven as a relief.

I'd lost 3 men I never really knew and 1 other too much—still kicking. They said you never lose what you never had, but I'd you and you kept in a corner of my heart, you never knew. The curse is not not being loved but not knowing you'd been loved likewise. The pain is the broken heart untold and kept within the 4 walls of solitary. The silent quicken beats of a loners' heart and the echos of the tires against the wet roads as it vanished into a passerby's rambling over the phone and footsteps of a hurried soul. The striped red couch and the yellow jumper over a hungry one—an unspoken slight torture for the unspoken truth. Fear, a word understated. I could have told you but I haven't could. Until; perhaps my final breath, I shallowed my desire—I never lived. What is the point of memories, they'd passed. Your tears, your touch and your mistaken smile. Your nail on my skin and the tickle on my neck, your closeness thousands of miles too far away, your daylight my night. Your breath down my neck, , the pleasure's all mine. Those guys on their way and mine? when unfold/ The stench of the cigarette smoke and the misplaced letters, I wondered your morning after the granted. "These arms of mine, they are longing for you"

And summer went, she hasn't came.
Wherever she goes, let's cause a scene.

[...] Burn me up and throw me in the sea [...]




He'd gone fishing.

When I stopped wondering about death—it found its way back by slipping itself through the broken window and took away someone I know yet not at all, but sure had been nice. What is then, not being around; not breathing and not dreaming. Living in someone else's memory is not exactly an absolute existence is it? The memories, they expire and are non-transferable afterall. What's left ultimately perhaps is nothing but some numbers and alphabets on paper or on stone. This person—us—will be gone. Gone where? I am alive, for now but have yet to find the courage to be.
Aerf diyte bekopr:
Yot werr lixlr

Axls likst yoralt bwed lek / Tiol iyt yaws xed.

" From
A to B
and Back
Again "

Rejs Kuld De Hife

Hedgrit ek gerh ligt erh kehr lorus. Qew Firae deriksa sid feir lohusk hife guhs virjok likaf di seg. Fik fis kuyt. De seqi wiey cyile hagr xela skecb nu ven sriap eht tasl emit ew ekops. Rels ey oyeg ciyhad laka enule yias ewjl ous couy fiths de ek. stel ekam evoles sid ifot: eej jouls lutke dukhe wep. LEHD OUS UYW MESH RED!


The fiction we live, written by the lines on our palms or scripted by the obscure desires in our hearts; and the memories we leave, be it just a name and a lifespan engraved on a tombstone—celebrates our existence and such a proof reminds us that "happiness is only real when shared."

Åbäke + Martino Gamper + RCA + ERBA
Workshop in London - Winter 2009/2010

[...] What do you know about where I come from [...]
(pen on paper)


College Jumper - Hand drawn

Undercover Rebel Bag - Hand stitched