Artist : Sze.C
Maya / Men
In the realm of mine, 1 is red, 2 is purple, 3 is green. Playing the piano, I smell ‘Do’ in the essence of vanilla, ‘Re’ in the essence of rosemary. Number is colour, music note is smell, and this is the realm of mine. I ask, is my world more fascinating than yours? Or yours is more real than mine? You say, are you men? Certainly yes, I reply. Then, you say, seems like you are bit of abnormal. Abnormality to you is normal to mine, I then reply. The realm of mine is unique, my own. Idiosyncratic, I say. I am the only person can sense the smell of vanilla when the sound of ‘Do’ starts; see the red in 1, the green in 3 when the digit flashes.
This narrator is synaesthete, a condition that describes a person unify senses, the stimulation of the person’s one sensory automatically activate the involuntary experience of the other sensory. To majority of us, this seems like delusions; to synaesthetes, this is their acute feeling of reality. So, what is the feeling of reality? Our feelings do exist, we identity and acquire knowledge of matter according to names and forms, we interpret what is real according to feeling. We believe what we see, hear and smell represent what is real.
In the realm of reality, this is not how it is. The Sanskrit word Maya describes the illusion of the feeling, that is feeling is unreal. Strong represents men, they are tall and strong, have chests as wide as ocean and have the deep voice. Women is represented by their softness and timidity, they are small, have shoulder blades like butterflies wings. However, have we ever thought about, this might be an illusion? The maker wants to hide men’s fragile heart, covers the strong heart of women with the shape of the bodies. The opposite attracts, men and women embrace, embrace the reality with the illusion of each kind.
Black and white, the blurred photographs imprint the images with clarity, confusion; finesse, roughness; delicacy, sturdiness; all too sudden to me with the images of her while I was travelling. The images of her are different from what I see in reality. I could no longer read her, an illusion? How could I possibly read her? I am not her. Who is she, the real person I see, I could no longer imagine. This tattoo artist wants to use the body and the language of it to reflect what she sees in Maya. After all, the tattoo is not permanent, at the end, the body changes, and passes away and into the soil. Men and women, love and lust, naively romanticise the endless love with the transient amorous feeling of the skin, once it stopped; we push ourselves to the brim of heartaches. After all, everything changes, you change, and I change. After all, there is no endless love and endless pain. In the end, this is all Maya, the illusion of the feeling.