steel-frame robot model posures, projected as urban mirage

‘To show the frame has life, the first thing is we believe in it. After all these years of robotics, in comics, movies, we can finally make it credible that such a stupid frame can have life. With imagination, it can live. Only that others use working robots, and we make this frame as one.’

‘How, sci-cho reductionism ?’

‘If you can think them out,’ I pointed at the drawings on the wall, ‘you can do a frame.’

Not long after, we found a movable steel frame from a second-hand recycle shop, made it look like a shadow robot or robot shadow. CoDa put the tee on it, and changed the apparel frequently. Then we found a projector, casting the different postures with different tees onto the street so that when cars drove by, they saw something always changing on the road, a virtual robot model. And it became a kind of urban mirage.

It worked. More and more people dropped by, ending up buying something. Of course the customers were not as many as the competitor shop, but CoDa was already contented with the community. She called me pal.

The competitor shop got back at us with costly investment. It used a real robot to wear a tee, selling the brand. CoDa was once discouraged, though not yielding. She used the idle time to draw at the shop, and started to work on big canvass.

using an idea robot as a model

Then there was another shop open around the corner, big with car park. They sold name brands. Not long after it became a chain store. There were promotions. Some emerging teenage idols and pop stars appeared on the posters and in the commercials.

‘What can we hire?’ CaDo asked me, desperately.

‘Except you and me, probably no one.’

‘Dire.’

‘Not nearly. Well, we can use non-human model.’

CoDa turned to look at the drawings on the wall; some were now framed.

‘A robot.’ I said.

She was filled with hope yet skepticism.

‘It’s dehumanized.’

‘Yeah, I know, it fits my theme, but then how can I ever afford it?’ She spoke in a strange tone with pitch.

‘You don’t need a real robot.’ My words were carefree.

‘Not...real ?’ She seemed getting something.

The result was a steel frame, initially animated with an idea of life.

‘Idea, just an idea?’ She doubted.

The art was creative, bio-descriptive and rich in details of a lonesome ontology

Alone the drawings were hard to digest. I once went into the shop, managed to talk to the artist. Her name is CoDa. Well, she dressed neutral but inclined to be female, so I took it a she.

I gave some opinions. One was to place a drawing of hers together with a photo of a well-known landmark, trying to digest the oddness of the x-world-deform art. After a few weeks there was such composition in the size I suggested. It looked very impressive. Not too long someone bought it. CoDa said the money helped her drag the shop through another half year. She thanked me for that. We became friends.

From then on I paid visit to the shop once in a while. NZ is proud of her arts. Some tradition from Britain. But this shop was a sharp contrary to the fine old oil paintings art galleries. The art was creative, bio-descriptive and rich in details of a lonesome ontology. In the drawing there seldom is background. It seemed the entity lives in a white, invisible world, with only its being reflected. Living seems to be an adequate ornament.

Later, she talked about selling tees with her art on. That would be something like the ape or monkey. I agreed with her sales strategy. When she had prepared some tees, she wanted to find a model to dress them on. But no one would do that except herself.

expressionistic tissues in drawing, unnatural adjuncts

I felt sorry for the boy, but then got it over. Without me, he can still have others to talk to. I was just a passer-by who happened to have a little problem of talking slightly more than average, which leading to a big security issue.

Earthquake happened. I thought about Tane’s inner spirit losing control. I saw his emails and managed to reply just a few. I no longer answered his calls. Then he mentioned in his email that he knew about that -- the security issue. His mother hated this subjection and all suspicions. She once said she couldn’t breathe. Tane said he wants to grow up soon to be independent. He won’t care for the family bondage anymore.

“Just don’t think I quit for no reason. Best wishes.” I replied in my last email.

X X X X X

There was a shop which I liked to go. It was special. To some people, it was a shop with no selling point, or point-of-sale. On the walls there were small to medium size drawings, some only on a white or yellowish scrap of paper. No frame.

It was the content of the drawings that attracted me. They were like tissues, organs. Decorative. Expressionistic. With unnatural adjuncts like extra mouths and teeth, over-grown tissue; no bone, just flesh. Consider them once growing in this world as independent life forms and now joined into a bigger living organism.

intelligence design

A lawyer Mark called me, saying he represented Tane’s father. He asked for an appointment with me, which I did. I knew from Tane that his father was a scholar of intelligence design, whatever it means.

The time was before noon. Mark was a white man with good pronunciation. He said Tane’s father had heard, observed and known enough about me.

‘I heard about you, Gt.’ Mark said.

‘From Tane?’

‘Not only from him.’ He smiled slightly.

‘Oh.’ I said. ‘From the web?’

‘I was told about some security concern, and would like to share with you.’

‘Is it classified?’ I made a joke.

‘Yes.’ He took a firm look at me, ‘owing to the close relation of you two, his father encountered some inconvenience.’

‘Such as?’

‘Interrogation. Would that be enough?’

‘About what, the interrogation?’

‘Something about his work, not entirely for this country, from elsewhere. They don’t want you to get close to them.’

I was surprised. I nodded, ‘I see. I never knew... okay, I know what to do.’

‘Like what?’ Mark followed with inquiry.

‘Do not talk to Tane or get close to his family any more.’ I said.

‘You can do that?’

‘I can, sure.’

‘The boy wants to talk to you.’

I looked at him, ‘Then it’s your client’s problem. Not mine.’

Mark seemed contented. ‘Thanks. I have to go. Please stay for the lunch, it would be on my bill.’

‘No, thanks.’

Cancer man can be forever nostalgic

‘Well, it’s about Cancer. Its patron is Diana, Goddess of the Moon. That’s why it’s the mother. With mama at the side, kiwi man is normal, peaceful. But then if she’s not around...’

‘What?’ Tane asked eagerly.

‘They would go seeking, for something greater than the maternal. Maybe the moon, which can never be tangible. It can only be around, not as human.’

Tane held his breath. He can feel the melancholy, so heavy that he was forced to face the abstract burden. I knew it was the Cancer’s ingenuity to feel passionate for these intangibleness. He can even sense the words that I bear in mind and wouldn’t want to say it out, particularly to this boy.

‘And...?’

I held my silence.

‘Please.’

I finally said it, ‘They’ll be... forever nostalgic.’

There was silence. Finally he said, ‘I know. That’s why it’s the Papa.’

After I left, Tane’s words still lingered in my mind.

Parent. Singular form. For those children who never miss their parents, they probably do not know what this means. A boy without mother, in depth it would be missing his anima, the female soul for a male. Hard to grow up as a man intact. Don’t blame the kiwi man as home-borne; Cancer man couldn’t be happier than staying at home.

Or else they would seldom be at home. A wanderer. And that’s where the romantic comes from.

聽丹, listen to the red

‘What about the second word?’

‘丹, red.’

His eyes grew wide open, ‘You mean like red earth, the sacred red earth of Maōri ?’

‘If you take it that way, yes.’

‘Listen to the red.’ Tane looked at the green name on his shirt, ‘It’s neat, it’s here...’ Suddenly everything seemed meaningful. The things at their reasonable places. He had something to say but yet didn’t know how to say it.

‘Sufficient cause. As is.’ Then I pronounced the name in a slow tone, ‘Tan...丹.’

It seems the name weighed him confidence. ‘Teach me how to write it well.’

‘My pleasure...’ It was.

I asked him why he liked calligraphy. To my surprise but then not, it came from his mother, Elizabeth. She had noble origin, and well versed in with literature and fine arts. She used to do embroidery while occasionally looking at the baby boy Tane. In their house there used to be antiques and paintings. Now there was only one or two pieces left.

‘You must have something to tell me, Gt. I know from your look.’ Tane said.

‘About what?’

‘Me.’