I don't really like meetings

Okay, so meetings are a necessary evil. My greatest ideas and design solutions are never thought up in a vacuum. (stories of designers hidden in dark rooms only to emerge with a brilliant design are best taken with lots and lots of salt) They are usually the results of brainstorming meetings. But most meetings, even those internal meetings discussing design with the boss, are usually fruitless.

My meetings with the boss usually go like this:-

Me: So here I got a few concepts for this project. I personally like the first concept, and I think we should push for it.

The Boss: Hmm.. I like it. But can you think of any other approaches other than just merely typographical? It's nice. But you know what I mean.

Me: What do you mean merely typographical? I believe it to be the most direct and effective solution. The copy-writing is brilliant, and we would do it disservice if we are to overly design it.

The Boss: Perhaps. Lets get the opinions of the others okay.

Designer A: I agree with The Boss.

Accounts: I agree with the Boss, on the basis that BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH (spent twenty minutes explaining the merits of over design)

Programmer: I think it could do with more colors.

Web Designer: What is the project about?

Accounts: Explains projects....

The Boss: So what are your plans Wan?

Me: Seeing as how we just spent an entire hour discussing, I think I would just go with this current approach. I like it. Any major objections?

Everyone: No..

Yup. As you can see, nothing really happens in meetings. No new breakthroughs. No new ideas. Just everybody, trying to be heard. Worst are meetings that start with half an hour discussion totally in Mandarin and then later me asking for a translation, spending another half an hour translating. An hour wasted. An hour I could use to watch YouTube or something.

Meetings with the clients are the worst (doesn't apply to you V ;P). Not only are most of them unnecessary (why do you need a meeting to tell me about the fonts and colors you favor? Email email email!), but most of the meetings plans are there for the mere sake of meeting. It's as if, without an actual meeting, the clients are not getting value for their money. And most clients plan meetings as liberally as they would drink tea (okay bad analogy).

The only good thing about meetings are the opportunity to dress better than usual. I realize if you dress really well – better than your client or boss – it will guarantee you a win should any conflict of taste arise. If your client is shabbily dress, and you are there in your sharpest shirts, trust me, his or her rights to question your design choices are diminished. And that's a really good thing.

The Rush

There was a mad rush of wind and bodies. The flashing LED lights, stating that in 2 mins, the train will arrive. I look at my watch. It was 8.04am. 'If I rush for this train,' I thought to myself. 'I will actually arrive 10 mins earlier.' More and more people began to run towards the station gates. The flashing LED now blinked, almost mockingly that in a min, the train will arrive. It was insane how everyone sprinted, only to be slowed down by the actual tapping of the magnetic travel card, and the opening of the gates. As soon, as they passed that, they ran to the escalator, and continued running, on the moving escalator itself. Nothing shall get in their way.

Are these people truly late? Or is there are secret competition to beat the train going on somewhere in these secretive society of executives. Or is this act of racing for the train, the physical manifestation of the rat race? Somehow, losing out to the other executives, will stain and dampen your career.

Maybe, this is an abstract performance art every executive will perform for the public. The race for the train, is a display of defiance. A brazen display of will against the system which is represented by the train. Interestingly, this performance has an implicit message behind it, that can be read only by the distant observer. Try all you might to fight the system, but there is no way you can get to wherever you want without it. Those enlighten ones that gets to understand, never ever, chased for a train again.

Ramadhan

One of the more beautiful things about Ramadhan – other than the sudden heighten feeling of faith – is the opportunity to have proper meals together as a family. Whenever it is possible, we would try to all come home in time for dinner. And whenever it is possible, we would all wake up early before dawn for a proper sahur. The family gets closer. I get to be more muslim than I usually am. I try my best to fulfill all my obligatory prayers – having a mosque nearby, makes that rather easy – and even the nightly terawih (some kind of lengthy prayer ritual after the obligatory night prayer).

We all (the family) try our best to be better muslims, even if it's just for a month. Unlike Zat's extremist view that faith is not seasonal, I always believe that Islam is a compassionate religion. Islam expects the best from all his followers, but accepts the frailty of human beings. And if I can only afford to be a good muslim once a year, what other better time that Ramadhan, I say.

However beautiful Ramadhan is, my father is displaying disturbing behavioral patterns when it comes time to break our fast. He would take a sip of drink, chew on some dates and then proceed immediately to smoke a stick of cigarette. He would have a euphoric look in his eyes, as if renewed life was sucked in. I understand than, he has refrain from smoking for more than twelve hours, but must he immediately smoke before even having a proper meal. It's like me – a self confessed wanker – would immediately rush to my computer, play some porn and ejaculating immediately to mark the breaking of my fast. I don't anyway.

Also, I am tremendously more productive during these fasting periods. Having no reasons to visit the pantry ever so often, I can work the moment I turn on my mac, through lunch till its time to leave. It's almost unbelievable the amount of work I can get done just by not visiting the pantry at all. And I can even help the other designer and my boss with their stuff. Last week, I had all my proposals done by Tuesday, leaving me with nothing to do the rest of the week.

Alas, its two weeks into Ramadhan, and soon it will all be over. Raya will come, and the much dreaded NSmen ICT approaches. Seeing as how this is a holy month, I will not go into details about my plans of massive wild army orgies in camp.

The Toned and The Lumpy : An Un-intellectual Short Caption of their Imagined Life

Toned was of course fat in his previous life. Previous life, as he would call it, was not previous life as what those who believed in reincarnation would imagine it to be. Previous life to Toned was when he lost 25 kilograms in total, bringing his 1.87 frame to a total mass of 76 kilograms. The day his BMI was in the healthy range of 22 was the beginning of the day he marked the start of a New Era. Previous life was to be forgotten. It was like Previous Life never happened at all.

And such was the peril for Toned. For he has forgotten Previous Life, his new life was not much of a difference for him. Of course, he was no longer on the receiving end of fat jokes. No one can look into his eyes, and tell him sincerely that he is fat. Toned can even call himself fat only to have a reassurances from those around him, that he is not fat. Sometimes he calls himself fat, just to hear to those reassurances. Sometimes he calls himself fat just to insult those to his judging eyes, fat.

For Toned has forgotten Previous Life, he never really appreciated the changes. Everyday he will do push-ups and sit ups. He will fidget endlessly if he misses his morning run. And all hell break loose, should his gym schedules be messed up by unexpected events. Its like as if nothing changed. He still wants to loose more weight. He still wants to be toner. Every time he looks into the mirror he sees glimpses of Previous Life. The start of a New Era seems never really.

---

Lumpy has image issues, of course. Physically, Lumpy in all aspect and consideration, is fat. Fat is word which carries with it a negative connotation. So he calls himself Plump, Big Boned, Heavy, Thick. Words that generally meant the same thing – not thin. While Lumpy is not that fat – he reassures himself that there are other fatter fatties around him – he is not by any reasonable definition of the word, slim.

Lumpy believes that world is shallow. And that the world places far too much importance on the physical aspect of humanity. Lumpy insists that personality carries far greater value that physicality. So entrenched with such values, Lumpy begins to dismiss those that place – even slight – consideration on physical beauty. He rolls his eyes at those that exercises, calling them conformist. He waves his hands at those who lost weight insisting that they are sellouts.

Lumpy became bitter. Lumpy became deluded. Lumpy became judgmental. At one point of time, he truly believes that he has a great personality. And at one point of time he truly does have a great personality. Sadly, as the day goes by, as he becomes poisoned by his extreme principals, he lost the very aspect of humanity he values so highly. His personality.

It's Britney Bitch

Well not exactly.



But he makes the song sounds cool.

Allure of Digital

This is an old article I wrote. Reproduced strangely because the debate between digital vs talent has cropped up again.

Last Christmas, I gave Kristen a print-out of a digital painting I did as a Christmas present. I was not being cheap (though designers are usually misers). I even framed the print-out and it looks pretty good. I must say I was pretty proud with the painting.

However, during the gift exchange part of the dinner, where we publicly rip apart wrappings and show our sincere (sometimes not too sincere) thanks towards the giver of our gifts, I discovered that I am not too proud of Tempest – the title of the digital painting that I gave Kristen. It was not the work itself, but the medium of the piece. It was entirely digital. No sketches. No messy oil paint or runny watercolours. It was conceived entirely in Photoshop and Painter.

Friends around the table generally respond kindly and favourably towards the print-out, but most asked me how I did the painting. “Was it done in Oil?” “How did you do this?” “This is amazing.” I could not bring myself to say that it was done in Painter, the computer software than simulates the natural medium. I could not bring myself to say that it was colour corrected in Photoshop, and that it was printed with a high DPI so it looks good and real.

If the situation was in a digital illustration forum or Deviantart even, I would be quite please with myself, proud even. However this was real life. And to me, the general consensus with digital artwork in real life is, it’s easy to do.

Even though I consider myself a graphic designer first, illustrating and drawing has always been something I do to express myself creatively and emotively. It is a hobby - a hobby that brings pleasure. When I first started drawing, I was an overgrown teen in a train, sitting beside the ever talented Kristen. I started with the pencil and like many overgrown teenager, I was amazed with Japanese Anime, and wanted to draw impossibly sharp featured boys with ridiculously huge eye balls. As this went on, and my drawing skills improved – or at least I manage to convince myself that I had improved – I was eager to add colour to my drawings. Naturally I turned to the computer. Ever since, my artworks are exclusively digital.

Digital artworks are not easy to do, but probably they are not the hardest. They are not as messy as oil and watercolour. There are multiple levels of undo. Magical layers to help you. And most importantly, art software is widely available to everyone. And perhaps because of this, the allure and exclusivity of the craft is lost, hence regarded as not true art. Something that is easy to do.

Though we have to admit that to create art digitally is less tedious than say, using chalk and oil, is digital art less art than real oil and chalk art. To answer this, we have to ask ourselves, how do we judge art? Do we judge a piece of artwork purely on its execution? Or do we judge just the concept and imagination?

Digital painting may never have the romance of oil painting. The combination of the mess, smell, texture and the ability to touch oil painting makes it undeniably real. But do not discount digital painting just because it’s binary. It requires just as much imagination and creativity (perhaps even more) as any oil painting, and maybe even just as real.

The Almost Affair

To get straight to the point, I woke up, and found myself in bed with another man. Well boy, but he's a man. Man-boy. Whatever. The point is, to salvage this entry from being a trashy read, I woke up, at 4.25 am in the dead of morning for some insane early breakfast routine (sahur for those still clueless) and found beside me a shirtless, boxers shorts wearing boy.

His back was facing me, and he was rather petite-esque in size. I recognize my brother's back pretty well so I was sure it wasn't him. I tried to recall what I did last night and somehow, I ended up, in my room, sharing my super single bottom bunk bed with a stranger boy, who is now still fast asleep, in his underwear! I didn't know what to do, so I just laid there.

I looked at my handphone (yes, I go to sleep with my mobile. I'm paranoid that way), and it was already 4.35am. I had spent ten minutes just laying there – ten minutes I could have spent eating and drinking – because of this boy. If it was a different place, at a different time, I would already grab this boy by his arms, pin him against the mattress and mount him there and there, just to satiated my morning boner*. I mustered all the ounce of courage I have left, and poke him at the back. Yes I poked him. With my finger of course. It was not one of those manly pokes. But a childlike sissy poke.

He reacted. He stretched, lifting his arm and turned to face me. He smiled and mouthed something that I roughly read as:- 'Friend of the brother. Thanks for sharing the bed.' I blinked cluelessly and jokingly pushed him of the bed. He promptly crawled to the floor, wore his singlet and walked out for breakfast.

While it was a brief interlude, we were still on the same mattress , using the same pillow and sharing the same duvet. Our body parts could have touched and this felt like a beginning of an illicit affair!

I think we just need new mattresses for our stay over guests.


*sorry for that trashy bit

Wan's Random Tips to get through the tough times

For those that need a little third party advice.

1. Never put yourself on the back burner. Focus on yourself. Then move on.
2. Live and love life.
3. Never resort to immediate reactionary methods for pleasure like over drinking, over spending and over eating.
4. Stop blaming and start living.
5. Forgive yourself. This comes from Oprah, and its working really well for me.

We are alright

The alarm on my handphone was beeping rather annoyingly, which means I was too late to have my insane-before-break-of-dawn meal (sahur as it is said among the malay and muslim community). I continued to just lay there. My arm hung loosely at the edge of the bed. My face was pressed flat against the pillow in an uncomfortable way, but I refuse to move. I could feel V stretching beside me, his hand smashing against the duvet and the pillows. We had a plane to catch in an hour or so, but seeing as how little I packed – practically nothing actually – and how kind of V's office to arrange transportation for us, I was not in a hurry to get up.

I continued to pretend to still be asleep. V climbed up to my side, and I could feel the bristle of his beard scratching against my earlobe. I shut my eyes tighter. His hands rubbed me. 'I know you are awake.' he said. I smiled a little, knowing that I was caught. 'Come we got to go.' he continued, before yawning again. I opened my eyes, and there he was. His hopeful doe eyes, and pursed cracked lips. I smiled wider this time, not saying anything, because I was conscious about my morning breath.

'Everything is okay right?' he asked.

I closed my eyes, hoping that everything indeed was.

From boy to a bigger boy.

The brother completed his basic military training (a little sooner than I would hope), with much exuberance and spirit.

Ah... was I ever that young.

Origami

It was a serene image. The morning sun was shining softly through the glass panels of the train doors, illuminating him – his edges nearly lost in the light. He looks like a painting almost. Unreal, yet so delicately real. If nature is indeed an artist, this is her best yet. It was not just the image that seem so soothing, but the intent focus act of folding paper cranes and paper hearts. The hard seriousness of his features was a distinct contrast to the soft imagery nature has painted of him.

He was continuously folding cranes, lost in the world of origami. He will switch from folding cranes to folding hearts, and each time he completes one, he will place them gingerly in a translucent box. The light passing through the translucent box, with the colored hearts and cranes in it, creates a wonderful kaleidoscope effect. It was magical, to the point of hallucinating to look at. Each time I try to avoid being too obviously staring at this young artist, the more obvious I become. My eyes refuse to ignore the beauty that was just within my grasp. My heart yearns for such innocence. My soul was inspired. My mind roams far into the colored depths of the translucent box. My body desires the texture of smooth paper.

Realizing that I had drowned into the fantastical world of origami, I snapped back into reality. It was almost like a defense mechanism, refusing to stray further into the dangerous territories of the free endless mind. My eyes shifted from the folding hands, to his focused face. His eyes were filled with much purpose, gazing into beyond the folded paper birds and hearts. Though his folding acts were calculated and precise, his mind was wondering. The further the mind wonders, the more cranes and hearts were folded. He had strayed too far into the wilderness of the mind. Beauty, it seems, comes at the expense of consciousness.

New Shoes

There are something about clean sneakers that bothers me. Sneakers shouldn't be clean. They look disturbingly clinical and unnatural. I just bought a pair of white Converse Chuck Taylors (so much for my shopping sabbatical), and almost felt that they look so weird on me. I stared for long, only to realize that they are still crisp and clean. They need to be seasoned out a bit me thinks. I, however absolutely loves new crisp white long sleeve shirts. The perfect man to me decks out in a crisp white long sleeve shirt, blue straight cut jeans and a pair of white roughed out sneakers. And for a touch of decadent, a long dark scarf thrown over the shoulder nonchalantly.

The Practice Room

A poster I designed for Zat's coming soon concert - The Practice Room. I really do not have the details for the concert, like where to get tickets etc, but tickets are $6 and you get it from him directly I suppose.

The poster calls for liberal interpretation and I would be doing you a disservice if I tell you my version of interpretation. I do not want my version to be the 'correct' interpretation while yours is misguided. Much like music, even if the composer starts with an idea, much of how you process and interpret the information, is up to you.

A rare peak into my embarrassing sketches.

Rejected freaky monster, that will probably never see the light of day (maybe the program booklet?)

The Deaf

His earphones were plugged into his ears (where else would we expect it to be plugged in anyway), but the music was seeping out. No – seeping is not the right word in this situation, it was more like pouring out. Pouring out viciously. His earphones were like speakers, pumping out the techno remix music to the whole morning peak hour train.

He is a young beautiful thing. His skinny jeans fits him without irony. His t-shirt hangs loosely against his pale and delicate skin. His eyes full of curiosity. So much potential, yet he's blind – no. deaf – to the discomfort he was causing to the group of tired out executives. Maybe he was doing them a service. These executives look like they can do with a few techno remix music in their lives. Perhaps that would cure them of their anal retentiveness and slap them out of their drone-esque lifestyle.

Then again, maybe he is just being a child of this generation. The young could learn so much, by just listening. With all that music, they only thing they hear are the repetitive beats of electronic and synthesized drums and bass. And when they gain wisdom, either through age or through shear realization that their lives do not revolve around house music or the latest spins by the hottest spinner in town, when they are most ready to listen, when they will in anyway possible seek that whisper of advise.

They are already deaf.

No need for whys

I placed my head over his and gripped it tight I feel the cold prick of his wedding band on my palm. I look at him but he averts his gaze and stares straight ahead listlessly not daring to meet my eyes.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I asked him
“I didn’t want you to know because I know that you would have talked me out of it.”
“Do you still remember what happened in KL? Do you remember what we did then?”
There is a pause, a sigh and then: “Yes, I do.”
It is my turn to look away now; I fight the tears that force their way to the surface.
“Well all I can tell you now is that if you are telling me that now that I am holding your hand you do not feel anything in your heart, then you have succeeded but if there is one ounce of feeling or a flicker of doubt, you will fail.”
I grip his hand tighter. “Look at me; I want you to look at me.”
Reluctantly he turns and faces me.
“I want you to remember this. Happiness is the bottom line, in whatever you do remember that it must make you happy.”
I remove my hand get up and begin to walk away as the tears start to fall.