Taking up space: in a parking lot outside a Muslim restaurant in Haidian, west Beijing

"Still Live no. 2" was a Freudian slip on the keyboard.

The alleyways and side streets beneath my neighborhood's tower blocks are filled with activity in warmer months: bird walkers, street food and magazine vendors, bracelet-sellers, construction workers and commuters.  

Rickety chairs are everywhere: wooden ones at the bike-repairman's stall where his clients wait; metal ones with repaired legs outside the restaurant that serves searing Henanese dishes; and this rickety cane specimen hauled over from a Go game to save a VIP parking spot.

For even the VIPs need something special to ensure they get what's theirs.

In the upper Midwest, where the land is as flat as the accents, and its frozen (or mosquito-infested) lakes and rivers can only dream of the sea, you'll often hear a phrase that captures a particular brand of cheery pessimism. It was inherited directly from the Scandinavian settlers whose names live on in funeral homes and in blond descendants.

"Oh, we're not doing too bad."

Not too bad. Because, the thinking goes, if you're doing well, it's not polite to brag about it. But if you're going through difficulties, it's best not to burden the neighbors either. Of course, anyone who's met me has discovered (at times to their chagrin) I'm not a fan of  Minnesota Nice or the mental backflips of "not too bad".

A plastic barrier has been cut to fit around the rooftop of a historic building on Beijing's west third ring road (a highway)

But Beijing hasn't fulfilled the fears I had before moving here in January. I'd read of toxic gutter oil in restaurants, where old cooking oil is scraped from the streets and reused. Of the choking, blinding pollution. The extreme weather. But I arrived at the coldest time of year, and wasn't impressed: the weather wasn't any worse than the depths of a Minnesota winter. Sometime I'll make it up to Harbin for their ice festival, and tempt frostbite instead.

And the food is rather good overall – I try to vary my diet so as not to eat too much of one thing. That way, when I'm poisoned, it'll just be in small amounts.

There's something about this photo that sums up Beijing. I just don't know what it is yet.

And the pollution? Well, on a surprising number of days, I'd say that, compared to my expectations, it's actually….not too bad.

I think I could even live here for a while.

Movana Chen just completed a 2-week residency at Studio Sicilia, and was working on her Traveling to Your Bookshelf Project. She's been knitting my paper book manuscript into part of a giant scarf she's been making for years, made of books.

I'll let her words and pictures tell the story:

"My project is to tie a knot between everyone in connecting the lives of different people and allowing them to communicate across nations and cultures,"

Movana and her scarf outside the studio

"everything [in Cianciana is] very slow, life, working style…wait for more than one hour in the post office to buy the stamp. [the post office] run out of stamps, went there again the second day, wait for another hour."

Movana's paper scarf by the front door (takes on a life of its own)

"enjoy knitting in your studio, almost everything in blue,"

scarf on the bed under skylight

"just the first two nights no electricity power, weather horrible, now back to normal, nice to meeting your friends, Hilary, David, Sav,"

studio by candlelight – Hilary and David had Movana stay in their exra house and helped get the electrics back on

knitting by sculpture in the centro storico of Cianciana:

"people in the town looking me very strange, but all very helpful and nice"

drawing a crowd:

"yesterday knitting with Sav's mother, all are very friendly,"

"It is simple [to knit], anyone who's interested can experience knitting with Elizabeth's writing paper in my ongoing piece. Most of the participants in my project had no experience in knitting, so all are just first time, men, women, kids. The best participant is a Korean guy, now he knits very well."

the scarf goes to the UNESCO World Heritage site of Agrigento for a day trip:

"good very easy to get to Cianciana from Palermo, the transport very good service, always on time,"

Movana makes postcards from every stop on the Traveling to your Bookshelf tour:

Her next project: a body container made of friends' maps from their travels.

Photo from an interview with Paolo Sanzeri:

Movana's video of her experiences in Cianciana is here. And look for her artwork at the Hong Kong Art Fair's Galerie Pekin booth, coming up later this month.

There's a lot of controversy these days in the publishing industry. Traditional ways of publishing are no longer viable options: they involve killing lots of trees and shipping them around the world to bookstores. Pixels are a lot lighter, and (often) free. Books have to become more than mass market materials, and bookstores have to find new ways to sell them.

I always wanted to have my artwork and words in books, but it's tougher than ever to make a living at it. However, I see this as an opportunity for creative experiments. And I'm collaborating with others who blur the boundaries between art, books and paper in my Sicilian art studio.

Recently I got an email from the first artist I've invited to the studio, Movana Chen. She knits paper into art. I'd given her a copy of my manuscript for Paper Pilgrimage: Bombs, Bandits, and a Vanishing Art in Southeast Asia, printed onto handmade Thai bamboo/mulberry paper.

"this hand make paper look so different than what I usually shredded,

"like fabric, maybe the glue different? look so amazing, love it much"

"really nice with your writing about paper,,sure it will look excellent when knit together in my traveling piece during the coming Sicily trip,^^"

Traveling to Your Bookshelf comes to Sicily — here at the world heritage Greek temples in Agrigento

Movana's just come back from Sicily and has sent photos from the trip. I'll post them soon.

In the meantime, have a look at her video from Sicily (6mins 15seconds) where she films street scenes, an Easter parade, and of course lots of her trademark: knitting paper into art.

A few weeks after I reluctantly moved away from Hong Kong, I spent my New Year's eve sending hundreds of photos to designer Janet McKelpin at ThingsAsian Press. The Man and I were ringing in the holiday on a beach near Melbourne, but missing Hong Kong. 

We toasted with wine we'd picked up at a vineyard on the drive down from Sydney. I showed him favorite photos I was submitting for my chapter of Janet's book, Lost and Found:Hong Kong

"Look at this one – remember that couple who owned the dofu fa stall next to our place near the beach?" 

It was a severe-looking photo – but captures something about their generation and all the hard work they did (and still do) that has helped to make Hong Kong what it is today. Around thirty years ago they moved to the island from mainland China to make their Cantonese treat for a captive market: the builders of Lamma Island's power station. Their dofu fa is a delicious and healthy dessert, wonderful hot or cold, a silken soft tofu with ginger syrup.

taking a break from closing up the Doufu fa restaurant to pose with the book, Lamma Island, Hong Kong

I rarely take photos of people, but their King Hing restaurant was such a part of my daily life in Hong Kong, and of the island, I was happy Janet included it in the book.

When an artist makes work, the satisfying final stage in the circle is at the exhibition, or when a collector takes it home. With a photo book, a project is finally complete when those in it finally get to hold it in their hands. After all, it wouldn't have been the same without them.

Last week I got back to Lamma to give the couple their own copy. They were really excited! Their reaction — part enthusiasm, part embarrassment — made my weekend, and I think theirs, too. 

Blue windows shocked the neighbors last year ("Nobody paints their windows blue around here," they said) but they've grown to like them

Studio Sicilia is finished!  Well, the upstairs is, anyway.

After years of dreaming and saving and slogging away, two rooms have become one airy, open-plan studio, with elements of Asia and the Mediterranean. You can see more photos of the interior here.

And if you know someone who'd be interested to stay and do some creative work for a while, they can go to AirBnB.com to see if it's available (it's already booked by an artist for all of Summer 2012).

The first Jerome F. Cox Sculpture Fellowship – for artists who use paper as a sculpture medium – has been awarded to Movana Chen, who will arrive just before Easter. She's knitting the manuscript of my paper book into part of her massive Traveling to your Bookshelf project.

Notes from a Phnom Penh visa run, autumn 2011

Every country is like a lover.
You breathe it in, eat it every day, drink to forget it at night.
(There is something about Cambodia that makes me want to drink. A lot.)
Sometimes you spit one another out. I was spit out from Cambodia 5 years ago.

I am here again now, confronted by images of Angkor Wat everywhere (on spoons made into bracelets, on the satin scarf that covers my bed, its black fringes grazing the lacquered wood beloved here), on the cheap acrylic paintings that litter the sidewalks of Phnom Penh’s “Art Street”

The sugar palms like green lollipops as we fly into Pochentong airport/Pochentong air base in Phnom Penh. As I greet the Immigration officals with “Cheum Reap Sua”, a formal greeting in Khmer, they only rip me off a little on the baht to dollar exchange for my visa.

The language. It is the language that reminds me of why I fell for this country years ago. Khmer sounds like blowing bubbles underwater. It is harsher than Thai, which glides off the breath and tongue like a sigh. No, Khmer is a staccato, made not of tones but of the Mon. The Khmer were here first, a fact the Thai have written out of their histories…they have muffled it as conquerors do everywhere.

The tuk-tuks are more ornate than I remember. I see several more years of abundant food in the round figures beneath stretch jersey and polyester, in the backs that bulge around womens’ brastraps. I am given long, intrigued glances by fellow passengers on motorbikes, both women and men, as I sit in my gaily-painted tuk-tuk with intricate carved wood trimmings. My driver is patient with others, and older than I am. He would have seen a lot as a child, as a teenager, before something like peace finally arrived here in the early nineties.

The chaotic traffic like that of Vietnam. Phnom Penh’s outskirts reminds me of those of Hanoi. Newly – and cheaply – built. Ready to crumble but hanging together with determination. Stained by a mold and dust which bother no one. Sheltering those who had none for awhile.

It is raw here. So raw. Something that no skyscraper or escalator or pizza company can obscure. There is an edge here, a palpable tension. Lovers smooch on park benches next to the Mekong, street food vendors dish out bacteria at twice the rate of those in Bangkok….
Apsaras dance on my pillowcase. Embroidered in cream on milk chocolate.

There is a coffin shop next to my hotel. Long skinny boxes peep out from its doors. Carved with Chinese characters in relief, painted in festive colors, they glisten with slick coats of polyeurethane. Next to the coffin shop hang families who squat and work in the spaces. Filling holes, renovating walls, redecorating for whatever shop comes next. Some of them beg from passersby, most just do their thing: lie, talk, eat rice in the shade (the same thing they’d be doing under a palm tree or by the river in the villages they come from).

The western men here are more furtive than those in Bangkok. Perhaps they have more to hide. (Or perhaps they are hiding here.) They are not a sociable lot outside their own kind. A western man sniffs an inhaler as he blearily eyes a Khmer masseuse upstairs. He is there when I return downstairs, eyes me and my tattered shoes suspiciously, as though I’m breaking into a much-cherished dream of his harem.

Hints a massage parlor may not be for me: 1. The women are slender and stunning (competent masseuses often have built up extra strength, especially on the forearms) 2. Prices marked outside are low (they make $ from extras) 3. They hand you a set of slinky polyester pajamas (hands slip on synthetics).

There are few nights as black as those on the top floor of a low-rise city. Phnom Penh changes after dusk. Grows wilder. Smokier. Markets are moist and odiferous.

Tuk-tuks here are noisy two-stroke motorbikes spewing smoky oil and rattling onto the street. There is a slow steady row of traffic on Sisowath quay. A car plays Ros Sereysothea’s dop pram mui (I’m only 16) and fades into the night. Over the river where she once sang, she lives on. The tinkling music mentioned by Norman Lewis echoes in the karaoke videos of today.

There are some places a girl falls in love with, whether she wants to or not. Cambodia is one for me. That’s why I had to leave. But Cambodia will always have a special hold for many. A few writers and I pay tribute to the country in the book To Cambodia with Love.

At my art opening at the beautiful ChinaHouse in Penang, up now until 28th January:

1: Artworks destroyed (by a dripping air conditioner)

3: Reporters spoken to

2: Appointments made with other reporters

1: Photo for society pages (ugh)

150+: People who came to see mine and other artists' exhibitions

7: Friends who showed up (though I didn't do planned email blast)

2: Directors who are interested in exhibiting all or part of Imaginary Landscapes in Penang

0: Artworks sold (to be honest I prefer the Imaginary Landscapes to the fabric pieces of Visions of Penang)

1: Successful exhibition.

Some selected images below:

George Town Festival director Joe Sidek and a friend, with some of my Cliche-Verres

The reporters came early, here's one from The Star taking photos of my artwork – a silhouette formed of Malay writing:

Invited visitors trickled in first. I brought along the video of my USM exhibition to give another perspective of Penang

(see the video here )

Fabric Cyanotypes. These ranged from 6 x 10 feet to 8 x 10. 

The tailor who sewed these pieces used old-school techniques, and vintage Shanghai sewing machines. I'll upload photos of them soon. The thin cotton – used by Malaysian artists for batik – was quite difficult to hang straight, once tailored. 

Ang Huah, of the Hainan Clan temple, Penang, stands in front of an artwork I made of his reminiscinces about Penang while growing up, and how it's changed. 

I translated his English to Traditional Chinese via Google Translate, and he approved it (though said "it looks funny!")

Things got busier after a while, with more guests stopping by. Though a new venue, China House is considered one of the best arts spaces in Penang. 

(And it's famous for the excellent wine, cheese, d