Portrait

Fleeting Age

Grey Fog

Cast in Shadow

Flanders

Flowers are wonderful, and we praise their beauty.  But strong emotion is not evoked only by prettiness; it is often these other emotional responses that drive me to expression.  After reading John McCrae’s poem In Flanders Fields, the image of the poppy became branded in my mind, though I was unclear if it was beautiful or grisly.  The colour red is the poppy’s most evocative trait.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row…
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.”

We sowed Flanders Fields with lives, but yielded crosses of death.  To my eyes, poppies are not flowers; they are people.  When we wear a poppy on our chest, pinned on the lapel is the name, unknown, of one who fell.  When I tried to represent the poppy on canvas, I found each one had a face; a soldier’s face.


Gwyneth Grant Says: This such a touching interpretation of what poppies represent on Remembrance Day. Thank you for your insight Lili. I agree, each poppy should represent a soldier who tragically left his mortal remains on Flanders fields, not some glorious memento of war.

“Hello, you have reached the voice mail of XXXX.  I am unavailable to answer your call at this moment.  Please leave a message at the tone and I will return your call as soon as possible.  Thank you.”

Read a beautiful sentence on half poster in the street of Montreal, one autumn day in 2008.

I knew the name César Vallejo from there.
the poet made words so touching, every letter is alive.
I could not resist try to touch the half piece of paper that torn apart by the wind.
finger tips started to cry, felt, were melancholy of the poet.“Something identifies you with the one who leaves you, and it is your common power to return: thus your greatest sorrow. Something separates you from the one who remains with you, and it is your common slavery to depart: thus your meagerest rejoicing.”  — César Vallejo.

2008年的某天,在街头的半张海报上读到了动人的句子。
觉得它很美,从那知道了塞萨尔·巴列霍这样一个名字。
诗人让文字变得那么打动人心,每一个字母都是活的。
忍不住伸手去抚摸那半张快要被风撕碎的纸片。
指尖开始哭泣,触碰到的,是诗人的忧郁。

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