2012 endings and beginnings

January 26, 2012 § 2 Comments

I’m leaving WordPress for different pastures… One that I feel has a greater and more engaged community, not to mention a less clumsy interface. If you haven’t joined Tumblr, I  recommend it, if only to follow the rapidly increasing population of curators and tastemakers from every web connected corner of the globe. There is an expanding wealth of knowledge and photography abound, one that I have enjoyed enormously being a part of MJR’s All The Things We Love!

Thanks for reading, hope you will continue to follow, observe and engage at Post Halcyon II 🙂 and a happy Chinese New year!


*This blog will remain up indefinitely to serve as an archive of old thoughts.


On Tour

January 6, 2012 § Leave a comment


Finally done showing at the Centre for Contemporary Photography in Melbourne, the show goes on tour for the next 2 years over 2012 & 2013 around Australia. I will update the schedule soon as I find out about it myself! Thanks to all the people that came out to see it and continue to show support for the work. It is an honour to share the small stories.



July 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Half submerged in dark green water, the bloated whiteness of a fish belly-up lies prone against a swath of brown canvas. Nearby, a lakeside restaurant filled with people chat and eat, overlooking the calm waters, overlooking the decay that delivers their meals.

I read that Agent Orange still seeps into the wet earth of Vietnam.

Some memories fade fast and become distant stories long before their time.

Vietnam | November 2010

MJR Print Editions ~ Ying Ang

May 8, 2011 § 1 Comment

So my little story zine is here, freshly printed and ready to be consumed! Come say hi at Look3 Festival of the Photograph in Charlottesville to get yourself a copy or else you can try to chase me across various American states over the summer… but no promises… 🙂

You think you’re safe here

April 27, 2011 § 1 Comment

If I were content, I would not move. If I were reconciled, I would not have come back.

Instead, I find the lies offensive, baiting. I cannot believe them, the ones you make to yourself and to the people around you. I cannot shield myself with the same veil that you drag across your eyes as you shuttle your toddlers back and forth, making cheery small talk with people you would never let into your home.

How do you ignore the rotten core? The fakery, the leers, the forgetting pills and powders, the rape, the murder? How did you become a part of it?

All hidden away behind the waterfront property, the candy coloured town. What a great place to raise your kids – the collective moan.

I came back to find the place that formed me. I came back to touch the artifice again, the warm, crushing boredom, mindless wandering and suppressed violence in a place that looks right but feels so wrong. This place brought me to my knees and kept smiling as she did it, twisting, asphyxiating. My demons live here, camouflaged within the pastel landscapes. And when I return, I am the mad one. I am the one who points at nothing, shies away from imaginary things and speaks of a world that apparently died in our younger years. The white-veneered, red-gummed mouths tell me that I over-react, I should let go, I speak of a wound-like corruption where there is none.

I smile a mad smile and think I know better.

(You think you’re safe here)

A call to networks

March 14, 2011 § 1 Comment

Hello Post Halcyon community,

This is a collaborative project that Sarah ElliottAgnes DherbeysBenedicte Kurzen and myself are working on, in an effort to use as a tool to bring this issue to sectors outside of the photographic realm. We want to bring this to the academia, corporate sector, philanthropic circles (for example) to open up ideas to a means of survival and the continuation of life after rape.

Women in the villages of the DRC are the fabric of life in the community. Without these women capable of functioning in a normal capacity and being ostracised for atrocities beyond their means to prevent, society is broken down. They are the tapestry in which all community life is woven and it is torn.

We would like to use this project to bring this issue to light in areas of the public sector that would be otherwise unaware of the steps forward that can be achieved in lending these women a helping hand to continue with their lives, either through mental or physical rehabilitation. In addition to this, the continuous call to abhor and stand against the very foundation of warfare fought on the bloodied ground of innocents.

Please share this project with your friends/network (especially to those outside the photographic community) if you find this at all important/relevant. We are totally open to communication or dialogue so if you have any contacts that you think would be useful or ideas for the project, get in touch! We would love to hear from you.




© Sarah Elliott

© Sarah Elliott


March 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

I offered my heart in supplication. I offered it up for a life that was fuller… full-bodied, full-blooded, full-flavoured. I was given everything as a child. Everything that I was told I could ever want. Everything it was written that a little girl could possibly desire in her charmed, pink, lilac scented life, in every story book ever written that made it to a mainstream bookshelf. There was only one mistake. I was never that girl. My favourite colour was green, not pink. Green was the colour of hope, the colour of the ink that Neruda used to pen his odes to the crashing sea and the long length of Chile. My favourite scent was tree, not lilac, not to be bottled and sold duty-free.

So when the time came, I made a deal. Incision of the deepest kind, slicing through the safety of story-book comforts, I cut free the most precious part of me and held it up to the world. To be attacked, to be protected, to be valued, ignored, spat upon, cherished, I held it up in supplication. As a result, perhaps it’s a little more worn than the rest, a little ragged around the edges… but it pulses in response to a beat that resounds louder and with more conviction than I ever had in the lilac-frilled life my parents had wanted to give me.

And now there is my story, not theirs, in all its complexities and simplicities, madness and humanity. An opera.

Hong Kong | February, 2011

…They were too mortal to take it. They were mind-stuff,
Provisional, speculative, mere auras.
Sound-barrier events along your flight path.
But inside your sob-sodden kleenex
And your saturday night panics,
Under your hair done this way and done that way,
Behind what looked like rebounds
And the cascade of cries diminuendo,
You were undeflected.
You were gold-jacketed, solid silver,
Nickel-tipped. Trajectory perfect
As through ether. Even the cheek-scar,
Where you seemed to have side-swiped concrete,
Served as a rifling groove
To keep you true…

~ excerpt from “The Shot” by Ted Hughes

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