"The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May."

 

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) ‘May’

 

Beached among the ruins of her darkened fiefdom, the self-crowned first lady clings on still to her circlet of vanity. Stranded, exhausted and gasping for air, her blow hole now releases pungent fumes as her life is being slowly crushed by the weight of her blubber. Her 2.5-ton tongue, reflecting her enormous and insatiable appetite so accustom to all things luxurious and resplendent, now sticks out in feeble desperation for just a drop of that plain old rejuvenating elixir of life. But in this dried-up bed of water overgrown with cacti, there is only the salty tang of defeat and the stinging prickles of humiliation. Alone and helpless, exposed to the unforgiving elements her body soon to become a sumptuous feeding ground for birds, crabs, flies and maggots, she wonders how did she ended up here. Was it because she and her ‘consort’, that pink-lipped sodomite from a privileged clan who used to lord over a cabinet of amenable eunuchs, rapacious religious crackpots and mendacious merchants, had in their nefarious quest to rob the masses blind and bleed the coffers dry, appointed clowns and jesters as aides and advisers that inadvertently turned everything into a glaring farcical circus sideshow and a bad joke of gargantuan proportions thus earning the ire of the masses tired of being taken for fools that came together and booted them out unceremoniously from the corridors of power on that historic month of May? Or perhaps it was ‘The God’s wrath for her engaging in sorcery and practice of other dark arts which she believed could help her maintain her reign of thievery and tyranny forever?        

 

Inside this rotting monstrous pile of flesh, her now blackened heart hiding in a place darker than night, holds out stubbornly it’s dying owner’s vile secrets; murderous misdeeds, unimaginable greed and international intrigue. As the queen awaits expiration, apparitions of her former coterie of sycophants appeared, many seen proudly carrying out her decrees. She recalls fondly how they used to trip over each other to bear gifts or eagerly make arrangements to satisfy her every whim. She can still hear how they sang with heart in unison self-penned lullabies about her greatness as the first lady, drowning the cries and screams of the victims of her explosive temper and childish, violent tantrums. Now that the battle is lost, her once loyal followers have abandoned her to her fate, unfollowed, unfriended and unloved. These cronies and lackeys with their swarm of hanger-on hovering faithfully around them have for decades profited obscenely under her patronage. As warlords and gangsters, prostrating before the high and trampling the low, they prostituted themselves for power and pimped the vulnerable of society for money. And as warlords and gangsters are wont to do to compensate their shallowness and lack of personality, they parade around in expensive facades, chase after bombastic sounding titles and spend lavishly their ill-gotten gains to advertise loudly that they have arrived.

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But in the blink of an eye, the tables have turned with the carpets pulled from under, the mighty have fallen from the palaces in their heads, drenching others in slime and sludge where they land. Now that the shit has hit the fan, the queen’s lackeys and cronies with their hands and faces stained, will be singing a different tune when brought to face the music. On this identity parade of shame, each of these perpetrators is identified, denounced and their wrong doings recounted in explicit detail. For every act of murder, betrayal, cheating, exploitation, oppression, corruption and downright villainy, there will be hell to pay, and they’ll pay in spades.       

 

“‘The God’ save the queen! The queen is dead! Long live the Queen!” 

 

In this second solo by young contemporary artist Shafiq Nordin, he returns with more of his assortment of fantastic creatures. Retaining his signature style, Shafiq is quick to point out that his approach to his subject matter has grown somewhat more focused and mature. He is also more confident of his technical abilities. The modern-day chimeras and walking abominations (now in a stranger but powerful combination of men, monsters and machine) are of course, imaginative representations of various figures, especially those in positions of power and influence which he singles out for their utter idiocy and duplicity. These characters also share other detestable traits, namely their lack of human decency coupled with delusions of grandeur. In this post truth times, the truth is what one feels it to be, regardless of the damning evidence, especially those with the clout to make reality and others bend to their bidding. They go about their daily routine without a modicum of shame or remorse for the damage and destruction caused by their foibles. Their sense of entitlement intact, these little napoleons and mini dowagers demand their pound of flesh, their 15 minutes of fame, their seat at the table, the curtsies accorded to their unearned titles and an ear for their 2 cents worth.   

 

Almost all of the works in this new series shows a central figure sitting or standing like full body portraits. But unlike the aims of portraiture among which is to record the noble, the upstanding and meritorious to inspire others toward a life of righteousness, courage and purpose, today’s heroes are the thuggish, the unscrupulous and the vulgar who bears ill will and relishes in causing unnecessary harm to society with impunity. 

 

If one does not wish to tolerate such transgressions anymore, what is to be done?

 

Hold a mirror and a hammer to break it once that mirror has caught the admiring glances of these money grubbing, power hungry and attention seeking narcissists. 

 

In his own way, this seems to be what Shafiq is trying to do.