Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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by Kai Chan

Drawing #3 ink on paper

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New work and archives


Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor



Late Night Parking Garage

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Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault


Your Smile on March 1
your smile
tufts of
sparkling snow

blaring up
from the ground
when the wind
stirs them
an air
filled with



by Fiona Smyth


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a new photograph every day
by Lee Ka-sing




Night Owl Sonata
by Holly Lee


Iris and I made our first turnip cake in our life! It’s no big deal Iris said, but to me it’s an achievement. I always thought this work belongs to my grandmother and great grandmother, not me. Considered the lost daughter in the family, I have never learnt to sew and cook. But now the elders are gone, and my daughter looks towards me for tradition. I must not forget to give her red packets every year! This year I gave her more - we made a turnip cake. It was just like baking a cake, she exclaimed. What’s so difficult! It’s not, perhaps, it was just me. I have a self-image problem; I was that spoiled child, or to put it nicely, that neglected child, who was always fed home-made food without staying too long in the kitchen. And nobody asked me to pay attention. Lucky or not, I was never given the responsibility of cooking. Turnip cake, in my consciousness, is a tradition which I am just a half-participant in. So it’s a great task to make from scratch, to steam, and eventually taste one. It was delicious, the three of us agreed. To complement the turnip cake, I cooked congee, with bean curd sheets and Ginkgo nuts. The Ginkgo nuts were from local trees, picked up by our Japanese friend Keiko, who handed them to me in a small pink organza bag as a gift. I have never thought these nuts could be collected from trees, and for free. We used to get them from shops, shelled and cleaned. Ginkgo nuts are harvested in autumn, Keiko said, wear latex gloves to pick up the fruit and squeeze the seed into a plastic bag. The smell from the flesh of the fruit could be repulsive! I could not help thinking what a laborious job it was. Even though I received them scrubbed and cleaned, when I cracked open the Ginkgo nuts, I could still smell the distinct odour of stinky cheese.



by Cem Turgay



From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault


From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 125: Mournful Tulip, February 18, 2022 (In Memoriam John Scott, who died yesterday).  From The Tulip Book, a notebook in progress.


Taking Notes
by Jeff Jackson

“ Column of Pedro IV “, Rossio, Lisbon, 2020. 



Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee


Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – After our first visit I started reading more about the Shah-i-Zinda, I suspect the bewilderment of repeated teal and turquoise mosaic patterns tiles and the magical light dancing around, added to the intrigue. On our second visit (after confirming with the local imam) I wandered back around to find the Socrates inscription, decorating the door way to one of the 12th century mausoleums. The translated text, simply expanded the mind.

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by Holly Lee



Sri Lanka’s first modern architect Minnette de Silva



Max Pinckers's Fantastic Fictions at FOMU Photo Museum Antwerp


ART LOGBOOK is a new column with contributions by various authors.


Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

誕生 (nativity): Between the Ghosting of the Night and the Bearing of the Day

"If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."-Gospel of Thomas


Did the two of you, sisters, plan this long ago when you were running away from the pretty boys who dressed their hair and teeth and shirts in the gold of the Coast’s sun all the while hiding their ravenous hearts. Did the two of you, plan this long ago when you heard your mother weeping for her lost sister in Taichung, and spent the day hiding her pain in the smile of her red that lit up a room and destroyed men’s carnivorous hearts. Did the two of you plan this long ago when you watched your father, after his dance of dampened morning tennis, walk out into the sea like Berryman’s poor Henry, you his two dream songs, when for a moment, he  began to disappear beneath the waves and the elbows of light and your gulped and your stalwart hearts weakened as you thought he would never return to you again. Willow sky, shark undertow, the dorsal dividing your lives, stilled and pulling. His rowing and stretching and breach into the sky-dark air.

His emergence. How could he not?

Did the two you know that you would spin this magical world of stories, pain and life from the blood, spit and incandescence of your heads, hearts and bodies: a rolled-down window of grief born star-struck from the life arriving and stretching inside a boy, golden in his hour as his life clocked and shadowed and counted out love. How both of your dreams were rent ripe for the separation of one another.

Two who harnessed the kingdom of language and the sinewy muscle of their fears and worked them into image, and book, stamped and glued from lives marked ostensibly of privilege and wealth, yet name the price tag and debt of suffering, those books are more difficult to mark up and away

and all the iconic breathing, longtime and sandtag, imagined upon each other long past the spider webs terrifying the trees and the bubbled garage parks and the swans dead along the banks of backyard grass, strangled by moss and glade and desire.

I know for I have seen all from afar.

I hear the patter of the dark approaching.

Lace up dear, lace up

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by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維


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New Release

About the book
There are three distinctive features in the February edition of DOUBLE DOUBLE: drawings, photographs and cameras.

It opens with a project by Canadian artist Bill Burns - a cross-media work titled The Salt, the Oil the Milk. This project is about trade, animals, advanced industrialism, and exchanges; things that change hands, from small, minuscule dealings to large international transactions. An on-going and developing work incorporating performance, drawings and sculptures, it has been shown in cities in Europe, Argentina, New York, Toronto and Vancouver.

Echoing Bill Burns’ drawings is Tomio Nitto’s suite of camera drawings. The illustrator once said that he could sketch faster than a camera. But soon after he started the drawing project he retracted his words. He found that the camera was not just a square box and a lens; each connection switch, each dial and button had incredible details. He later commented, “The camera has a beauty, and in my simple drawings, I make beauty too.” At length, beauty exists in all things - including man-made.

Lee Ka-sing responded to Tomio’s camera drawings by photographing four of his cameras. As he was writing about his cameras, a lot of past stories scurried back across his mind. Good old time it was. We bring back some of those moments in the middle section of this book, showing a collection of photographs of Hong Kong in the second half of the twentieth century, all of which taken by three veteran photographers: Mak Fung, Ngan Chun-tung and Yau Leung. Photographs and cameras, they complement each other.

Donkey, camera and auld lang syne
Double Double, edition February 2022

Ebook edition
epub version (for iPad, Apple iOS devices and macOS computers)
mobi version (fixed-layout KF8 for Amazon Kindle®)
180 pages, 8x10 in, 20×25 cm
(plus tax), download

Available at OCEAN POUNDS online shop

Paperback Edition
8x10 in, 20×25 cm, 180 pages
softcover, perfect binding
CAD $75.00 (plus tax, shipping)
Purchase Paperback Edition direct from BLURB


“Donkey, camera and auld lang syne”

You can view FULL VERSION of this publication online within this week. (Click PREVIEW, view full screen)


ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


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