Gu Jue, Brush holder
Asia; China, c. late 1600s
Bamboo with hardwood rim and base, overall: 17.8 cm x 16.5 cm.
The bamboo exterior carving illustrates Ouyang Xiu's poem “Ode to the Pavilion of the Inebriated Old Man," written about his 1045 demotion from court and subsequent joy in the lowered station. He built a pavilion in Chuzhu and named the poem after himself. He wasn't intoxicated, but he felt inebriated from the pleasure of good company.
The VHS begins with static before fizzling into the picture— all that's seen at first is a blur of a gloved hand fiddling with the placement of the camera. Once satisfied, the figure attached to the glove steps back, now coming into focus and illuminated by a small desk lamp. The figure was clad in a smart shirt and slacks, adorned with a patterned tie...as well as donning a pair of leather gloves and a burlap mask with a crudely stitched mouth. "Hello world— ah, maybe not world. This is mainly for me— Hello future me! And anyone else that finds this video diary. Probably law enforcement. Or a burglar. Or a really nosey teenager."
There's a slight leathery squeak as he settles himself in the nearby office chair, getting himself comfortable for the spiel that was about to follow. "This video is purely for my own benefit and self-healing. My therapist actually recommended that I journal but I've never been a big fan of writing— I'm a talker. Definitely a talker. The first memory I have is my teacher telling my mom that I don't stop talking in class. I was transferred outta that class— not 'cause of the talking, actually, I think I ate another kid's science project..."
"But back to therapy— Apparently the act of writing things down is so that we can allow ourselves a safe space to evaluate our thoughts and feelings about certain events in our past and present and assess them in a logical way. It also gives one an outlet to be their authentic self, able to express their full range of emotions and reactions due to outside forces." He flings the brochure he was reading from over his shoulder. "That's a really long-winded way of explaining it but I'm hoping that talking about things on camera will have a similar effect. I explain what's happening and say my piece and then can watch it later and realize that I'm being an asshole about it or that I'm overreacting or that I'm completely valid in those thoughts—"
His fingers snap as a sudden thought hits him. "Aw, I shoulda... started this with an introduction— okay, okay, let's rewind this. To start off, my name is Philo. You say, hello Philo, it's lovely to meet you— I have a last name but I don't use it so we'll consider that a moot point, m'kay?" Gloved hands tug at the edge of his mask. "I have, uh, some issues with, uh, my sense of self...and identity...and rejection too I think— I've got issues, but wearing the mask helps. I realize it's sorta scary looking to most folks but, uh, I don't care. All the mirrors in my apartment are smashed in. I can't...look at myself for very long."
The mask is readjusted, the only indication there was a real person underneath being the bright eyes peering out from each eye hole and the flash of a grin from the jagged mouth slit. "The mask is also good for anonymity, which is very important to me. And to be fair, I could have chosen to wear a less frightening mask. Any mask would do really...but this one is a little freaky and it helps with my job."
"My job is...oh, fun fact: my therapist knows what I do for a living but he's non-judgemental, which is something you want in a therapist— In tax terms, I am classified as a freelancer. Which is just another word for mercenary. I do what people pay me to do, within reason." He takes a moment to cross one leg over the other, clasping a gloved hand on his knee. "Liiike I don't harm animals. Doesn't make sense to me. A dog is innocent. If they bite you, you probably messed with them and you should really look inward and reflect on yourself as an individual."
He shrugs. "But if you want me to, like, shoot someone in the head, like, yeah I'll do that." He nods. "But I don't do it maliciously, which I think is a good thing. Says a lot about me as a person I think." Philo's quiet for a moment, sitting pretty and jiggling his foot as he thought about his next words. "I've done a lot of...illegal things in the name of money. I don't really feel bad 'bout some of it. Stealing? Odds are I'm stealing from a bad guy or a rich guy who's probably bad and that's fine by me. Beating someone up? Listen...if you get involved with dangerous people and don't at least learn some Judo, I'm pretty sure that's on you." He had an unfair advantage but that's neither here nor there. "Exotic animal smuggling? Well, how else are the elite gonna get their Kinkajous? I'm providing necessary services here."
Philo pauses to rub at his clothed chin. "Hmph, I haven't...haven't really...mentioned my thoughts and feelings and stuff yet, have I? It's all work, work, work with me, huh? Okay, well, I'll tell the lovely viewers at home about what I just talked to my therapist about...for posterity."
He leans forward now, initially silent as he thinks back on the aforementioned session. "I thought it was a funny little anecdote, y'know? I remembered when...I was, like, twelve and I had a growth spurt and mom started with the, uh, the cage? It was...putting kids in a cage is something I wouldn't do for my job, just for the record. But mom, uh, she just...she did it for free I guess." There's a bark of bitter laughter. "She used to...she used to tell me jokes. When I was really small...not sure when I went from, uh, to being her son to...to whatever she thought I was."
Philo's leg jiggles. "Well, she used to have me fight other neighbor kids. I got...I got hurt a lot. And then if I didn't...win, I'd have to spend the night in the cage. I mean...there were definitely other kids there so it seemed...like that was just something we had to do. Just boys will be boys sorta thing. Beating the ever-living snot outta each other— World, I dunno if you've ever slept in a cage overnight but it's not...definitely not fun. You've gotta...kinda crouch. And your thighs go numb. Knees still hurt when it rains 'cause of that shit."
He abruptly stands, the office chair swiveling slowly behind him. "Y'know, I think that...think that's enough. More than enough. I gotta...gotta stretch my shitty knees. How do I—" He's fiddling with the camera, cursing softly under his breath when he can't figure out how to stop. "Okay, then, we'll just—" Philo stalks out of frame, the sound of rustling coming from just off-screen. "I'll figure this out!" Is heard as a far-off cry.
He comes back with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing both to be heavily tattoed— he's also got a golf club and looks ready to swing. "FORE!" The picture fizzles out with a loud CRACK on impact.
Hometown: Matane, Quebec, Canada
Birth Date: January 5, 1979
Orientation: "I like anyone who can deal with the whole mask thing. The bar is sooo low."
Height: 6'3"
Pets: Cool Whip the Bunny
