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A5 calendar sticker paper that I'll be using to layer on more

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A5 calendar sticker paper that I'll be using to layer on more

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bought from Daiso

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it is also worth mentioning that the newspaper pages that i chose are all from the circuit breaker, phase 1 and start of phase 2 period. many people of all ages would still be staying at home during this period.

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i added more newspaper to the center of one of the bowls, both front and back, to make it more sturdy

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quite solid, nothing is falling apart. can be bent and dented. I can put two more layers to hold it steady with a thicker mixture of glue.

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cut a guiding line in the middle of the paper mache, so that I know not to add any more layers over that one part; bc it'll be harder to cut through.

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these layer are full of news articles dedicated to COVID-19. it shows that although the user may have lost track of days, they are still painfully aware of the current situation as they see it in every form of media they consume. e.g newspapers, on social media, even songs that talk about quarantine

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a big problem I faced was trying to balance out water and glue. if i used too much water the glue would not work as glue normally would, if I used too much glue the newspaper would take longer to dry as the mixture is too thick.

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using a basketball as a base, glue was somehwhat watery; foundation was still strong

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2nd concept - tikam tikam COVID-19 edition

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2nd concept - tikam tikam COVID-19 edition

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a tikam tikam game which tells you the date. following the original concept of the game, the result is purely based on luck.

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just researching on 'how to make an 8ball' gives me a headache. it would not be environmentally-friendly for me to buy so many materials just to use for one project, and many hardware stores have yet to open, which limits me to what i have at home.

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an 8ball that's just as uncertain about the day as you are!

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showing warped sense of time in a calendar

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showing warped sense of time in a calendar

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using the normal Gregorian calendar, i could jumble up the days/ weeks.

to show confusion "what day is it?" "it feels like a friday" i could repeat the days
most people just assume the day anyway

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the article, although it's quite an unusual read (that's saying alot especially during these unusual times), sums up all our emotions while we're seeing the same four walls everyday. the article ends on a somewhat happy note, but there are people who never break out of their cycle of despair and restlessness.

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as i was searching for posts and tweets about people feeling disconnected to their own lives, i came across this article from The New York Times. the article is basically the writer's experience being stuck at home. the writer did many impulsive things to fill his days, and spent alot of time in a drunken haze. during the third week of his quarantine, he discovered a 'natural lifestyle coach', who promotes 'ground living'. it literally means to live on the ground. no furniture, and especially no chairs. squatting is the way to go. having nothing else better to do, the writer decided to have a go at this kind of lifestyle. what would appear to be feral and odd behavior to others became a method of unwinding to him, as he experienced a sense of calm. he felt less listless, and more control over his days.

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Turning The Camera From War to Family "We're very fortunate to all be here together."

I was in Australia, working on a photographic project on the aftermath of the wildfires, and there was a moment when I realized that this pandemic was not being contained. It was spreading everywhere. My family was back in Switzerland, and I was playing these scenarios through my mind: Borders being closed. What if I get sick? What if I get stuck? What if my wife, Kathryn, gets sick, and I can't reach her?

So we made a decision that we should all be together. I cut my trip to Australia short and rushed back home, just before they started imposing travel restrictions and closing borders.

We live in Geneva in a pretty small apartment. The schools were already closed, and my wife and I realized it would be very hard for the girls, Luna and Emma, to quarantine there.

When we left the city for the mountains, I had the thought that we were going into the unknown with no horizon of what was going to happen or when it was going to end. I felt I wanted to document this experience, even just for ourselves, so I made a very deliberate decision to bring my ''real'' cameras.

We arrived at the farmhouse two days after my birthday, which is on March 11. We've been here now for more than two months.

Both my wife and I had a longing to be in nature, especially at a time like this. We'd been to this valley last summer and stayed in this place then. This is the countryside in Switzerland - when you get out of the city, it all looks like this. We're pretty isolated in our little cabin. We're very fortunate to all be here together.

I'm Italian, and in the first few weeks of the pandemic, seeing Northern Italy deteriorating very, very quickly, there was a sense of being in completely unexplored territory. That has parallels, surely, with the type of work I have done in the past as a photographer in conflict zones. Early on, it was our decision as a family for me not to travel, not to cover this. This is the first time in decades, maybe in my career, that I've decided not to cover an event, especially one of this magnitude.

These photos are very different from my usual work. After decades of a certain type of photography, very kinetic and very dynamic, I have found myself looking for moments of silence. I'd never really photographed my family or the girls very seriously before. Yes, I've photographed them with an iPhone, as any other parent would. But I had a sense that I wanted to document this moment. This is the longest I've ever stayed with my family because I'm always traveling, always leaving, so to have this time together is very special. At the same time, I do not think of the pictures as a diary of a quarantine. Obviously there is that element, but I wanted to touch something that was more timeless and universal. Something about the girls, about the passage of time, about changes. Something that was in the moment but that also transcended it. - As told to Adam Sternbergh

Paolo Pellegrin is a Magnum photographer who has been documenting historic events around the world for decades. He last photographed the artist Anselm Kiefer for the magazine.

Shortly after the coronavirus crisis set in, my friend Caroline Campbell, a curator at London's National Gallery, wrote to tell me about how, a couple of days after the museum was forced to close its doors to the public, she found herself wandering through the empty galleries. She had never known the place to be so quiet nor the birdsong outside so loud. ''The blinds and shutters were down,'' she wrote. ''The pictures hung on the walls in heavy silence.'' But what unsettled her most was how the new atmosphere seemed to alter her relationship to the pictures. ''On this oddest of days,'' she said, ''I was drawn to a picture that has never interested me greatly. I know Gainsborough's portrait of his two daughters chasing a butterfly means a lot to many people, but it hasn't done much for me in the past. It has always seemed schmaltzy and sentimental. But now I was utterly compelled by it.''

Thomas Gainsborough's ''The Painter's Daughters Chasing a Butterfly,'' from about 1756, is a popular picture, one of those that are easy to dismiss. ''I began to think,'' Caroline wrote, ''that our past life has maybe been as futile as chasing butterflies. I also felt, in a weird way, that Gainsborough's children were trapped, stuck within a frame on the wall of the gallery, and only our gaze could set them free. What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that pictures only function when there are people to look at them. Otherwise, they hang somewhere in limbo, purposeless and a little lost.''

Like Caroline, I had never paid much attention to ''The Painter's Daughters.'' I have many times passed it by on my way to another picture. I looked it up online. There is a strange and wary confidence to the sisters. The butterfly is precarious, pushed close to the edge of the painting, and seems to be both free and in mortal danger. The sisters are holding hands but are far apart enough that they seem connected yet distinct. It is not clear if the older one is readying herself to strike. In any event, she knows more than the other and is, at the moment we catch them, willing to let her younger sister test the limits a little. Theirs is the murderous curiosity of the innocent. The butterfly is balanced on what looks like a thorny stalk. The little sister's hand is already extended halfway there. Her delicate fingers are dark with intent. If she misses, though, the thorns will be what she catches. Her face is ignorant of this. The older sister, however, has an inkling and seems to be both encouraging and restraining her sister. Part of her purpose seems to be her own amusement. And suddenly, looking at them together - the shapes of their figures, the activity of their dresses - they resemble the wings of a large butterfly in motion. All around them is darkness. The trees are pregnant with dark premonitions, and the small light in the distant sky is weak and dying.

National Gallery, London/ Art Resource, NY

It is a painting about the turning of time, about youth and aging, about the violence of the innocent and about a father's concern, his fears of mysterious and real dangers.

Willi Ruge/Ullstein Bild, via Getty Images

In the days after my exchange with Caroline, further restrictions were imposed. I began to miss my old routine. For a majority of my life, I have visited the museum about once a week to stand in front of a picture for half an hour or so. In London, where I live for most of the year, I usually go to the National Gallery; in New York, where I live for the rest of the time, it is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Without knowing it, I have, in modest ways, come to organize my week around this habit. But this, of course, was the least of it; the coronavirus has so quickly succeeded in affecting almost every aspect of life. It has encouraged us to be suspicious of one another. It has exposed the inequities in our society. Its effects are mental as well as physical, in the sense that it threatens to attack that most essential of human rights, breathing, and compel our culture to think that the pandemic is the only thing worth thinking about. As you would under a dictatorship, you must protect your body as well as your imagination from it. I declined invitations to write about it and tried instead to focus on my work. I felt I was turning upon myself. Time itself has come to resemble a loop.

Yet somehow, whenever I longed for a return to normality, to take the bus and visit the National Gallery, the most vivid image I had wasn't from my memory. Instead, I saw myself in Caroline's shoes, walking through the empty museum to look at the Gainsborough. It was as though, through a strange mental confluence, no doubt exaggerated by the situation we are all in, I had swapped places with Caroline. I thought of something she and I discussed before, in the days when we were able to meet in person, about how a painting is never finished, that it must continue to do its work long after it has been hung on the gallery wall, that a picture relies on us to complete it. This is why, we agreed passionately, free access to museums is essential. Our culture depends on it, but also the art depends on it. Now that this age-old communication was not possible, how can those paintings in the museum, hanging in the dark, function? The question presented itself with the nuts and bolts of a practical problem. When the art in the museum is inaccessible, what happens to it and what happens to us? Have we not observed how a picture can suddenly become significant to our culture while another, equally good, perhaps even better, recedes from our attention? And does this not prove that art is in constant dialogue with history?

It was in this state of mournful confusion that a set of photographs I saw years ago - and for all intents and purposes had forgotten about - emerged, like a found object, in my memory. In certain moments, usually when I wasn't thinking, the images would occur to me. They are by a little-known German photographer named Willi Ruge (1892-1961). ''I Photograph Myself During a Parachute Jump'' is a series shot as Ruge dived off an aircraft headfirst, like a rocket to the ground. The pictures were taken in 1931, between the two mammoth wars, and therefore a time, I imagine, like those trees in Gainsborough's painting, pregnant with dark premonitions.

Ruge was interested in speed. As a boy he wanted to be a pilot. He sharpened his photographic skills during World War I, when he served at the front and as an air gunner. It was then that the connection was reinforced in his mind between photography and danger. He later traveled to Argentina, where he photographed bodies mingled in tango and took several disturbing shots as he turned around the muscular tug and pull of a wild horse some gauchos had chained to a tree under the blazing midday sun in order to tame it. He took aerial views of trees, each standing beside its shadow, sparsely dotting a small village in Sudan. He captured, in startlingly perfect focus, a rider falling off his horse at a steeplechase race in 1920s England. He took a haunting portrait of a Royal Air Force pilot, Lt. Col. Frederick F. Minchin, a few months before he set off on an attempt to cross the Atlantic. The aircraft disappeared. The pilot's fate remains a mystery. The photograph is uncanny because Minchin appears to be mesmerized, peering fixedly at something just out of reach, as though recognizing his destiny and yet unable to escape it. Ruge caught a similar entranced quality in Rudolf Caracciola, the top racing driver of the age. He captured speed-distorted images of him whizzing by in his car and took quieter photographs of his wife as she leaned over, watching her husband with trembling pride and fear in her face.

In 1936, well into the Nazi years, Ruge published a series he titled ''In the Air With Our Combat Pilots,'' which included photographs that lionized the German Air Force. A few years later, during World War II, he more nakedly used his camera as a tool for propaganda: He photographed military personnel in strategic meetings, captured machine gunners and pilots in action and documented the optimistic faces of young recruits. Ruge seemed to have accepted Nazi rule and certainly supported it with his work. He, like other German photographers then, commercially benefited from the exile, incarceration and murder of able colleagues. And therefore, his work after 1933 exists in a troubling vacuum, one marked by the enforced disappearance of others, and his work before that time is touched by a powerful foreboding, as though he sensed the nearness of the precipice and was darkly drawn to it.

One such example is ''I Photograph Myself During a Parachute Jump.'' Here Ruge becomes the protagonist of his own work. He wanted to capture the drama from several angles. He, the falling figure, had a camera; a colleague of his photographed from another aircraft that hovered at a similar altitude; and a second was on the ground and caught, as Ruge had done with the Caracciolas, Mrs. Ruge's reaction as she watched her husband descend from the sky. In ''Photo of Myself at the Moment of My Jump,'' Ruge appears to be falling backward, his mouth wind-swollen and horribly open. In ''I Decided to Jump Headfirst,'' taken from the other aircraft, we see Ruge from a distance. He is upside down, and his arms and legs are spread wide as he swims in the air a few meters beneath his aircraft, the faraway earth flat and placid beneath. Then in ''Meanwhile, on the Ground ... '' we see his wife holding their newborn son and looking up at the sky, surrounded by other amazed onlookers; one of them, a lady in an open coat, is literally biting her fingers. A few seconds later, the panic has set in for Ruge. He takes a picture that he later calls ''With My Head Hanging Down Before the Parachute Opened ... .'' It shows his face from beneath, his features distorted by fear and effort, and his right hand is reaching to clinch on to something. The gesture is uncannily reminiscent of Gainsborough's younger daughter's hand reaching for the butterfly.

In the same year that Ruge dived off the aircraft with a camera, Virginia Woolf wrote, in ''A Letter to a Young Poet'': ''But it is October 1931, and for a long time now poetry has shirked contact with - what shall we call it? - Shall we shortly and no doubt inaccurately call it life? And will you come to my help by guessing what I mean?'' It is a curious coincidence that just as Ruge was making ''I Photograph Myself During a Parachute Jump,'' which is, in part at least, about contact and lack of contact, Woolf was thinking of the same problem in language and, more specific, poetry's ability to capture life in the modern age. ''And will you come to my help by guessing what I mean?'' is surely every work of art's silent plea. Indeed, Ruge's parachuting self does remind me of the poet that Woolf evokes in her ''Letter,'' dancing ''on the floor of [his] mind.'' Here are his feet, in lace-up leather shoes, dangling helplessly above a cityscape. The architecture, trees and road below seem like a distant dream, a child's fantasy of what a city might look like. Like the rest of the photographs in this series, it is about proximity, but also approximation: how to measure the distance between two points, and what it is to cross it. They are about being suspended, and what that state might hold. They reveal a playful but also anxious response to our relationship to earth, our resistance to nature and the fantasy, which is also a madness, of wanting to be weaned from it.

I am still surprised that the work of Willi Ruge, which has never before seriously occupied my attention, should suddenly come so vividly to mind during these strange and uncertain days. Not only are we uncertain about how and when we will come out of this; we are also unsure about the world we will find on the other side. We feel oddly convinced that nothing will be the same. It is as if the present has woken us up from a dream. And yet, very much like the painter's daughters and the falling Ruge, we feel that we are involved in some sort of experiment in living. The moment is charged with opposing temptations. Will we rethink our attitudes to nature and to commerce in order to address the health of our planet and the violent inequities in our society? Will we remember the compelling force with which we have been reminded of how deeply interconnected and reliant we are on one another? That we are not only part of nature but also part of a single organism? Will we honor the passion we felt for kindness? Will we, in other words, stay true to the version we glimpsed of our better selves: that of generosity, heroism and compassion? Or will we yield to the dark calls of those who insist that the lessons to take from this are that we should fear the stranger even more, build higher walls and practice a resolute policy of intolerance to difference and to reason? Our history shows that we are paradoxically good at learning from the past as well as remaining somewhat unchanged by it.

Perhaps Ruge's images returned to me because, as with my friend Caroline, the current circumstances have altered my attention. I think this is one of the ways that art works; it is there for our pleasure but also as a tool for thinking. It helps us consider the present and our place in it. It is what has made Caroline stop at the Gainsborough, and it is also what has made me recall images by a largely forgotten photographer whose work I had seen only in passing several years ago and in reproduction. And from this perspective, it suddenly seems that ''The Painter's Daughters Chasing a Butterfly'' and ''I Photograph Myself During a Parachute Jump'' are connected. I think it was the wariness and suspended state of danger and threat in the Gainsborough that helped bring to mind Ruge's photographs. Both are about a suspended moment, where the consequences are in question; a moment, in other words, not too dissimilar from where we find ourselves today.

A new intrusive thought to consider: On average, the human body sheds its entire bag of skin - more than a billion cells - every 28 days. Since the beginning of self-quarantine, I have shed my husk more than twice, casting off thousands of skin cells each second. Every morning, after my waking groan, I sat up half-awake in bed, watching the shards of my disintegrating self turning over in a tone-deaf ray of sun. Free of the virus, that was how I was dying - incrementally, and mainly from self-pity. Others are not as lucky, I thought, with the grandeur of a person who fights by doing nothing, whose suffering takes up negative space. The neighbors banged pots and pans to alleviate their guilt. I thought about skin as it floated through the air, landed on the bureau, remade itself as dust.

Dust, as a collective noun, means almost nothing. The word is suggestive of dryness and smallness - tiny unknown pieces, combined with other pieces, which remain to be discovered like the bottom of the sea. There is road dust and coal dust and stardust and space dust. Household dust, a lively field of scientific study, is thought to contain domestic life in microcosm: mainly sloughed-off skin and hair, but also sweater fibers and pet dander, dried-out bugs and tracked-in outdoor dirt. A zillion motes of dust make up a singular ''dust bunny.'' Like a fine wine or the neuroses of siblings, each is unique to its own environment. My dust is me, and the friends I can't have over. Yours is you, and the life outside your window, and the life of every tenant before you. Gross - but who right now can turn down company?

The word for both adding and removing dust is ''dust.'' I dusted my way through self-quarantine with a box of dollar-store dryer sheets, encountering my home on a microscopic scale, as nothing but motes landing on horizontal planes. Experts say you should dust from high to low, letting the dust from the higher-up realms settle in the lower-down ones before you clean them. This is a pretty good housekeeping tip, presupposing the duster believes that cleanliness is the most desirable outcome. Right now I don't know what I believe. In quarantine, I dust for distraction. I dust the baseboards. I dust the dark side of the fan blades. I dust the tops of the light bulbs in my lamps. I dust for a universe I can control. The thing about dusting is it is endless. Even as you dust, you make dust.

The management of household dust was a petty bourgeois fixation from the start. The chore was first emphasized in the mid-1800s, as dust from the just-industrialized street was beginning to threaten the newly sealed middle-class home. In her 1966 book, ''Purity and Danger,'' the British anthropologist Mary Douglas described this encroachment as matter ''out of place.'' Cleanliness was next to godliness, they said then, as they do now. Dirt symbolized a collapse of social order. The maintenance of this order usually fell on women, whose level of commitment to dust management symbolized moral piety, and later, in the inverse, liberation. In her 1949 book, ''The Second Sex,'' Simone de Beauvoir suggested that a fixation on housework offered women a flight from themselves and the world. ''Few tasks are more like the torture of Sisyphus than housework,'' she wrote. ''The clean becomes soiled, the soiled is made clean, over and over, day after day.'' In de Beauvoir's view, the life of Sisyphus was torture. At least he got to go outside.

Self-quarantine has me thinking and acting in all kinds of backward ways. Victorian metaphors are tantalizing, with cosseted elites at home baking bread as labor outside is ruthlessly exploited. Even as scientific thinking has evolved, a facile sense of germ theory prevails, with particulate life understood in stubbornly moral terms. Inside the house, the dust bunnies are friendly. Outside, there's the wet malintent of disease. People used to gossip about social behaviors, but now microbial rumors spread: The virus thrives on your reusable grocery bags; it can leap from the mouth of an oncoming jogger and hang in the air for up to a week. All we get told for sure is wash your hands. Log on to check the death count every day and wonder when it will finally be over. At least with the dusting, there is evidence of progress.

As I sit and write, a new layer of dust accumulates. Later on this evening, I'll make another round, Swiffering the baseboards, wiping down the ledges, dragging a sock along the porcelain toilet tank. The underside of a dusty cloth has the cozy, filthy horror of a yellow Q-tip. Better out than in! Coping mechanisms are always some combination of perverse and pathetic. Through dusting I've found a means of control, a form of endlessness I can contain.

Right now, the world has only two scales - big and small - and both go on forever. I am so, so tired of endlessness: the unrelenting boredom, the cycles of self-pity, the constant systemic breakdown, the eternity of death. I long to think about big, dumb things that have an end: a steak from a restaurant, the nave in a church, a hug from a friend of a friend, the Grand Canyon.

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Quarantine Was Driving Me Crazy - So I Decided to Lose My Mind on Purpose

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Turning The Camera From War to Family "We're very fortunate to all be here together." I was in Australia, working on a photographic project on the aftermath of the wildfires, and there was a moment when I realized that this pandemic was not being contained. It was spreading everywhere.

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i could cover lots of things on how people are affected, but i want to focus on how people have been losing track of time. everyday feels the same because our daily routines are broken by lockdowns and quarantines. some people wake up everyday and they feel extremely listless and confused, although they may have work or school.

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a worldwide pandemic with a low mortality rate,
but has devastating effects on the infected.
it has also shut entire countries and it's societies down.