diary

future... 2006 and beyond

2006-07-08T06:25:00.000-07:00

In nine months' time, I would be twenty-seven.

I looked at the drawings I had done. I was happy with a good number of them, but there are more things I want to do.

I also ask myself what sort of difference I want to make now that I am in the business of teaching.

Soseki's books have enriched my life greatly. I want to teach my students to read the Bible and Soseki's books.

I must look after my health. I must find time to exercise and take long walks.

episode 40

2006-07-08T04:41:00.000-07:00

Today...I went to NUS and slept on one of the study benches for about half a day. The remaining time, I finished 'And Then' and went to town to return the book at Orchard Library. The copy of 'Atonement' (Ian McEwan) was too thick and heavy, so I decided that I shall borrow a smaller papaerback version when I can find one.

'And Then'... a very good book. Soseki is assuredly way ahead of his time. I identify with his characters completely.

I am very very weak. Hope to get better soon.

sin

2006-07-03T04:42:00.000-07:00

testing

episode 39

2006-02-09T22:50:00.000-08:00

I am as the leaf growing on the tree. I am a single blade of grass. I am as the morning dew, I am as the passing flower.

I am as a fallen raindrop. I am as a grain of sand, or a stone.

I am nothing. I am less than nothing.

episode 38

2006-02-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

I love solitude.

Process.

Patience.

Quality.

Quietude.

Happiness.

Human.

episode 37

2006-02-05T21:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, we only need what we have, or even less.

The years that had gone by had been worthwhile.

Paring away the unnecessary, leaving only the essentials.

...Who am I?

episode 36: My Fragile Life

2006-02-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

A few nights back, Ranker called to say he had no money to pay for his rental, and he had nowhere to stay for the night. He asked me if I could let him put up at my place. I said no. He got upset. I did not bother to explain. I'm not sure if he has decided that we are quits. I was really just too tired and bogged down to do or say anything...

***

Back in 1993, early one morning, I was walking along the corridor of the old Victoria School in Geylang Bahru, looking for the place to sit for the entrance exam for the Art Elective Program, when I met B. We became friends...and of course, we formed the VS AEP group. (The 1993-1996 cohort)

***

This afternoon, we visited our art teacher. His son Dylan was very cute. There was of course the usual individual update session...

Y will be going back to NUS to do his Masters in Architecture. It seems that he has quite a bit of savings too (at least ten thousand or so...possibly even up to a hundred thousand or more)

C has already bought a Volkswagen Beetle for $90k. He had made some profit from investments during his NUS days. Everyone is asking him when he would marry his girlfriend; they had been together for four and a half years.

K is a designer in a design firm.

G is working in a design company as well.

B is currently in NIE, and will be getting engaged or married next June.

News update on others who were not present...our juniors are now architects, army officers, there was even an oil trader ....(should easily make his first million by age 35)

***

Sir did not comment much on my drawings, except that my windows are nice, but small, and my drawings of nature are a bit like Van Gogh's...

Everyone else seems to be have a successful story of the Singaporean dream to tell, except me. Everyone has thousands in their bank. I have less than five hundred dollars (and still in debt of about three hundred over dollars). Everyone has a car, or is going to get married, or is getting a car or a flat. I'm not.

I gave Sir the drawings of my windows...the drawings that remind me of so much beauty and pain...of what use are they for me? There is no need for me to keep them anymore...Sir is a true art connoisseur, it is only my honour if he likes my drawings and wants to keep them. At that instant, I would have even given him all my drawings if he had wanted them all...

'You haven't changed,' everyone says so.

'I'm sure there are many eligible girls out there,' Sir said. I smiled at him and asked about baby Dylan, who was asleep by then. 'Do use acid-free paper when you draw,' he advised.

It was a heartfelt gathering. As I stepped out, I feel happy for the successful achievements of my peers and juniors...I even received news that my old crush J is attached again.

I asked myself what I have.

As I walked back, I was even so ready to give away everything, all my drawings, all my books, all my CDs...my everything.

I have my pens. My papers. Nature. A broken discman with the same CDs that I love so dearly.

I had travelled so many roads and come so far to return to the very same spot again...

I have everything. I have nothing.

episode 35: Uncle and His New House (a sketch)

2006-01-31T14:40:00.000-08:00

We got into Cousin’s car and Cousin and Dad started talking.

‘He started it again this morning. In fact, he started it yesterday morning the minute I got off my car.’

‘What happened?’ Dad asked.

‘God knows what got into him. He’s a possessed madman of some sort. I was so pissed off I told him that I am back to celebrate Chinese New year, not to get scolded. In fact, I was very tempted to leave.’

I listened to the conversation quietly. It was not my nature to talk to my relatives. Cousin continued to talk about Uncle while his daughter, Han, sat quietly beside him. She fidgeted a little because the sun was glaring through the windscreen and shining into her eyes.

‘That impossible old man – do you know how ridiculous he was? Once, someone’s Indian worker came to deliver something. He shouted at the poor Indian worker for no reason. I believe even the poor man’s boss would not have scolded him so badly. But that’s not the only ridiculous thing he did. He also scolded neighbours who refused to do business with him.’

‘Well, you know your Dad’s temper. When he’s in a bad mood, he scolds anyone without a reason.’ Dad interrupted.

‘Let me tell you what happened the other day.’ Cousin continued. ‘He and I went to a Malay kampong. Now, this is Malaysia, dammit. At least even if you want to be king, you do not do it in a Malay kampong. Guess what? He cursed and swore at a Malay chap in the Malay kampong, as if he were ready to pick a fight anytime. I say again – in a fucking Malay kampong! Those people must have thought him a crazy old man. If he were in his thirties – now you know the Malay gangsters here are far worse than those in Singapore – he would have been hospitalized or lost his life there and then. I told him if he wanted to throw such foolish tempers again, don’t do it in a Malay kampong. And above all, if he’s keen to die, go alone. Don’t bring me along.’ Cousin was apparently exasperated as he recounted Uncle’s utter foolishness.

The conversation topic shifted to the new house.

‘So is he pleased with the new house?’ Dad asked.

‘Oh, of course he’s happy and proud of it. We’ve told him to save the money and not to build it, but he insisted. I guess it is his own wish, though he keeps saying that the old neighbour has been asking him. It’s not as if we borrowed any money from our old neighbour or owe him anything. Why should he bother if our family builds a new house with my dad’s savings? Ultimately, I think it’s the old man himself. It’s his pride… … It’s a joke really, if you think about it. The old man saved every single cent he earned. What’s the big deal about building a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house, if one does not even sit at a roadside stall for coffee with a friend? If anyone had been a miser like him, anyone could have built a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house in Malaysia.’

The car turned into Sungei Renggit.

Johore had not changed the least bit since I last visited the place some eight or nine years ago. The roads were still narrow and sandy, flanked by old houses with weathered walls and rusty zinc roofs. The vehicles looked worn out and more than a decade old. Like eight or nine years ago, children were playing in the porches of the houses. Dogs barked as bicycles and motorcycles went by. Roadside stalls and peddlers were still a common sight when I thought they would have become obsolete.

***

The car turned into the car park of an unfamiliar house.

‘Welcome to our million-dollar mansion.’ Cousin said to me half-sarcastically. I got off the car and Cousin ushered me up a flight of stairs on my right. All this while, I thought we were going to put up at the old house, but I was wrong. We were going to put up at Uncle’s new house. No more creaking wooden steps that made a thumping sound. No more old well with a metal bucket. I suddenly felt a sense of loss and nostalgia.

We soon reached the second floor. The floor of the new house was tiled with marble and there was a balcony at the hall overlooking the road and houses. Forty-five degrees to our right was a true million-dollar mansion fashioned in modern architectural design. There was a rooftop dining area and a huge plasma TV (or LCD TV ) visible even from our side of the road. There was a gym and swimming pool too.

‘My dad often says that the guy across the road shouldn’t have built such an expensive house. That way, our house would seem like the finest and most expensive house along this stretch of the road.’ Cousin said. ‘Anyway, my dad would give you a more comprehensive guided tour of the house. He would put his hand on this railing and say “this is real steel”, and hopefully you’d say a word of praise or two to please him. As if any idiot would mistake it for iron or aluminum…’

I thought it was a good thing that Uncle was not in when we arrived, for I thought he would scold me for not having visited him at his place for eight or nine years.

After Auntie served drinks to Dad and myself, Cousin and I went to sit at the rooftop to chat.

‘Sigh, I could talk about that old man for three months,’ Cousin said. ‘How’s your brother?’

‘My brother? Still in Thailand.’ I answered somewhat absent-mindedly, for I was not keen to start talking about my brother.

‘Why are the two of you so different? Was he like that when he was young?’ Cousin asked.

‘Well, how shall I put it…it’s not just your dad that’s problematic. My dad’s problematic too. And my brother is what he is today largely due to my dad…’

At this point, Dad joined us at the rooftop.

‘Whoa, the house is larger than I thought. When it was still under construction, I didn’t think it would be this large.’ Dad remarked. I thought Uncle would have been pleased if Dad were to speak these very words to him.

Cousin continued to talk about Uncle.

‘You should have seen my dad when he’s looking for something. The whole family would be flustered and busy even if he were to lose something as small as a pen or nail-clipper. Once he misplaced a pen and he started to slam the cupboards and drawers in the house and started scolding everyone in the house, so we all helped him look for it. I even went to get a new one for him, but that old moron insisted that he wanted back the very same pen. That is what a miser he is. I wanted to tell him to stop being an asshole. A millionaire like Li Jiacheng would not even bother to pick up money if he indeed dropped some, for the time he would spend to pick up the money would cost him more than the money he dropped.’

I tried to imagine Uncle upsetting the whole family over a pen that might cost less than thirty cents in Singapore currency, and wondered how such people find joy and meaning in their lives. I wished I could tell Cousin that my dad was not too different from Uncle in this aspect.

‘He’s back,’ Auntie came up and announced Uncle’s return. He probably went out to get the papers.

‘Remember to wish him health and pass him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I told you to prepare,’ Dad reminded me. I was somewhat apprehensive.

***

‘Ah, Ah Ming, I see you’ve come.’ Uncle muttered.

He was old, a sixty-six year old man with thinning grey hair and a tanned lean body from decades of toil and labour. His skin was all wrinkled and dry.

‘Uncle, Happy New Year.’ I passed him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I had prepared, but he took it and just carelessly placed it near the kitchen sink. For a while, I was at a loss of what to do.

Cousin’s wife, Jingyi, was preparing lunch in the kitchen. I wanted to pick up the ang-pow and pass it to Uncle again, but Jingyi gave me a look to tell me to wait.

Uncle finished his drink and started to reprimand Jingyi.

‘In many families, sons and daughter-in-laws bring their fathers out to restaurants to dine or travel to other places, but my own son and daughter-in-law avoid me and treat me as if I were less than a dog in their eyes.’

Jingyi and I started to feel tense. Someone please come to our rescue, I thought to myself quietly.

‘Uncle, this is for you,’ I picked the red packet from the sink area and passed it to him again, hoping that perhaps money would cheer him up a little.

‘Uh…oh,’ he took a glance at it. ‘Never mind, it’s okay, you’re still young and have not started to earn money.’ He said.

‘I’m working,’ I tried to push the red packet to him.

He took it and left it on the dining table while he sat down and started to drink his coffee. At least Jingyi could now prepare the lunch in peace.

‘Sit down,’ Uncle said, as he lit a cigarette. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘The new house is very big and nice,’ I tried to appease him.

Uncle took a puff and began his story, his eyes looking into the distance.

‘When I was twenty-four, I married your auntie. I worked very hard for this family… You know I have four children. I worked tirelessly every day, collecting junk and odds-and-ends to sell. I brought up my four children. You know the old shed where I dumped my things? Do you still remember our old house further down the road? I built two houses. Now we are here…I built this fine house too. Three houses in all. It’s not easy…’

I nodded silently.

‘I heard from your father that you are always very busy. I understand that teaching is not an easy job, but you must still have time for relatives.’

There was momentary silence. My eyes looked away from his.

‘I also heard from your father that you do not have much savings or money. You must learn to save. Of course I’m not asking you to be a miser or a slave to money. Spend on what is necessary, but save up for the future too. Do you think that I’d be able to build this house if I didn’t save?’ He looked around him with some pride and dignity as he spoke, and I remembered Cousin saying that Uncle only brought bread and plain water out with him when he worked. But of course, Uncle did not know that I had been supporting Brother.

‘Three decades…time flies…’ Uncle took another puff. ‘If this house had been built in Singapore it would have been worth millions.’ He wouldn’t be able to afford a house like this in Singapore, I thought. That amount of money would probably amount to a tiny condominium in Singapore at most.

‘I might not be very educated, but there are many people who respect me,’ he said. I thought he just complained that his own son and daughter-in-law treated him like a dog. ‘That old neighbour of mine – he did not even invite me to his son’s wedding. Why, does he think he can match me in terms of wealth, or in terms of capabilities and intelligence? I am part of the committee of a Chinese school here. I know about politics and education very well…’

I had to agree that Uncle is better versed in politics than I am. He reminded me of those uncles sitting in kopi-tiams complaining about the PAP policies and cursing Old Lee. I would very much prefer to live in my own little world of books and pictures and be ignorant of these things, though many might call me apathetic.

‘Respect,’ Uncle continued with great deliberateness. ‘You are a Chinese, you are educated, and you are already a teacher. How can you not find time to visit an uncle? No matter what, I’m still your father’s elder brother. How can you teach your students if you cannot even live by such a simple principle? … … Respect… I am not a dog. Neither am I invisible or dead. I may be uneducated, but I brought up four children and built this house. It is not easy. I wonder why so many people are avoiding me as if I were a dog…’

‘Well, if you stop barking around at everyone as if you were one, you would have a lot more people around you,’ I thought to myself, but I said nothing.

***

‘Lunch is ready…’ Jingyi announced as she laid out the dishes on the table. Cousin Sen (whom I have addressed simply as Cousin up to this point) came into the kitchen with little Han-girl.

‘Grandpa, eat,’ little Han called and Uncle looked at her and smiled. Little Han was very adorable and pretty. She was merely two years old, and I would dare say that of all the children I had known, she was the only child cuter than my brother’s daughter Serene. She would be our saviour angel to keep the family peaceful for the next few days, I thought.

‘Whoa, you are so pretty,’ Dad said to little Han. Then he turned to Jingyi and said, ‘You are becoming the mother of a celebrity!’

‘Ming, you are only eating the vegetables,’ Jingyi noticed.

‘Oh, I heard from your father that you are not eating fish or meat or chicken, or even eggs. What are we going to cook for you?’ Auntie asked.

‘Huh? You do not eat so many things? Is it true?’ Uncle looked at me. ‘You cannot not eat so many things. In fact, you must eat a little of everything so that you have a balanced diet.’

The atmosphere got a little tense, and I decided I should just stop my vegetarian diet for two or three days to avoid a confrontation or conflict of any sort.

‘Just ignore him and make him eat,’ Dad said.

I said nothing and took some fish quietly. I decided that the next best thing to do was to finish my meal and leave the table quickly, but that would be very rude.

‘Aiyah, even though I’m a Buddhist, I do not observe such a strict diet as you do,’ Auntie sort of lamented.

It was useless to explain anything to these people. Nevertheless, unlike Uncle, Auntie was someone whom I greatly respected.

‘Try these too,’ Jingyi passed me some scallops. ‘This is my best dish.’

‘Yeah yeah,’ Cousin Sen sneered. ‘Four years ago it was this dish. Four years later it’s still the same dish. But I have to admit you’ve not lost the touch.’ Cousin then turned and smiled at his wife.

At that moment, I suddenly thought about how difficult life was for the women who were married into our family. So Jingyi had been preparing New Year dishes for many years now. She would probably help Auntie wash the dishes later too. I was extremely thankful that I was neither married nor attached. And Auntie… how difficult it must had been on her, to live with my uncle all these years and to help bring up the four children. Jingyi was more fortunate because Cousin Sen was at least a decent and reasonable man. I suddenly felt very sorry for the women, and I hated my very own family and surname.

‘The fish doesn’t taste good,’ Uncle’s face twisted into a scowl and laid down his chopsticks. ‘The sea cucumber isn’t very fresh too.’

‘Ma, you shouldn’t buy things for the sake of buying,’ said Cousin Sen. ‘I know things are hard to find and they are costly around this time, but if you know that the things are not fresh, do not buy them for the sake of buying them. We can settle for a simple meal.’ Cousin Sen spoke truth in a cool rational manner, paying no regard to what Uncle said earlier.

I understood Auntie’s position very well. After all, Chinese New Year is nothing more than going through the motion for unhappy families. You buy New Year goodies because everyone else does the same, not because you like or enjoy them. You put up New Year decorations even though your family has three quarrels or more on the same day. You give and collect ang pows because the Chinese had been doing so for thousands of years. Everything has nothing to do with joy or meaning.

My heart bled and ached a lot over that simple lunch. I felt very sorry for Auntie.

***

It was a hot sultry afternoon after lunch. I stayed quietly in my room, reading Natsume Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’. All the bedrooms in the house had air-conditioners, but being a person who was used to the tropical heat and climate I only switched on the ceiling fan. The bedroom window overlooked a dense patchwork of rusty zinc rooftops, and one could see trees and the sea in the distance. As I read, I thought that Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’ could be interpreted as a study of an unimportant or insignificant life.

‘Uncle…’ Little Han stumbled into my room and looked at me with her big eyes. What a pretty and innocent child!

‘Where’s Daddy and Mummy?’ I asked her in a gentle voice.

‘Mummy’s in the kitchen…Daddy is outside…’ the clever girl replied innocently. ‘Let me read…’ she started to be curious about the novel I was holding in my hands.

‘You won’t understand this, foolish girl.’ I put the novel aside and took out a pen and an exercise book. ‘Come, Uncle will teach you how to draw.’ I turned to a blank page and drew a star for her. ‘Look, this is a star.’

Little Han then took the exercise book and pen from me, but she could not draw. In fact, all she could do was make faint marks in the form of short lines or dots on the page. She could not even draw a one-centimetre line. I was reminded of the days when my niece was staying with me, when I also taught her how to draw. Serene was already four when she stayed with us. Little Han was only two years old, so she could not hold the pen very well. I stroke her hair gently as I watched her attempt to make marks on the page.

‘Don’t play with my hair…’ little Han whined as she fiddled with the pen.

‘Okay, okay, Uncle will stop playing with your hair.’ Foolish girl! I stroke your hair because I was showing you affection!

***

I slept for two hours after little Han left the room. There was nothing else to do. The font size of the novel was a bit small. Cousin Sen had some VCDs of horror movies, but I thought it was inappropriate to watch them on Chinese New Year. I could not draw when my mind was not at ease. The only thing left to do was to sleep.

When I woke up, Dad had just taken his shower. It was around five plus in the evening. ‘Go and have your shower. Dinner is almost ready.’

episode 34

2006-01-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

Wow...my barest soul is at episode 34.

Misery loves company. As I think about going back to Johore, the song that plays in my mind is Miki Imai's 'I Miss You', with 'you' referring to no one in particular. I miss my students (especially those who love my English or Art lessons, or those who loved X Japan or cried while watching 'Grave of the Fireflies'...)...I miss my friends, my teachers (esp. Dr Ho) and my colleagues...I look forward to teaching art soon...Well, this too will pass, in three or four days.

When I was young, I never needed anyone ...(lyrics from 'All by myself')...
When I was young, romantic love was everything... (my own)

(sidetrack: And I thought young Ranker could look as cool as old Elton John)

I miss Miki Imai's 'I Miss You'...

When I was young, romantic love was everything. Now, life is everything, while everything is nothing. Art and nature is everything.

And perhaps, I may get Skeeter Davis's CD when I come back, but I'm presently broke now. And I hope this will pass too.

Happy Chinese New Year to all.

(This time, I'm really going back to Johore to see my uncle and his new house, after eight years of absence and excuses. The problem is I actually saw him a year or two back, when Serene was here and he came to Singapore for a while, but he insists that I should see his new house. Apparently, the new house is such an important lifelong achievement to him, that in the words of my cousin [his daughter], 'If he didn't build the house, he would never rest in peace if he should die'. )

episode 33

2006-01-26T20:43:00.000-08:00

Some stuff:

I want to look good for a day. I don't know why, but I passed by an Esprit boutique just now and saw some nice stuff for guys there. I thought it'd be great to let my students know that I have some fashion sense besides the stuff dictated to me by the school/ministry and my dad. I really miss t-shirt and jeans...I need new specs, a new hairdo, some acccessories, nice tee and jeans..whatever. That's the vain me..

I am getting along *okay* with my classes.

My thoughts are very disorganised now...will be back...

episode 32

2006-01-24T22:00:00.000-08:00

Looking back at the past... my railway, my drains, my trees...even before the times when I truly understood what solitude is...

Why do these things still matter? I do not know.

I need a break and rest. I need to draw.

episode 31

2006-01-22T16:00:00.000-08:00

Joy and sadness. Falling in and out of love. Good and bad art. Books and music. Philosophy and religion. I have seen it all and been through it all. But if you think that is the end of creativity and life, you are wrong.

The great Hokusai said this in his autobiography (written in 1835, at 75 years old):

From the age of six, I was in the habit of drawing all kinds of things. Although I had produced numerous designs by my fiftieth year, none of my works done before my seventieth is really worth counting. At the age of seventy-three I have come to understand the true form of animals, insects and fish and the nature of plants and trees. Consequently, by the age of eighty-six I will have made more and more progress, and ninety I will have got closer to THE ESSENCE OF ART. At the age of one hundred I will have reached a magnificent level and at one hundred and ten EACH DOT AND EACH LINE WILL BE ALIVE. I would like to ask those who outlive me to observe that I have not spoken without reason. '

episode 30

2006-01-20T20:31:00.000-08:00

Lately:

I did some sketches. The book on Van Gogh drawings has arrived and I have collected it. It is good.

I'm also reading Indian literature, Malaysian literature, as well as the Holy Koran (though I haven't gone very far for the Koran).

I know it's not very good of a teacher to do this, but lately I use art lessons to do my drawings. I believe after three weeks with me, I can leave my students on their own for challenging drawing tasks, so I use the time to do my own personal drawings and sketches.

I am very busy. Forgive me if I haven't contacted you, you, you, you and you...anyone or all of you....Students are half my life now. And of course, my other half, my love, art.

episode 29: Reply

2006-01-17T20:13:00.000-08:00

My teacher's reply:

You've never changed! Just as angst ridden as ever...sometimes I do wonder if it is all necessary to play out the romantic notion of the tortured,tormented artist. If I have taught you anything, it is that sometimes we needn't really bother too much. Idon't mean not bother about art (with a small 'a')which is intrinsically tied to our being...couldn't shake it off even if we wanted to. Don't bother about Art with all its isms, philosophies and trends. There is wisdom sometimes in being stupid about these things. I gave all that up long ago...which is why I never bother with the art circle. Its navel gazing if you ask me! What we do is simply to put our experiences on paper, as honestly and sincerely as we can. Nothing more, nothing less.The reason I asked you to go upscale is to allow yourself, as you put it to look at the same things from different perspective. The challenge of size sometimes opens up new visions and ways of operation that help reveal something new. It gives the viewer a different sensation and experience which is all we are trying to do really...giving the viewer that experience that only art can give. If we are really really good, we might even give the experience of what many call beauty. But no need to be plagued by it...take your time with it. It is far more important that you enjoy what it is you are doing. And abstraction...forget it! Georgette Chen never went abstract and remained the master that she was...Ng EngTeng tried that...and what a mess he made of it(remember the monstrousity outside the SAM Museum?...but I'm being unkind....he was a great artist and a wonderful, generous and kind man)Its good for me that some of my students have become teachers themselves and continuing the good work in our schools. My time is passed and you guys mustcontinue the evolution of art education for ourcountry. I just came back from NZ visiting my old art teacher and I told him that so much of what I am as a teacher I learnt through him. We talked about TylerPrint and how is it that a premier institution likethat could exhibit works of such poor technical and aesthetic quality. My teacher Barry taught me about quality...what it is to do things well. Like I've always said, if something is worth doing, its worth doing well. I'm grateful that you thought well of the education you have received from me. Its your job nowto transmit that love to your students. About that exhibition with you...I think you will have to wait a long while. I never thought much of whatI've made. I'm proud of very few of my works actually.Art used to play a big part in my life...its role is somewhat diminishing these days...I rather enjoyfatherhood more. But art never leaves you, like an old friend you haven't visited for a long time,encountering art again is always pleasant and stimulating. I visit art once in a while now and for whatever time we had together, the conversations were always polite and cordial. No big overtures or statements, just enjoying the way lines walk on thepages and how they leave behind the instant, the moment, the sensation.I'm still serious about the CNY visit and the showing and critique...better yet, let me pick one of yourdrawings for my wall...I still need works on the wall.

episode 28: exchanges between teacher and student

2006-01-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

I received an email from my art teacher, and thought I might as well send him a link to my drawings...this is what he replied:

Its good to know that you are still continuing with your art. These are a set of very sincere andwell-choreographed drawings. I like the windowseries...they have a power of their own. The question now is what next? I suggest you go upscale and do really large drawings and see how you like them. YunNong is organising a CNY visit to my home...get the drawings ready for viewing and critique.

This is my reply:

Hi sir,

Not sure how you read into sincerity, but thanks for the compliment. Those drawings are actually done over a period of 2.5 to 3 years. 90% or more of the drawings are actually done plein-air, so I would really still love to work with Nature and study for much longer before I learn to 'create'. (And of course, you know how busy teachers are with today's new challenges and changes in education...) Also, you'd realise that I do not really have a 'theme' or 'message' rather than perhaps aesthetics itself...so I'm not sure if I have the kind of patience and focus to work on just ONE drawing to orchestrate/crystallise what I have learnt and what I want to say (if anything at all) at this stage.

Just a personal note on sharing...I had been very diligent in my study and learning of art all these years after the VS days, from army to uni to NIE till today, but the more I learn, the more confused and ignorant and stupid I find myself becoming, especially with all the Postmodern art and theories...the more I know, the more I do not know. The more I learn, the more I have to unlearn and re-learn...I am constantly trying to look at the same thing through different perspectives and trying to make sense of meaning which constantly changes...At the end of the day, I learnt to look inside instead of outside, to seek myself and my meaning from within instead of without...which is why I stopped asking questions at some point in time and just follow my intuition and feelings, to do what I enjoy doing, to go back to basics and fundamentals while trying to arrive at a language of my own (sorry, but I think I'm beginning to sound confusing and lose myself)...

In all honesty, while I like some of my own drawings and know their merits and shortcomings, I do not think very much of them or of myself. I know there is still an infinitely long way to go, infinite possibilities to explore (which make the question of 'what next' very difficult to answer)....and many unexplored terrains to venture into...

If I have an answer to 'what next', I can only answer with 'further study and exploration of drawing and nature' for now, which I guess is very vague. I have always understood and known your intentions of encouraging me to upscale and perhaps to 'create' (i.e. to draw without seeing or reference)...or even to venture into abstraction (which has always created a lot of philosophical debates....like what is abstract? why do non-representational art etc.) .....but at this stage, I guess I'm not ready for such challenges yet...

Another note on my drawings...well, they are just documentation of experiences...of my walks in Nature...so that drawing becomes a process just like the process of walking and the process of life...there is no fixed 'solution' or 'answer' or ' central message/moral' of some sort as yet...I treat them like sketches, or diaries...

I actually wrote quite a bit on art (see attached docs if you have time)* I sent him my writings on art

I really thank you for everything you've taught me. I hope that one day, I can exhibit my work next to yours, for you have been a most worthy mentor.

I really thank you for your time as well.

With deepest gratitude,
(my name)

P.S. Some of the attached writings were written some time ago, so they might not make very much sense...but nevertheless, they're part of my learning process..

I also sent him this:

This is something I wrote:

Up to today, I can confidently proclaim that I have experimented with many different art forms, read many books, seen many exhibitions, kept (and thrown away) many sketchbooks, written many things, listened to much music, and other been-there-done-thats, but good art remains elusive. It is as if one is trying to grasp falling water with one's hands. The more I know, the more I do not know. The more knowledge I acquire, the more confused and stupid I become. The more I learn, the more I have to unlearn. The more I had achieved, the harder it is to become better. I feel more stupid than when I started art ten years ago.

Patiently waiting for his reply.

episode 27

2006-01-15T21:16:00.000-08:00

Nothing eventful happened today. I read short stories by R. K. Narayan (whom I thought to be very good) and bought a CD by the late Zhang Yusheng. I also bought a Penny Dai CD through Yahoo auctions.

Life seems dry...barren...sterile...flat...

episode 26 (nothing)

2006-01-14T19:42:00.000-08:00

1) X Japan

I introduced my classes to X Japan. Their responses are here: http://www.guestbook-paradise.de/gb.php3?id=9630

2) Mobilisation

The only good thing about mobilisation is I get to see my army-mate Guoquan. Anyhow, the story goes like this...I told me that now that we are all busy with teaching, the only chance of us ever catching up is when we are wearing green, so instead of returning home after mobilisation, I went to the coffee shop at his place and we had a good chat. Part of the conversation goes like this:

Me: There's no good Chinese music nowadays...the only decent people seem like Fish Leong, Jay Chou and SHE, who are not exactly terrific...even Stephanie Sun is going downhill.

Guoquan: You sound like my mum...she's always saying that the music nowadays is not really music...perhaps you are lagging behind the times?

Me (thinking silently in my mind): Again? The last time I had a conversation with him, he said I could not appreciate Faye Wong's music because I've not caught up with the times...now it applies not just to Faye Wong, but Chinese pop/music in general...Am I really living in the past? In the recent month, I spent close to $200 buying old CDs I've lost. Wang Jie. Cai Qin. Xu Meijing. Kit Chan... Even X Japan... Is progress really linear? Why can't I progress in life by re-examining things of the past?

Anyhow, we shared a bit on money management, and of course on teaching as well as recalling some army stuff.

3. Art

I'm just happy to annouce (or even know in my heart)...that in my mind, I have a direction for art. Never mind if it is wrong...at least I know what I want to do, how I want to go about doing things...and I have a direction.

4. Patience

Is of the essence. Enough said.

episode 25

2006-01-12T20:35:00.000-08:00

Patience and surrender. I have learnt to wait patiently for the rainy season to be over. I have learnt to wait for all bad things to come to pass. I have learnt to wait for January and the New Year to be over. I have learnt to wait for a time to draw while work continues to last. I have learnt to accept not-knowing-the-answer as the answer. I have learnt to be grateful for each moment of rest and each mouthful of water. In short, I have learnt to surrender, to life.

There really is a time for everything. And I learn to wait, while savouring what I can.

A few years back, one of my favourite love songs is 'End of the World' by Skeeter Davis. I love singing the song alone.

Today, I bought two books on Indian writing. The stories, context, and even values seem to be outdated and old-fashioned, but for reasons unknown I love them all the same. Myabe I am becoming what they call 'old school'.

I was looking at many books at Kinokuniya yesterday. There were many good books on drawing, and I was about to buy them all, when a voice inside me told me to look inside instead of look outside, to look within instead of look without. It is a dangerous thing to look at other people's art, because ultimately one must find one's own voice.

I have learnt to accept each failure, whether a bad classroom session or a bad drawing, as a stepping stone to better things to come.

I have learnt to sleep and rest at peace, without any care.

If it should rain, let it rain, If it should shine, let it shine. I shall just watch and wait.

episode 24

2006-01-10T15:24:00.000-08:00

Grandma's funeral (con'td)

***
The day of the funeral was the most depressing of all. The coffin was being driven in a casket van. The floats, adorned with garish banners and splashed with garlands, paraded in their glorious beauty while trailing quietly behind. The music troupe made a cacophonous din with their noisy trumpets and their clamorous gongs and cymbals. All this while, a radio replayed the monotonous chant of ‘Namu-Amida-Butsu’ over and over.

... ...

episode 23

2006-01-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

A sketch edition: For three days we cannot see the sun...

***

For three days we cannot see the sun. I dreamt about drawing last night. This morning, I had a quiet vegeterian breakfast with Mum at Whampoa market (not forgetting our kopi-o). The area around my place is actually very beautiful, and I thought I would not mind drawing some of the things I see around Whampoa.

I feel a strong desire to look at Turner and Constable, as well as Goya and Degas. While these artists seem passe by today's standards, I feel a need to re-examine these artists for their thought and technique, especially their mature works. After all, I am only beginning.

I want to leave behind a good number of drawings and sketches. I was telling Liang Zhu that the issue of Modern Drawing is an interesting one -- something that needs to be questioned and examined. The last few interesting drawers are Giacommeti, Clemente, Brice Marden, Joseph Bueys, Twombly, and perhaps Guston.

... For three days, we cannot see the sun. My struggle between representational and abstract art should have been solved long ago, and the solution is this: the artist should simply follow himself. One's art should not follow the linear path of art history (i.e. from the representational to the abstract).

(and I might want to talk about poetry later...)

For three days we cannot see the sun. The monsoon wind brought over the moisture-laden clouds, which brought in the monsoon rain. Tingting said that in London, it is all grey, but the raindrops are finer. We cannot see the sun. Mum did the laundry in the dark bathroom. The auntie at the market said she had to iron her clothes, because they could not dry in this weather. call it age-old wisdom or common sense, but this is useful practical knowledge.

... ...

For three days we cannot see the sun. The sky is all grey. Thins sheets of rain pour ceaselessly, flooding the roads and streets as cars and wet feet came and went, but the rain does not stop. There is nothing to see outside the window but rain. Everything is washed over with a whitish-grey. The sun is hidden; the sun does not shine. Inside, there is the quiet gloom of the room.

... ...

episode 22: old quotes

2006-01-08T11:23:00.000-08:00

'An artist is forced to be isolated...' (66-year-old woman)

'Experimentation at the cost of learning, for the sake of career advancement, is my criticism of younger artists. From what I see and hear, younger artists seem to carry a pathological reticcence to emulate anyone who was considered great over 30 years ago. Their goals seem to be innovation and making money. Fools!' (66-year-old man)

'Younger artists, on the whole, are more daring and hurried. They want to attain recognition and wealth while still young. Older artists know the ways of the art world, and know if they achieve recognition, it will interfere with their more profound feelings and they will not be able to develop to full maturity slowly and surely. ' (reported by an 83-year-old man)

'With years a richer life begins,
The spirit mellows,
Ripe age gives tone to violins,
Wine, and good fellows.'
(John Townsend Trowbridge, 'Three Worlds')

'There is not, I think, a single example of a great painter -- or sculptor -- whose work has not gained in profundity and originality as he grew older. Bellini, Michelangelo, Titian, Tintoretto, Poussin, Rembrandt, Goya, Turner, Degas, Cezanne, Monet, Matisse, Braque, all produced some of their greatest works when they were over sixty-five. It is as though a lifetime is needed to master the medium, and only when mastery has been achieved can an artist simply be himself, revealing the true nature of his imagination.' (John Berger, Success and Failure of Picasso)

'For the past eight years, I have started each day in the same manner. It is not a mechanical routine but something essential to my daily life. I go to the piano, and I play two preludes and fugues of Bach. I cannot think of doing otherwise. It is a sort of benediction on the house. But that is not its only meaning to me. It is a rediscovery of the world of which I have the joy of being a part. It fills me with awareness of teh wonders of life, and a feeling of the incredible marvel of being a human being.' (Pablo Casals, 'Joy and Sorrows', written at age 93)

'No wise man ever wished to be younger' (Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects)

'The dry branch burns more fiercely than the green.' (Elder Olsen, written in his mid-70s)

episode 21

2006-01-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

Perhaps, I must still 'take life easy, as the leaves grow on the trees'. I am not a single leaf yet. I'm not yet a single blade of grass. I have not yet become.

episode 20

2006-01-05T20:43:00.000-08:00

I am in the process of learning to be patient.

I'm not sure if I should call my current state 'acceptance' or 'resignation'.

But I wait. I hope. And I believe.

I look back at old things, listen to old songs, collect old CDs...

What is there to chase after? Lost things.

What is there to wait for? Dreams to materialise.

There are too many promises, too little space...and I want to watch everything with my very own eyes.

And so, weary eyes speak of rainswept days
Though the light has not dimmed in my eyes
While pain and suffering is written
All across my face.

episode 19

2006-01-02T13:52:00.000-08:00

Some time back, a friend of mine told me that he visited the Van Gogh Museum, and, in his own words, 'I merely made a brief tour around it and finished viewing the exhibits somewhat hastily. Nothing spectacular about it.' Of such a person, I can only say, 'he has eyes, but does not see'.

I am flipping through my copy of 'Van Gogh, The Complete Paintings', but I'm looking at the drawings and sketches rather than his famous (and not-so-famous) paintings. What a fantastic draughtsman Van Gogh is! His drawings bustle with a kind of life and energy that is not found in the works of the Romantics. In fact, one only needs to seriously study less than ten of hhis drawings, and one can already conclude that this artist is assuredly philosophic and wise. I find his drawings very life-affirming.

Before I realise it, I have been drawing for three years, and I'm both ashamed and alarmed that I have not made much progress. I am thinking of ordering some really costly books on Van Gogh's drawings from Amazon to study, to let the drawings talk and whisper to me. (In fact, I've already told Tingting to help me place an order at Borders.) I also admire Kathe Kollwitz a lot besides Van Gogh. When one studies, one must be disciplined. One must be rigorous. One must be deeply engaged. In short, one must delve into the deep.

episode 18

2006-01-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

Beautiful sadness and silence.

Ah, life.

If I should be silent, if I should go away...

Life has seldom been this beautiful.

episode 17

2005-12-31T20:07:00.000-08:00

In the midst of adversity, one cannot find words...one cannot find hope...

***

Some time ago, it was 'he studies a single blade of grass'. Now, it is 'I am a single blade of grass'.

Some time ago, it was 'take life easy, as the leaves grow on the trees'. Now it is 'I am a single leaf on a tree.'

history repeats itself

2005-12-31T17:30:00.000-08:00

two years and six days after....history repeats itself....I am sad and speechless...

episode 16

2005-12-31T13:21:00.000-08:00

It is important that one studies from the greatest teachers, Nature and Life. These aside, I had the best mentors (Mr Chua and Dr Ho) and I have the best friends I could ever ask for...I read the best books and listen to the best music. I do not consider myself lacking in discipline or determination or patience in the area of art. I am young and of reasonably good health. The only things I lack now are time and space. I do not have the luxury of working eight to sixteen hours a day for art. This aside, I should be able to produce good art. If under these conditions I cannot produce any good art, then I cannot imagine how anyone else can produce any good art under any other conditions. I must therefore succeed, for the simple reason that I cannot fail.

***

It is written in Ecclesiastes: there is nothing new under the sun. Truly, can one tell me what else has not been siad, except for subjective experiences of individual lives? Even so, are these experiences not universalities, the same hopes, disappointments, joys and sorrows that we struggle with? Is Nature not the same beauty perceived through different eyes?

episode 15

2005-12-31T12:16:00.000-08:00

Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again.'

***

I might want to add to the above that renewing includes new interpretations of things already gone by...

***

'I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived...

... Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life?'

(Henry David Thoreau, Where I Lived, and What I Lived For, a chapter from Walden)

***

The more I study Wu Changshuo's art, the more I understand his profundity.

episode 14

2005-12-27T20:55:00.000-08:00

Up to today, I can confidently proclaim that I have experimented with many different art forms, read many books, seen many exhibitions, kept (and thrown away) many sketchbooks, written many things, listened to much music, and other been-there-done-thats, but good art remains elusive. It is as if one is trying to grasp falling water with one's hands. The more I know, the more I do not know. The more knowledge I acquire, the more confused and stupid I become. The more I learn, the more I have to unlearn. The more I had achieved, the harder it is to become better. I feel more stupid than when I started art ten years ago.

episode 13

2005-12-26T19:43:00.000-08:00

1. stock taking of the year gone by...

Books read: http://www.amazon.com/gp/richpub/listmania/fullview/2YOV2L3F8UFLR/002-1175237-2862427

Drawings: http://community.webshots.com/album/516537058NjoRjr and http://community.webshots.com/album/515172523KbxpHS

Writings: Refer to earlier blog entries...

Of course, there are more than the above links, but guess I'm a bit lazy and busy to put everything in place. And of course, life is more than the above.

Teaching. Music. There are other intangibles that are very important. Like friends and time spent with students.

Looking back, I'm really thankful to Pigeon and Cheesecake for making my stay at NIE very pleasant. I'm thankful for a kopi-and-art friend like Amanda too (though yah, no more frog's porridge)...

2. Looking ahead into 06 (in generic terms; the details would come later along the way)

a) more reading, more art (and BETTER art), more music (these will remain constant)
b) better teaching (this will be measured against my students' grades, though of course, the intangibles should be looked into as well)
c) better money management
d) NOT neglecting people, whether friends, teachers, or students...

I must be daring enough to dream...

episode 12

2005-12-25T21:37:00.000-08:00

One who is dispossessed of freedom and love in this life would find the idea of eternal life very attractive and appealing.

I have never loved uncertainty more in my whole life...

***

episode 11

2005-12-23T21:20:00.000-08:00

It is not easy to be anything... I'm not sure if I can live up to my labels...artist, teacher...useless labels that do not mean a single thing if one does not live well...

Emily Bronte's poetry really makes me want to write and paint, but I simply do not have the mood or time...Sometimes, I really think I can devote my life just to studying a great person alone, like Emily Bronte, or Thoreau, or Huang Binhong...

My sketches feel so useless...but let me continue to draw...

my barest soul episode 10

2005-12-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

I did a sketch at West Coast this morning...it's okay, not too bad.

Sungei Buloh is very, very beautiful. I love that place. Would love to bring some of my students there if I have the chance.

I want to draw. I want to paint. Am I too young or too old for that? I don't know....I want to be a man of Nature....

No matter what happens, life goes on.

Had a tiring day; need an early rest.

episode 9 (cont'd)

2005-12-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

Two of my favourites, Charlotte Bronte and Henry David Thoreau are here: http://www.ivu.org/people/writers/index.html

Thoreau! Thoreau! How I love Thoreau! You fill me with ecstatic joy! All must read this:
http://www.ivu.org/history/usa19/thoreau.html

Those who are curious may look at this:
http://www.veganoutreach.org/index.html

my barest soul episode 9

2005-12-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

Today I'm greedy...

breakfast: 1 vegeterian noodle
break 1: 2 vegeterian pratas (at Beach Road -- VERY GOOD! the fake mutton curry tastes like the real one, though honestly I don't like the taste of mutton, so I'd prefer curry with just potatoes and cabbage instead)...1 orange-mix-watermelon juice
lunch: rice, bean curd, ladies' fingers, 1 carrot-apple juice
dinner: 1 red bean bun, 1 lotus paste bun, 1 vegetable bun, 1 Milo-O, 1 apple

That seems like a lot.

Anyway, I did not have time to draw today. Was busy doing some attendance records, sending my laptop for a friend to fix (now I have MS Office and can read Chinese text), buying Pulau Ubin maps for NPCC (hence I was at Beach Road) etc.

Not drawing for a day makes me feel weird. Maybe I'm becoming weird.

I'd be busy tomorrow and the day after, but I really hope I have time to do a decent drawing tomorrow. Will be doing recce at Sungei Buloh, because we're bringing the cadets there next week during the camp.

Just to explain (?) my vegeterian stance a bit -- the Chinese say that 'illness enters from one's mouth', and it seems apparent that the 'cleaner' or less potentially toxic food are essentially the plants. I mean, imagine all the fish eat polluted stuff from the water. Then you have the big fish eating the smaller fish. Then you have us human beings eating the largest fish. All the toxic substances will be in our bodies. Besides, what happens in reality is this: our bodies actually carries a lot of toxins. We become ill because of 'imbalance' as a result of the toxins. What happens? We have diarrhoea and vomit and cold and cough and stuff. These are symptoms that the body is trying to expel the toxins. What happens when we take Western medicine is, they suppress the symptoms, so while we think we are okay because the symptoms are gone, the toxins actually accumulate in our bodies, so that the next time we become sick, it gets worse. Conversely, when we fast, or eat fruits and raw vegetables (though I haven't reached that stage myself), this diet allows us to expel the toxins (those familiar with Chinese medicine or alternative medicine will understand what I'm saying). Why do you think cancer patients have to limit themselves to a certain prescribed diet of fruits and vegetables? This is because such a diet expels the toxins from our bodies and keeps the body healthy and 'clean'. In Japan, some monks were so strict with their fasting that most of the harmful bacteria in their bodies died because there is nothing for the bacteria to thrive on, for the monks only had tree bark and water. Imagine! Even the bacteria DIED in the monks' bodies!!!!! If SARS were not such a swift-acting disease, I believe it would be curable too. Unfortunately, some diseases act really fast. When your body is 'clean', it is unlikely that harmful bacteria will thrive inside, and hence a lesser chance of you falling ill. Whatever I had sprouted might sound like nonsense to you, and at this stage I'm not confident ro knowledgeable enough to preach to everyone to follow my method, but it makes sense to me. In fact, if I have time to read up and be well-informed, I'd gladly be an ambassador of such a diet. Consider also how it saves the Earth's resources: we have to feed chickens (and other poultry and animals) before we can eat them. Why don't we learn to eat vegetables, and slowly learn to eat fruit, and survive on that and water alone? Western medicine and science can say all it wants about calcium and vitamins and proteins, but there are really alternative sources to be found in fruits and vegetables that allow us to live long and well enough. Personally, I find fasting to be something spiritual, though I have no religious feelings for any religion as of now. It says something about one's spirit and way of living and seeing things. I am just beginning, so I'm still exploring things.

The bottomline and basic common sense is this: I believe essentially most bodies are born to be similar (I'm not saying the same). The reason why some are healthier than others could be largely attributed to diet, since everyone sleeps and eats. (Though exercise could be another factor) So if we are indeed what we eat, and if the Chinese are right that 'illness enters from one's mouth', then I believe that having a vegeterian diet has its advantages over a meat diet, and it keeps the body 'clean' and rids it of toxins. In fact, it is even believed that if you eat enough raw food and vegetables, even the mosquitoes would not bite you simply because there is nothing in your blood that will attract them.

***

That's all for now.

episode 8 (cont'd)

2005-12-20T21:20:00.000-08:00

On books

I have so many good books, but I have no time to really read them. 'The Enlightened Mind' edited by Stephen Mitchell is one. 'The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson' is another. I also have my Thoreaus, and poetry by Emily Bronte and Emily Dickinson. I want to really delve into the texts and not just to scan through them superficially.

I guess I must really learn to take things one small step at a time.

my barest soul, episode 8

2005-12-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

Problems with my computer: I do not have MS Office and I also cannot read Chinese text.

Breakfast: Vegeterian noodles
Break 1: Carrot and apple juice
Lunch: Brown rice, bean curd, ladies' fingers, potatoes, orange and watermelon juice
Break 2: Brown-rice tea
Dinner: 1 red apple

So far my diet seems to be going on okay and fine. Anyway, I did a drawing at Bukit Batok Industrial Park area. I can't say the sketch is good, but it's fairly decent. I have stopped getting excited about each new work of mine. I just know that I have a very, very far journey ahead and I cannot be bothered with small litttle successes or failures now. I just need to move on and press on.

I have not been thankful to simple little things for a long time ....like, thankful for the shady morning that made my drawing session smoother. Thankful for a glass of plain water. Thankful for the gentle breeze that blew in through the window that gave me some life and joy and hope for reasons unknown.

I just hope I do not get into too much trouble with Dad and other relatives when I go back to Johore for the Chinese New Year (as a result of my conversion to a vegeterian diet).

I still cannot find any books on Shi Tao. I love Corot's drawings. I am having *slightly* greater confidence with my medium. Let's hope I can push on and go further from where I am.

my barest soul, episode 7

2005-12-19T19:52:00.000-08:00

During my brief absence, many things occcured. Let me try to organise things and type them here...

My laptop was down, but my friend repaired it for me. After that, it could work, but I could not get online, so I went to get a new modem (after two visits to Singtel who told me I need not get a new modem because I have my old modem but I lost the installation CD-rom...and they thought somehow that would work, but it did not, so in the end, I still got a new modem.)

*** ***

I shall yet again start from zero, or scratch, or nothing.

Life is a process. Here, I congratulate myself on having reached thus far -- here.

I must be ready to die each day, I must be ready to suffer each day. But even more so, I must be ready to LIVE each day, and live it well, like never before.

I am so ignorant, but it never felt so good to know that I am ignorant.

I am a zero-artist. I always start from zero. I do nothing. I achieve nothing.

I am an artist. I draw.

Thinking IS form.

...I am weak and tired from flu. The weather has turned cooler. A window view seat is priceless.

From Thoreau's 'Walking': If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again, -- if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk. ... I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spent four hours a day at least -- and it is commonly more than that, -- sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from worldly engagements.

There is no rush.

'The True Man of No Title'...what a worthless label! Art is art, work is work, and life is life.

I need to look beyond Chinese painting. Shi Tao will be the last (unfortunately, after I wrote this, I could not find any cheap portable books on him). Besides Chinese art and Western art, there is a lot a lot more...

A NEW WAY OF LIFE. I've decided to adhere to a very strict and healthy diet of vegetables, fruits, and bread. I am going on a minimum (or totally abstain from) for chicken, pork, fish, eggs, and even milk. That is the surest possible way to a long life. Such a diet is known to cure diseases (even cancer and certain kidney problems). I do not intend to elaborate here, but basically I have generally (not completely) lost faith in Western treatment and medicine and I am becoming a vegeterian. Talk to me in person if you want to know more about this drastic move.

Sample meals I had:
1) 2 slices of bread, a cup of green apple juice
2) 1 pineapple pie, 1 yam pie, 1 peanut pancake, 1 soy drink
3) brown rice, green vegetables
4) white rice and vegeterian dishes, soy drink

Today's lunch:
1 green apple, 1 orange, a few slices of guava, a bunch of grapes

Today's dinner:
1 walnut bread, 1 milk (I had no choice, Mum still has a few packets of milk in the fridge that I have to finish)

One must move from a meat diet to a vegeterian diet, then to 1/3 raw diet (i.e. eat raw carrots, eat raw vegetables, eat more fruits), then eventually learn to abstain from eating (i.e. fast).

*** ***

I did a decent sketch at West Coast park today. Generally, I'm okay.

brief updates

2005-12-15T07:54:00.000-08:00

This blog will stop functioning for a while for a few reasons:

1) (main problem) My laptop crashed. I'm typing from school now.
2) I have a lot of work undone.
3) I'm down with very bad flu.

Like all things, these will come to pass and I will be back, except I'm not sure when. Well wishes to all in the meantime.

my barest soul (episode 6)

2005-12-12T20:44:00.000-08:00

1. Memories

I have let the most beautiful people go. I have even let some of my best memories go, but I have kept those most heartbreaking ones, perhaps because they are closest to the soul.

2. A day alone

I had a quiet breakfast at NUS canteen this morning before heading to my school. (The food at West Coast market is really pathetic, while Clementi Central reminds me too much of a beautiful past that is no more.) I saw a picture of my old coursemate Sasi presenting at a conference outside a lecturer's office -- and I thought: time really flies.

I cannot believe that I actually spent half an hour calling kids to turn up for their CCA tomorrow, knowing that more than half would refuse to turn up. But such is life. To top things off, I have to physically go down to Toa Payoh Lorong 1 to see if an NSman still resides there, because he is uncontactable via phone (as I was given the unfortunate responsibility of the detachment IC -- army guys will have a faint idea of what I'm talking about). Anyway, I reached here and found him and another guy (presumably his brother) playing computer games in front of the TV set. Their room seems to be very filthy. On first sight, I can already imagine that most of the NT kids in my school would end up like these: aimless people without a sense of direction in life and wasting their lives away. In fact while I was on the bus ride back home just now, I actually thought f writing a story through the eyes of a teenager from a problematic family, but I know I simply do not have the luxury of time.

Anyway -- so that took up half the day. I went to Orchard Kinokuniya, but I bought nothing in spite of looking at many books. Then I went to Bras Basah. I bought some pens and a drawing pad. I did not buy any books there either. Initially, I wanted to go to Fort Canning to draw, but my cousin's call (to talk about depressing family issues) and the sad sight of a beloved tree took away my mood for drawing. The place was also unusually filled with picnicking families and newlyweds and couples, so I left and went to Citilink and Marina Square. I had an early dinner at Cavana's (they are selling chicken rice at $4.50 now) while watching Michael Jackson's concert video and I wondered what's the big deal about him besides his break-dancing.

After dinner I went to transfer money for Bro and helped Mum buy some Christmas cards. (Half my day alone is filled with miscellaneous errands of all sorts -- I must also mention the impossible queue at Bras Basah Post Office which took up a great deal of my time simply because I needed to fax something to my reservist unit and the whole world does not provide faxing services there.)

I bought a cheap notebook from Muji and an old Wang Jie CD. Impressed right? I actually did NOT buy any of the Jap CDs I thought of getting (Emi Fujita, X Japan, Mika Nakashima, Kiroro).

The only good news is, the NPCC meeting tomorrow is postponed. So no matter how many cadets turn up or do not turn up tomorrow, at least I can have keep my mind either clear or dead, rather than cluttered or stressed or tired. Of course, problems will always come, but I shall enjoy peace while I can.

my barest soul (cont'd)

2005-12-11T21:47:00.000-08:00

1. Restless mind

I looked at works as diverse as Wu Changshuo and Brice Marden, as well as the Carnegie 1991 artists. I think I understood John Cage's work well. On the other hand, Wu Changshuo took thirty years to learn to paint the plum blossoms. How much longer should I study from Nature!

2. Philosophy in art and life (Quotes I cherish and try to live by --cont'd)

a) I would like to beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books in a foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. (Rainer Maria Rilke)

b) Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn't force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, and learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything! (Rainer Maria Rilke)

my barest soul

2005-12-10T22:37:00.000-08:00

1. Huang Binhong and Li Keran

If art is about appearance, Li Keran would have an edge over Huang Binhong; but if art is about soul and depth, or even poetry, I would rate Huang's art over Li's art. Li Keran's art is modern and has a powerful presence. Of course, there is a lot of deliberate thought and skill as well. Huang, on the other hand, is already at one with both Nature and the brush and ink. An old willow tree by Old Huang is worth more than a large mountainscape by Li in his middle years.

2. Remix in art

Brian is suggesting that I pass him some of my drawings so that he may do 'remixes' to them (i.e. scan them and make them larger as part of an installation, or 'have a dialogue' with Alfian's poetry etc.) I am out of touch with modern art for too long and am too lazy to think about it, so I just agreed.

3. Philosophy in art and life (quotes I cherish)

a) Take life easy, as the leaves grow on the trees (as the grass grows on the weirs).
b) Love your neighbours. Love your enemies.
c) ....(he studies) a single blade of grass

my barest soul (episode 3)

2005-12-08T21:23:00.000-08:00

1. Moving

In spite of my heavy work schedule, I delayed work till tomorrow to see what I could do to help Dr Ho shift to the new studio today. His studio at Tiong Bahru is no more; he is moving into another studio in the west. I love this man more than my own father. He has taught me many useful things in life. Somehow I wish things will never change. We would just take long walks, find a spot, sit down, and draw, after which we'll discuss our work, then have a coffee or tea, or even a meal together. I took an old bag which he didn't want. I also saw a painting which I did in 2003 that I gave to him. Anyhow, his new studio is very posh -- which doesn't suit his taste. I look forward to greater things from him...or perhaps, *us*.

2. Universal values in Chinese Art

Today, after leaving Dr Ho's new studio, I met my student at Jurong Regional Library. She is an Indian student, but we spent about two hours looking at Li Keran and Huang Binhong's art. Li Keran taught the most important values in learning: humility and determination. I have not seen anyone surpass him in terms of discipline in art. Perhaps only his fellow masters Qi Baishi and Huang Binhong, and maybe Wu Cangshuo and Lu Yanshao. My student was very impressed by the volume of sketches alone. I recall how small and insignificant I felt when I was running through the volume of sketches back in 2003 or 2004. My art will probably never reach his level, but the important thing is this: I do not need my work to look like his, but I must have his kind of values, spirit and character. Huang Binhong, well, is simply sublime, mysterious and unfathomable, though I only truly understood the meaning of unfathomable when I saw Li Keran's ink paintings. I will also always remember the sketches of Lu Yanshao which I saw in the museum. Those five pieces of A4-sized works moved and stirred me greatly -- I knew he was a poetic man just by those five sketches alone. While all the larger scrolls and big names went by, Lu Yanshao (whom I didn't know previously) moved me with five small pieces of paper. His works were not even framed or hung; they were displayed on a table sealed with glass casing. I want to learn from these people: they spent their whole lives devoted to perfecting a craft and sharing beauty with the world. While their art looks vastly different, their values are the same: diligence, honesty, sincerity...

My barest soul (episode 2, continued)

2005-12-07T21:24:00.000-08:00

3. On books

At a point in time when I had access to some of the best books in the world, I actually had no time to sit and read even a single one properly. I know that if I were to scan through the texts it would not do them justice (among these were Dazai, Buber, and Basho). Some time back, I had realised that reading is not a competition. Now I realise and value the importance of reading in depth even more. There are just too many good sentences in the world. If one can only live by just a single of these sentences for his lifetime, that is sufficient. Lofty ideas are just dead words in a book, if one's mind cannot absorb them, or if one cannot learn and apply it to life. Letters as text on a page are dead, unless one is engaged with the text. Even so, one must take a step further: bring that text to life. Live by it, disagree with it, talk about it, whatever. If the poor did not instigate a revolution, Karl Marx's 'Communist Manifesto' would just be another little red book in the library. If lives were not lost, wars not fought, and exemplary lives were not lived, the Bible would just be another little blue book.

4. Side thought(s)

This may or may not materialise: while I was on my way home earlier on, I thought of helping Dr Ho and myself curate a show (or maybe separate shows) in the distant future. Fifteen years? Only time will tell.

Teaching, teaching, teaching....why are they calling us teachers when we spend more time on everything else besides teaching? Surely something is wrong somewhere. We need more administrative managers/workers.

my barest soul (episode 2)

2005-12-07T21:06:00.000-08:00

1. On art

I want to draw a simple tree. I want to draw a simple landscape. Or paint. To what end? I would be happy if one or two of my drawings or paintings can find their way into one or two pages of an art book (or catalogue). The book might even be collecting dust and untouched for more than a decade on some obscure shelf in an old library. Then hopefully, in some very distant day, someone might pick up the book, flip to that page and go, 'Ah, someone actually did something like this before...'.

And my tree or landscape is nothing earth-shattering. In fact, it must be so simple and commonplace that it is very easy to overlook. One flips the pages so hurriedly without even noticing it. This is what it all amounts to. A musician takes a lifetime to practice an instrument, but we take less than five minutes to listen to it. An artist spends decades on his craft, but we spend less than five minutes on it. Liang Zhu was telling me the other day: the fact that there are four volumes of Li Keran's art books and one book on his art theory in the Jurong Regional Library wouldn't bother anyone in the whole Jurong East estate. But this is what it amounts to.

It is silly to think that because Realism took place in the 19th century, one should stop drawing or painting realistically. Yet, one must think of how to remain new and relevant. Even the Christians say, 'Sing to the Lord a new song.' We are not rehashing old ideas, or old ideals. We need new ways of doing things and looking at things. We need to discover what those who came and went before us have not discovered.

2. On how I lived today

Have I lived today well? No, I don't think so. But we have no time for that. We need to live tomorrow better than today.

my barest soul

2005-12-06T21:08:00.000-08:00

1. NUS

The other day, some time last week, I went back to NUS to look for Dr Ho. I felt an unspeakable sadness and longing for the past. Everything felt like yesterday. I was drinking tea at the canteen, looking at people who went by. The difference was every face was a stranger to me. I went to the library to look at the books on Chinese painting. I went to Dr Ho's room to listen to music and look at art books, and we talked about life. He is finally going to move. There was some unspoken sadness; after all we are sentimental creatures.

2. NIE

I thought about what I call eternal moments in life. Some of what I recall are these:
a) Reading Russell's 'History of Western Philosophy' on the train'
b) Sitting on the pavement to draw trees after breakfast; listening to Emi Fujita's music at the same time
c) Doing monoprints alone at the printmaking studio
d) Putting up drawings in my hostel room
e) Jogging sessions with Roy-boy and Cheesecake

3. Songs

I was singing in the shower just now. I realised that I have not learnt a single song this year.

4. Books

I am going to read very, very slowly. And I mean very, very slowly. One line a day even, perhaps.

5. Art

I need to think and work more. Anyway, art should speak for itself.

Sometimes...

2005-12-05T21:22:00.000-08:00

I wonder why I take art so seriously. Who am I doing it for anyway? (myself?) Is there any reason for me to aspire to be another Qi Baishi, or Huang Binhong, or Li Keran, though I know it's entirely impossible (these people spent like at least 8 hours on art everyday for decades)? If I can't achieve greatness, is there any meaning to striving to do well at it? Qi Baishi even sacrificed time with people just to do his art (he even went so far as to post a note saying 'Qi Baishi is dead' on his door).

Honestly, I can't think of anything else to say besides 'art gives me joy and meaning'. Like everyone else, I have been very happy and very sad before, and I try to express these in my drawings. Looking back at some of the stuff I had done, I'm actually quite happy with them. I can never compare myself with the masters. Perhaps I'm even technically inferior compared to the NAFA or La Salle students, but I'm happy that I've done certain drawings that I like and I'm proud enough to show people some of these drawings.

Perhaps the journey of art is like a journey of spirituality. You do not ask why you embark on it. Just go, and enjoy the process.

snapshots here and there

2005-12-04T14:35:00.000-08:00

http://community.webshots.com/user/loksin

Not the end, not the whole picture...but good updates on myself and my work...

None

2005-12-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Changes.

Uncertainty.

Something new.

Perhaps, maybe.

ramblings

2005-12-02T21:32:00.000-08:00

Everyone's in a bad mood at home...Dad is in a bad mood because Bro is asking money from him. I'm broke and in debt. Mum is upset that Uncle insists that I return to Malaysia for the coming New Year.

Anyhow, I had been faithfully working on my art and reading. I think I need to get some school work done soon.

I have a long wish list.

On music, Emi Fujita has a new album! I think it's called 'Rembrandt's Days'. Pretty cool cover too. The other exciting thing is (I know I'm a bit slow, but --) Cheer Chen's new album is an absolutely stupendous achievement! I'm also considering getting the 'Fans' selection of X-Japan's hits.' How how how? Kiroro's new album is also released, but they imported only one copy and is selling it at $70.

I shall not go into my books...

let the images speak

2005-12-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

http://community.webshots.com/user/loksin

on a more positive note...

2005-11-28T22:00:00.000-08:00

Currently reading: 'Meditations' by Marcus Aurelius
Currently thinking: If I have a dream, what colour would it be?
Currently dreaming: my art dream...
Currently...: singing
Currently listening: Penny Dai

more ramblings...

2005-11-27T21:26:00.000-08:00

... ... ... ...

and, as time passes...we give ourselves over to work. We give ourselves over to ambitions, pride, the necessity of money, our ever-demanding parents, society, bosses, our dreams, our endless shopping lists and wish-lists...we lose sight of ourselves, and we gradually lose ourselves.

God, I miss so many old songs. And former experiences too. Especially when I passed by the Singapore Art Museum yesterday evening. I miss chilling out in the evenings. And sadly, the old Victoria Food Court is gone. I cried there before; yes, I remember all these so very clearly.

And my piles and stacks of sketchbooks, written from the depths of my soul in pain...it all began around 1995 to 1997, and they were all thrown away and burnt some time around 2001...I have very few to show and tell now.

What will make me happy now, really? You will not believe it, but if I should just have a few of my favourite songs to listen to, and the quiet night all to myself, with pen and paper to doodle, and a hot beverage with light supper, I shall be glad to even pass away at midnight, with fond rememberance of friends and people who have touched my life in different ways at different times. Who understands joy, love, and suffering better than I do?

*** ***

and, as time passes...we give ourselves over to work. We give ourselves over to ambitions, pride, the necessity of money, our ever-demanding parents, society, bosses, our dreams, our endless shopping lists and wish-lists...we lose sight of ourselves, and we gradually lose ourselves.

I forgot why I wanted friends or needed them, because I had been living on my own for so long, until it dawned upon me that people are the most important things in the world. Would you save a Delacroix painting from a fire or would you save a human being? Of course a human being! No religion or art is greater than the love of human beings, as Van Gogh rightly observed.

But we behaved in childish ways, unreasonable ways, even cruel ways...cruel to ourselves and to others. It is such cruelty that drives people to madness, depression, alienation, despair, and eventually suicide.

*** ***

I forgot why I rambled all these to begin with, only to return to the point that I want a simple life. A simple, happy life. A life of freedom, of love, of forgiveness, of longsuffering, and of beauty. Beauty of one's life, beauty of the soul.

down memory lane

2005-11-27T20:47:00.000-08:00

Back in 1993, I knew Ernest. We spent our recess breaks together. I loved Wang Jie, he loved Andy Lau. We drank tea-o, talked about girls and sex, and kicked catek together. We gossiped about teachers, shared homework, did art...we even sat together before. In 1995, he dropped AEP (Art Elective Program), went to a different class, and we stopped talking to each other. We lost contacts. I got in touch with him again in 1997, when I decided to become a Christian. He gave me a very wonderful Bible which I carried with me for at least two years. That Bible must have cost at least $35. Then we lost touch again. Lately, while on course at the Police Academy, I saw him. He had just signed on the Singapore Police Force. I got his number. I told him we'll meet for tea again after 12th December. I'm seriously broke. I think he'll be disappointed to know that I'm not a Christian anymore, but anyhow, those were the days when we braved many things together.

I wonder what I have to tell him...after so many years. My home is still as screwed-up. I've got a degree and am currently teaching. My brother has two different children by two different women and is in Thailand. I'm still doing art. My glorious days of 1995 to 2003 are over. Glorious because I did everything I ever wanted to in those years. Drinking. Staying out late. Photography. Falling in love. Installation art. Writing. Survived the army and ran a half-marathon. Looking glamorous. Singing KTV. Those were the days when one does not need to think about responsibility.

In those days, I did watercolours while staring out of the window. I listened to Mavis Hee and Wang Jie. I loved Turner and Van Gogh.

... ... ... ...

I have become mellow. I have turned to looking at Chinese painting. I have grown to love old songs and hate the new. I revisit places, re-read books, rewrite stories of my past, and re-listened to old music. I recall every yesterday as if it were really yesterday, saddened by how some things have changed and how some things have not changed.

... ... ... ...

new stuff here...

2005-11-26T22:07:00.000-08:00

http://community.webshots.com/user/loksin

Discovered a new hangout, which is the Lee Kong Chian Reference Library located at the 7th floor of the Central Library...I browsed through the first volume of Dogen's Shobogenzo today.

To quote Tori Amos a little, 'What's so amazing about really deep thoughts?' (Silent all these years)...

The most important things are these:

a) it gives one joy
b) it gives one meaning....

I usually speak of the above two, but I shall add one more:

c) it is life-affirming.

none

2005-11-25T20:53:00.000-08:00

I'm sick; I'm very tired, but life goes on. Petty quarrels, money issues, chores, meaningless work, lies to live and tell...sometimes I really just want to detach myself and live a hermit's life, an artist's life, where I ignore all the wearisome baggage of life.

I'm still searching for 'me', or my 'self'. There are times when I find myself being antisocial, but at the end of the day, I think I love people and they are nice in general. Sometimes, I feel so overwhelmed that I give up the fight even before the challenge even begins.

I need to remind myself that I am still young, that I am still capable of good or even great work.

Everything is passing, as dew, as smoke, as ashes...

This is life...

2005-11-23T22:16:00.000-08:00

Just when my course is ending...when I'm supposed to take on whatever challenges and duties and responsibilities of teaching, or just when I'm supposed to enjoy my holidays, catching up with old friends and hopefully old teachers...just when I've lofty ambitions and ideas for art, I'm down with flu yet again. Last year, it lasted a good six weeks after seeing at least three or four doctors. This means, my concentration level is very low, and I get restless and tired easily. I have no energy to think about great ideas in all the good books I'm reading (or rather scanning through, though I try to think a bit)...I wouldn't be able to go out into Nature and sit and draw for at least an hour and a half...(to overcome that, I have to adopt a different philosophy/approach to drawing)...

Of late, I managed about twenty sketches (and I REALLY mean SKETCHES)...I'm quite happy with one or two. I'm trying to reformulate my philosophy/approach to drawing (or perhaps even art in general). This may take quite a while...(such things do not take place overnight...usually takes weeks or months or longer...)....I'm rambling -- whatever...I'm trying to experiment with some ideas.

To simplify things, my current idea may be summarised thus: on one hand, one must venture into the dark and unknown...for he who makes little mistakes will not go far. On the other hand, I'm unwilling to let go of discipline, so I may want to do more technical/realistic drawings...hence I'm stretching in both extremes.

Will stop here before I stop making sense.....

I'm back!

2005-11-19T21:57:00.000-08:00

I survived ATC (Adventure Training Camp) at Ubin. Tried rock climbing, absailing, kayaking, and intermediate and advanced obstacles.

Currently reading three excellent books I got from the library:

a) I and Thou by Martin Buber
b) Self Portraits by Osamu Dazai
c) The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Matsuo Basho

Woohoo! Long live great books, long live great music, long live great art, long live great lives!

By the way...I finally bought 'Eternal Melodies II' by Yoshiki, as a reward for having survived the ATC.

Some updates

2005-11-12T08:03:00.000-08:00

Schedule updates:

Upcoming Mon and Tues (at Police Academy)
Wed to Sat (at Pulau Ubin, so I wouldn't be able to blog or contact anyone; heard that reception for handphone over there is quite pathetic)

Week after (till Sat): continue course at Police Academy

***

Some lyrics

2005-11-11T22:34:00.000-08:00

Translated lyrics of 'Forever Love' ripped from the net:

I can't walk any further alone
The winds of time are too strong
Ah There were so many times
I was hurt but now...

Ah Hold me like this
Hold my trembling heart
In this continually changing time
If there's a never-changing love
Will you hold my heart

All my heart
Will you hold my heart
And catch my tears
It seems I've already broken down All my heart

Forever Love Forever Dream
Only the overflowing memories are
Furiously, painfully stopping up time
Oh Tell me why
All I see is blue in my heart

Will you stay with me
All my tears
Will you stay with me
Until the wind has passed by
They're still overflowing All my tears

Forever Love Forever Dream
Stay close like this
In the dawn, embrace my trembling heart
Oh Stay with me

Ah Everything should end
In this endless night
Ah What have I lost
Nothing Only you

Forever Love Forever Dream
Stay close like this
In the dawn, embrace my trembling heart
Ah Will you stay with me

Ah Will you stay with me
Until the wind has passed by
More than anyone else, stay close

Forever Love Forever Dream
I can't walk any further than this
Oh Tell me why Oh Tell me true
Tell me the meaning of life

Forever Love
Forever Love Forever Dream
Until inside of overflowing tears
The shimmering season changes into eternity
Forever Love

*** ***

Fundamental questions of life....
1) Will you stay with me?
2) What do I do next?
3) Where do I go from here?

....

The shooting star that glided across the sky
Has disappeared into the darkness of the night...

*** ***

Thinking along the lines of memory, solitude, and love...(or suffering, or compassion)...

None

2005-11-11T22:22:00.000-08:00

Music is a very powerful thing. When there are poetic lyrics, combined with a sad tune, beautifully arranged, and sung by an emotional voice, the whole composition moves one to tears. It stirs the very depths of one's soul. Those of us who have cried to music can attest that this is neither a joke nor a sentimentalist's imagination. In fact, I shall be very curious to know people who have not been moved by music.

Yesterday, I was very thankful for the 'Ivory II' album (courtesy of Sze Yung aka Cheesecake). I also thought about 'Forever Love' by X-Japan for some reason.

Today, I listened to Pan Yueyun (Chinese music in 80s...I'm reluctant to classify her under 'oldie'). She has a handful of really great hits. I shall be very glad if I can produce a handful of artworks that can move people like her music. I remember that Andrea (aka Pigeon) once commented that anything Pan Yueyun sings will sound good. (I have to disagree with this even though I am her fan, but her rendering of bu4 liao3 qing2 is sublime -- better than or at least equalled the best singers who have sung this song)

I hope to get 'Eternal Melodies II' by Yoshiki and perhaps an old collection of hits by Wang Jie. This is just a thought...for now.

I do not know why things like that happen....

2005-11-10T21:50:00.000-08:00

...honestly, I was just thinking about him less than a week back. He was not even my friend. He was a friend's brother. I just received news that he had commited suicide.

Life is so fragile.

I wish you all the best.

Insecurities?

2005-11-09T22:05:00.000-08:00

Fallen..
Slumber...(awaiting moment of awakening)
Lost and searching...

I miss my art books which are with Maxine.

I can be a conceptual artist, you know...even though I spend my days think about trees and dreaming about trees...this morning I thought about returning to grass. And as I was showering, I thought about painting a really beautiful and poetic tree, so beautiful that he who has eyes would be at a loss for words. I found that in Huang Binhong's painting (though of course, I can never paint like Huang Binhong or Corot) .

I have forgotten whom I did art for. I do not know why I still want to do any art. If anything, I am my own audience. If anything, I hope to inspire students (who need more than eyes to see and ears to hear).

***

There is a time for everything...a time for a long period of dry season and sterility, and a time for things to reveal and unfold.

I must, very patiently, await that sublime moment.

none

2005-11-09T20:21:00.000-08:00

....a bit at a loss of what to say...thinking about how days go by without the luxury of time to do nothing or contemplate...thinking about art, friends, and a spiritual life...

.....

I've fallen in love with the past. Perhaps the present is just too difficult to handle, with greater and more responsibilities...

I also recommend...

2005-11-07T22:04:00.000-08:00

Capsule: A does of new Singaporean Writing.

This book is quite hard to find, but not bad.

I recommend...

2005-11-07T20:21:00.000-08:00

'Heartland', a novel by Darren Shiau. It's very well-written.

New writing

2005-11-06T20:56:00.000-08:00

The Temple Thief

....

The torch beam danced along the temple walls, casting an uncertain yellow penumbra on the irregular surface. The light was growing fainter now; Brendan had been unable to afford another set of batteries, and the light flickered as it traversed another empty niche and came to settle on the last moveable idol, a stony, graven image of Buddha sitting impassively in a corner.

Brendan felt sweat on his palm making his grip on the torch clammy and passed it from one hand to the other. Then he walked forward, towards the statue. Despite himself, Brendan could not totally prevent a small shudder passing through him as he neared the idol. The fact that he was going to pick it up in a moment and deposit it with its fellows in the large sack he had left on the floor behind him did not rob it of its essentially awesome quality.

There was something ominous about the statue's unblinking repose; something fearsomely self-contained, as if the idol was assured of its eventual triumph over all forces of evil, from atheists to temple thieves.

Not that Brendan was, or ever had been an atheist; religion had been in his bloodstream ever since he could remember. But crime was an economic necessity and one could not let one's scruples, religious or otherwise, interfere with one's necessities. If God could not fill his belly with divine action, Brendan was surely justified in using God to fill his purse- and his belly- by actions which if nothing else had a context of divinity.

And being a temple thief was so much better, and safer, than being a pick-pocket or a rapist. In many ways a respectable line -- stealing from the exponents of religion to sell to connoisseurs of art. Once more, Brendan studied the statue, trying to ignore the clutch of fear that stabbed his heart as he contemplated its fate.

For an irrational moment he wondered whether he needed to take it all. The temple had been stripped bare already; his sack was almost full. Would one statue make that much of a difference? But as he asked himself the question he knew what his own answer would be. In his profession he could not afford to be finicky.

He laid his hands on the Buddha.

The strange unmoving countenance stared back at him, he felt mockingly. Do you really think you are going to get away with this? It seemed to ask. Do you believe that you, a mere mortal, and a common thief at that, can capture me? The knot of fear in his chest tightened suddenly and the torch went out. Cursing, he banged it against his palm, and the light shone straight into Buddha's face. Startled, Brendan almost dropped the torch.

Recalling an old college song...

2005-11-06T12:54:00.000-08:00

This is the anthem for SRJC (Serangoon Junior College)...I was there for the first three months, and the first few lines go:

Lead us all to glory,
A glory to be told,
Every step we take
Challenges ahead,
We turn them all to gold...

** **

Would I be able to turn all my challenges to gold?...

short note

2005-11-05T21:09:00.000-08:00

My writing on Grandma's Funeral will have to stop, because all my necessary notes are in school and I'm getting quite saturated with it anyway...I hope to start new reading, writing, or art soon.

sin, Nov 2005

Thoughts at my keyboard...

2005-11-05T19:50:00.000-08:00

From next Monday, I will be at Police Academy for a three-week course to be trained as an NPCC officer. What luck. That means no more reading, no more writing, no more art, no more social life, but also no more crap (meetings, admin work, etc.) from school (though I was tasked to design four images to go along with our school values).

Thanks to my student, now I'm sort of even more addicted to reading and writing than I already was, which is fatal because it means less time for art (and perhaps social life as well)...and God knows when was the last time I did any decent exercise or sports. I miss some friends very badly; you are in my thoughts.

At the bookshop just now, I almost bought the 'Complete short stories' by Franz Kafka. As I was telling my student days ago and my friend just now, our Singapore novel and short story seems to be stuck in the Maupassant/Maugham era. This is very scary considering that Joyce and Woolf came and went long ago, and Calvino came and went too. Garcia Marquez is dying. Nabokov -- I'm not sure. So many great writers of the world had done so much (and don't get me started on the Japanese writers), but I'm not sure what we have so far.

Writing is a sin...(?)... one has to go back and relive the past. An utter waste of time -- all for the purpose of story-telling?

Anyhow, my three-week course will effectively kill off my November holidays, while I hope to catch up with some friends in December (though there are stuff to do like lesson planning and other miscellaneous stuff)...

I want to sing KTV. I love Wang Jie. I re-listened to his hits from the mid-80s to 90s... nothing is comparable thus far.

Why? Why? Why do I feel so old now? Why do I feel so sad now?

I once wrote, 'No more cares, no more love for this world...'

Loneliness is a double-edged sword. So beautiful, yet so saddening...

Grandma's funeral; another installment (trial)...

2005-11-03T11:31:00.000-08:00

It was cold and damp outside, for there had been an evening drizzle. My parents and I left the hall. In a tentage, the temple priests and nuns were conducting a prayer ceremony. ‘Na….mo…..’ the chief priest began to chant in Chinese syllables, as I knelt and leafed through the pages of an unknown sutra. It depicted fantastical things of the Afterlife, speaking of parrots in a myriad of colours, and peacocks that had a thousand eyes on their feathers. It spoke of flowers that were more fragrant than all the perfumes of the world, and lights that shone more brightly than all the stars in the heavens and cosmos. I did not know why, but an image of a bridge suddenly came to me. For a while, I thought I saw Grandma. She was holding a cane in one hand, and taking small deliberate steps from one end of the bridge to the other. At midway, she turned and smiled, and waved a goodbye before she continued her way. It was a calm and peaceful smile -- full of assurance and wisdom -- and I thought that was the most beautiful smile I had seen of Grandma. ‘I saw Grandma,’ Cousin Yun whispered to me secretly after the prayer ceremony. I smiled at her, but said nothing. The hall was still noisy with the gamblers and the television. I stole a glance at Cousin Hong before I climbed upstairs, my feet made a thumping sound as I went up the wooden steps. That night, I could not sleep well. I fell off my bed once. I also dreamt about black cats.

The second day, two quarrels broke out.

It was morning, and I was having a quiet breakfast in the hall when I heard voices shouting from the kitchen. I quickly went over to take a look. Dad was quarreling with Cousin Chin.

‘Son of a gun!’ Dad spat and shouted. ‘If you’re unhappy, we can have a one-on-one behind the house!’

Dad’s face was flushed in anger. He was waving his arms about in violent wild gestures while Auntie tried to push him aside to pacify him. Cousin Chin ignored Dad and walked away. I later found out what had happened. Cousin Chin had urinated in the bathroom, and he called Dad ‘a silly useless old man’ when Dad chided him for not using the toilet instead. After the incident, Cousin Chin had a quiet smoke beside the old well, while I returned to the hall quietly and read, having lost my mood for breakfast. I thought it was unfortunate to start the morning like this, but this was not the end of it.

Just before lunch, a loud wail sounded from the kitchen. I rushed over and saw Auntie bursting into tears and sobs. She was beating her chest furiously with her right fist. At that sight, I thought that the sadness in the house was becoming insufferable, and I was overcome with a strong desire to get out of that miserable place. At first, I thought Aunite was overwhelmed with grief by Grandma’s death. I later realised that Aunite had quarreled with Uncle. Uncle was angry that Auntie did not bring him the dustbin when he had asked her to do so, and he threatened to beat her. ‘My dad had tried to hit my mum with a belt when I was only five years old,’ Cousin Ghim told me. The incident was clearly a misunderstanding. Auntie was too far in the kitchen, so she could not hear Uncle. Besides, the dustbin was only a few steps away from Uncle. The very fact that quarrels, or even violence, could occur over such trivial issues made life seem more depressing than Grandma’s death itself. The women of the house decided to confront Uncle in the hall.

‘What a lazy man you are! Can’t you even move from your seat and take the dustbin yourself? Is it not depressing enough that Mum had died?’ Aunt Bee assailed Uncle with an avalanche of useless questions.

‘Your wife had been taking care of Mother when she was ill. What had she done to deserve this ill-treatment from you?’ Aunt Hun added.

Uncle suddenly stood up and spoke with authority. ‘For the last twenty or thirty years, I have slogged and slaved for this family. Is this how I should be spoken to?’ He was now the patriarch of the house, being the eldest son.

Father cut into the conversation quickly. ‘This is your family matter. Remember that Mother had said that half of the old house belongs to me.’ Father was referring to the old house some two kilometres down the road that Grandma had left behind. What had begun as a silly fuss over a dustbin escalated quickly into a discussion on dividing the family property.

“Let us talk about this outside. It’s not nice to be like this in Mother’s presence.’ Auntie Hun reminded everyone.

At that utterance, everyone suddenly quietened down. The cousins started to whisper in hushed voices. The adults looked nervous and uneasy, trying to wipe guilty looks off their faces. I cast a glance at the wooden coffin, imagining how Grandma could rest peacefully like this. Cousin Yun’s eyes were welled with tears again.

*** ***

Twenty-five,

2005-11-01T09:23:00.000-08:00

going twenty-six, is it too late to start a writing career, especially when you try to teach, and read, and draw at the same time?

I have not read Shakespeare or Dante (except for Hamlet). I have not read the two 'Bibles' -- Don Quixote and Ulysess. It has taken me more than ten years to learn art. How much longer would it take for me to learn how to write?

I had delved into the deepest recesses of my memory and imagination, and exhausted my reservoir of vocabulary and sentence structures. I don't think I can successfully portray what I wanted to express -- a certain effect, or a certain feeling...After all, a narrative is not just a story.

A good writing must stir the very depths of your heart and shake the very core of your whole being.

... ...

One must painstakingly paint a picture as would Tanizaki or Dickens, yet the writing must read smoothly and naturally without sounding too belaboured or contrived.

Garcia Marquez wrote in tears when he killed off the Colonel in 'One Hundred Years of Solitude.' In fact he cried for an hour or two after that. If I cannot even move myself with my writing, how can I move others with my writing?

Grandma's Funeral (version 2)

2005-10-31T21:05:00.000-08:00

The house was a two-storeyed house along a crackly and sandy tar road. It faced a dingy coffee shop and an abandoned construction shed, where a lonesome thin tree, leafless and bare, quietly waved a faltering branch. The tree would be gone soon. Like smoke. Like ashes.

An old dying fence separated our house from the neighbours’, as creepers and vines sprawled all over, strangling and entangling it, causing it to lean and bend. Uncle and Cousin had parked their motorbikes and van at the porch. The family dog, Boxy or Brownie as I used to call him, lazed in the sweltering heat with half-opened eyes, oblivious to the flies buzzing around him. Two ghostly white lanterns swayed lightly above the doorway -- someone from this house was dead.

A narrow walkway surrounded the house. To the right of the porch, dripping wet laundry hung from thin bamboo poles. An old stone well, damp and overgrown with moss and algae, rested behind the laundry area. To the left, Uncle had piled dusty gunny sacks, junk metal, rubber hoses, and deflated tyres. The back of the house was crammed with broken buckets, tubs, wooden boxes, old woks, and crates of used glass bottles. Pigeons and crows scattered themselves on the weathered roof, while the drain was crawling with centipedes and black ants. 'Remember to pay your respects to Grandma,' Father said. I nodded, but remained silent. A feeling of dread and impending despair filled the air.

Inside, the aunties and cousins folded joss papers in quiet gloom. No one lifted a head when we entered. An unearthly smell of incense filled the hall, as thin clouds of smoke drifted like spirits in the shadowy darkness. The stiff wooden coffin was placed in the centre, right in front of the alter, which was then covered with large pieces of crisp red papers.

Without a word, I lit the joss sticks and paid my respects. Dad went alone to the kitchen while I helped the rest fold the joss papers. 'Hi,' Cousin Yun broke the silence at last. It was a restrained sob, and her red eyes averted my gaze. I could only forge a wistful smile.

We folded the joss papers beside the wooden staircase. If one had walked straight to the kitchen and turned left, one would see a slightly ajar door, leading to a tiny poorly-ventilated room. This was where Grandma slept and died. The room was cluttered with decade-old furniture and worn-out mattresses. It smelled of medicated ointment and urine. Grandma's prayer beads were strewn about in disarray. An old radio was moaning in a monotonous drone, 'Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida-Butsu...' repeating itself in an endless cycle, as one would mourn for the dead. However, it was perhaps Grandma's only source of comfort and solace when she was still alive.

As I carelessly folded the joss papers, I tried to conjure memories of Grandma in my mind. I tried very hard, but nothing came. I could not even imagine her face clearly. Were her spectacle rims golden or silver? Did she wear a bangle on her right wrist, or on her left? All these I could not remember. To me, Grandma was only a kindly old lady, with a gentle smile, bending over a plump and aged body, dressed in a floral blue shirt and black pants.

(... ...)

***
Evening came. 'Come and eat,' Grandma would call out when she was still alive, and the children would flock to the dinner table and gather. But the laughter and gaiety was gone; it was replaced by a sombre silence. We had all grown anyway. We were no longer children. 'Eat,' Auntie said gravely when she passed the bowls of rice around. She had prepared a table full of food for dinner -- a dull-looking pomphret steamed with plums and ginger, a half-cooked white chicken oozing with blood, poorly-chopped slices of roast duck, a dish of preserved vegetables, fishball soup with thin lettuce slices, and a pot of fat pork braised in oily soy sauce. I stuffed myself with the white rice and plain water.

After dinner, Auntie Hun's sons and daughters came over. Their loud voices and boisterous laughter filled the hall. 'Where's the mahjong table?' Ah Leong asked as he put aside a can of beer. 'We'll stay up till dawn to accompany Grandma.' Ah Hong, who had recently won in a pageant, sashayed across the hall in a tight black T-shirt that clung snugly to her curvaceous figure. 'It's sad that Grandma died,' she remarked casually after offering her joss sticks. Then she purred a 'hi' to my mum, sank herself into an old sofa's welcoming embrace, and switched on the television. Soon, the hall was drowned in the noise of clattering mahjong tiles, tossing chips and drunken voices. Right next to Grandma's coffin.

Grandma's funeral (a draft, or perhaps just a sketch)

2005-10-30T21:11:00.000-08:00

Grandmother passed away one night.

That morning, I left college early, and returned home and did an expressive self-portrait in oils. By afternoon, I was in Uncle’s place in Johor.

The house was a two-storeyed house along a crackly and sandy tar road. It faced a dingy coffee shop and an abandoned construction shed, where a lonesome thin tree, leafless and bare, quietly waved a faltering branch. Behind the main entrance was a small porch where Uncle and Cousin had parked their motorbikes and van. The family dog, Boxy or Brownie as I used to call him, was lazing in the sweltering heat with half-opened eyes, oblivious to the flies buzzing around him while two ghostly white lanterns swayed lightly above the doorway. A narrow walkway surrounded the house. To the right of the porch, dripping wet laundry hung from thin bamboo poles supported by unsteady rusty stands. An old stone well, damp and overgrown with moss and fungi, rested behind the laundry area. To the left, Uncle had piled up his dusty gunny sacks, junk metal, rubber hoses, and deflated tyres, while the back of the house was crammed with broken buckets and tubs, wooden boxes, old woks, and crates of used glass bottles. The drain was crawling with centipedes and black ants. An old dying fence separated our house from the neighbours’, as creepers and vines sprawled all over, strangling and entangling it, causing it to lean and bend. As I slowly entered the house, pigeons and crows scattered themselves on the weathered roof. They were cooing and crowing to dilapidation and death, as a feeling of dread and impending despair filled the air.

For a moment, as I stepped into the hall, the world suddenly hushed to a deathly silence. The hall was dark and gloomy, and filled with the unearthly smell of smoke and incense. The wooden coffin was placed in the center of the hall, right in front of the altar, which was then covered with large pieces of stiff red papers.

(... ...)

The Old Cabinet

2005-10-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, we had an old cabinet. It stood quietly in the shared bedroom (Dad and myself – we shared the bedroom); its legs rested on the ugly green floor tiles and its back almost leaning against the dirty cream-white walls. It was a sturdy old cabinet, about five feet in height, of a light viridian brown colour, and coated with a thin layer of wood varnish. It had one large shelf on top and two smaller shelves below. The shelves had sliding glass panes. Beside the two smaller shelves, there were three drawers, one with a lock and the other two without.

One day, while cleaning the shelf, Mum removed a glass pane from the top shelf in an effort to wipe it. As Mum was wiping the glass pane, a lizard suddenly appeared from beneath the cabinet, and, momentarily startled by the lizard, she loosened her hands for a second, and the glass pane fell and broke into pieces. After the careless incident, Dad removed the other glass pane from the top shelf. The cabinet looked somewhat awkward or incomplete since then.

In those days, Dad used to have a lot of things on top of the cabinet. There were friends’ name cards (but he never contacted most of these friends, neither did they contact him), medicine bottles, court letters (Dad was an illegal hawker), and Dad’s favourite picture of Brother when Brother was a year old. The picture was framed in a yellow plastic frame. When Brother left home a few years back, Dad was so upset he smashed the picture with a hammer and threw it away.

Dad also occupied the large shelf with other things. He collected crystals, scissors, nail clippers, knives (yes, knives), old photographs (most of these were black and white) and other curios, such as wooden carpenter pencils, Taoist and Buddhist talismans, and fishing lines (Dad was probably a good fisher when he was young). However, when the cabinet was still around, I never understood that objects have their stories and past to tell.

The cabinet also contained some of Brother’s belongings; these were left behind after he had left home. There was a chocolate box containing his old bus passes, a few fake Harley Davidson handkerchiefs, and stickers of ninjas and skulls. An old postcard from Bendemeer Secondary School dated back to 1993 read: your child has not been in school for seven days. Those were days of family violence, and the cabinet contained these memories. Every time I picked up the postcard, Dad’s beatings and Brother’s yelling replayed in my mind like a flashback movie, although I was the only one who could hear the voices in the quiet room.

The locked drawer belonged to Mum. It contained needles and rolls of thread of different thickness and colours. Mum used to have sharp eyes and soft fingers. She was once a beautiful and lively lady, then a dutiful and conforming wife, but now what is left of her is a jaded and forlorn ageing woman resigned to her fate. She also kept a few very old song books in there. In very recent years, she still sang some of these songs to my niece, who was with us for a while, but had left for China a year ago.

The other two drawers belonged to me. The act of opening and closing the drawers drew me into a world of memories and untold stories contained in various memorabilia. These stories and memories changed as I added new things or removed old ones. I used to keep stamps and old chewing gum wrappers and conceal love letters. New Year cards came and went with each New Year; cards and letters came and went as friends did the same. I kept cassette tapes and lyrics of heartfelt love songs. All these things are gone now.

It was exactly two years ago, when we decided to sell the house. ‘Come, help me chop the cabinet into smaller pieces,’ Mum said. I used screwdrivers to pry the pieces of wood apart and hammered them loose. Then, I emptied the drawers of their contents and removed them, after which I carried the wooden planks and drawers downstairs to discard them. All that remained of the cabinet was its bottom half; a hollow wooden box with four legs, like an empty shell. It was quite heavy, and because it was a rather bulky piece of furniture, Mum and I had to carry it to the bin compound. I imagined it being shoved into the incinerator -- a large angry fire engulfing it as thick black billowing smoke continued to rise, the fire consuming the cabinet with all its memories and family histories, reducing them to ashes that flew about in the dry wind, and finally to nothing.

(805 words)

How can I

2005-10-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

...write a bestseller so that I can live on for the next 30 years?....

none

2005-10-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

I have a terrible longing to disappear.....

Some things...

2005-10-25T21:24:00.000-07:00

Who am I? Artist, teacher, or writer? All or none? I would love to be just a human being; a man of no title.

One day, my student will ask me, so where is all this leading to? All these great books, great ideas, great ambitions...what have I achieved? Nothing. But he who has ears, let him hear, and watch.

none

2005-10-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

Finished 'Beauty and Sadness' by Kawabata and 'The Setting Sun' by Osamu Dazai...

Let me talk a bit about Dazai. Basically, his two masterworks are 'The Setting Sun' and 'No Longer Human', each as suicidal as the other. It is no wonder that he commited suicide after the two novels.

Basically he has a fundamental problem, which is pride (the original sin according to the Bible).

'What feelings do you suppose a man has when he realises that he will never know happiness or glory as long as he lives? Hard work. All that amounts to is food for the wild beasts of hunger...'

And thus his characters give up to drinking, debaunchery and suicide, glorifying human weakness as the quality of being truly human.

If only he had learnt from the bible or the Buddha, he would have been a much happier person...

Nonetheless, 'The Setting Sun' and 'No Longer Human' are short but very powerful texts. Not recommended for the easily-depressed or suicidal.

rushed crap...

2005-10-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

In those days, I was everything.

I was the boulevard artist. I drank expensive coffee and tea, and ate expensive cakes in cafes. I sat in Olio Dome and sketched as if I were an Impressionist in the French cafes, listening to jazz or retro tunes as I drew and wrote. I thought I was going to write an art manifesto that would change the world. I read deep and profound poems and novels, far too early for my understanding, but I could not help it because I was everything. I knew everyone, but no one knew me. I visited the Art Museum every other week when I could. I knew the telephone numbers to all the galleries. I knew how large the space in every gallery was. I knew which gallery was running which exhibition from when to when. I wrote poems and contemplated on art at the then Victoria Food Court (which is replaced by something else now). I did paintings of pain, pain, pain, pain, pain…

I was the great art producer and art teacher. I taught art in cafes and construction sites. We painted and drew, and played with the soil and sand and sticks and stones, and the unwanted scraps in the construction sites, and walked through open fields like adventurers. We took long bus rides as if we were traveling in our homeland for the first time. We talked to trees, observed strangers, listened to alternative music and behaved as if we were the most sublime underground artists in the world. I knew everything about modern art, yet had a preference for Romantic oils and British watercolours.

I was the geographer too. I read National Geographic, read widely on physical geography, pretended to study the weather, and drew the river cross-section which I even exhibited during my first exhibition. I brought everything out, from markers to files to transparencies to expensive books. I took pictures, walked through the graveyards in the evening, and discussed profound ideas over dinner and coffee with friends.

I was the urban urchin. I wrote Chinese poems at Boat Quay till 2 a.m. in the morning while drinking alcoholic coffee and listening to music. I brought along Brian’s tripod and camera, and I took photographs of beautiful passing women, the neon lights, bright lights, colourful lights, giddying and dizzying lights that swirled at 4 a.m. in the morning. I talked to the river and sang to it and listened to it, contemplating on history and love. They sold $6 roti-john at 4 a.m. in the morning, but every single cent was worth it as they were very generous with the eggs and onions, and the sweet-and-spicy gravy was simply tasty.

In those days, I thought about death and despair. Godfather and Grandmother passed away while I studied Buddhism and Christianity.

In those days, I was lonely. Home was a rainy shelter, and I wanted a place of my own. Brother was in Detention Barracks while I was in college. I wanted a road of my own, and dreams of my own. I was going to conquer the world. I spent lonely Christmases on my living room sofa with books by Dickens or Bronte sisters, while friends were caroling or dining and giving presents to one another. I wrote poems for myself and everyone while looking at my sad paintings and listening to the rain.

In those days, I fell in love. Every other morning I woke up feeling as a poet would, looking at everything through green or purple lenses. I hurried along my paths of life, and floated in dreams and waters. I crossed the shores of love divided by seas of deep emotions, and drowned my sorrows in rain water and beer. I loved J------ and M------, the two most beautiful girls in college, and perhaps had a crush on C------ too. I loved without complaint or regret, and imagined fallen leaves to be red blushes of love in autumn air. When the November rain and leaves started to fall, my loneliness was everything and all. I thought of promises of forever spoken by artists and poets, and the girls in my life that came and went. When the tidal waters beat and fell, and the leaves departed as December was over, I was only your passing dream, while you were my everlasting and eternity.

none

2005-10-22T19:38:00.000-07:00

Went to watch 'Sympathy for Lady Vegeance'. I didn't like it at all, though it is quite an arthouse kind of film. I'm not into black humour or surrealism or violence. Didn't like the female lead much either.

***

Currently reading Yasunari Kawabata' s'Beauty and sadness'. Kawabata is the first Japanese to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Because sadness seems more beautiful than joy,

2005-10-21T21:39:00.000-07:00

..then solitude must be more beautiful than company/companionship.

None

2005-10-21T21:06:00.000-07:00

Writing is discipline.

***

I went to Dr Ho's place again. His new artworks are interesting, but not terrific. I still like his painting of the cathedral and the abstract piece.

Students who do not understand me always think that when I make comments as such, the subtext is 'I am the best artist in the world', when what I really mean is they need to have a clear sense of what kind of standards there are out there in the world, instead of being complacent with that miserable bit of knowledge they have in their proverbial well. It applies to both English and Art. Unless one can take six steps back from one's work and say, 'I think the drawing/painting is really sublime', or read one's own writing and say 'the modern can surpass the old; this is better than Wuthering Heights', one really should just think of oneself as nothing, or less than nothing. How many can live up to such expectations, or qualify to be called a master? How many, except for Huang Binhong and Li Keran, can write on their scrolls that 'indeed, the modern surpassed the old?' In fact, I would even go so far as to claim that anyone who has not honed his craft for more than five years should not call himself a practitioner of the craft at all. Garcia Marquez deleted more words than he published. Virginia Woolf pondered for the exact word for days and even weeks. Turner and Picasso were born geniuses, but they went far beyond their talent and reached great heights through intensive labour. Corot said it 'only took forty years of hard work'. Degas and Braque did their work quietly without seeking recognition. The great Huang Binhong only had his first solo exhibition at eighty-eight, even though he had several group exhibitions before.

Dr Ho and I talked a bit about the Singapore Art Show..but well, if you've read my earlier entries, I'd rather not talk about it again...it's insipid, uninspiring, dull...the list goes on...

forecasting next year

2005-10-20T20:40:00.000-07:00

A pointless exercise, but let me indulge.

I'll be selling my soul to teaching. No more life. No more art...

I've successfully driven my HOD up the wall. Fatal start for teaching.

***

Anyway, went to Ubin today for hiking. Loved the scenery! Managed to do a really simple sketch.

Mt darlings..where will they be in four years' time? Where will *I* be in four years' time?

rehashing old stuff that might be useful

2005-10-18T19:43:00.000-07:00

1.

An artist is first a human being like everyone else, with anxieties, insecurities, problems, fears etc. I am first a human being, then an artist.

Joseph Beuys is right when he says everyone is an artist. Perhaps it should be ‘everyone can be an artist’. We need to demystify the artist because knowledge is transparent and open to criticism. Art is no longer ‘high culture’ in current times. The artist is just like everyone else, except he does creative work.

Art is an expression of one’s thoughts, feelings, and knowledge. The journey of art is about finding one’s own voice. One must study traditions and art history, as well as penetrate into life and nature.

2.

Art is not easy. Having struggled for years, I am still as one finding my way in the dark. I am still as one finding my way out of the desert, which may take forty years.

I have yet understood drawing and painting, and there are still conceptual art, installation art, new media art, and postmodern art in general.

Nevertheless, I also agree with Joseph Beuys when he says ‘One should not question if something has been done in intellectual or art history…’ I have forgotten the latter part of the statement, but I believe it has something to do with expression or truth or reality.

3.

One must be open to new ideas and knowledge.

Art problematises. Art does not offer solutions.

New knowledge or expression does not arise from a vacuum. It is founded on old knowledge and traditions. Then, one internalizes the old knowledge, combines it with one’s feelings, prior knowledge and experiences, and generates new knowledge and expression.

In this time, what we should do now is to assimilate and internalize. We must critically examine what has been done, and arrive at our modes of expression.

4.

Thinking and doing must develop together. Thoughts without actions are mere ideas in the air, like castles in the air. Action without thought is like a factory line.

Eventually, everything is about new ways of doing and seeing things.

My table

2005-10-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

Just a sentence, yet to develop into anything...(for Aneesha)

***

My table, buried beneath a flood of loose papers, scattered letters, unmarked scripts, unused worksheets, outdated timetables, overdued deadlines, piled and unfiled circulars (some in scraps and tatters) and loose notes spilling over the edges (sometimes onto the floor with fallen paper-clips and staples), is a messy table resembling the post-World-War rubble.

you might have been here...

2005-10-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

but I have added new stuff..

http://community.webshots.com/album/476323769bDcfsb

Lovestruck, lovelorn, or nothing?

2005-10-16T13:49:00.000-07:00

Aubrey
by Bread
album: Guitar Man (1992)

And Aubrey was her name,
A not so very ordinary girl or name.
But who's to blame?
For a love that wouldn't bloom
For the hearts that never played in tune.
Like a lovely melody that everyone can sing,
Take away the words that rhyme it doesn't mean a thing.

And Aubrey was her name.
We tripped the light and danced together to the moon,
But where was June?
No it never came around.
If it did it never made a sound,
Maybe I was absent or was listening to fast,
Catching all the words, but then the meaning going past,

But God I miss the girl,
And I'd go a thousand times around the world just to be
Closer to her than to me.

And Aubrey was her name,
I never knew her, but I loved her just the same,
I loved her name.
Wish that I had found the way
And the reasons that would make her stay.
I have learned to lead a life apart from all the rest.
If I can't have the one I want, I'll do without the best.

But how I miss the girl
And I'd go a million times around the world just to say
She had been mine for a day.

*** ***

I especially love the last three lines, but here I am, cold as water, plain as ice...

grey world

2005-10-15T20:19:00.000-07:00

For a whole group of people...

A path of solitude.

A path of annihilation.

A path leading to the end.

I can live without more things than you imagine. Don't waste my time.

check this out!

2005-10-14T16:34:00.000-07:00

http://community.webshots.com/user/loksin

Look for folder that says 'students' art'.

none

2005-10-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia seems like a nice and timeless theme to explore for art...

I should be marking, so I shan't ramble much today.

I feel

2005-10-11T20:01:00.000-07:00

rotten..whatever.

***

Recalling how many Saturday mornings were spent
Walking alone in the rain
Thinking of how I missed the forlorn days
I search the diary pages in vain

I wore a pair of worn-out shoes and a sad face
The canal and trees were still the same
I found my way to your address
And posted the envelope with your name

The crows were talking across the roads and street lamps
The sweeper was sweeping leaves and crushed refreshment cans
Our youth was spent struggling with growing pains
And it would end even if the pains don't end

Recalling how I sang the new song I learnt
As I sat on the roadside step
Watching the neighbourhood cats amuse themselves
With a fallen rusty bicycle chain

... ...

Some lines to amuse myself...

***

I need to become a better teacher...

None

2005-10-10T19:44:00.000-07:00

At twenty-five, a developing teacher, aspiring to be a writer and a good artist.

I went CD-hunting today. After going to many places, I finally found a copy of Wang Jie's new CD which I bought at an impossible price of $27, with very low expectations of his singing since we all know he croaks more than he sings nowadays. Let's see...There are actually a handful of nice songs in the album, but he rendered them somewhat poorly. If I had his kind of voice, I'm sure I would have sung them better. Anyway, some of the songs are so bad I think I really sound better in every literal sense of the word. That kind of sound should not have been heard anywhere outside the recording studio. Nevertheless, because my expectations of the album was so low, I wasn't at all disappointed at all when I tried it. At least the two or three listenable songs were not too bad. Perhaps I can add them to my KTV repertoire.

That's the latest excitement anyway.

I've been thinking of where I'm going from here. I do not really hate classroom teaching that much (in fact, the Express classes are lovely)...but with CCAs and all the admin work, and the meetings and the NT kids, teaching is not really my cup of tea.

The truth is, I see myself as someone who creates. I see myself doing many drawings and paintings and writings...but for all practical purposes, I need to keep my teaching job. I cannot rely on art or writing for a living. In addition, I don't see how anyone can live on creative work anymore.

I would love to read or re-read the following to become a good writer:

1) Strange Pilgrims by Garcia Marquez
2) Collected Stories by Garcia Marquez
3) The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor by Garcia Marquez
4) News of a Kidnapping by Garcia Marquez
5) Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
6) Don Quixote translated by Gregory Rabassa
7) Lizard by Banana Yoshimoto
8) Self Portraits (?) by Osamu Dazai
9) The Cinnamon Peeler by Michael Ondaatje
10) Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes
11) Kokoro by Natsume Soseki
... ...

The great Li Keran once said, 'He who is below forty years old should have a ten or twenty year plan for his creative work.'

I shall heed his advice.

Hopefully, one day, I can be say the same as he did: 'The East has dawned.'

Die-hard fan looking forward to...

2005-10-09T11:00:00.000-07:00

Dave Wang's new album, 'Awake'. Never mind he can't sing now... after all, I grew up with his songs...

Ramblings...

2005-10-08T20:12:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to sound like sour grapes, but if any of you had been to SMU to look at the Open Section Art by new artists for the Singapore Art Show, you would be glad that my works are not there. For a start, the venue is about 80% completed (i.e. parts of it is still under construction). Next, some of the works are seriously questionable, if not dubious. There was one painting that I thought even my kids could have done better. There was only one memorable painting there, and two familiar names (Nicola and Tang Ling Na...quite established young artists whose works are respectable). Apparently even P-10 or Joon Kiat didn't even give a damn about the whole event. One huge painting on the theme of nature was poorly and unprofessionally executed. It might be considered a good piece by my school's standards, but certainly not for professional artists. Reminds me of my work some years back. Even some of the presentation was not professional. To summarise, after going there, I am glad my works were not chosen.

Fish Leong's new song, 'Road', is not bad. (Better than the supposed hit 'Silkroad') Quite moving and meaningful.

To write or not to write...that is the question.

2005-10-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

After some encouragement from Zhu, I think I shall write. He actually thought my command of language is okay...The way I see my writings is this: I have many issues and stories, and I think I do know how to tell stories well...I just lack the proper words to tell the stories.

Give me eleven more years...hopefully I can publish a book of short stories...

Check this out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2005-10-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

http://community.webshots.com/user/loksin

After 4.30 p.m.

my student's work...potential writer?

2005-10-06T21:49:00.000-07:00

A tall, slim girl, sixteen, with serious brown eyes and a mass of long curly black hair which her friends called raven was staring dreamily out of her window. Eliza, her chin proped on her clasped hands and her eyes on the splendid mass of fluffy clouds that were heaping up just over her neighbour's house like a mountain, was far away in a delicious world where a certain graduate was doing wonderful work, inspiring youthful minds and hearts with high and lofty ambitions.

It was a warm gaudy Sunday morning early in October, Eliza Tan sat at the breakfast table with her parents. Her mother was reading the women's page of the morning paper while her father pored through the editorial section. There were dandelions in the center of the table and linen mats under each plate; the eletric coffee pot that was bought at a junk sale exactly four years ago, gleamed in a ray of morning sunlight. It was a peaceful scene, apparently no different from any other Saturday morning at the Tans', but this morning there was a difference, invisible but real. This morning Eliza was plotting.

Outside, she heard the rasp of a dry leaf scudding along the road. The sound meant the season was changing and she intended to make her life change with it. That was what made the end of secondary school interesting- the possibility that this time things could be different. Spotless new JC uniforms, a change of locker patners, a new boy across the aisle in English class, even the lovely breeze, crisp and shining - all these things could make a big difference in her mundane life. Straight after a quick and hurried breakfast, Eliza ran to the telephone and punched her friend's number, trembling with excitment, her hand shook as she held the cordless violet phone to her pointy ears. " Gina, tomorrow is our last day being in Secondary four! I know I'm going to be missing all our classmates terribly but I can't help feeling a twinge of excitement going to National JC. Thank god we'll be in the same classes again", Eliza exclaimed. The phone glued to her ear, she babbled on," I don't what I would do if we hadn't been posted to the same school. Of course we'll be the youngest in the school and I guess it'll feel very different from being in the top form where we were extremely dominering and knew everyone in the school."

The rest of the day was spent day dreaming about JC, a new chapter in her life, an empty, untouched white page that was waiting to be filled in. What will the new school be like? In Cresent, where she was the tennis team captain, everyone had looked at her in awe and admiration- the wonderful, powerful captain- but now she would probably be looking at others in the same way.

For the first time in her entire life, Eliza was extremely eager to get to school early. Grabbing the buttered toast her mum had prepared, she rushed out of the old brick house. Looking at the beautiful nature around her, Eliza thought that each day was becomming more golden and more spellbound. The sun shone and the sky was a clear shade of light blue. The oranges were ripening. Violets and iris bloomed in October. The weird plants beside on her neighbour's door step put forth scarlet leaves. At the same time the spreading grayish green acacia tree that over hung the two-storey house began to burst with buds, clusters of tiny greenish- yellow balls. As Eliza stood under the tall plants and looked up at the acacia tree, she felt like Alice in Wonderland after she had drunk from the bottle labeled Drink Me and found everything different. Yes, Singapore was a magic place.

Eliza, for the first time in her four years she had been in the school, looked at Cresent Secondary School through different eyes. She stopped to stand and stare at the rusty old iron school gates; it would be her last time walking through them as a secondary school student. And the palm trees just outside school- how could she have ever thought those trees with their ragged dirty petticoats old dead fronds was exciting to behold? Eliza began to recall the little things she had done with Gina; the mischeveous pranks she had pulled off on teachers, the days on which she had bribed the school guard to cut her slack and let her in school when she was late with out complaining to the discipline mistress. Cresent contained her joyous laughter, all her tears, pain, misery and delight. Gazing at her beloved school for the last time before she went in, she turned around to see Gina putting a reassuring, comforting arm on her shoulders. Eliza appreciated Gina's silent sympathy, but she found being in a situation that called for sympathy hard to take. She was miserable in silence. Who ever thought the last day of school could be soo painful and could bring back soo many memories.

Eliza felt as though a page of girlhood has been turned, as by an unseen finger, and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery, pain and gladness.

***

All comments welcome. By the way, she's Sec 1 Express going on to Sec 2.

none

2005-10-06T21:09:00.000-07:00

Sze Yung is back from Japan, with Miki Imai's 'Ivory II'!!!!!!! Honestly, the CD is more for the cover than the songs. Of course, track 7 ('short-sleeve' or 'half-sleeve') itself is worth the price too. It's a vintage or classic CD for collection. Classic vintage or vintage classic --- whatever.

Was on the topic of writing. I mentioned about reading Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, the Bible...Bertrand Russell, the other spiritual texts, the famous poetry etc etc. Must one really read so much in order to write well? For now, my answer is yes. Let's put it this way.

My first belief in writing: all good writers are by default good readers. If only I've read my Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Trollope, Dickens, Joyce, Woolf, Auden, Eliot, Yeats, Frost, Plath etc etc, I'm sure I would be a *MUCH* better writer writing better stuff than the kind of thirty-five cents writing I'm producing now. On the Japanese map alone, there are the great Tanizaki, Mishima, Soseki, Dazai, Oe, Kawabata etc. to be read (know these masters before we move on to Banana Yoshimoto or even Murakami). In Latin America, Garcia Marquez, Isabelle Allende, and Llosa. Former Russia: Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, as well as Nabokov.

There are at least a hundred other great writers I can list...

Myself now? My many volumes are collecting dust...my recent three books being Woolf's 'To the Lighthouse' (this woman is seriously deranged), Tanizaki's greatest classic 'The Makioka Sisters', and Dostoevsky's 'The Idiot'. I simply have no time!

To top it off, I revived an interest in the Transcendentalists (Emerson, Thoreau etc.) I spent $11 buying a pocket version of Thoreau because 'Walden' is too bulky to carry around. It is now one of my pocket Bibles.

Okay...apparently I've strayed off topic. Anyway, good writers must have kaleidoscopic knowledge. (Brian made me think of Italo Calvino for a start) Good writers can create a world out of their texts. If Ireland were to disappear because of an earthquake, we can construct it out of Joyce's 'Ulysses'. If South America were to disappear because of a whirlwind, we can construct it out of Garcia Marquez's 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'. If certain cities of Japan were to disappear for whatever reason, we can construct them out of Tanizaki's 'Makioka Sisters' or Kawabata's 'Snow Country'...do we have anything that we may call a Singaporean novel? It would be too ambitious. I strongly believe it will not happen in my lifetime. Someone to write a novel with full knowledge of our colonial past, our War and Post-war years, our independence, our industrialisation years and our cosmopolitan years, all encapsulated in a kaleidoscopic novel with full flavour of the rich living at Holland Village with haute couture and cafe culture and the poor living in Whampoa Drive with pasar-malam and kopi-tiam culture, with the different registers of language from the elite's standard English to the down-to-earth singlish. There must be a mish-mash of community clubs, aunties, prata, coffee, char-kway, popiah, bengs and lians, KTV, sushi, Citilink mall and many more....

But again, that is an over-ambitious writer's dream. One should be content if one can be the next Arthur Yap or Catherine Lim...no...Catherine Lim should stick to short stories...Tan Hwee Hwee's 'Mammon Inc' is the closest to the Singaporean novel, but let's hope we can have something better than that.

Let me however be honest on this: concerning art, I'm not so Singaporean. I think the Po-Mo (postmodern) culture has opened the floodgates to allow almost anything to be called art. My belief is that the world is still more global than local (though we are trying to be localised in one way or another, whether naturally or in a contrived manner)...and my philosophy now is to assimilate and select. To assimilate blindly is to ape. Besides, I'm more of a universalist where art is concerned, since art is a universal language.

Oh wow...I've blabbered so long here...time for a shower...and some quiet time for myself before going to sleep and to awake too soon and prepare for yet another long hectic day....