The polarity between the sensational and the mundane is also the dichotomy between the sensational and the sensory in which the latter is left unmarked, unvoiced and unattended to, as a banal element of the everyday.
sometimes it's nice to see things the other way round. talking to the back of someone's head instead of their face - you get to avoid unnecessary changing facial expressions. brushing your teeth - still with a toothbrush - but with a different hand, so as to enjoy the awkwardness of the experience. i remember reading somewhere that doing things differently, even simple things like the using a different hand to brush your teeth, or closing your eyes when in the shower, helps prevent memory loss in old age. that is certainly a good thing now, isn't it.
inversions. to be inverted. or to invert. inside-out. flip. flops. just don't drop.
picnic/vision boarding spaghetti "everybody dance now" eyelid in the eye, engulfed Tiong Bahru to Tanjong Pagar silent smiles 9-6 seuty gaiman him leaving through my sleeve water day 3: a product of the system shanthini Sugar exploding veins fumbling with the lens erased gangsta songs right art-a-day late. period.
i lost my mp3 player on my way back home from KL. was a tad disappointed in myself for not being careful with it, but then thought, what's meant to be, will be. i will be able to read more now, i thought. which happens to be true: two books in a week.
Drown by Junot Diaz
something about reading really stunning short stories. it chokes. it must be what being hanged feels like. to be painfully grabbed away from breathing. the throat's passageway deemed useless - folded and twisted into a cut that engorges the body, whole. his stories are like that. the first one is a heart-stopper. it kills you into an awaking.
his stories also makes one feel like a trespasser, strolling stupidly into a world you know nothing about, and yet are trying to stake a claim upon. what a fool. and in the end, the stories do just that. it fools us and we cannot do anything else, but accept it.
at the same time, i find myself silently searching for parts of the characters in me. sadistic, almost. but such a beautiful yearning.
a must read.
afoot. work. it brings out the true value of a 'friday', the TGIF. i spent mine walking. my temporary workplace overlooks a gorgeous sky and often i wonder what lay beneath it. so this morning i planned a route. it was two train stops away, a route i had never walked before. Tiong Bahru to Tanjong Pagar. it would take 5 mins by train but about 1 hour 15 mins on foot. worth it though.
stories. the characters have been born. time to breathe air into their limbs. o heart. stop feeling. let the mind do her work. shoosh.
i peeled out of sleep in the darkness of this morning with thoughts of you traipsing in my mind, like a mad mastersdance, releasing, mocking. my mouth transcribed all the formulations that you conjured in my mind onto paper, onto paper. i smiled. our days together have always brought a smile to my face, an upward bracket that held within it all my joys and dreams. but then i chanced upon the world of facebook and my eyes caught a sight of its reflection. vanity affects all beings. it was a phrase so beautiful i felt smitten by it, and yet, envy churned in me. confetti in my eyes. oh, what a beautiful partnership of words. a picturesque eruption i wished you would have conjured in my mind first. alas, you did not. what a disappointment.
but fear not, for my love for you is unwavering. it is like the calmness of the sea - a single plane of blue, like a blanket rhythmically sending vibrations across the land. waves. a single entity of never-ending pieces. i know that you will soon create voluminous wonders inside my mind, wonders such as the finger pressers of indented paper, the extractor of silent notes, & the seismic scale of ground gazing. i have faith in you, my love. only in you.
so it's been a few days since i last got back from KL, Malaysia. one thing i love about KL is how real it feels. in fact, i have a feeling most if not all cities feel this way, except for Singapore. i don't mean to sound like one of those people who constantly diss Singapore - because i do appreciate a lot of things about this city - but it just feels too contrived, too sanitized. and sometimes, it would be nice to have some dirt lying around. it would give me something else to photograph for a change. but yes, i planned a solo trip to KL so i could get away from it all and just be with myself for a bit. but of course, i've learnt that being alone in a foreign place is actually worst than being alone at home. imagine sitting up in the hotel room late at night, in a queen-sized bed where you only occupy the left side of it, the rest untouched, as P.S. I Love You is playing on Star Movies. you sit there alone with a temperature because you were sick on your way into KL, and your tummy still feels (shitty) weird as you sniff away into tissue after tissue - used for both snot and tears, sometimes at the same time. eew. that movie always gets to me. tear jerker. and falling asleep is never easy because you're a scaredy cat who despite having finished your ghost thesis, is still afraid of ghosts and has an imagination that can summon them anytime. and so, i slept with the lights on. blaring hotel lights. under white covers. alone. not that it's any different at home but something about hotels just make it lonelier. but loneliness is good because it makes you discover things about yourself, things that would otherwise be clouded by the presence of people, work, or trivial distractions, like ice-cream. and these are things that one needs to know, or come to terms with in order to move ahead in life. hence, onward!
the new year has been awesome so far. submitted the thesis. have been productive every day. drawing. typing. storytelling. have yet to clean up my room. will do it soon. sent out over 40 letters, locally and globally. postage is pricey. i guess that's why emails are convenient. but nothing beats the sheer pleasure of receiving an actual, tangible piece of mail. at least that's what i feel. that's why i'll be starting up my Snail Mailers again. yaay! will be looking for a job soon. yes, will be 'selling out' and will be applying for a government job. need the money. the new nikon models are tempting me. will be retiring from academia for a bit. switch off.
happy new year! i don't think anyone reads this space, but it doesn't matter. happy new year, nonetheless!
resolutions.
photo projects coming up. will be working on my Visual Tabooseries, along with The Classroom photo series. and will be helping a friend shoot for her NGO in Malaysia. so loads to do.
at the same time, THE THESIS is over! finally. dragged my legless being across the line.
going to get a job. play the 'adult'. plan trip to India!
and find a new way to sign my name with the '10' at the back.
hmm...
was watching a TED Talk about The Art of the Interview and something interesting was said, "people don't get their portraits painted anymore," and how true. because i guess to a certain extent, photography makes it more convenient to capture one's portrait now. i'm not demeaning the value of portrait photography, but drawn/painted portraits are certainly something to 'wow' over.
it is not easy to capture someone, as photos or paintings, and make it look like them, and yet, not. because to a certain extent, portraits do not necessarily capture the person, but more of his or her persona. a fragment of who they are, their inner states of mind. the emotion that they're emoting. the translated thought. the conditions. a non-face. a permutation. essentially, what makes a portrait powerful is what it says. the face is a canvas to the greater conversations between cosmos.
i hop into a cab from uni and the taxi driver engages in a conversation, as usual.
taxi driver: so you study in NUS. smart huh. me: no lah. it's just NUS. taxi driver: you're Malaysian right? me: huh? no i'm Singaporean. taxi driver: really? oh. cos usually Malays in Singapore aren't that smart. they don't go to uni. me: what? you're wrong. there are loads of Malays in NUS. taxi driver: really? seldom see them. me: that's because the majority of the people in this country are Chinese. so of cos it's hard to see a lot of us 'minorities'. besides, i'm Indian. not Malay. taxi driver: huh? you're Indian. then how come you're wearing the scarf thing? me: that's cos i'm Muslim. Indian Muslim. taxi driver: ooh! but you're quite fair also, huh? and no wonder you're smart. Indians are very smart. me: how do you know? you see a lot of Indians in NUS, is it? taxi driver: not really. (pause) i'm very confusing ah. (laughs). me: yeah you are.
why is the idea of the individual, alone usually depicted as an abnormality? a state of being awaiting some sort of reconciliation, a resolution. an unfinished story. in movies, such characters are introduced as weird and eccentric, and we laugh or sympathize with them. it is depicted as incomplete in its worldly experiences. lulled in a state of void because its private parts have never been touched. the story will then end with it skipping off into a pixelated rainbow with someone it has encountered who completes it. you complete me. what an irritating concept: needing someone to complete your sense of self.
nevermore. nevermore.
it is important to have people in our lives. but people should not complete us. our attitude towards people should be akin to that of ghosts. it's fun (or not) to see them, initially, but then it would be better in the long run to be rid of them. for those we encounter, they impact our lives, experiences, and emotions and in that moment, we change. for those we don't see, we don't. but that doesn't mean that they don't exist. they still do. spirits are everywhere! and we hear about them in stories and accounts by those who do see them. and they might or might not leave any marks in our lives but either way, they're still there. and then there are those who haunt us for long periods of time and perpetually keep us on our toes. and soon we begin to feel comfortable with having them around, no matter how grotesque they are. but soon, they'll leave too. because the dead must live as the dead. because everything is momentary. momentaries. and soon, everybody leaves. and because, perhaps the only resolution in life, is death. and i don't say this in a dark, cynical, and ironical manner, muttering displeasure into fingernails that then claw out mine eyes. rather, it is matter-of-fact, isn't it?
and because people are actually selfish beings and we need to recognize that not necessarily as a bad trait but as a normal one. because each person creates her own needs and wants and for some, these needs and wants do not reside within others. i don't need you. but i love you. this does not make it wrong or pathetic. in fact, if you find yourself constantly needing that someone, or the presence of others in your lives, you're abnormal or probably deformed in some way and should proceed to chew on some bones or flesh to complete your growth process as a human being.
i am reminded again of the novel Veronika Decides to Die. everyone is essentially insane. we fill ourselves up with idiosyncratic jewels that we then conveniently transform into mere stones just because the Grand Narratives deem it so. we cast aside our court jesters, stuff their bells into their mouths and silence them. and we hide. we make ourselves feel weird, alone.
perhaps it's because i've grown old-er, or because i've studied for too long. 19 years. 19 freaking years, straight! but lately, it feels like every argument i hear is one that i've heard before. ideas that have been argued before. recited. reused. arguments about life, love, religion, philosophies on things, anything and everything. all of it. i know them inside out, back and front. and so, certain discussions feel unnecessary, certain 'intellectual pursuits', boring, certain 'doctrines', irritating. feels like i've reached the top of a plateau, the flat surface that makes it easy to walk on, but isn't challenging at all. after all, we've learnt to walk very early in life. the rest of our lives should be spent on using the art of walking for some other purpose.
i've been wanting to read this novel ever since i watched/listened to Chimamanda speak on one of the TED talks | The Danger of a Single Story. she is such an eloquent speaker. resilient beauty. it made me desperate to read her. so, i did.
the first thing i did after borrowing this book from the library was to google the Nigerian-Biafran war. i had never heard of it. for shame. equipped with a mere wiki update on the war, i started. i was immediately intrigued by the characters. they were whole. described with lavish words. i fell in love. a biased love. turned them into heroes. the beacon of all that was good. this was however, shattered. but it was a disappointment so beautiful, it only added more whole-ness to their beings. humans. being and becoming who and what they can be, shaped by their ideals; changed by their circumstances for as goes the saying, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. this new-found strength can however be translated in both positive and pessimistic ways. half glimpses of life. not all that grow reach for the sky. some dig deeper into the ground, into darkness.
a thought. certain histories, calamities, genocides are constantly revisited, narrated, and thus their sacrifices, miseries, survivors repeatedly mourned, remembered through museums, memorials, movies. by those who can afford it.
the disembodied genius. the idea that our creative processes involve an other-ly intervention or contribution. that it is not fully our own. that we do not own it. that it comes from nowhere and everywhere. and would leave when the work is done. to be passed on to another. for another creation to be manifested. across time and space.
i've always believed in the idea of the cosmos and how inspirations, ideas, dreams, aspirations, and messages of the many exist within it. released. let loose. or sometimes lost. and i believe in the presence of the divine who artfully crafts opportune chances for the meeting between these floating specters and their medium, the artist. a collaboration, as Gilbert beautifully puts it. collaborations that can happen anytime. anywhere.
interestingly, i find my meetings with such specters mostly contained within the four walls of the toilet. restroom. bathroom. pee-pee place. whatever it is called. i never linger long in the loo. for good reason. but i would be in the midst of sorting out laundry for the week when, POOF! in the middle of a shower. POOF! in the middle of the blessed* act of shitting. POOF!
*i consider shitting a blessing as i believe the human body would not be able to contain itself had it not been given an outlet for release. as the saying goes, what goes in, must come out. so that more can come in. again. and out. again.*
hence, i consider myself lucky for being chosen for collaborations without having to wait it out for centuries in that one space. waiting to be hit by the apple in the head. or having to travel to the end and back. but then again, i have been told that some of my ideas are crappy. shitty. but i suppose, it's better to be crafted as a vessel than a plastic plateau that simply allows for everything or anything that wants to latch on, be wiped away. the important thing is, to become. to become a vessel for something. anything. and then to act with it. accordingly. poetically.
was out and about yesterday, running errands. went to get some paper and envelops at a local bookstore and saw a table filled with 2010 planners. next year is looming ahead. already. i have always been a firm believer of planners. daily planners. this doesn't necessarily make me a 'planner'. at least i think not. doesn't matter anyway. so i bought my 2010 planner. black. as usual.
i am guilty. for having it all. beyond the basics. surpassing my needs. abusing my wants. demanding. craving. more. more. without thought of time. time it takes to create. time taken to destroy. i am guilty. for being born in a privileged position and yet, idly pressed onto seats, giving nothing back. and despite knowing and having, am doing, nothing at all.
looking, all i see are mimics. listening, all i hear are murmurs. similar forms of different things. each called by its own name. chartered out by its own boundaries. carved out within its own means.
i often get asked, why do you have so many non-Muslim friends? where are your Muslim friends? don't you have any? sometimes, i pretend to not understand such a question. just so i can make them explain. sometimes, they can't.
as to the question, well, i just do. because, despite our religious differences, we're the same. mimics. murmurs. of the same tune. the same beat. cliched. yes. but, only because, it is what it is.
do not undermine the value of the cliched. there is power in mimics and murmurs.
we are always intrigued by those different from us. the exotic other. they fuel the imagination, offering a glimpse into a reality of the alternative. wedged in Colonialism and in the study of Anthropology, this concept of the other is one that hosts companions such as romanticism, nostalgia, the exotica, and 'the past'. although the I Polunin exhibition was meant to be reflective of the I, the self, some fragment of being 'Singaporean', i could not help but feel extremely othered.
we walked into the gallery and instantly, we were caught in both excitement and awe. there were photos of three men, each shot in the manner shown above. each a specimen. each with a number labelled onto their bodies. markings. documenting. it reminded me of the kind of photos i saw in my introduction to Anthropology and the Human Condition module. the beginnings of the study of 'race', as determined by the physical. the biological makings of a man. stereotypes. the first two were photos of 'native men', as clearly recognized and marked by their othered faces. the Asian. the tribal. the exotic. the third photo however, caught us by surprise, for it was a photo of the filmmaker himself. the Western male. ironically, without a loincloth (for no Western man wears that), but also rather comically, covered modestly only by socks and shoes. unsettling. but also potently symbolic.
walking further into the gallery, we were then greeted by panaromic shots of old Singapore. 'old' being a mere 60 years ago. and yet, a 60 years ago we could not recognize, or imagine. it was vastly different. more vibrant. we also caught sight of something in one of the old photos. something so inconsequential, and yet, historical, existing both then and in our present day. something that ought to be historical, and yet, often unnoticed.
there were also old objects. most of which, recording devices owned by the Dr. Polunin himself. snapshots. documents. notes. we then came to a film reel. old footages of what is perhaps a village in the 1950s, Singapore. again. it was starkly different. unimaginable. how could 60 years change so much? they had a baby bear as 'pet'. a real one. the made their own boats. children carrying coconuts, pineapples, jackfruits. some children these days do not even know how these fruits look like on the outside. we sat there for the duration of the film. watching. gasping. wondering. where are these people now? the children in the film would be about 70-80 years old by now. why don't they look like any of the ethnic selves in present today? where did they go? how did they accomodate such a shift in their living environment? would we have been able to live like that? if we were born in such a reality, of course we would. socialization. a part of me felt a huge wave of nostalgia. nostalgia for a world so divorced from me, and yet deeply felt for it was 'Singapore'. the mere reference to a name. a superficial emotional affinity. othered.
the exotica. that became the main motivation, the main 'visual tool' for the capturing of what was then Singapore. to the eyes of a Western man, the mundane everyday of this world was exotic to him and thus, worthy of capture. and in time, these mundane captures became fragments of what we now deem as 'history'. our history, as shaped by this other. how do we look, consume, and manipulate it? what does this say about the makings of our history? how does this reflect upon the method(s) upon which we thus begin to historicize our today?
i do not deny the importance of the mundane, the everyday, as essential aspects of historicizing. but i also know that to be consciously aware of its existence and importance as a part of what will be archived as history, is something that might be hard for the self to be actively realize, for there is nothing sensational in the mundane. only the sensational is often remembered. only the sensational is documented. history is often made up of only the sensational. the mundane, is remembered, by others. there is thus perhaps a need for the presence of an other in order to exoticize what we would deem to be mundane. unless, we possess within a self-reflexive thought and emotive system which would allow us to nostalgize, in advance, the things that would soon be deemed ‘ancient’ or historical, and to make that effort to memorialize it, now.
look around you. and look at the rate of change that exists within the world right now. is there anything you can imagine being gone, depleted, or erased of its use in the near future? if the world that is presented within the films and documentations of Dr. Ivan Polunin is but 60 odd years ago from our now, what can we envisage to change in 60 years to come? at the age of 80, would my generation of people be nostalgizing about the pencil? would handwritings become a thing of the past? would laptops? and what of certain rituals. with the advent and presence of media that can replace these older traditions, along with the influx of the visual media, would nobody tell stories anymore? would all the bards be silenced? or perhaps, they already are. have we documented them? or are they already gone.
how long does it take to museumize a generation of objects, rites, moments? how long to realize that there is a need to museumize it?
and with a world that is each advancing in a mirroring pace, is there even an othered reality? or has everything become the same? selfed.
nuruL H. is in the midst of peeling the psychotic postgraduate from her pensive photographer persona. the former has however, greatly influenced the conceptual and contextual makings of the photos concocted by the photographer. she illuminates aspects of the liminal, intangible, and the unvoiced as mouths and methods of telling stories about the everyday. each piece, a biographical account of something or someone. and as the power of the unvoiced lies in its visual presence, it is here this textual bio ends.
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