Waking up to the fear of losing momentum, coupled with the knowledge that the issues at hand demand persistent attention, creates a delicate balance. It’s a contemplative phase where they find themselves at a crossroads, torn between the fatigue of repetition and the responsibility to stay engaged. Navigating this middle ground requires a nuanced understanding of self and cause.
Activism, much like any journey, is not a linear path but a series of evolving challenges. It necessitates intentional efforts, creative approaches, and an unwavering commitment to effecting change — even if it begins with a transformation within oneself.
I do wish I could be more of my old chaotic self, to express my playful and bubbly side more and not be afraid to be judged for it. Other than that, I usually affirm myself that I am right where I need to be and everything that I need to know or do will always come my way at the exact moment it should. So there is never a lack in the present moment. Everything has a right place and time.
Between songs, she spoke in soft, thoughtful tones. Her connection with the audience was palpable, and I felt as if she were speaking directly to the introvert in me, reassuring me that my way of experiencing the world was just as valid as any other.
As I sat there, bathed in her music, I couldn’t help but reflect on the choice of venue. Balai Sarbini, considerably smaller than most indoor venues, had transformed into a space of intimate magic that night. It had become a cocoon of tranquility, wrapping us in a sense of closeness that I hadn’t expected from a venue that I last visited when I was still a teenager.
Bon Iver – Singapore, January 2020 Blast from the past. Little did I know that this moment of pure joy would soon be followed by confusion and uncertainty as the world grappled with unforeseen challenges. (๏ᆺ๏υ)
It was the late 2000s, long before the term ‘curation’ became banal across various fields and scenes. With two of her closest friends, she uncovered their shared passion for art curation, each having nurtured their curatorial skills independently. They decided to merge their talents and create a collective, a teenage curatorial powerhouse.
Pooling their resources, they secured a charming space below a small canteen shop in the suburbs for a modest amount. Well, it was actually more because they received financial assistance from one of their friend’s parents who, for some reason, agreed when they presented a three-page proposal at that time. Their mission was simple yet profound: they aimed to curate thought-provoking exhibitions that showcased the works of local teen artists struggling to find their voice in the tumultuous art world. Within the nurturing embrace of their gallery, these artists found solace and support. The space slowly became a hub for art enthusiasts seeking the next big thing.
In 2009, during her postgraduate years, she stumbled upon a remarkable opportunity. A visionary developer who was transforming an old warehouse into a cutting-edge collaborative art space approached her. They wanted her to curate and oversee the artistic direction of this venture, envisioning a space akin to an artistic haven for the creative minds of the city—an early glimpse of what would later inspire similar initiatives like the 19th century’s version of “yadda for yadda’s sake”. At this time, all the fears she once imagined about writing a curatorial piece and releasing it to the public for multiple interpretations turned out not to be as dreadful as she had thought. It still made her anxious, but it was manageable.
–
Today, she’s a seasoned curator, renowned for her obsession with avant-garde sound art. But she keep found herself pondering why an abundance of conventional and utterly boring pieces had somehow managed to sneak into her way.
Standing in front of the open refrigerator, she stared at her phone screen. Since last night, she had been trying to compose a reply to her designer. She was always like this, overthinking the message she would send. Dozens of drafts piled up in her notes. Some were sent, some were not. Some she revisited to understand what was on her mind in the past. Hereditary, she believed. Her late father loved to write. Most of them are poems for her mother to be broadcasted on his friend’s session at a local radio station. One of her main childhood memories was listening to cassette recordings of her father’s radio broadcasts. (And ruin it). She thought he would also obsess over every word before it was aired.
Funnily enough, on various occasions, when discussing family, she always mentioned that her interest in art was greatly influenced by her late uncle, a renowned painter with a big name in a distant city. Of course, it was a lie. Stories about her parents were always a sensitive topic for her. She always steered far away from that subject.
–
Taking a glass filled with leftover chocolate ice cream, she sighed as she reread the reply she had prepared. Why am I so heavily invested in this, she thought. It’s just a choice of font for the exhibition catalog. No one will probably notice. But she can’t help it. It matters to her.
She often found herself deeply engrossed in preparing things like this. Sometimes, she couldn’t care less about the artworks. But the catalog, the invitation, the sound system, the poster, the meals, the schedule filled her mind. Despite what she often heard from her dealer colleagues when casually arguing, she wanted visitors to appreciate these details.
She felt a nudge at her feet. Alpen, her grey tabby cat, seemed very interested in the glass in her hand. As if on reflex, she put the glass down, placed her phone haphazardly on the sofa, and lifted Alpen onto her lap. Alpen seemed to know what would happen next. A cuddle attack from her human, and a few sniffs between her eyes and cheeks as if she was in a hurry to inhale oxygen.
Ignoring the draft reply she had composed earlier, she continued scrolling through her phone. She could hear the sounds of construction in the distance. The housing complex where she lived wasn’t particularly large. You could practically hear the neighbors across the street if their children were having a fight at home. But she preferred it here to her previous place. One reason might be the white bougainvillea trees in front of her neighbors’ houses. From a distance, they looked similar to her favorite baby’s breath flowers. Hm, baby’s breath, she now had a new idea for a centerpiece arrangement on the gallery’s front desk for next week.
34 likes, 2 new chats popped up in notifications. She could see that one of the names that popped up was his.
A few years earlier, she found herself entangled in a whirlwind relationship with a local artist. At first, it was filled with shared passion for art. His inflated sense of self-importance and inability to accept criticism began to overshadow their once-charming connection. It mirrored the same arrogance and egoism she had encountered in many other artists she had worked with. That was the last time she wanted to have a romantic relationship with anyone from the art world.
–
Friday, the opening night.
The chat reply had been sent. The font had been chosen. The flower arrangement had been changed. The rundown had been adjusted. All the guests seemed to be enjoying the evening. The gallery spaces were filled with stylish people. In the restroom, she crossed paths with a group of art students from her alma mater who were serving as ushers. They looked gorgeous in their chosen uniforms, she thought.
In these past two hours, she had already checked the home’s pet camera three times. After engaging in a fanciful conversation with her cats at home, she approached her favorite young art collector in town who was in conversation with the artist exhibiting solo tonight.
Time passed. She could hear the cleaning staff tidying up wine glasses and cake plates. One of them caught her eye, and they exchanged smiles. She returned her attention to her conversation partner. As they engaged in discussions about art, life, and dreams, the curator and the artist consistently uncovered shared yet uninspired passions and concealed secrets. Amid this exchange of ideas and emotions, her own art remained a silent masterpiece—a complex narrative of a soul bound by destiny, yet hindered by the haunting echoes of unspoken desires. Deep down, she still grappled with insecurities from her early art school days.
She longed for a world where unpredictability reigned, and where avant-garde art was as normal as breakfast cereal.
The “Unlived Lives” series represent short fiction of the roles that might have been destined for me in an alternate dimension, purposes I believe were meant to be mine but remained unfulfilled in the present life.
I’ve spent hours of re-consuming movies as a kind pilgrimage or a sentimental journey. Rob told me that I had this habit of watching Friends over and over whenever I felt broken (or in his term ‘potato’). “You feeling potato hon?” asked him, while part of his face peeked in the corner of the bedroom’s door. “Maybe.” answered me which often followed by my usual “Don’t ask.” look.
Then usually I was drowned to the word “maybe”. I’m not sure whether I felt potato or not.
I’ve been rewatching Friends over and over again for more than two decades now, I don’t know if that’s normal but truth is I don’t really care.
The least complicated reason is that I really like the movie. Or maybe because I’m a creature of repetition (I fear of trying new food– I don’t know there’s something new to try– especially if the ideas come from a foodie). Yes sure, repetition seems like it would make it lost its newness surprise. But repetition also requires less energy to process, easy to digest and I consider easy entertainment is good.
Sometimes they’re like habits, like praying the same prayer before bed every night– regular and automatic. Sometimes I watch familiar movies or series to extract fondness about the way things were– the warm particular nostalgic feeling when we exposed to scenes or songs from our younger days. A time machine to revisit a memory.
Then there are rituals, like watching all 8 Harry Potter movies after seeing The Cursed Child, watching Lost In Translation before going to Japan for the first time, The Family Stone on Christmas, binge-watching previous series before the new ones, or re-watching a movie after finally reading the book which inspired the film.
Anyway, just wanted to share screenshots from movies I re-watched this week during quarantine. Also, listening to the CMBYN’s soundtrack was a good detour from Sufjan Stevens’ latest album which I disliked. :/
Emotional excess may harmful but so is emotional depletion.
Friends’ apartment sets from Pinterest. Screenshots from Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989), Frances Ha (2013), Carrie Pilby (2006), Call Me By Your Name (2017).
While I have some drafts I’ve been working on for this blog (means that I clearly had zero talent in writing but know if I put some nice pictures it would help give nuances to it), I just wanted to share one of my source of joy during this quarantine.
A friend in the past introduced me to DW’s music and I instantly loved the spacey sound of his guitars, the echoing lines and how his songs created such a peculiar mood. I didn’t listen to him from Osker or Fingers Cut Megamachine but I do enjoy all albums under his own name.
Last year, I Google search him a few times a year to see if an album has dropped and he is hard to follow (essentially absent from social media except an inactive Facebook page and he doesn’t have a website). Then one day I received a notification from his Facebook page and he posted some updates regarding his upcoming album and he’s on Instagram!
After a six year break A Tear in Fabric was released. As written on his Bandcamp page, the break was defined by a series of changes: the birth of his daughter and the illness and eventual dead of his father.
My favourite songs from this release: Domesticated, Slow Motion, In Babylon.
Photos:
Devon Williams’ live stream from home on Instagram, May 2020. Photo: Devon Williams
I had this photo of him taped on the wall of my work desk. Aryaduta Semanggi A37A, 2017.
‘In Babylon’. Captured and edited from the video, courtesy of Slumberland Records, 2020.
Try to be mindful by focusing deeply about the environment I am in.
All seems to be alright.
Being sad and upset is pretty normal. These are just emotions we feel as a human being. It changes you and prepares you to show the reality of this world, the people of this world.
I have found myself thinking too much about death, not that I want to end my life or anything. It’s just what I believe has gotten me to this point is the fact that I’ve realized how easy we can leave this world.
I often experienced death of strangers that I saw on the article or social media from a curious perspective. While I accepted it as an inevitable part of life, I also thinking it can generate a great deal of terror of the unknown future is. Their death motivated me to explore deadly diseases, cause of most accidents, drugs, war or what environment challenges which may impact on our lives. I would read up and learn about them for weeks. On and on again, just to imagine if my time on earth will still be long.
Black Mirror’s San Junipero is truly-wonderfully bad dream for me. They said movies we cherish the most are not those that feel the farthest from our experience. They are the ones that—in the darkness and stillness of a room —reanimate the wonder and mystery of tiny chunk of the world we know.
Even the series have been a constant reminder that everything could be flicked off with the switch of a button, San Junipero kinda made me hopeful on the concept of life and death.
It’s convenient.
A haunting reminder to live every moment to the fullest.
p.s. I knew I wanted to post this since I first watched the series, but couldn’t shake the melancholy mood, lol
Never mind that your fellow woman friend is more a posted image or video than a person. You know she is a person, even what’s presented is a carefully constructed. It’s narrative, a story, a talking fantasy novel for a woman like you. Rest assured that its all made for the purpose perpetuating itself, just like how you love your make up every morning. Leaving you still hungry and nauseated.
But that’s OK.
Making a conscious effort in expressing anything true or beautiful or good or painful or joyous in any form, should have never been some sort of jokes for anyone who doesn’t walk in your shoes.
Oh, my darling, now’s the time for us to fight
Oh, I’ve been waiting since you said, “Hello, my friend”
I was so helpless trying to admire you
Oh, ain’t it funny that I’ve turned my brain to blue?
Oh, darling, stay; No, I feel like this anyway
Oh, if you knew that I’m only halfway through
Our love is buried in the wake
Hello, my friend, hello, my friend