Bee-N-Ali

Italian for Biennial, the Singapore Biennale 2008 is the premier Visual Arts fest here.

On our sunny little island which is evidently coming out from the doldrums of post-industrialized banality and taking not-so baby steps into the Arty-farty world of novel and contemporary interpretation.



This year's theme is Wonder and the exhibition sites are bookended by two fabulous locations, City Hall and the South Beach Development. The latter is a clutch of colonial buildings along Beach Road that once housed an Army Camp.

We spent a lovely 2 hours at City Hall on Saturday, weaving through the old Courtrooms and Judges' Chambers in the midst of roaring F1 cars along St Andrew's Road.

Surreal to say the least.

Can't wait to get to South Beach. And partake of the fledging Arts scene here in our own little way.

Inspiration

Sometimes, we yearn to be inspired.

When what we crawl back to at the end of the day is a sense of comfort and familiarity.

Just like a sudden stroke of genius that lifts you, inspiration often comes with its own dollop of the Unknown. And you ask yourself whether it can be sustained for the long-term. The source of inspiration that is.

To inspire and be inspired.

That perhaps is the secret to Relationship longevity.

MaMa Mia!

Today, I had reason to go MamaMia!, twice.

In quick succession.

Firstly, over dinner with my Mother at my Granny's where my Aunties whipped up a somewhat belated Birthday dinner for me, I found out that The Woman (not Amah or any of my Aged Aunts obviously) has been dating! Mummy didn't tell me herself though. It was only after she hurriedly excused herself from dessert and scooted off, uncharacteristically early, that my 'Spies' (Amah and my Aged Aunts obviously) informed me. I nearly choked on my Orr Nee.

And as I write this, on the bed of a sleeping friend with whom I am bunking in over for the night, the thought of Mummy having someone else Special in her life ironically scandalizes the flyingmuffyn out of me. I think I need the next week or so to gather my thoughts and let it all sink in. MamaMia!, it will be a cold day in Hell before I call someone else Dad!

On a another Motherly note, we went to catch MamaMia! The Movie after makan. And boy was it a welcomed distraction from the stunning revelation that was dinner. The show is a silver-screen adaption of the hit 2001 Broadway Musical of the same name that has a storyline wrapped around ABBA songs. And this time, Director Phyllida Lloyd has lined up a star-studded cast headed by veterans Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth and immensely watchable newbies Amanda Seyfried and Dominic Cooper.



I'll leave you guys to go google the plot (nothing high-brow and super sweet) but I must say that apart from the subtitled lyrics coming on whenever the songs started to be sung, like Karaoke, and having Mr Pierce 'Remington Steele' Brosnan croak like a toad going through tonsil therapy whilst singing in his real voice, MamaMia! turned on the Camp-factor so high it was so fun.

So I end this, a tale of 2 MamaMia's.

One of Swedish Nostalgia. The other of near Hysteria.

Putting The Happy In Birthday

Its hard to not want to remember that its your birthday when the Many Happy Returns on SMS start coming in at half past eleven.

Reminds me of Christmas Eve, when everyone wants to beat the midnight Network crush. Only this time, I don't know what the big deal is about. OK so I sound a little ungrateful. At least people remember right? So thanks guys. Yes I am 35. Not exactly jubilant about it but not about to sulk either.

Why should I?

I think on this day of my birth more than a third of a century ago, I have many things to be grateful for. And in the hurly burly of everyday living, its as good an opportunity as any other, to stop and smell the roses.

Today, I am loved. And although they say its better to have loved and lost than never to have loved before, I have had the good fortune of having loved and lost, and yet loved in return even more. For this I am grateful. To be the world's biggest bastard sometimes, and yet experience so much heartfelt sacrifice. Truly blessed. But for reasons I cannot fathom.

Career-wise, I have made the most of a second chance to redeem myself. And from the way things look on the work front, I think I have made significant progress. Its not been easy to brush away the stigma of what has happened almost 2 years ago. But from the increasing responsibilities being heaped upon me, I know the Powers-that-be want to believe that I am capable of so much more.

These days, I am also at peace doing the things I enjoy. Alone or with company, it doesn't matter. I treasure my Me-Time as much as the periods of togetherness I spend with the people I care about. Books, photography, travel, film and theatre. These are the things I retreat to at the end of the day. Providing the perfect counterbalance to a career fashioned out of Law Enforcement and Policy.

So Happy Birthday to Me. Even if it rains in 10 hours, I want to go out and live life.

I think I owe it to myself.

Kids With Cameras

I am just done with a DVD I picked up this afternoon.

Its called Born Into Brothels. And before you guys think its something seedy, this Academy Award-winning documentary tracks the lives of 8 children whose mothers are all prostitutes at a Red Light District in Calcutta. It tells the story of how New York-based photographer Zana Briski, who first arrives in India to get a snapshot of the lives of its sex-workers, ends up running a Photography class for the children who live right smack in the middle of such debauchery and despair.

The kids are given a film-loaded Point and Shoot each. And told to tell their story through the lens. With amazing results. From weekly photo shoots and sit-down sessions, fine-tuning what they see, how they compose, asking questions on why some shots work and why some do not and guiding them into looking at their own pictures critically, Zana uses the art of photography to rehabilitate and restore. And slowly, the children nurture a sense of self-belief and worth.

Zana has travelled the world, taking the best of what the children have shot, and turning the pictures into a traveling exhibition of sorts. The photographs have also been compiled into a book. Naturally, all profits go back to the children, for their education. Something their mothers can never hope to do or earn in a lifetime.

As I look at many of the photographs the kids have shot on their cheap cameras, I cannot help but feel both admiration and shame. I admire the children because, in spite of such immense deprivation, they have managed to communicate the very essence of their sad existence through their pictures. And I am ashamed because, in spite of me having access to an expensive DSLR, my images don't even come close to connecting on such an emotional level.

I'll let their pictures speak for themselves.

Words In A Bucket

I've finally watched the Bucket List.

On DVD. After talking about it since it first started its run in the cinemas some months ago. I normally don't care too much for shows about death. Its a little morbid ya. But the draw of Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman in the same movie was enough to make many cinema-goers, and delayed-response viewers on DVD like me, perhaps pay good money to watch two old farts conjure up a list of things to do before kicking the bucket. And executing it.

The theme is not new. Deep down inside, there are a couple (maybe more) of things that we want to do before we go see Big Daddy in the Sky. But somehow, we don't make a conscious effort to write the stuff down or even dwell on it at length. Why? Simply because we all want to believe that we've got some (lots of) time left before we go. And really, how many of us would want to ponder the possibility of dying? Its something distant, something faraway.

Watching Cole (Nicholson) and Carter (Freeman) Lear-jet themselves around the world doing stuff most of us mere mortals can only dream of makes me think about what I would like to have in my own Bucket List if I was told I had but 6 months to live. Would it be an Epicurean Adventure of sorts? Or would I be scared shitless, embroiled in a mad-dash to find my god?

You know, I wish it would be as easy as using my last days to say things to people I really care about. Things that would be liberated once the imminence of Death comes knocking.

But I also wonder why, without the fear of dying, we find it so hard to say things to the people we love sometimes.

Do we need death to close one door and yet open another?