Ghost Month

As I write about my work and my process, I realize I am also writing about my life. What a strangely liberating experience this is, however, at the same time, there is also sense of responsibility I feel- the need to stay honest in what I write and so I must be honest in what I do.

It is the end of the ghost month here in Singapore. It is the month where the door between the realm of the dead and the living is opened and the ghosts of those who have passed on can cross over to the land of the living for entertainment and food. Amongst the rituals and rites of this Chinese tradition comes the most often seen practice of the feeding of the hungry ghost. For this, metal bins are set up all over Singapore and people burn paper money, jewels, servants, clothes to signify abundance of these in the afterlife for their ancestors. It’s not the pretty visual this makes that catches my attention, but the smell of this burning wood, paper and often incense. For me, it takes me back to my childhood vacations in Pune, of cool winter evenings and small wood fires. It takes me back to the morning after, when the fog had not lifted and the air held a scent of the forest, and the pale morning sun would slide weakly through the vaporous air. Physically, I walked down the street this morning, but in reality, I was walking down another street entirely, one created solely on a memory trigger of a smell.

When looking at art, I feel this is relevant. As artists, our world view is as unique as anyone else’s. What I struggle with is, how can I tap this kind of memory trigger with my viewer so that I can transport them to a place they have been before, or might want to go to in the future- and, I need to do this using only one sense- the sense of sight.

When I was in art school there was a real sense of purpose, a need to make art a part of daily life, to have it so ingrained into your day, that going into the studio became second nature. Let's be honest here... that is not happening now, but even though I am not actually working in my studio I have to say that I am actively thinking about it everyday. And perhaps given that life with a toddler is unpredictable at  best, it can't be any different at the moment. Strangely though, the moments I do get to physically work in my studio, are intense and productive. All this waiting around, thinking time is proving to be quite beneficial.

When one is surrounded by people working creatively, it is relatively easy to sustain ones own creative thoughts. It's when you find yourself working in isolation that it is a bit harder to keep the flow of creative energy going. When I first moved to Singapore, I found this especially hard. The chaos and frantic pace of life I was used to in Chicago was missing- the seasons, the smells, the gritty metra and 'L' trains, crowded Michigan Avenue, the quieter neighbourhoods and the Chicago Art Institute, my personal haven and home away from home. I seriously wondered how I would find all this here in Singapore and the truth is I haven't. What I have found is something else entirely and it comes from waiting- literally.

In Chicago, the dynamic energy of doing things, of activity and movement and motion would spark thoughts and ideas and be the basis for work. In Singapore, the simple act of waiting and practicing patience, a slower pace and often a monotonous one, seems to create within me, this meditative mood where simple occurrences meld together with passing thoughts, if I am lucky enough. I often find myself going out of the way to put myself in situations where I am on long train rides across the city, or on a bus where I am able to watch the city run itself, in the hope of catching a glimpse of something other than high rise condominiums and offices, marbled lobbies and shopping malls. Sometimes, the act of waiting to pick up my daughter presents opportunities to capture moments of time; a puddle, a bird seated on a park bench, laundry blowing from the window of the HDB across the street, a single flower twirling its way down from the canopy overhead or the calico cat that suns itself every morning on the storm drains. All these things are there if you are present and waiting to capture them.

Road taken

Walk

Journey

Here are some simple shots I took while waiting for my daughter, or waiting to go home, or waiting to cross the road. What I find is. now, instead of dreading the thought of waiting, I see it as an exercise, a sort of training or even practise if you like, for that 'aha' moment, that zen space where you are exactly where you need to be, and see exactly what you are meant to see!

To begin with...

For me writing and art have always functioned separately. Writing was writing, and art was art- and both stayed within a fairly traditional set up of art for the gallery space, and writing, well, it mostly stayed on paper. I completely missed the boat on the digitisation of art and writing, which makes this entire blogging endeavour a bit more interesting for me, especially at this time in my work. For a long long time, I  worked a particular way, a more formal way, using art abstractly and so focusing more on lines, shapes and colours, thereby evoking associations within the viewer. This is a very formalist approach to art making. Lately, I find myself drawn to certain images and objects, which I find interesting and effective as visual metaphors. I have been tempted to use them more and more frequently in my work. With this strange and exciting new work forming in my mind and in my studio, I am very very glad to have this blogging venue to write down and catalogue my thoughts as I make the work. Now, the writing will make sense of this newly evolving style and thus inform the painting further, making for clearer vision, and thus more writing and painting. A slow to start but deliciously circular wheel of thought, creation and reflection. I hope you, as a reader finds this interesting as well.