Happy Year of the Ox, dear browsers! To herald the new and bid farewell to the old, I’ve drawn up a list of artsy people based in and/or from Singapore, singling them out for being interesting, independent and (thus far) a little unrecognised.

It’s a personal response to the front-page article of Straits Times Life! at the end of last year (“FEEL THE POWER”, Thursday, 4 December 2008). You see, every year since 2005, ST has published an annual Power List — a ranking of the ten people/groups in Singapore who’re most important to the arts scene, in their eyes. And this time round, the list was, in the words of one of my friends, “shit”.

Take a look at the lineup:

1. Lee Chor Lin, 46, director National Museum of Singapore
2. Michael Koh, 46, chief executive officer National Heritage Board
3. Esplanade programming team led by JP Nathan, 53, director of programming
4. National Library Board Dr N. Varaprasad, 60, and team
5. The Necessary Stage Resident playwright Haresh Sharma, 43, artistic director Alvin Tan, 45
6. Singapore Biennale curatorial team Fumio Nanjo, 58, Matthew Ngui, 45, and Joselina Cruz, 37
7. Ong Keng Sen, 45, artistic director TheatreWorks
8. Maestro Lim Yau Lim Yau, 56, Conductor
9. Ivan Heng, 44, artistic director Wild Rice
10. Fong Hoe Fang, 53, and Chan Wai Han, 51, Ethos Books

Now, I’ve got a whole lot of respect for the people on the list — I admire many of them and I’ve worked with and been mentored by several. But in the end it’s all the usual suspects; no surprises — the accompanying preamble by journalist Adeline Chia discusses how people moved up and down the list as if they were blue-chip stocks.

Also, five of the ten honorees — the top half of the list, basically — are civil servants or people otherwise on the direct payroll of the Singapore government. Sure, you can argue that people at the Museum, the Esplanade, the Library and the Biennale have a whole lot of freedom when it comes to decision-making in the arts. But when your purse-strings trail back to the ruling political party, it’s impossible to be a truly independent voice. It all harks back to the distressing subtext of the Renaissance City plan: that the vibrancy of today’s arts scene is crucially dependent on the government’s investment in arts infrastructure (ergo, small indie arts groups don’t deserve quite as much money as a makeover for Victoria Concert Hall).

Plus, why is it that there are no visual artists, writers, composers or choreographers in the list? (True, Matthew Ngui is a visual artist and Haresh Sharma is a playwright, but they’re being singled out more as curators of the Singapore Biennale and the M1 Fringe Festival than as original thinkers and practitioners.)

ST Life! is conferring awards on people not for genius, creativity or courage, but for their organisational ability as directors of festivals, curators of cultural institutions, and the like — and, troublingly, for their simple ability to get bums on seats. “The most powerful people in the arts this year know the power the audience wields,” declared Chia as she introduced the catalogue. “Confound them with too may high concept productions and people vote with their feet.”

Thus it mattered little that Ivan Heng’s Singapore Theatre Festival got severely mixed reviews last year, nor that Lim Yau programmes very few contemporary works and no Singapore compositions for the SSO. Their events sold well, which feeds into the standard formula of Popularity = Power.

Nor did it matter that Goh Ching Lee, Director of the Singapore Arts Festival, has incredible “power” in terms of influence over the allocation of money, media exposure and programming for arts groups in Singapore. She was struck off the list, just because the 2008 Festival sold fewer tickets than usual — even though she’d actually taken the brave step of introducing some direction to the line-up for the first time: a move towards cutting-edge, contemporary works, especially from the emergent nations of Eastern Europe.

I’m friends with Chia and the other young arts journalists at ST Life! (hell, I’m actually their colleague ‘cos I also contribute occasional reviews), so I can attest to the fact that they are committed to improving and promoting the arts scene in Singapore. Thus, I’ve a feeling they might take notice if we ask them to adopt a less literal approach to the idea of “power” in 2009’s Power List — or at the very least, acknowledge how problematic their system of ranking is.

Meanwhile, I’ve decided that it’s insufficient to gripe without putting forward alternative solutions. So here’s The Substation Magazine’s POWDER List, a parallel collection of artists and intellectuals I admire in different fields — perhaps powerless, but still worthy of my respect.

Lemme explain my system:

Criterion #1: These guys should be independent — doing things noticeably distinct from mainstream culture and the dominant artistic subcultures of our times. (I dislike the term avant-garde, because it suggests that these guys are creating the mainstream culture of the future. Bollocks: the path that will be taken is often less interesting than the many paths that will remain untaken by the majority. Exploration and experimentation is.)

Criterion #2: These guys should be under-exposed — slightly underground, if you will. Yes, yes, yes: many of these people have been featured in newspapers before, but they haven’t been given the big coverage that other cool deviant people like poet/contralto/critic Cyril Wong or conceptual artist Lim Tzay Chuen or playwright/director Natalie Hennedige have received.

What wasn’t a major criterion was whether their art was any good or not. (Just wanted to throw that out there. You go and decide.)

Admittedly, it’s a biased list: these figures are all people I’ve known personally in some capacity. Due to my own age, and the fact that I’m trying to avoid established figures, they’re mostly rather young — which is of course problematic in a society that’s always looking for the next big thing. Next year (if we do another list next year), I’ll probably ask someone else to draw it up, so you’ll get a different perspective on the hidden community of artists in Singapore.

And now, without any further ado and in no particular order, here’s my list. Each entry is accompanied by a brief profile and a Q&A’s (kudos to those respondents who refused to give straight answers). The names here may perhaps never have the spending power, influence or rank to make it to Life!’s front pages, but it matters not: I hereby pronounce them POWDERful.

1. Seelan Palay — the artist activist
2. Bani Haykal — the jongleur
3. Tang Fu Kuen — the info kiosk
4. Usha Nathan — the critic
5. Syamil Dasuki — the prankster
6. Jennifer Teo and Woon Tien Wei — the café curators
7. Sha Najak — the worker
8. Wang Meiyin — the director in exile
9. Fredi Sonderegger — the piper
10. Proletariat Poetry Factory — the wordmongers

1. Seelan Palay — the artist activist
http://seelanpalay.atspace.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/seelanpalay

A lot of us artists love to talk about social responsibility and protest. Few of us, however, are willing to commit to activism the way Seelan does. He’s been detained for questioning over his anti-IMF protests, is currently between trials for rallying against rising consumer prices, and once mounted a one-man hunger strike outside the Malaysian High Commission over the arrest of the HINDRAF leaders.

One thing I find intriguing about Seelan’s work (he’s still a very young artist, so his style’s still developing) is that his paintings are pretty apolitical – Chinese ink daubings, Tamil graffiti on neon-coloured pop art canvases. He also places a sharp divide between his artistic video work, like his abstract piece “The Moon”, and his socio-political video work, such as his documentary “One Nation Under Lee. He’s willing, in many cases, to be an activist first and an artist second — and that’s pretty damn unusual in Singapore.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

SP: I’m not sure about the word, “proudest”, but the work that I am currently happiest with, and that’s happiest with me, is a drawing called Fuck Hell.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

SP: I cannot tell what is wrong with Singapore arts. My personal opinion is that it exists exactly the way that it would, determined and dependent on the way that this island/country exists. And that (art’s) existence may be liked by some, disliked by others, and ignored by my Mum.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

SP: The only beings that actually inspire me are all animals and dinosaurs. But my favourite visual artists are Alberto Giacometti, Frank Auerbach & Georg Baselitz.

2. Bani Haykal — the jongleur
http://www.misinterpret.tk

Bani’s a poet who isn’t part of the (somewhat overgrown) national poetry scene — even in the context of the Velvet Underground Poetry Slams, he was pretty unusual. Mixing his concrete/rhythmic/abstract poetry with laptop-synthesised sound, he does mesmerising text performances that bear little resemblance to anything else being written here. Plus, unlike most performance poetry worldwide, Bani’s stuff is completely apolitical. How counter-culture can you get?

You might know Bani better as the lead singer of B-Quartet, the alt-rock band he founded with his brother and two cousins in 1999. The group’s recently released a lauded album called “Tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address” (the name’s taken from an e. e. cummings poem). Reception was more mixed to “sit quietly in the flood”, his first published book (not counting the ones on lulu.com). Anyhow, the kid’s venturing into drama, too: after some performance collaborations with choreographer Daniel K and poet Cyril Wong, he’s putting up his first solo director theatremajig at the Esplanade’s SPARKS programme on March 7.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

BH: I think I have a weird connection with whatever works I have attempted. They all stand as these manic experiments which I could have started purely on impulse. but on a very personal note, I have a very close affinity for Tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

BH: Two old folks at a retirement home just sitting by the porch on a Sunday afternoon. The old man got up and said “Maggie, tomorrow’s my birthday. And I’ll bet you don’t know how old I am.” So the old woman said, “well, sure I do. Drop down your pants”. The old woman held her hand out and groped the old man’s crown jewels and she said, “you’re 85 years old”. So the old man’s absolutely shocked and he said, “damnit, you’re right. How’d you know?” And she said, “you told me yesterday”.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

BH: Among many brilliant ones, I’m influenced and inspired by the works of Charlie Kaufman, Terry Gilliam, Bjork and Duke Ellington.

3. Tang Fu Kuen — the info kiosk

Scratch below the surface of almost any international contemporary dance show in Singapore and odds are that you’ll find Fu Kuen. For years he’s been the go-to guy for festival programmers, valued for his up-to-date, intimate knowledge of the avant-garde in dance in Europe and Asia — but sadly, he gets way too little credit and zero cash for this vital, informal service as advisor.

Veteran theatre buffs will probably remember seeing Fu Kuen in pretty much all of Ong Keng Sen’s TheatreWorks productions from 1994-2000 (including the original “Descendants of the Eunuch Admiral”). Nowadays, he writes criticism, dramaturgs (e.g. “Forward Moves” during this year’s Arts Fest), and just brings interesting people together — in fact, he’s the guy who introduced choreographers Jerome Bel and Pichet Klunchun to each other, inspiring a decade of collaboration between the two. A little bird tells me that he’s stepping into visual arts curatorship, too.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

FK: Most people locate my work within the contemporary sphere. But actually I love traditional art forms too. In 2001, I was invited to work as in UNESCO headquarters in Paris to launch the first world proclamation of intangible and oral heritage. I had a big task for a then 29-year-old to research and put on stage six different “living cultural treasures” each night. From working with bureaucrats and diva artists way older than me, to battling the French system of operating things, I received the best lesson in diplomacy and cultural management. That wonderful experience is also what led me to work full-time in heritage matters for the government in Thailand from 2004-8 (contrary to popular belief that I was some Bangkok bohemian).

Today, I am continually challenged to deepen my views and knowledge on classical and contemporary idioms, and proud that I have been able to chart a journey within institutional frames while keeping my autonomy. Because of my mobility, I have been lucky to keep my eyes on the horizon by constantly slipping in and out of Singapore, of the region and Europe, of thinking and doing, of different art mediums, of old and new philosophies. The job at UNESCO marked the start of this blessed constellation.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore Arts?

FK: It is easy to point the finger at the system. But I propose that artists in Singapore are themselves problematic. They choose to remain passive and pessimistic. They are merely intelligent but not intellectual enough. They are mostly descriptive, seldom expressive. They still subscribe to spectacle, sentimentality and smut on stage. They wish to strategically disrupt the status quo, but stop short at formulating the tactics. And they dare demand for public funding for the work they repeat ad nauseam. They also cannot take criticism. They end up parroting the system.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

FK: I like film very much. Cinema gives me room to re-enter the performing and visual arts with a critical perspective. That’s why I did my postgrad in media studies — to learn about the phenomenon of the medium. Even a so-so film teaches me a thing or two about time, space and (mis)representation.

4. Usha Nathan — the critic

A couple of years ago, there wasn’t a single respectable arts magazine in print in Singapore — the Esplanade’s “Arts Magazine”, PKW’s “Vehicle” and “FOCAS” seemed to have gone the way of the dinosaur, with only online journals and odd little broadsheets like “Create Le Voyage” filling in the gaps.

Who’d’ve thunk that a pamphlet like “The Singapore Art Gallery Guide” — previously pretty much just a calendar of exhibitions — would blossom this year into a magazine of serious, independent, well-written criticism? Plus, it’s glossy and colourful, published monthly and available for free at galleries everywhere. It’s all the doing of Usha, the executive editor of the rag, as well as her publisher René Daniels, who founded it all the way back in December ‘04. Advertisers, we’re counting on you: don’t let this journal die!

YS: What’s your proudest work?

UN: The “Article” project with The Substation was personally very satisfying. I am also very happy with the Gallery Guide’s Nov issue that reviewed the Biennale with contributions from various writers and critics. These have been important as personal milestones.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

UN: In my understanding, art or for that matter writing or anything else needs to come from a place of true belief and honesty and not produced for and by outside standards. And so long as we continue to work within the constraints of evaluating art from external perspectives (international acclaim, business success) it is never going to be possible to truly create anything that can be called art.

Recently I wrote in one of my editorials about whether or not arts in Singapore is ready to be weaned off public support. I think that is precisely the issue here. Art has always existed to fulfill an agenda such as history, nationalism, “culture” and more recently creativity, if and when this stops and art exists for its own purpose and can be understood for what it is rather than what it does, we will begin to see some change. Of course all of this is easier said than done.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

UN: Inspiration for me comes from people I have come to know over the years and those whom I admire for their integrity and courage to stand by their values. These two qualities, to me, are the most important for a human being and they are integral to my aspirations as a writer and editor.

One of most important people who inspire me is Ranger Mills, a practising artist from New York whose has been based in Singapore for a while and collaborated on various stage productions by Noor Effendy and others, as well as working for artists like Tang Da Wu. His own paintings, sculptures and other works have not been publicly shown for over 20 years as a result of his self-imposed exile from the “art world”.¹ His artworks themselves are fine and technically brilliant, but even more importantly it is his fortitude in sticking to his beliefs, and the dedication and purpose with which he continues to push his artistic practice in an endeavour to further his art that is most inspiring to me. He has also helped with critical advice and feedback on my own writing.

Another person who inspires me is also someone whom I have had the opportunity of working with as a writer/editor, Seelan Palay. As a writer, but more so as a well-known human rights activist, Seelan is someone who has shown determination, courage and strength of character for someone his age. There are others like Philip Cheah whom I had the opportunity of meeting only once, who has laid the groundwork and done a splendid job in establishing the Singapore International Film Festival.

But most of all it is my father who has been my greatest source of inspiration. He has always strived to uphold his principles, which are Gandhian, like truth, simple living and dignity in one’s work though these have not always be compatible with governmental service given the political circumstances in India.

5. Syamil Dasuki — the prankster
http://www.mission-singapore.com
http://www.youtube.com/missionsingapore
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=-3&id=670023029#/group.php?gid=13844842091&ref=ts

You might’ve seen him on Youtube: Syamil, a.k.a. Agent Caboosukin, is the founder of Mission: Singapore, the local branch of the urban prankster group Improv Everywhere. These guys perform mass acts of tomfoolery in public: fingergun fights, absurdist art auctions, lip-synced rock concerts, freezes in Orchard Road (and yes, this was a copycat event, which is why Syamil didn’t plan to do it until the artscommunity group got a movement going).

Syamil’s credentials as an original Singapore artist are shaky: he’s basically importing a New York-based culture of pranking and his videos have pretty iffy production values. Hell, he says he’s shocked that anyone would consider him “an actual artist, ahhaha”. Still, I’m impressed by him for a number of reasons. First, he’s only 17. Second, he’s often able to get humongous numbers of people (many even younger than him) to turn up to participate in his events. That’s got interesting implications in a country where people used to be nervous about illegal assembly laws. Third, he categorically does view his events as accessible forms of “performance arts”. His dad is the Malay dance choreographer Osman Abdul Hamid, which may have something to do with it.

YS. What’s your proudest work?

SD: I have to say “Silent Dance Out”. It was the mission where everyone gathered around in a circle and danced to the music from their mp3 players.

Watching the agents dance the way they did was simply moving. I was struck by the amount of resistance some of them had initially when we did the rehearsal. It was as if there was a lock that seemed to hold back all the creative monsters inside them. However, as they warmed up, they came “alive”. Free movements has a kind of therapy on the soul I think, when the body is given the rights to move however it feels like it, it creates an opportunity for us to reach into our unconscious. At the moment of expression, there is a deep honesty that can be seen. And that was what I saw as they danced in that circle. So yeah it kind of made me proud somehow.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

SD: “I don’t know leh…. The government problem lah not mine, no need to care lah, got art people or not. Got difference one ah if got art or not? As long as got food, got drink on table can already what? no need for art people one. Chingay, NDP all that can already lah no need to waste money one. Hai yah! No need to think long long about problem all this waste time only”.

That’s my answer, I can’t express it in any simpler way.

YS: Who are your inspirations?
SD: Honestly, I have to say that my biggest inspiration has to be my father. My father is an artist himself, a Malay dance instructor and choreographer. Throughout my childhood his art had always influenced me more than I could ever admit. My father never forced me or my brothers into any of it but instead; he gave us the freedom and encouragement to do whatever we want within our abilities as long as we do not do wrong.

My father has always told me that laws exist to govern and maintain and throughout my childhood, I’ve always appreciated boundaries. I made a game to do as many things I can without breaking those boundaries. It was also him who thought me the difference between illusions of restriction and the objective boundaries. I learnt this through his dances where he always strives to push the envelope of contemporary Malay dance. To challenge his dancers, he always asks questions about definitions, “what is Malay?” or “what is Malay dance?” He asks these questions to make them think about limits to an idea, to challenge the boundaries that hold something to its identity. How far can one change something before it becomes something else. I guess having such mind games allowed me see deeper into the nature things my life, especially of the cultural misconceptions about things. I find it especially interesting how clueless people are to questions of definitions.

My other source of inspiration comes in a form of an Icelandic woman, Bjork. She inspires me not just through her voluminous vocals or her ingenious musical crafts, but through her carefree and innocent personality. There is a quality of timeless innocence in her that I find simply amazing. I believe that it takes a resolute soul to acquire such innocence and honestly beyond childhood. Her disregard for the status quo in all things makes her every act so honest and just strangely beautiful. It takes great courage and determination to live fully from within as she does. She inspires me because, as a teenager, I am constantly being reminded that the life of the “unconventional thinker” holds very little appeal amongst others, no one wants to be too different. But to succumb to the pressures of society, I would lose my originality. Seeing her and listening to her music however, reassures me that being different and unconventional is possible in this society, that there is an acceptability for the unconventional one.

6. Jennifer Teo and Woon Tien Wei — the café curators
http://www.food03.sg
http://www.post-museum.org
http://www.server-foundation.org/woontienwei/ [artist requests suggestions for improvement!]

Jennifer and Tien already earned themselves some alt cred back in 2004 when they opened the project space of p-10. Rather than just being interested in contemporary-arty stuff, they were intent on documenting Singapore’s artistic history — motivated, no doubt, by their connections with the original alternative contemporary art group on this island, The Artists’ Village.

In late ’07, however, they opened up HQ at Post-Museum — and this isn’t just a gallery-cum-studio-cum-office, it also hosts Tien’s ongoing relational-aestheticky artwork, an über-PC vegetarian café called Food #03. Artists need cute little makan joints like this as informal spaces for communion and dialogue — and unlike pretty much every other art-friendly restaurant in this country, this place is actually affordable ($2 for the house pour! $4 for the soup!). SinQSA (a local queer-straight alliance) has also set up camp here, which naturally ups its coolness quotient in my eyes.

YS. What’s your proudest work?

JT: I think working with the artists’ village, p-10 and now the post-museum, we have as independent initiatives and groups of people contributed to independent contemporary art practice in Singapore. The projects we’ve done have led people to think more about being based in Singapore, in a Singapore art context. For example, the p-10 project Errata: Page 71, Plate 47. Image caption. Change Year 1950 to Year 1959; Reported September 2004 by Koh Nguang How.

WTW: I am most excited about starting Post-Museum and Food #03. Post-Museum is an independent cultural space initiated by p-10 while, Food #03 is my art project / café/social enterprise. In case it gets confusing for the readers, I don’t exactly paint as an artist.

My artworks have always been interested in examining the system and proposing new ways of thinking about it. So these two projects took a lot of resources to get off the ground and we are still in the infant stages now. But as it has developed, I have become very excited about all the different possibilities which resulted from these two projects.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

WTW: Nothing much. The arts in Singapore is very busy. That’s the only problem. But I would really like to see more people from the arts going to see other arts stuff. 70% of our audience is not involved in the arts. [Ed: Huh?]

YS: Who are your inspirations?

WTW: Many. Kuo Pao Kun, Tang Dawu, The Substation, The Artists Village peoples, Google, Facebook, our peers in other fields (design, architecture, music, NGO work) who are doing good work….

7. Sha Najak — the worker
http://www.artbysha.blogspot.com/
http://mycontemporaryworld.blogspot.com/

Sha does a lot of artsy stuff — photography, poetry, painting — but it’s the way her art overlaps with her work that really commands my respect. She’s a founding committee member and, until recently, the president of Migrant Voices, an arts society that runs art events and programmes for the migrant worker community in Singapore. In that capacity, she’s facilitated domestic and construction workers in music, photography, drama and poetry, working with established artists like Alvin Tan and Kok Heng Leun as well as with colleagues like current president Shaun Teo and vice-president Susy Bungsu.

Now studying art therapy at LaSalle and working part-time with Transient Workers Count Too, Sha serves as the outreach officer for Migrant Voices. She’s most recently been in involved with adapting and emceeing the forum theatre play “Let Me Off!”, performed at the Arts House by a mixed group of Singaporean, Indonesian, Filipina and Bangladeshi actors in December.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

SN: This was in 2007 during International Migrants’ Day when Migrant Voices performed Blinded, Binded & Trapped in Love at Lembu Road in Little India. Although the aim was to reach out to non-foreign worker audience members, we were struck by a strong sense of nationalism by Bangladeshi migrant workers who came to watch the show. As Lembu Road, is a favourite hotspot for Bangladeshi migrant workers to congregate on their day off, they were amongst the mass. At the end of the show, one of our volunteers who is a Bangladeshi migrant worker (Mostafa) stood up to sing the Bangladeshi national anthem. He rallied other Bangladeshi migrants to do the same. This was a strong show of nationalism within foreign lands which is important for migrants who feel isolated from the majority. I was more struck by the fact that Migrant Voices has been able to become their platform of expression which we’ve set ourselves out to do so. Mostafa and a group of others went on to create a play of their own which was performed at Post-Museum for Labour Day.

One other important work that sprung out of my few years in migration, was working with volunteers to empower them. One such example was the Cuff Road project where a midnight fact-finding mission gave way to a sustaining project which lasted for more than six months already (free meals programme at Sutha’s in Cuff Road). This programme helped target homeless migrant workers or financially incapable workers temporarily and more importantly, allowed volunteers to be exposed to their calls of distress. Volunteers have been able to tap onto their resources and mobilise plans of action. It is important in our work to continue sensitizing and exposing others to sustain the cause.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

SN: We criticise each other too much when we should be giving positive support to each other.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

SN: Bollywood. Ketna Patel for her use of colours. Edvard Munch, Gottfriend Helnwein for subject matters on death. Frida Kahlo for her strong sense of identity in her paintings. Kok Heng Leun and Alvin Tan for subjects on culture-building within Singapore’s theatre scene. Jacqueline Tan, my fellow Migrant Voices team member for her positive community outlook when we work together. I also happen to like Ng Yi-Sheng’s poetry performances for it is unapologetic. Another poet I’ve always loved throughout my Islamic life is Rumi.

8. Wang Meiyin — the director in exile
http://www.qualitymeats.org

When Meiyin started making theatre in Singapore, she rose fast — in 2000, while still in college, she wrote and directed the full-length play “Postcards from Persephone” which was produced to rave reviews by the short-lived feminist theatre group Livid Room Productions. This earned her a Life! Theatre Award nomination and an associate artist position with Singapore Repertory Theatre — a nice comfy position with a guaranteed audience in the surprisingly burgeoning theatre community we’ve got on this island.

That wasn’t for her. She left for graduate theatre studies at Columbia, then stayed on in New York to do festival programming and low-budget, undergroundish theatre with her own company, Quality Meats. And though she came back in ’05 to direct SRT’s star-studded rendition of Pinter’s “Betrayal”, her home’s clearly in the stacked black boxes of NYC. And that’s great, I think. I name Meiyin here as an example of one of the many Singapore artists who work abroad not to make it big, but to be free. Renaissance schmenaissance: you don’t have to go home.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

WM: Sarah Kane’s “Cleansed” (New York 2006).

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

WM: I’ve been away and out of the system too long to be a critic. I’ll just answer as to why I’m in New York.

I get lazy in Singapore. It’s too comfortable and there’s no danger of falling off the edge. It’s the same people working and asking the same questions. Those questions are worth asking but they are not mine. To me theater has to be the constant state of confrontation and for the time being I have nothing to confront in Singapore.
One is confronted with so much here. New ideas, new questions, new techniques. The democracy of how all those things jostle with one another is exciting. Here I get to see world-class work at anytime. I get to be in the company of people who are masters of their craft. I have the breathing space to try out my ideas and be free to fail and try again.

What I really want is to see the world with my work and see how it stands in the world. I can’t get that staying in Singapore. There’s a German word, Fernweh, which translates into “the ache for distance”. That’s what I have. Being the perennial outsider pushes me into a state of confrontation and into thinking differently and making different work.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

WM: They change. The following is a list of artists whose work is transgressive, deeply aggressive and darkly funny in their analysis of human nature. Anne Carson, Sophie Calle, Roland Barthes, Phlip Guston, David Markson. In contemporary theatre there’s Sarah Kane, Harold Pinter, Elevator Repair Service, Theatre de Complicite, Michael Thalheimer, back to back theatre, Anne Bogart and Robert Woodruff. For today.

And my family who, whether I like it or not, drives everything I do.

9. Fredi Sonderegger — the piper
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ku_1S7gwP04

How many classical musicians do you know who do performance art? Too few. Fredi, a native of Switzerland, came here in 2002 to join the Singapore Symphony Orchestra after touring all over the U.S. and Europe on the trombone. Here, he also plays the bass trombone, the euphonium, the bass trumpet, the sackbutt and, as I recently observed, the PVC pipe.

Last year, Fredi joined Rizman Putra and Effendy Ibrahim in their annual spontaneous performance happening, this time titled “Circus”, a show that required him to dress up in a birdcage and diaper and lots of powder while a singing mermaid sprayed organic liquid on him, occasionally breaking into a solo on an improv instrument. To become expert at a classical instrument takes discipline and genius; to break away from the bow-ties and jive with clowns for an evening takes courage, curiosity and a good deal of humour. We need those qualities in more people.

YS: What’s your proudest work?

FS: Not an easy question to answer. My pride and in many ways also joy lies in the large variety of genres I have been able to get involved.

As primarily a performer there have been moments that filled me with pride on stage. One proud moment was when I stood as a soloist in front of Lausanne’s world-renowned chamber orchestra in front of a fully seated concert hall. Another memory filled with pride was when I had the opportunity to perform the extensive trombone solo of Mahler’s 3rd Symphony in the Tanglewood Music Festival with over 200 musicians on my stage.

However, especially because I am a performer, the first time a work, in this case my installation Sonic Living Room was exhibited in Kaoshiung Taiwan, a country I haven’t even visited at that time was a proud event for me.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

FS: Well, when I read this question, what pops straight into my mind is pessimism. Why ask a question in such a negative manner? There are great opportunities surrounding us. Singapore has a great wealth of cultural and social backgrounds living on its soil. With the very fast changing surroundings we have living people from other generation who have witnessed completely different worlds. These facts seem to open up unlimited possibilities in a small place.

I also often hear complaints about too much restriction in this country. Again a negative approach. Just imagine your school day when you had to write an essay in English class. I voice two scenarios and you think about the answer: First, if your teacher puts a large stack of paper on a table and sais to the class: “take as much paper as you like and write!” In the second scenario the teacher tell you: “Please write me 500 words in blue ink, discussing the dishes of your favourite coffee shop and hand it in 5 days”. Which one of these two scenarios would result into more creative writing? I know what most common people would choose.

Point is, restrictions can be valuable help to boost creativity. At the end it can be interesting to play with the borders and the sometimes gray zone near those borders and provoke in witty ways. So I stick to the answer: “Negativity”.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

FS: Inspirations are all around. I can be inspired by the birds singing outside my window in the morning, the smell and taste of the food I eat for breakfast or the people I see on my way to rehearsal on a normal morning. My art and my creations originate mostly as responses. A response to anything around me when my senses are tuned in. Of course the responses can often be inspired by people and conversation or writings of them as well as their works and performances. If I visit an exhibition or a performance and live the place inspired and full of ideas the visit was a great success. To mention one artist who truly inspired me with his efforts, ideas and also skills it is trombonist, composer, producer and director Mike Svoboda, who lives with his family in the south of Germany.

10. Proletariat Poetry Factory — the wordmongers
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Proletariat-Poetry-Factory/24625166018

As a poet in a small literary scene that takes itself a little too seriously, I’m rather pleased to close my list of artists with this group. Making stochastic appearances at events like FleaFlyFloFun, the Literati readings and the National Museum Night Festival, these guys embrace the dubiousness of the printed word by celebrating the mechanics of its manufacture in the name of world domination.

Anywhere from one to nine men and women sit at desks tapping on old-school typewriters while headphones blast productivity-maximising music into their ears. You give them a word and the payment of your choice, they’ll write a poem for you. The crew’s mostly composed of volunteers, none of whom are canonised in our anthologies of literature, but the main non-hierarchical contact people are freelance-writing siblings Rage and Daren Goh.

(Incoming news flash! Just realised that Rage Goh = Rachel Goh, the hitherto unknown conceptual artist who debuted in the Singapore Biennale 2008! Which means that anyone who’s viewed her work “Who Is This Family” has seen both her and Daren nekkid.)

YS: What’s your proudest work?

DG: Proudest work has to be a poem that we wrote (I believe it was quite shitty), and got 50 bucks in return from some rich businessman-type. Ahhhh the sweet smell of cash.

RG: The PPF was conceived and sustained with such enormous self-deprecation that I’m unable to give an answer.

YS: What the hell’s wrong with Singapore arts?

RG: I haven’t the foggiest. I’m still trying to figure out what the hell’s wrong with Singapore.

DG: Nothing’s really wrong — think it’s the same everywhere else. Maybe except that we have a small population. SO. Smaller population = lesser people = lesser artists. Besides, we’re still an infant nation; chill with da arts lah.

YS: Who are your inspirations?

RG: Chiam See Tong. He has taken what’s hardest for a singaporean to express and made it his art.

DG: Erm. Don’t really have any. I guess one of my biggest inspiration is Vargus Pike. See if you can dig out any info on him/her/it.buy dreampharm from tramadol
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1. Usha on Ranger: I can’t summarise his reasons here. You would better understand them if you read his comments on the Biennale and state of arts which were published in my interviews with him in the Nov and December issues of the Gallery Guide. [↩]

Ng Yi-Sheng


As an official blogger for the Singapore Biennale, I decided to initiate a project. I arranged for free exhibition passes to be given to several local poets and asked them to write pieces inspired by what they saw.
 The results of this project may be viewed at the Biennale blog at www.singaporebiennale.org/blog, but I’ve received permission to reprint three of my favourites here. 



I’m also including links to a few that I couldn’t print here for various reasons:


Toh Hsien Min’s “Sleeping with the Fishes”
Alvin Pang’s “thirteen ways of looking at a snowscape”
Tan Chee Lay’s“禁锢飞翔”
Cyril Wong’s “A Walk in the Park”

Pooja Nansi’s “Spinning Yarns”


South Beach Development, formerly Beach Road Camp. Image from Universes in Universe.

AREA CLEANING


Yong Shu Hoong


Watching the melodrama of desiccated leaves
devour grassy grounds, or upon a ledge
one floor up, choking rain gutters to death, I feel
my right fist tighten over an invisible broomstick.
After all, this was formerly an army camp; rules
and commands were obeyed without second guesses.
But now that the officers are gone, paint brushes
have invaded with stencils and broad strokes.
New embellishments, as there are invisibilities.
Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t locate the canteen
where I’d sipped teh tarik during in-camp long ago.
Still I’m sure it was in a room within Block 14
that I was sealing envelopes and shredding paper
with fellow soldiers; we didn’t care to create art
installations out of military stationery after lunch.
Now, near the cookhouse, an artist has completed
a meaningful project out of domestic objects.
A billboard proclaims “One hundred years of solitude”
at one end of the parade square that’s long devoid
of foot drills and speeches. A crescent moon hangs
from the gnarled branches of a tree. But I start
to get intrigued by what the old flaking paintwork
is trying to communicate. I admire topographical
stains on the floor and unwittingly let leakage drip
onto my head. Did the spirits hiding in these walls
recognise me from before? Instead of conversing
with them about defining miraculum in art, I hope
these long-staying ghosts have made practical plans
after gazing, transfixed, at this empty neon-lit swing
going back and forth and back like a wrecker’s ball.



Ki-Bong Rhee, Bachelor — The Dual Body (2003). Image from Universes in Universes.



THE THIRD MONTH

Lee Yew Leong

Today I came home to find
the Schopenhauer I bought in New York
wadded with Kleenex. Where bookmarks did not separate them,
the tear-soaked pages clumped together, fat.
A curtain flapped. The pitcher got knocked over.
Now this stuck accordion.

Feeling useless,
I remembered the Wittgenstein I’d seen in a show:
Tractatus as aquatic life, buoyed by currents and
oxygenated through gills of words. The book
opened and closed with ease. Breathed.
Water’s metaphysic filtered through and nourished it.
But that was art; this,
Singapore.



Charly Nijensohn, El naufragio de los hombres (2008). Image from Universes in Universes.

On Charly Nijensohn’s El naufragio de los hombres
Koh Tsin Yen

1.

A man stands on a pile of broken stones in the rain.

Long bank of cloud trapped in the salt flats.

The cracked flooded silvered surface of the sky.

2.

We sat on the floor and watched the film loop, once, twice.

You kissed me in the dark. Lightly, lightly.

3.

For the takes, I had the assistance of the Aymara community of the village of Colchani. … Salt is still a central part of the region’s economy, and the blocks of salt in the pictures are frequently used for building owing to the lack of other materials.

4.

I think of Georgia O’Keeffe, twenty-four years old and newly moved to Texas, walking out of town with her sister to watch the evening star come out. My sister had a gun, and as we walked she would throw bottles into the air and shoot as many as she could before they hit the ground. I had nothing but to walk into nowhere and the wide sunset space with the star. Ten watercolours were made from that star.

5.

A line of men walking slowly over cloud, mirrored in the sky.

6.

Isn’t that what we’re looking for, or part of it? The magnificent indifference of the wind whistling over the salt flats and falling away into whiteness. Walking into nowhere and the wide sunset space. If you could scrub away your skin, if you could fold into the stillness, you could learn to be stone.

7.

Still, it’s life we choose, or that chooses us. We bring a gun to shoot at bottles, fix the evening star in watercolour. Take the measure of the vastness of salt and sky. Owing to lack of other materials. Salt of you still on my skin, under my tongue. Tell me which is the greater betrayal – to go on or to look back?

8.

Cloudlight bursting through after the rain as it did at the creation of the world. Here at the edge of things.

Sketching of a solo…

I teach a course about the materials of jazz music at the Yong Siew Toh Conservatory of Music (NUS), and each year, my students are surprised to learn that jazz musicians actually think and make conscious choices during their improvisations. Another shocker is that jazz musicians actually need to master their “theory” before they can effectively “play by ear”, bearing in mind mastering your music theory does not mean learning musical nomenclature or someone’s opinion about how music should behave. Rather, in its basic form, knowledge of music theory refers to an understanding of how musical materials relate to one another (acoustically) or how composers and performers of different styles of music create and use their personal musical language.

This is best achieved through active listening to the kinds of music you love and wish to emulate. Over time, you will develop a sort of “intuitive” understanding of how one musical idea relates to another. I placed the word “intuitive” in parenthesis because it relates to a paradoxical idea that (in music) intuition is better than study. Intuition is defined as direct or immediate insight.¹ However, I believe that musical intuition needs to be developed through study, that is, listening to and internalizing music.

But what if you do not understand what you are listening to? If it is something you enjoy, you will be able to solve this puzzle yourself, to the extent that repeated listening to the same piece of music will ingrain the chronological unfolding of that music as well as the melodic and structural features. You will then be able to explain it in your own words. To an academic, this may not be sufficient in giving an “intelligent” formulation of the piece in question, but I believe that this personal understanding is vital to the development of musical skills needed for improvisation and memory.

The next step is to learn a common nomenclature so that you may be able to communicate with other musicians. The formal study of music theory actually simplifies the learning, analysis and memorisation of music. If you need more information or want to read other people’s opinions about music, it may be found in articles, books, DVDs, and the internet. (And, no, you will not lose your independent musical identity.) I often tell my students that theory is there to help you when your ears fail. While theory is not there to replace your ears or your heart, it can often help you clarify some “counter-intuitive” musical approaches (e.g. John Coltrane’s three-tonality system). This applies to the practice of jazz improvisation where the freedom to improvise an instrumental (or vocal) solo is contingent upon your understanding of a particular tune’s melodic, harmonic and formal structure. This is the essence of learning and playing “by ear.” (And if you cannot “hear it”, use your knowledge of theory as a crutch through the “iffy” spots.)

What about Wes Montgomery or the Beatles? These people could not even read music! It has been a long time since I thought about the concept of reading music. I began my own pursuit of music after being mystified and intrigued by the “siren” sounds of the Beatles, Charlie Parker, Jaco Pastorius, Jimi Hendrix, Deep Purple etc. As a fervent fan, I “ingested” as much written information as I could handle (perhaps more). I remember reading an interview with Jaco Pastorius where he was asked: (a) if he could read music, and (b) whether he had received any music education. I also remember an interview with Stanley Clarke where the interviewer expressed amazement at the idea that all the music recorded by Chick Corea’s seventies fusion band, Return to Forever, was written out (except for the solos, of course).²

Music notation is just a method to record and communicate musical ideas. I have often wondered if there may be a feeling out there that being able to read music somehow de-values your achievements as a creative musician. In the literary world, I do not believe there is a similar romance attached to an author who cannot read or write. Even if Lennon and McCartney could not read music, they still had their own way of communicating their song structures to their fellow musicians (George and Ringo). One method would be to use the standard pop/rock system of chord symbols employing letters and numbers (e.g. Bbmaj7#11). My point is that musicians figure out ways to keep track of musical ideas (traditional Western music notation happens to be one such method). At the heart of it, all music is an oral (and aural) tradition and the written form of music can be akin to words in a poem or a play (genres which require performers or readers to realize their full potential). Even when music is written down, it is merely a reflection of how it is supposed to sound. This applies to different kinds of music but especially to jazz. If we were to play jazz music EXACTLY as it is written, it would sound pretty mechanical. To be fair, a performer’s interpretation is vital even to classical music. A performer’s freedom in this case lies within the boundaries of “good taste” and tradition. When those boundaries are unclear, the player’s “intuition” takes over.

By the way, Jaco’s answer to the musical education question was, “…I’m formally self-taught.”³

What about the idea that jazz improvisers have total freedom in what they improvise? To a certain extent, this may be true but my problem is with the idea of “total” freedom. In this case, freedom may not be as free as we think. Let me use casual conversation as a metaphor. When we speak with good friends, we are not limited to certain topics and are free to express whatever comes into our minds and to share all kinds of varied thoughts. However (in order to be understood and communicate) we must still restrict ourselves to the “rules” of the language we use (e.g. English) and to relate to the topic of the moment (even if it lasts only a few seconds). In such an environment, we seem to be aware instinctively of the nature and “rules” governing our interactions. In turn, such awareness allows greater scope and freedom in creative “speech making”. For example, we may use commonly understood slang words or make up our own words or even deliberately distort the “proper” usage of English so that we may express our feelings in a unique way. Can everyone relate to such a conversation? It depends on how much understanding the listener has of the language or the slang usage or even the speaker. To the uninitiated, the conversation may sound colourful, coarse, humourous or even unintelligible. Add to this, the possibility of various accents and inflections and you have a metaphorical picture of how jazz might sound to some listeners in the audience. Fortunately, Music speaks to us at a sensory level and we find ourselves entertained even when we do not understand all its structural implications because it just “sounds good.”

Jazz musicians have a benign distrust of formal music education. Perhaps this is because the theoretical materials are often presented as a compendium of rules while “real” composers seem to break these rules regularly. As mentioned above, music should be thought of as an oral tradition. This applies not only to the actual raw musical material but also to the style in which the music is to be performed. In this respect, it is crucial to listen to and study great players from each genre’s history in order to develop a “feel” for that genre’s particular style and sound. This applies both to jazz and classical music. For example, a cellist studying a Bach cello suite would benefit greatly from exposure to recordings by Casals, Rostropovich or YoYo Ma. Gaining the understanding of a musical tradition through oral tradition is one thing, but usage of that information is where the musical practices of a jazz musician and a classical musician diverge. By tradition, a classical musician is “not allowed” to infuse a composition with his own personality if this contradicts the composer’s intentions; meanwhile a jazz musician is expected to add all kinds of personal musical mannerisms. Perhaps here lies the crux of why jazz seems so liberating to the uninitiated.

I often feel that non-jazz musicians (and listeners) have an impression that jazz performers have the freedom to play any musical idea that drifts into their minds at a given moment. But, as you can see, this is not the whole picture. John Litweiler (a director of the Jazz Institute of Chicago) once wrote that “[g]enuine freedom occurs when the artist can communicate most intimately with the materials, the language of his or her medium…” and that “…each innovation in jazz, from the beginnings to the present, appears so that jazz artists can reveal what cannot be revealed in any other way.”⁴ The medium of jazz does give a performer great freedom but the proper musical choices must be made with discretion by each individual’s musical conscience.

Dr. Tony Makarome

Tony is currently an Assistant Professor at the Yong Siew Toh Conservatory (National University of Singapore). He teaches solfegé, ear-training, music theory and jazz. As a bassist, he has performed with luminaries, including Louis Bellson, The Diamonds, and Tony Bennett. He was the musical director/resident conductor of the NUS Wind Symphony, and assistant conductor of the Columbia Lyric Opera. Local premieres of his compositions include “East Wind” for solo percussion (Esplanade Recital Studio, 2006) and “Name with No Street” for string quartet (Yong Siew Toh Concert Hall, 2007.)

1. Catherine Soanes and A. Stevenson, ed., Oxford Dictionary of English. [↩]
2. “Stanley Clarke Interview”, Guitar Player. [↩]
3. “Jaco Pastorius Interview”, Guitar Player. [↩]
4. John Litweiler, The Freedom Principle: Jazz After 1958. [↩]

… ad lib…

“…. we ask God to free us from ‘God’ so that we may be able to grasp and eternally enjoy truth where the highest angels, the fly and the human soul are all one – in that place I desired what I was and was what I desired.”¹

Reader, although the words above are the 13th Century C.E. Dominican mystic-theologian Meister Eckhart’s, let us imagine that, perhaps just before the mutiny in heaven, Lucifer prayed (not yet fathoming the depths of his own desires), his desire for equality and truth coupled oddly with his desire to be desired – his desire for freedom from hierarchical strictures cuffed to his desire for self-empowerment. It was this noble prayer that set freedom free amongst the ‘dogs of war’; it was this ‘heretical’ turn of mind that set the angels nervously whispering: ‘Havoc’!

Brutus, red-dripping knife in hand, not seeing the dogs of war lurking, shouts:

‘Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets!’

Alas, poor, deluded, murderous Brutus: Shakespeare consigned wisdom to the tongue of one less ‘honourable’. What price, Liberty? Her spirit is sustained on blood; the tyrant that raises its bloodied head again and again is not Caesar’s, but Liberty’s, for Liberty leads the people where most angels, with good reason, fear to tread. Lucifer the Light-bringer took the measure of his freedom just a little further than sound, and was thrown out of the structure, falling endlessly, the echoes of his prayer: “God! I would be free of you! Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is…” wind-whipped right out of hearing. You could say it was not anarchy he desired, just liberty, equality. But even his smallest wish to be one with both human soul and fly was unfulfilled, for on his way down, he was crowned Lord of the Flies. So much for desiring freedom for the fly.

How free our assumed birthright, ‘free will’? As the philosopher Thomas Nagel puts it, despairingly: “I am at a loss to account for what we believe in believing that we are autonomous [.]”² We do not choose our name at birth. We may change that name, but not for a long while later. Not before the implications of the name have laid sediments of associations deep in the psyche. We are named, ‘characterized’, by our parents’ desires or disappointments. Not only do we not choose our names, we do not choose our parents. To be fair, parents do not exactly choose their children either — they may, or may not, have chosen to have a child, to start a new life. But you, you, just came into being, and who can say why? It is but one effect-cause in a long chain of cause-effects. Not the consequence of an original intention, but a lottery result. The result of risk-taking.

Yet, we are tethered to our need for meaning, purpose. Our lives must mean; our actions must signify. We are human because we intend. And we expect grand intentions of whatever force it was that gave rise to our existence. Equality with angels is desirable, but, ideally, fly should not figure in the equation. If our lives weighed as much as a fly’s brief existence, where would be the sense in that? Isn’t human life, well, more meaningful?

Words, language, meaningful speech holds us hostage to cultural agreements and disagreements. We are ensnared by the meanings of words. Music, on the other hand, allows the powerful encounter of the possibility of meaning without words. When we feel the pulse and rhythm of life itself, we are moved without having to know exactly why. We sense the edges of rhythm’s patterns when we experience syncopation; just out-of-time enough to be in-time, it is in the stretching of metronomic measure that we taste the elasticity of boundaries. To really know what the song “I Got Rhythm” means is to know how far to stretch time without breaking that sense of timing, tempo.

Which brings us to notions of extempore, and Jazz: that supremely dexterous, acrobatic, slippery music, spawned from the desire for freedom in every sense of the word: freedom from backbreaking labour and pain, freedom from slavery and the injustices of this world. It was seeded from a prayer to be freed from the rules that kept justice at bay. Musically, Jazz had its beginnings as an expression of the desire to give the ears full reign over the eyes. It became music to be heard and flirted with, not read and obeyed.

What is the measure of freedom? Liberty, autonomy, independence, choice, free will, sovereignty, improvisation, and all that jazz, means nothing without the notion of measure. Take the structure of two stringed instruments common in Jazz music, the guitar and the cello. The guitar is a fretted instrument; its notes are measured and mapped on the fingerboard as tangible, defined spaces. Fingers recognize and respond to these measures. There is a certain exactitude to the fretted fingerboard that inspires confidence, trust, reliability, predictability. Quite unlike the unfretted fingerboard of the cello, which calls for an awareness of where notes end and where they begin — so, what for inexpert fingers is all approximation and feeling-about, wiser fingers would have learnt the measure without the fret. But fret or no fret, the measure of music is that most inexact instrument of all: feeling.

Jazz is characterised by improvisation and syncopation. But the word itself? Early 20th Century, ‘of unknown origin’. It is the spirit of music itself, tripping off ledger lines and unfettered by manuscripted bar lines. And nowhere is this spirit more evident than in the improvisatory nature of that liberating moment in Jazz, the moment of the “ad-lib”. Ad-lib is shortened from ad libitum — origin Latin — and literally means “according to pleasure”. The OED defines ad-lib thus: “to speak or perform without previously preparing one’s words”, “spoken or performed without previous preparation” and, as a “direction”, means “with free rhythm and expression”. It also means “as much and as often as desired”. Instead of rigid, discrete notation, ad-libbing releases music as pure flow. There is an element of trusting the moment, and one’s sense of momentum.

Ad-libbing is an important feature of the improvisatory nature of Jazz music — although it is a term that has come to describe any ‘performance’ where one has to think off the top of one’s head, or off the cuff, or to think on one’s feet. Head, hands, feet — unshackled. It is a state of unrehearsed space-time in performance: spontaneous, impromptu, unscripted, unruly. It is no longer singing — the singer becomes a sound-and-rhythm-making instrument, pure voice. Freed from presupposition and prescription, freed from the need to be reasonable and pragmatic, Reader, we can tread a new measure, gather new momentum towards escape velocity, to that Eckhartian place where we can be sovereign and autonomous. At least as far as it is possible to be autonomous, given the givenness of the human condition. There is no escaping a certain measure of measure. Some things are unchosen, but we can always improvise.

As much as freedom is about agency and autonomy, freedom is also a feeling, sometimes inexplicable. As much as oppression is undesirable, and expression desired, yet one agency’s oppression is another’s expression. Just like the somewhat contradictory intentions we read from the words we put in Lucifer’s mouth earlier on: it is tricky to attempt to balance the desire for self-empowerment against desire for everyone else’s liberation. Put another way: Freedoms have a way of impinging on each other. And some freedoms are bloodier-minded than others. Some are just bloody. Sometimes, necessarily so.

Ad-libbing is incoherent eloquence. It is Liberty in celebratory mode. Spontaneous, free of signification, freed of meaning, beyond words – rhythm and melody becomes the unruly language of freedom. Reader, let us unshackle our hands and feet. It is time to sing, to dance – unchoreographed, unrehearsed. Off the top of your head, off the cuff, and on your feet: ad libitum.

Susie Lingham

Susie is currently senior lecturer and course leader of the Contemporary Art Degree Programmes at Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts, Singapore. She has recently completed her DPhil (PhD) in Literature, Religion and Philosophy at the University of Sussex, U.K. Her interdisciplinary work – text, image, performance and sound – synthesizes ideas and research across various fields relating to the nature of mind.

1. Meister Eckhart, Selected Writings, trans. Oliver Davies, London: Penguin Books (1994). [↩]
2. Thomas Nagel, The View From Nowhere, New York: Oxford University Press (1986), p.117. Nagel calls the ultimate objective standpoint one can take “the external standpoint”, which he says “at once holds out the hope of genuine autonomy, and snatches it away.” This is because there will always be a “still more external and comprehensive view of ourselves that we cannot incorporate, but that would reveal the unchosen sources of our most autonomous efforts. The objectivity that seems to offer greater control also reveals the ultimate giveneness of the self.” (pp.118-119). [↩]

“fly me to the moon…”

“Fly me to the moon and let me play amongst the stars…!” writes Bart Howard in the popular Jazz tune. “Fly me to the moon” — what’s the big issue? Am I not free to do as I please — book budget air tickets to go wherever I want, get on Skype to talk to anybody in the world for free, learn to sky dive, dance Tango Argentino, or get my PhD through an Open University? Let’s go and fly to the moon! It is one click away and you can do it if you really want to. Just jump on the net, Google “space tourism” and away you go!

Don’t you consider that freedom? I do, but then, what is “all that jazz”? I assume that’s where the consequences come into play. Space tourism? Can’t do the space thing because of my account — it is empty.

“Fly me to the moon and let me play amongst the stars”. Fly, moon, play, and stars — it sounds like vision, longing, desperation, and desire. Actually, it sounds very human. Why do we always aim for the moon? Perhaps Les Brown, motivational speaker, entrepreneur and author, can shed some light: “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss it, you will land among the stars”.

I have been playing Jazz since I was sixteen, and once played with a Dixieland formation called “The Mixed Pickles”. Now, decades later, I still play my trumpet and am still hooked on to all that jazz. It has become a part of my life, my feeling and my thinking. Although I am neither exceptional as a musician, or play even close to being “among the stars”, I have finally figured something out – freedom has always been a part of me. It was an inner sense, a knowledge that had been hiding deep inside of me, showing up as a glimpse here and there in various guises. I could feel it, but I wasn’t able to understand it. Yet.

Jazz is like life. You can be authentic or you can pretend — even Jazz often sounds risk-free these days. You can show off your skills or you can feel and express what’s inside, to share and communicate. When you’re given a gift, it’s up to you to be thankful and to express your gratitude, or you can take it for granted. Jazz has the potential to be a final product or a platform from which we can elevate ourselves. Jazz is no different from life and they both follow rules. Do we let our peers shine and get inspired by them by allowing them to take our hands and guide us on a journey into the unexpected or unknown? Or do we decide to crawl back into the safety of our comfort zone by controlling and showing them the ropes?

We may be free to explore, but are we open to explore? Who is responsible for guiding us there and enabling us to live our dreams? What stops me from flying to the moon? “I would if I could, but I can’t because I know it is not possible for me”. Who knows? “I do, I don’t have the money. No money, no travel.” True. But does that mean it is impossible for me to fulfil my dream?

Why do certain people take off like rockets and some never move? You reckon the former have a magic potion that we don’t possess? I doubt it. But instead of singing “fly me to the moon”, they took charge of life and their situation, to finally look back and say, “I did it my way”.

In life, we tend to think that certain things are feasible and others are not. How so? Upon entering this world, we’re instantly fed values and doctrines — good and bad — by our family and society: “Don’t be selfish”, “It’s a sin to tell a lie”, “Let sleeping dogs lie”, “Nothing comes from nothing”, “What goes up, must come down”… sure, no questions asked, proven facts. But is that so? Back then, we were able to accept and not question these dogmas. I am sure that even today, undoubted and unquestioned, they still form the basis of our judgments, the screen from which we reflect each of our decisions. This forms the foundation of that structure made up of stories and experiences we have accumulated over the years. We are always checking back with it and putting everything in line with what has been carved in stone. It gives us reassurance and makes us feel safe.

But whose values are we really dealing with?

Someone once said, “There are no mistakes in jazz,” and I believe it to be true. If you feel it, you express it. Just make sure that it is a clear and honest statement. Sir Ken Robinson, British author and creative expert, said, “If you’re not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original”. In Switzerland, mistakes are unacceptable, and yet, many inventions and much gained knowledge were a result of mistakes. Still, as a community we fear failing. So, what better way to avoid failure then not to attempt at all? We cling to what we know, we remain within traditions and safe rules. As long as we pass the test, we stay accepted and liked.

But, wherein lies freedom in all that jazz?

If you ask me what freedom means to me, I’d answer: freedom means the ability to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. Can I take the moment for what it is and not try to categorize or interpret it? Is it possible for me not to judge or benchmark, reflect or, as I said before, check back with what my experience tells me is right or wrong? Freedom means to accept what is and not to measure and quantify it, but to love it. Everything else is either imagination and interpretation or an illusion created by our minds. And “all that jazz” comes in, once you live the moment by being authentic and fearless.

To speak of jazz is to speak of communication. I consider Jazz to be a somewhat universal language that enables humans to express themselves, to listen, and to share. Gut feelings are common to all of us, so we do understand it on that level. This extends to understanding each other as well, if we are open to it. But as soon as we expect something, we are not in the moment and we face two outcomes: good or bad, yes or no, right or wrong, happy or sad. There is nothing in between. We hide within the known, our comfort zones, and we understand what we want to understand, not always what has been said. Should we misinterpret and overreact, we might end the conversation right there and then. All this is true in life as in jazz.

What’s the point? Turn and toss it however you want, we are always thrown back to ourselves. Where do we find freedom and all that jazz? On Jupiter or Mars? In my case, my freedom sits right here behind this keyboard, currently typing words in English about freedom and all that jazz! Wherever I go, I take it with me. I decide. When I blow my trumpet, I feel it inside of me. It enables me to express the moment. All is right, as long as I am there. Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars, it does not make any difference.

Freedom and all that jazz? I’d say feel free and join in: forget all you know and look anew. Don’t worry, you’ll still be authentic, but fully open! And maybe some day, whatever you thought was carved in stone, you’ll find out, as George and Ira Gershwin did, “It ain’t necessarily so”!

Fabian Schmid

After successfully dropping out of Med-school, Fabian studied Communication Design. As a corporate identity and communication consultant he advised international corporations in North America and Europe, started his own businesses as a visionary, and ran them profitably as an entrepreneur. Today, residing back in his homeland, he is inspiring and coaching people (and businesses) in their quest to be(come) authentic and to fulfil their honest dreams. His life’s philosophy became his vocation: trust your smile.com.

However, this responsibility was largely unfulfilled, especially during the third night, which raced into its deconstructionist agenda with minimal regard for new audiences. A tediously staged Question-And-Answer component–repeated five times to illuminate different perspectives on the staging of the concluding scene–compounded their bafflement and frustration.

While the trilogy’s intentions were noble–Ho and Borgia demonstrated a keen critical eye; and certainly, with a production length of over six hours, it was painstakingly detailed–the execution was often belaboured, as it sought novel ways of transposing literary and performance criticism to the stage with little consideration of whether they were suited to the live and shared experience of theatre.

On its first night, Lear Enters, this long-gestating epic began promisingly enough, fashioning theatre out of the theatrically unseen. The artists conveyed wry, sparkling observations on the art of performing, putting both crew and audience through several agonising, but ultimately illuminating auditions for the lead role. Providing comprehensive coverage of Rosenberg’s archetypal Lears were Remesh Panicker, K. Rajagopal and Gerald Chew, who played variations of the role as God, Madman and Everyman respectively.

Ho and Borgia’s realistic portrayal of the auditioning process plumbed the actors’ offstage interactions for fresh insight on how characterisation could shape cast dynamics. In some of the most electrifying productions, theatre or otherwise, actors inhabit their roles so deeply they often find it difficult to shake them off. Inevitably, reality and the stage overlap, often with profound personal and emotional impact on the actors. Felicity Huffman as a pre-operative transsexual in indie hit Transamerica, for example, was so engaged in her character’s gender transformation that she began to act and talk differently, until her husband William H. Macy finally “told me not to call in that voice. It was weird for him.”¹

Similarly, we witnessed, through the actors’ subtle tics, gestures and mannerisms, the unfolding of their characters in real life. Panicker manoeuvred the other actors with teasing authority, interspersing his directions with wisecracks like, while donning a ghastly black fur coat, “I’m more King Kong than King Lear.” One sensed with Rajagopal, however, a certain detachment from his surroundings. Eyes half-hidden under a beanie, he spoke in a sparse monotone, and radiated nervous energy during the performance talkback. The atmosphere of the audition room also changed considerably when a gum-chewing, laidback Chew came on stage. Although cautious to include everyone in pre-audition discussion, he, like his character, ultimately favoured Shu An Oon, who played Cordelia, in making several wardrobe and prop decisions.

The auditions themselves mined several outrageous and strangely effective ways of expressing what Rosenberg called Lear’s “inner dialectic,” where “the most powerful Lear needs help as he enters…the mad…will have a flash of lucidity…the sanest…a tremor of doubt of his soundness.”²

Particularly memorable was Rajagopal’s rendition of madman Lear, whose wildly entertaining entrance was more tribal dance than regal procession. Later on, Tan Kheng Hua, as Goneril, smothered her face in Lear’s chest, enlivening her sycophantic tribute with hilarious sexual frisson. This madcap setting, juxtaposed against the sobering climax of the scene, was an incisive reminder of how fury is so often a shade away from madness.

However, there were creeping annoyances in Lear Enters that became major obstacles in latter parts of the Project. The audition setting, for example, was a perplexing evocation of a film set, with cameras panning the theatre and director Kaylene Tan yelling “Cut!” after every scene. And why did Tan adopt an unyielding, Miranda Priestly-like persona, which not only succumbed to stale directorial stereotypes, but also lent unnecessary frigidity and tension to the show? Another character hard to follow was producer Paul Rae, planted in the audience as the production’s Deus Ex Machina. Issuing criticism between auditions, his lines adhered closely to the dense academic syntax of Rosenberg’s essay, and consequently leave no lasting impression on the audience’s experience of Lear’s entrance.

These problems manifested more acutely in the second performance, a misguided attempt at elucidating Goldberg’s Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation. Mostly, Ho and Borgia entertained indulgent readings of the three most difficult scenes of the play–namely Lear’s railing against the storm, Gloucester’s blinding, and Edgar’s theatrical deception–with often cringe-worthy repercussions.

Dover Cliff seemed to have no unifying purpose except to push the limits of artistic interpretation to ludicrous extremes. With heightened (and over-rehearsed) involvement of the production crew, the storm scene was staged to pulsing disco lights and a “funeral march of man-made music,” devolving into predictable farce. In the middle of the play, a bewildering discussion between the actors on which instrument to use for the blinding ensued, trivialising the potency of Goneril and Cornwall’s cruelty, and Gloucester’s suffering. To complete our wretched experience, an overly enthusiastic James Page decided to embellish his set with a large black penis spouting water, apparently to illustrate the sexual undertones of Shakespeare’s imagery. These elaborate stage experiments amounted to nothing more than a tedious compendium of antics and miscues that was long on banalities, and short on insight.

Fortunately, Ho and Borgia managed to salvage the play by the end with a sparse rendition of dialogue between Edgar and Gloucester on voiceover in a pitch dark theatre. This provided a much needed counterpoint to the bizarre theatrics on display a few minutes ago. It was sustained outside the theatre later on as a taut and intensely silent portrait of bodies caught midway in action, capturing tragedy as it was about to strike.

The final performance, The Lear Universe, was a fitting mix of the production’s best moments and most dismal flaws. A sterling rendition of King Lear’s tragic conclusion opened the show, followed by an elaborately staged curtain call. After introducing an extended cast, Ben Slater, our “moderator of the evening” sat them down for a post-show dialogue. But they would not take real questions from the audience, and kept enigmatically silent until a planted audience member piped up to “break the silence,” prompting the cast to launch into an adaptation of the play’s conclusion, interspersed with commentary from a variety of critical sources. These false endings were repeated for the next two hours, allegedly to invoke Wilson Knight’s comment that “(the play’s) philosophy is continuously purgatorial.”

Thankfully, this repetitious performance allowed a few moments of dynamic commentary to break through, including a flawlessly-timed introductory sequence illuminating the conflicted morality of Lear’s universe, and a charming enactment of Nahum Tate’s happy ending, cavalierly appended to the tragedy.

Unfortunately, these achievements were eclipsed by the play’s frustrating sense of contrivance, borne out of the artists’ glib expectation that their audience would find the criticism more urgent than its presentation. Planting “actors” into the audience may have had some conceptual value, but having them engage in stilted debate on the semantics of the Quattro and Folio versions to jumpstart the production’s own assessment of its merits was simply dull and uninspired. Such gimmickry reached its peak when a teenager emerged from the stalls to contend that perhaps King Lear aimed for a “representative ideal of its own representation.” There was very little point in grounding the play in a Question-and-Answer format if it was devoid of the very elements that crystallised dialogue: spontaneity, interaction, and real questions. Very often, these scripted “questions”contained their own thinly-veiled answers that provoked Rae, Tan and some of the cast into more elaborate pontification on stage, prescribing instead of facilitating discussion. It was this hellish cycle of didacticism that seriously marred the performance.

Early on in The Lear Universe, I remember that Rae had ominously proclaimed, “There is only one voice to be heard, and that is one’s own.” This gave me the worrisome hint that Ho and Borgia did not entirely know how to boil this wealth of material down into a play as they were too caught up in their own voices to let alternative voices in.

Amos Toh has contributed poetry and theatre reviews to The Straits Times and online arts magazines The Flying Inkpot and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. He was also a judge for the 2008 Life! Theatre Awards.

1. Balfour, Brad. The Transformation of Felicity Huffman. popentertainment.com. March 2006. [↩]
2. Rosenberg, Marvin. “Lear Enters.” The Mask of King Lear. Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1992. [↩]

LWC: We all repeat ourselves, but some of us worry about it more than others. Perhaps that’s the difference between you and I. I think that you worry more than I do — about repeating yourself, among other things. Sure, I repeat myself too; I am making a small career of repeating myself when it comes to writing about your work, and about your worrying. I like to think it goes with the territory. Over the years that we’ve known each other, over the years that I’ve been engaging with your work, watching and listening to your films, lectures, performances and installations, again and again, and then attempting to speak back to them via my own writing — this whole process lends itself to revisits, reiterations, and revisions. Much like in your work: you have these central preoccupations, which you return to over and over again; preoccupations which are evident in your latest Lear productions.

But before we talk about the upcoming performances, a few things about the first one, as a way of introduction. Early in 2007, along with collaborator Fran Borgia, you co-directed King Lear — The Avoidance of Love, a live audition/ film shoot/ lecture/ theatre performance. Let me just say that again, or rather unpack it all. The project was framed as a film, but enacted as a play. In making the film/ play, you asked your actors to come to the theatre and prepare to audition for certain roles in Lear. That was the gist of their instructions. Not much discussion, let alone any rehearsals, of what might actually unfold during the live performance. The actors know their lines, of course; after all, it is Shakespeare’s Lear. On the one hand, what we get is a theatrical performance where actors pretend to audition for a film shoot of Lear. On the other hand, there is no “real” film shoot. The audition is the thing itself. And unlike most auditions, this one is done in front of a theatre audience. And that’s what’s being filmed. There are no second takes.

Early in the performance, the first actor called to audition, Janice Koh, introduces herself as Janice — the actors all play themselves — then does the speech that Lear’s eldest daughter, Goneril, says to the king. It’s from that famous scene where he summons everyone to court, and before handing over the throne to his daughters, first demands their declarations of love. Janice nails her lines. And, then, the two actors playing the “film producer” and the “film director”, they both say: that was a splendid performance. So good in fact, that they’d like to see it again, and done exactly the same. Janice obliges, and to the delight of both the pretend and real producers, directors, stage crew and audience in the theatre, she nails her lines again, a near perfect reproduction of her first performance. What happens to Janice doesn’t quite happen to the other actors auditioning — they’re not asked to repeat themselves so quickly in succession — but those same lines are said so many times, in so many variations. Watching the play, one loses count how many times the Goneril, Regan and Cordelia speeches were made.

But your Avoidance of Love is not just a repetition of Lear, one of the most repeated plays in the history of theatre, or a play about repetition, or even an unrepeatable performance about repetition (since the actors cannot repeat their not knowing how the play/ film will unfold). It’s also a rehearsal of a famous essay on Lear, by the American philosopher Stanley Cavell. In fact, the title, “The Avoidance of Love”, is taken from the name of Cavell’s essay. And your character of the producer, played by theatre-maker and theorist Paul Rae, spends a lot of time expounding Cavell’s arguments.

Cavell wants to offer an alternative interpretation. Why does Lear abdicate his throne, and to such obviously scheming and conniving daughters? Typical interpretations attribute this to some lack of clear thinking on his part. But Cavell suggests: “My hypothesis will be that Lear’s behaviour in this scene is explained by … the same motivation which manipulates the tragedy throughout its course, from the … abdication, through the storm, blinding, evaded reconciliations, to the final moments: by the attempt to avoid recognition, the shame of exposure, the threat of self-revelation.” For Cavell, the avoidance of love is what motivates Lear. Perhaps we can return later to Cavell, but let’s talk now about the new projects. There isn’t just one more Lear, but a series, and they all, like Avoidance of Love, are entitled after important essays on the play.

HTN: For me, Lear is a profound investigation of what “performance” and “play-acting” mean. Therefore, it is a self-reflexive work of art, which, as you know, is the kind of art that I seem drawn to. The three chapters of what we’re calling The Lear Project are each named according to a canonical essay about Lear. These new chapters follow in the trajectory of our previous presentation of The Avoidance of Love. This is because we believe that it is, today, as interesting to stage a version of Lear as it is to stage an essay about Lear. Like The Avoidance of Love, which was an audition for the roles of the three daughters of Lear, all three chapters of The Lear Project are designed to exist around the text of Lear, rather than to perform the play directly. Hence, an array of performative situations that surround the “proper” presentation of a play — situations such as the audition, the rehearsal, the post-show discussion — these situations, you could say, take the place of the play.

LWC: This has become a recurrent strategy of yours: to substitute the making of the thing for the thing itself (one of my favourite of your works, Episode 3 of your documentary series, 4 X 4 — Episodes of Singapore Art, is ostensibly a documentary on a famous performance art work by Tang Da Wu, but instead we get a “behind the scenes” look at the documentary as it’s being made). Besides this, however, in your various Lears — from Avoidance to Project — you could almost say that this canonical play is being re-placed by canonical essays about it. So this time you come at it from both sides: not only does the “making of” replace the thing, but the “talking about” replaces the thing too. Could you tell us more about the essays that figure in the Project?

HTN: The first of the three parts of the Project, Lear — Lear Enters is based on an essay of the same name by Marvin Rosenberg on the canonical performances of King Lear by some of the greatest actors of the stage. Then Lear — Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation is based on an essay, likewise of the same name, by Jonathan Goldberg. Goldberg’s essay is considered one of the most important post-structuralist readings of the representational limits of Lear. And finally, Lear — The Lear Universe is based on an essay by the great Shakespearean scholar, Wilson Knight. In that essay, Knight attempts to provide a unified metaphysical image of the world inhabited by Lear.

LWC: What does it mean to say that “today, it is as interesting to stage a version of Lear as it is to stage an essay about the play”. Or don’t you mean it the other way around? That it’s as interesting to stage a play about an essay on Lear, as it is to stage of version of the play? What I hear you saying is that it’s almost impossible to stage Lear again; anyone contemplating that task must feel like a character from Samuel Beckett: what is there left to say? Though, of course, the whole thing about Beckett characters is that this “nothing new to say” never stops any of them from going on and on — it’s as if the nothing new is the very condition of their speech. To stage a performance of Lear anew is a daunting task; one can only repeat what’s already been said — how can another Lear be interesting?

The literary critic Harold Bloom has argued that Shakespeare “invents the human”. With apologies to Bloom, it’s as if Shakespeare has pride of place in being something of the origin of English theatre, and yet, he also represents a climax, its end-point. Hence we are at something of an impasse. The condition of modern and contemporary theatre is that everything else after Shakespeare, in English, at any rate, is just a footnote, or commentary. That is, if you think the Bard is like Plato, of whom Alfred North Whitehead said: “the safest general characterisation of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato”. To stage Shakespeare yet again is already to be consigned to making mere commentary on him. If that’s the case, then why not let’s make this commentary explicit. Let’s stage plays about commentary on Shakespeare.

HTN: Well, the scholars, historians and critics who interest me most are those whom I feel most powerfully reconstruct the objects they explain. Strong interpretations always miss the “mark” — or more specifically, they go over it. What interests me in interpretations is precisely this “swerve”, an interpretation which opens up and constructs new possibilities.

LWC: A question is: does an essay make interesting theatre? Or, rather, is there a public for such a mode of theatre?

HTN: I want to stretch the limits of what it means to make theatre, to be theatrical. I also want to try and disseminate certain scholarly and critical intelligences to a wider public sphere — to rescue them from academic specialisation. This interest began when I started doing the lecture performance 2 South Seas, 3 Chairs, 4 Suits, where I attempted to present art history dramatically and accessibly, while hopefully maintaining its subtlety and complexity. However, let me clarify — I don’t think art or literary history, theory and criticism “in themselves” need rescuing of any sorts. If anything I believe them to be more complex and sophisticated than ever. They are probably immensely healthier than I am [ … laughs]. But where I live and work, in Singapore, the reality is that these forms of intelligences barely have a foothold in the “narrow-cast” of academia, let alone the “public” where they are almost totally inconsequential.

A friend of mine, who is a theatre director based in Brussels, once said to me: “it does not matter if you do not like the theatre. It is more important that the theatre likes you.” It’s a paraphrase of something Jean-Luc Godard said about cinema. What my friend means is that it doesn’t matter if an audience member does not like the theatre which he or she finds “difficult”. More important is that contemporary theatre likes its viewers so much, it believes that they are intelligent and willing enough to engage in deep conversation with it.

LWC: What of the question of appropriation, which you don’t raise explicitly, but which lingers in the background. There are many appropriations at stake: within the play itself, and in the contexts of Lear and its multiple publics, from the schools to the university. Who can stage Lear? Who can play Lear? I can anticipate European audiences and commentators fixing on the question of Asian actors playing Lear. Although, personally, that’s something that I don’t really think is all that interesting, or rather, it’s not the most interesting thing for me to talk about.

HTN: Of course, this is an issue I’ve thought about, this use of “Asian” actors, but like you, it’s not what’s most interesting to me about the project. I make no apologies for coming from Singapore and working through Singapore, but I think I have something more to say than speaking just about my Singaporean-ness.

LWC: Let’s get back to talking specifically about the Project — tell us more about some of its parts, which you are staging at this year’s Singapore Arts Festival.

HTN: Like Lear — The Avoidance of Love, all three parts will feature a minimal, skeletal cast and crew, around which will float a great number of other Singaporean theatrical icons and talents “passing through” the stage on each night of the performance. And also like Lear — The Avoidance of Love, each of these performances cannot be repeated, although they are each carefully woven and dramatically interwoven into a “live” film shoot. Hence, like The Avoidance of Love, each of the Project performances will enjoy an afterlife in the form of a film.

The first performance, Lear – Lear Enters, will be an audition for the role of King Lear by three of the better known Singaporean male actors. Each of these actors will make their entry into the first scene of the play, where they will perform with a fixed cast. There, these three will find each of their gestures subject to the most intensive kinds of scrutiny, analysis and judgement, augmented by the power of video’s capacity for the close-up, the slow-motion and the freeze frame. One of these Lears will be chosen to continue on the second performance, along with the permanent crew and cast (the Director, the Producer and the Assistant).

The second performance, Lear – Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation, takes the form of a rehearsal, presentation-cum-discussion with the “multi-media” designers of the play. Structured around three scenes that have often been considered “un-presentable”, the designers are constantly confronted by the demanding Producer and Director into transforming their designs. As a result, the performance takes the form of three different stage set-ups for each of the three “impossible scenes”.

Taken as a whole, the Project is a sustained inquiry not only into the text of Lear, but also the limits and boundaries of theatre. We hope that Lear Enters is understood as a way to showcase the intelligence and craft of Singapore’s finest acting talents — I say that unironically — as well as an exercise in training the audience’s perceptual attentiveness to the minutest subtleties of acting. Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation becomes a way to engage not only with the profound themes of blindness, self-reflexivity and representation within the text, but also an engagement with the concrete infrastructure of every performance: sound, set and lighting, as well as the invisible crew that are responsible for their operation. The final part of the Project, Lear – The Lear Universe, in turn deals with the question of interpretation and reception, and ultimately ties the theme of multiplicity in the reading of the text into fissures within the text itself.

Interestingly, Lear was not a single play, but rather two versions written by Shakespeare that combined a number of pre-existing texts; there is the [F] or Folio version and the [Q] or Quattro versions. The history of the play’s performance is fascinating. For one stretch of this performance history, close to 173 years, the Lear that was presented to the English public was neither the [F] nor [Q] versions but rather a version re-written by Nathaniel Tate, who transformed the unredeemed savagery of Shakespeare to a sentimental version capped by a happy ending — neither Lear nor Cordelia dies, and Cordelia was married happily ever after to Edgar, and so on.

LWC: I’d be interested to see your take on the Nathaniel Tate Lear.

HTN: [Laughs … ] Maybe after we’re done with the Project.

LWC: It’s been said — by scholars as well as theatre-makers — that King Lear is one of the most challenging roles open to any (male) stage actor. And this is because Shakespeare has written a role that is contrary, contradictory, and paradoxical. To borrow the words of the poet Walt Whitman, the role of Lear is “large — it contains multitudes”.

HTN: The challenge of playing Lear is, for the actor, determined from the very moment he enters the stage. For whether this Lear would be a titanic force of nature, a powerful king, a senile old man, a spent force, or a kindly father — all this would be determined by how the actor enters upon the stage: with authority, with majestic strides, a mad giggle, a limp, or as a “normal” man. Does he wear a beard? Does he hunch? Does he carry a walking stick? Does he carry a sword? Does he wear a crown? Does he come hand in hand with his daughters? Does he kick the fool around? Does accept help? Does he shout? Does he whisper? Does he whimper? And each of these decisions will in turn profoundly affect the entirety of how the play is to be interpreted. Is Lear a family drama, an allegory of politics, a metaphysical poem about the return to nature, a profound essay about love, or a savage diatribe against the blindness of man? Each of these meanings and narratives — we will attempt to show — is always already embedded, enfolded, into the smallest gesture of the actor playing Lear, when he enters upon the stage, to divide his three kingdoms up between his three daughters.

LWC: I want to ask you about the so-called “un-presentable” scenes that figure in Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation.

HTN: The “un-presentable” nature of King Lear almost always concerns three keys scenes within the text. First is the scene where Gloucester (often interpreted as Lear’s thematic double in the play) is literally, and brutally blinded by Cornwall. This scene is considered so savage and tasteless, that it was for many years excluded from performances.

The second has to do with the blinded Gloucester attempting to “smell/ His way to Dover”, or rather the Dover cliff, the edge of Britain, in order to commit suicide. Along the way he meets his son, Edgar, whom he had earlier, blindly wronged. Disguised as “Poor Tom”, Edgar pretends to lead his father to the Dover Cliff, and through the power of his vocal descriptions, creates in blind Gloucester not only the illusion that he had indeed reached Dover, but also that he had somehow survived a suicide attempt. It is obvious why such a scene is considered “un-presentable” on a stage. Not only does it stretch the limits of plausibility, but the literal presentation of the scene is likely to look absurd and comical, against the grain of the tragic narrative. However, I’d like to believe that this scene is a profound meditation on Theatre. For Edgar is himself like a director leading his own father on, in a play within a play, a play which is also a self-reflexive investigation of the limits of visual representation (and blindness), the power of language, and above all the power of the imagination — for Dover exists only in words, in the minds of Gloucester and the audiences.

The third scene that creates major difficulties for staging is the famous storm in which Lear was caught. The image of Lear stripped both to his mental and physical barest in a tragic “return” to nature is crucial to the play. It reveals at once the physical vulnerability of Lear and the internal fragility of his mind. However, this scene is almost impossible to present — for practical reasons. To suggest the full force of the storm by means of visual and audio effects almost inevitably detract from the performance of the actor and the audibility of the text. Yet, the opposite strategy of minimising the external storm to focus on the storm manifested by the Lear’s lines is often equally unpersuasive — for it cannot evoke strongly enough the vulnerability of Lear before the forces of the external world.

So part 2 of the Project once again attempts to expand the audience’s sensitivity to the nuances and intricacies of theatre, this time focusing on the various elements of stage design. It’s also a small tribute to intelligence and work of crew members normally behind the scene’.

LWC: Thank you, Tzu Nyen, for this conversation.

HTN: No, Weng, thank you. Perhaps we can close by returning to the Cavell essay, and quoting from him. In “The Avoidance of Love”, he makes a comparison between Lear’s tragedy and our own — the “our” here referring to the “us” of modern society. With Lear, and classic tragedy, the hero is tragic because while he is capable of love, the conditions of that love are not possible. “People capable of such love could have moved mountains; instead, it has caved upon them. One moral of such events is obvious: if you would avoid tragedy, avoid love; if you cannot avoid love, avoid integrity; if you cannot avoid integrity, avoid the world; if you cannot avoid the world, destroy it.” In contrast with this “classical chain”, the tragedy of our times differs “not in its conclusion but in the fact that the conclusion has been reached without passing through love … Our problem, in getting back to beginnings, will not be to find the thing we have always cared about, but to discover whether we have it in us always to care about something.”

1. This is not an actual interview with Ho Tzu Nyen; moreover it’s not the first time that I’ve faked, in print, a conversation with Tzu Nyen. I’m repeating myself: for a piece that I did for the Australian magazine Photofile — which had as its theme, “Even Better than the Real Thing” — I cobbled together a dialogue from other actual interviews that Tzu Nyen had done and from texts that he supplied to me. I kept my editorial manipulations to a minimum, and resorted to invention only once in a while. Tzu Nyen and I thought that for this particular occasion it might be appropriate to repeat once again that game: to simulate conversation through the text, and have that take the place of a “normal” interview, one where the persons would actually speak to each other. [↩]

The debut of Cake’s multi-sensory epic Nothing in April last year marked not only a brave and critical re-examination of director Natalie Hennedige’s artistic vision, but also a defining moment in Singapore theatre. Previously, Hennedige and her creative team could be likened to mad scientists, celebrated for their ingenuous methods, yet threatened by them. Though adept at fashioning exquisite theatre out of the mundane or unexpected, they were just as likely to lose their audience in the wake of dangerous solipsism. Nothing, a dreamlike pastiche of human relationships reflecting on death, love and longing, witnessed the coalescence of Hennedige’s characteristic energy and boldness with moments of haunting intimacy and introspection. Later that year, y grec reinforced Hennedige’s newfound restraint, delivering an enthralling interpretation of poetry on stage that reminded us of the play’s ability to go places inaccessible to other art forms.

Cake’s artistic development proves that the best experimental theatre ascribes some logic to its madness, heightening the audience’s sensitivity to the play while careful not to alienate them. The drastic changes in mood and theme from one scene to another in Nothing, for example, are convincing because they reinforce the play’s exploration of variously dysfunctional ways we cope with a failed relationship, or the imminent death of a lover. Unfortunately, in the case of Circus, logic appears to be inconsequential, and is recklessly eschewed for madness.

This multi-disciplinary collaboration between Noor Effendy Ibrahim, Rizman Putra, Sabrina Annarhar, Fredi Sonderegger and Emanorwatty Saleh aims to convey several observations of torture through subverting the traditional aspects of a circus, attempting a daring theatrical experiment reminiscent of Cake’s earlier efforts. Abandoning most conventions of the stage, this unusual conflation is also an artistic apologia of sorts; the message that seems to unify Circus is that there isn’t and shouldn’t be one. Unfortunately, the artists’ perceived “message” fails to conceal the fact that they have no conceivable idea of how the production should unravel or, more fundamentally, why it should.

To be sure, the production’s flaws have very little to do with the artists’ individual talents. Local indie singer Sabrina’s smoky, mellow vocals imbue the production’s interludes with a haunting poignancy: she is the sort of songstress that can sing a phonebook and make it sound good. But with nearly indecipherable lyrics like “I am having sweet coarse hair / an added bonus cigarettes and coffee / I cup your millipede and winged cows / with Teflon coated psychedelia”, which doubles as the written introduction to the play, she might as well have been singing just that. Similarly, one could wax lyrical about Fredi’s mastery over the bass trombone; but his performance could just as easily pass off as a sterling solo rendition, or random notes strung together during practice that sounded good for no particular reason.

Circus takes significant liberties with plot, theme and structure at the expense of cohesiveness, attempting to shock and unsettle with no discernible purpose. When asked about the play’s construction during the talkback, Effendy offered Sabrina’s song interludes and the artists’ untidy sketch of ideas (reproduced in the programme) as guidance for the action on stage. The songs we already know are painfully obscure; a page hastily scribbled with words like “sensation”, “spectacle” and “epilogue” even more so.

The result is an untamed expressionistic beast bloated with too many sequences, theatrics and layers squeezed into a running time of barely under an hour. One minute the artists, running on the spot with cages on their heads, would be screaming “Torture!”; the next they would be on their backs stamping the floor, laughing deliriously and throwing milk and sawdust at each other. And as if this wasn’t messy enough, one artist or another would put on a clown suit and play an instrument, or suddenly erupt into boisterous dance or song.

Not all parts of the play are as indulgent; in fact, several moments offer fascinating insights on torture. However, with little focus or direction, the Circus troupe conceals such potentially intriguing issues with bizarre logical twists that arise only because they want so desperately to believe that these amount to theatre. In one such sequence, Effendy whips the ground with stunning force and intensity, his body clenched with incommunicable pain and frustration. Eventually, he seems to realize the futility of his actions and ties the leather rope around himself, quivering with exhaustion and defeat. Although fertile with ideas of aggression and self-alienation, the artists have no notion of how to explore them. Instead, Rizman proceeds to strum furiously on his guitar, singing, “Johnny, I’m really sorry, there’s nothing left to do but sing!” Ironically, this encapsulates the play’s essence, or the lack of it.

These disparities expose a more incriminating neglect. An interview with youth.sg ominously entitled “Circus: No Plan, Just Spontaneity” reveals that the group will “react and respond to the environment during the performance, creating some unexpected moments that will make the experience memorable”. This was reinforced during the talkback, when the artists consistently asserted that Circus was a no holds barred experiment, intent on pushing the audience’s expectations and the limits of the stage. However, such casual artlessness is false basis for the artists’ lack of a “plan” or any coherent rationale. If every movement or speech on stage can mean anything the artists or audience want it to, there are no limits to what is considered valid and sensible discourse cannot occur. Thus, experimenting for experimentation’s sake ends up ringing rather disingenuous here. Consequently, the production does nothing to inform the audience of the artists’ reasons and motives, except to dump large amounts of abstract ideas and emotions which are never defined or elaborated upon.

Circus is a grave lesson in the perils of re-inventing theatre. As agents of change, artists should persistently question and re-evaluate artistic and social conventions. However, if the artist’s duty is to merely indulge in his slightest whim and fancy with no regard for the audience’s ability to keep up, then art becomes impenetrable, and particularly ill-suited to the live, shared experience of theatre.

Amos Toh will read Law at the National University of Singapore in August 2008. He is also a reviewer for the theatre and dance magazine The Flying Inkpot.