Shane Mardjuki is set to play transsexual Maggie Lai in the restaging of Purple.

And looking at that photo, I must say, he looks perfect for the role of, to quote the show’s flyer, “a lavatory cruise addict who transforms into a hairdresser, masseuse, transvestite, transsexual, stripper, prostitute and movie star”.

Or, as the piece’s playwright and set designer Goh Boon Teck put it: “a boy who wanted to be a girl badly.”

With Toy Factory concentrating on bringing their work to schools and overseas, the bio-play, which had two sold-out runs in 1995 and 1998, will be the group’s only public offering for 2012—and it looks like they’re pulling out the stops.

Set to run in August at Joyden Hall at Bugis+ (formerly Iluma and, ahem, a stone’s throw away from the historically glam Bugis Street), Goh revealed they’ll be trying to recreate the circus environment for this 21st century version of Purple.

And it does seem like it during this morning’s press con where a member of Circus Swingapore (there’s a school for circus arts here!) performed a Cirque du Soleil piece as a teaser, hanging upside down and doing some mid-air acrobatics. Wah.

We were also treated to a performance of I Am Woman by Purple’s three larger-than-life nurse characters played by Elizabeth Loh, Matilda Chua and Rebecca Spykerman.

But of course, at the heart of it is Maggie Lai’s tale, which  Goh had come across 17 years ago in a magazine. “I couldn’t stop crying,” he recounted. And luckily for us, he did stop to write it out.

As for why they’re restaging Lai’s journey towards acceptance, it was the current anti-foreigner atmosphere, the idea of the “other” and the tensions in difference, that prompted Goh to do so. “It’s very, very sad that the issue (tackled in Purple) is still relevant today,” he said.

Rather than directing it again, Goh roped in Skinned Knee Productions’ Rayann Condy (who also directed Toy Factory’s Equus and acted in 881 The Musical). Getting a foreigner (and long-time Singapore resident) to helm the piece would give it a new perspective, explained Goh.

And of course, it was Condy who zoomed in on Mardjuki, who takes over the role from the now Sydney-based Dex Tan (who also did M Butterfly).

Not only does Mardjuki have that kind of androgynous thing going on, he’s actually, erm, dressed up for the part elsewhere.

Having seen him in other productions, Condy quipped, “He’s very delicately handled gay roles as well dressed ridiculously campy in drag.”

Mardjuki’s incidentally currently swaggering onstage as a dude in SRT’s Twelfth Night, along with Purple co-actor Spykerman (who’s also doing her bit of cross-dressing as well in that show).

“I’m looking forward to this. And it’s very rare that I look forward to work,” he deadpanned. “I am always ready to be a woman. There’s a lot of waxing to be done. A lot of hanging out in dodgy alleys for research.”

(Purple runs from Aug 2 to 18 at Joyden Hall, Iluma, Bugis. Early bird tickets available from Sistic starting today.)

At some point during a LIFE performance, Joavien Ng disappears into her tennis dress, stuffing her entire body into her clothes, shrinking into an odd mass of red and white. She sings It’s A Small World After All until her voice cracks.

After a series of collaborations, including last year’s site-specific performance The Diary Of Alice, she returns with a raw but powerful solo piece problematising space—physical, mental, creative—in the context of an increasingly overcrowded Singapore.

It is a response that impresses me very much. You’d easily expect a visual artist or a theatre company to take on this topic, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one from a homegrown dancer/choreographer.

And then you realise that it makes absolutely perfect sense for someone like Ng, whose very body is the instrument of expression, to have a strong opinion about the fact that a growing number of bodies is slowly being crammed into a small island. Movement is literally restricted. Physical reaction is almost instinctive and inevitable.

And throughout a LIFE performance, Ng harps on that by way of absurd humour, a sense of play and childhood memory.

Laid out on the floor is a blank map of Singapore on which she plonks coloured cutouts of supposedly essential things for an “ideal life”—a bed, a chair, some chickens, some cows, etc. Like some talent on a tacky real estate TV advert, she slowly walks around the borders of the island spewing out facts and figures about its land mass. Ng wonders aloud just how much space one person is bound to get if you divide Singapore evenly among its residents. She comes to the conclusion that it’s not really much.

While she neglects to factor in Singapore as a vertical city of buildings, Ng does put across her point that it’s a pretty small space to live in. She does this by squeezing herself into the awkward spaces between the coloured cutouts on the map, her movements reminding us of hopscotch and Twister.

Not content with this, she then elaborates on ways of making herself fit into her hypothetical space. She tries to become “small” (her painful-looking contortions as she contracts her muscles makes one grimace) or “flat” (she lies down and makes a hissing sound as if being deflated).

Going counter to the absurd humour that accompanies these physically impractical examples (including her Joavien-as-a-ball moment) is the moment when she pulls her skirt over her head. The only way to reclaim her space, she said, is to “ignore other people”. This sobering strategy of isolation gives her freedom, but it has a consequence—she’s finally dancing naturally but her face is covered. She is devoid of identity.

All of these are interspersed with more anecdotal moments from childhood, such as when, instead of playing house, she played accountant. Signing her scrapbook of receipts that slowly fills up (echoing similar space issues), her act of writing transformed into a graceful set of gestures.

To be sure, a LIFE performance could perhaps be tightened even more (I’m not particularly sold on the final section where Ng plays around with the cutouts to form a series of visual statements—although Lim Woan Wen’s lighting wonderfully created a sense of claustrophobia as if the ceiling had been significantly lowered). But as it is, I think it’s an effort worthy of a bigger audience, particularly from the dance community. Here’s a wonderful example of a work of an artist that, by digging deep into herself, finds something that resonates clearly within its milieu and results in art that is honest, immediate and, most importantly, relevant.

(a LIFE performance runs until May 12. Details here.)

We promised an interview with Lee Wen and we finally got around to posting it up. Our thoughts on his ongoing show at SAM, Lucid Dreams In The Reverie Of The Real, and a bit about the man has already been out for a while here, and much of his “life story” has also been up elsewhere. But we just could not not do a RAT interview with the dude, who talks about the Yellow Man,  his oh-so-brief acting career, among other things.

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Yellow Man is pretty much over for you isn’t it?

I don’t think of it as really over but I do find it difficult to be motivated to do again. Basically because I hate washing up after. (laughs) It takes longer to wash than putting on the colour! And sometimes it gets into places… There was one time I did it in Denmark and you know these people tell you it’s not cold and it’s already summer. But we’re from a tropical country. So when I showered, I took nearly two hours to wash up, and the water comes hot then cold then hot… It was torture. It’s the worst part of the performance, which nobody sees.

People think of performance art as something serious and yet you have these rather amusing behind-the-scenes moments. Any other similar experiences you’ve had while performing?

I would say one of the funniest incidents was with (performance art collective) Black Market (International).

Jacques Van Poppel always seems to have alcohol as material in performance. He was playing his drum pad and had this bottle of beer next to him. Elvira (Santamaria) stood behind him and put her long hair over him. I thought I could do an interesting action where I would pour the beer over Elvira’s head and wash her hair with the beer.

But just when I started to pour, Elvira stood up and threw her hair back and the beer just went on (Van Poppel’s) head and on his tuxedo. And I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to wet it because it shrinks. It was the last time he wore a tuxedo. (laughs)

In terms of your creative output, how much of it are people actually seeing in ongoing exhibition?

Like I said, it’s not a retrospective. I wanted to make it like a dream, where people walk in, it’s not (arranged) chronologically and you see one thing and then another… I didn’t want all these text explanations so that you face them and find it to be a surreal experience. That if people just walk in and not depend on explanations, it would be a more interesting experience for them. At least for my exhibition, all the works are very visual, except maybe for the resource centre.

What do you want your audiences to take out of it?

We have seen so many exhibitions in our life, we get tired. Of course being artists that we are, we want the total experience. I want to be surprised and moved by things I see. And it seldom happens nowadays. I’m not sure if I succeeded in doing it but I did try la. Maybe it is another failure—after Kuo Pao Kun’s saying. I’m not saying it falls short of my vision, but in some ways my ambition is to make something that is unachievable.

I think I’ve achieved an honest and credible exhibition that opens up possibilities for other people to be more daring. Because 20 years ago, I wouldn’t dare do things like putting up boxes in the gallery and expect people to accept it. It’s only now that we know that there are audiences out there, there are curators, that accept what I’m proposing.

Many times I thought this show is a bit late in coming. Ten years ago I could’ve been more agile and do more performances, but at the same time, I think the audiences are more ready (now). In fact, I probably think that young artists are looking at it and thinking they can do better than me.

Can you share a bit about the connection your artistic track as a performance artist and what preceded it—drawing and painting?

I was drawing ever since I was a kid. It’s something that I really enjoy doing, actually. But one thing I don’t njoy so much is oil painting. It’s so messy. And I waste a lot of the paint that I squeeze out of the tube. Ecologically speaking, drawing is safer for me to do and I think it’s something that I can handle with my Parkinson’s… It’s (also) more noble in some ways, in the sense that it’s closer to writing also. Painting is an embellishment…

The performance came after coming across Tang Da Wu in The Artists Village. Going to London, I started to research about Western paintings and Chinese portraiture. I found that the performance scene in Singapore, which started in late `89, early `90s, actually started around the same time it started in China. I kinda said to myself, there must be some relationship.

So I looked at portraiture. When you think about how artists use self portraiture, it’s a kind of performance. Looking at Rembrandt’s paintings, Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings…

I used to show my class in Japan the portraits of Vincent Van Gogh in a slide show, where you see it’s as if he’s doing a performance. Different weather, different hats he wore, his beard is different, his ear is cut off, things like that. It’s all portraiture. In a way, performance in painting.

And later, when you think about artists like (Yasumasa) Morimura, they use cosplay to change their persona—performance on photography, which self-portraiture actually predates.

So performance for you is not a distinct break from painting or drawing.

I guess I saw (the connection) as necessary because we (sometimes) feel that it’s a bit too egoistic to use ourselves that way. So we need to overcome this psychological barrier first.

But sometimes, I also think that it went to the other extreme for us. Artists become very egoistic when they do performance art.

So when (SAM senior curator Khairuddin Hori) talked about me despising individualism (in the TODAY article), I guess I wouldn’t say I despise it, but I can see the danger of extreme individualism to the point of narcissism.

That’s why I was apprehensive about showing a lot of performance photographs and videos in my exhibition. I want to see artworks when I go to an exhibition. Of course, for performance artists, it inevitably is about the body. But when you put 20 images in one room, it’s a bit enough. Let’s say if I fill all those rooms with 20 images of performances of myself, it’s like Lee Wen, Lee Wen, Lee Wen. It’s to the extreme.

Erm, but your show does have a lot of your photos.

But I try to minimise it so it won’t look so obvious. That’s why I make environments, the installations. I don’t know. It works for me, but I overheard somebody make some comment that it’s not as complex as when it’s seen as a performance. I think the complexity is also there in the installation, but maybe the viewer needs to work harder. Performance is so direct and in your face. So even if it’s subtle, the directness of the experience makes the viewer more focused into responding.

You once acted in Lao Jiu for TheatreWorks in the `90s. How come you never followed it up?

I was actually invited for the Kuo Pao Kun Festival this year, but I don’t think I can do it in time. I wanted to work with younger artists based on one of his last works, but do it in a performance workshop way.

When I came back from London, (TheatreWorks) asked Da Wu but he wasn’t interested. And then (Ong) Keng Sen asked him if he knew other artists and Da Wu called me. I said I’d give it a shot. Keng Sen was talking about performance theatre so I wanted to see what he was talking about. He comes from the tradition of Richard Schechner.

I went for audition and then, when I was still inside the studio, he ran out and screamed to Tay Tong: “He’s a natural actor! Wonderful! We’ve got him!” I thought, “Wow, is he putting me on?” (laughs)

We got on quite well. We argued a bit, as usual. For me, if you invite me as a performance artist, I have some leeway in some ways. There were differences of opinion but some of the actors were shocked to hear me talk to him like that. They were telling me, “Eh, he’s the director no? How can you talk to him like that?” Then I said, “Yah, but you know, I have different ideas about this. I think, in terms of performance theatre, we all have a right to say something about what we’re doing right?” But it came across as being rebellious lah.

They called me back to perform with them in Perth. It was good that they got me because they needed somebody to draw the tattoo on (Lim) Kay Siu. If not, they would’ve had to bring a tattooist with them! So I went to learn from Johnny Two Thumb all the dragons and phoenixes.

Everyday I had to touch him up. And it was good fun because I bonded with him quite well. He had a lot of misconceptions about performance art. In fact, in AGA (Artists General Assembly in 1993), he came to our performance and participated with us. We found Kay Siu extremely dramatic! But it was quite fun.

Those were the times when there were a lot of crossovers between the different fields.

Yah, we had more meetings than nowadays. In the past we kind of orchestrated it ourselves because we felt Singapore was so small yet we don’t know what the other disciplines are doing. That’s why the AGA was so comprehensive. Alfian Sa’at was there to recite his poems, there was Saba (TK Sabapathy) giving a talk about alternative and mainstream. Kay Siu and his friends doing some theatre experimental work. We thought it would set the precedent for future events. Unfortunately, the discussion always comes back to Josef and pubic hair. A lot of people don’t’ realize the significance of the event beyond that.

What was your role back then?

I was actually helping in coordinating the performance programme. I did this poetry and action thing. Then there were these group performances that we did on the day before it happened. Four of us used one of the cupboard sized generic boxes that were used in the AGA installation exhibition and started from Takashimaya. We just put the box there and each of us had a (specific) colour on our heads and feet. I was painted purple, I think. Zai (Kuning) was green. Josef (Ng) was red. Nick Pang wanted to be yellow—but he used this yellow that was turmeric and it was really hot on his head. He kept saying, “Hey when are we gonna finish? I need to wash my head!” (laughs)

We just improvised with the box and carried it around all the way to Dhoby Ghaut. We just wanted to publicise our event. Suzy (Lingham) and Suzanne (Victor) were giving out flyers with their friends. Security guard came out and scolded us. “You know people usually pay thousands of dollars to use this space—you come here and just perform like that! If you’re not gonna go, we’re gonna call the police!”

It’s very hard to see these spontaneous events happening anymore. Nowadays you have these pre-planned “flash mobs”. Let’s talk about the process of creating a performance piece. Where does it come from for you?

In the past, I was more into mythology. I’m into the kind of comparative studies of Joseph Campbell and all these people. It’s about making mythology for the contemporary times. The Masks of God, that four volume book that ends with Creative Mythology. I kind of took off from there.

I was just writing this piece which I wanted to make as an (accompanying) video for the Erasing Self-Portrait (work). Unfortunately I didn’t have enough time to finish it. Cos the video that we’re showing, Approaching Self-Protrait, a performance in Dresden, was just an initial response to the idea of using performance to do a self-portrait. I wanted to go back to all the works I’ve done which involve self portraiture or aspects of it and discuss the idea.

One of my earliest works played on this image of Picasso. There’s one series of paintings in The Journey Of A Yellow Man No. 3 where I have small canvasses below each of the larger paintings.

The first one had images of self-portraiture in the style of Picasso. The explanation below had something talking about Warhol wanting to be Matisse when he went to Europe and why he went into visual art.

In a way I wanted to make fun of how people always see Singapore art in a modernist (framework), the trend of aping the West and trying to be like one of the Masters. But the story of Warhol actually shows that this is not (exclusively) Asian. In the Western context, people also aspire to be like the masters.

But at the same time, I played with the fact that we may try to be like the masters but in the end, we want to do something that goes beyond what they do. Because our times are different from theirs. If I painted like Picasso or Warhol painted like Matisse, nobody gives a damn right? It’s only when you do something that’s representative of our time that it then becomes more relevant.

So this thing about self-portraiture to me is important for that side of the story of, in the Asian context, looking at ourselves.

In this context, Erasing Self-Portrait actually seems more pivotal than the Yellow Man series, which seems to stem from that bigger thesis of self-portraiture but now sort of stands on its own as a political or cultural statement on its own.

Yah, for me it’s actually a central work. That’s why this is my Yellow Man Blues—in the sense that no matter how hard I try, it comes back to me. (laughs)

So these days, what’s your relationship to this character you’ve created?

Now I just don’t do it very often. In fact I’m thinking of not doing it again. Unless someone pays me a million bucks. (laughs) If I find that there’s a context for it – like in Denmark, I found it was quite important for me to show (Yellow Man). Knowing Scandinavia for what it is, there is a high level of racism going on—not only towards Asian but the Middle East countries. I found that while I was walking down the streets of Copenhagan, there were a lot of Iranians and Middle Eastern immigrants or residents who were very touched by my performance more than the Chinese and the Asians. Because I think they feel a strong sense of being different there.

Do you feel that the Yellow Man took a life of its own and you had to adapt to that? Did it become bigger than what you’d imagined it to be?

It’s like Pop Art, for example. You find that the audience is much bigger than (for) any other contemporary art show. Do you think that everybody understands what the artists are trying to say or not? It will get thousands and thousands (of viewers), but it’s still the same thing when it comes to understanding. The number (of people) who really dig it in terms of the ideas behind it are very few. All of them think that it’s just showing Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley. It’s the same thing with the Yellow Man image. I get people doing Yellow Man performances in Korea, Thailand sometimes…

But I don’t stop them because this happens sometimes. There’s even a Filipino artist who made dolls out of the Yellow Man image.

Let’s pull out a random question. Where do your ideas come from?

In the past, I used to think no idea means no idea. Nowadays, I think that if you ask yourself constantly, something will come out, even at the last minute.

One of the most interesting things about working with performance is I can sometimes have the idea at six am in the morning, go and get the material, and perform in the afternoon. I did that with Black Market, because the first time I worked with them, we were at the Hannover Expo and there was very tight security. I went there one day earlier thinking I could go and see the space but they said we could only come in at midnight the day before the performance. And I didn’t bring any materials and didn’t know what I was gonna do.

But because I came one day earlier, I was walking around the house we were staying in and at the back there were a lot of wild yellow flowers. I woke up in the morning (of the performance), emptied my trolley bag, and picked these wildflowers.

I think it was a lifesaver for me, because the flowers not only were interesting as flowers but because, as I was moving around with this bag, the flowers were pushed together like a cube. I later took out this cube of yellow flowers and played with it (for the performance).

It was a last minute thing but it was a really good material that I had never used before. And I interacted with other people using it. It’s interesting in the sense that in performance you can even find an idea at the last minute—but you must keep on asking yourself to look for it.

So the improvisational nature, the idea of chance is a strong element.

Yah, but it must be a conscious motivation of asking what can I do, what can I do, what can I do. If I’m lazy, I’ll fall back on old ideas. That’s why I find a lot of performance artists doing the same performance again and again. I think it’s out of plain laziness.

How would you know it’s bull or not?

It’s all bull—but it’s good bull. (laughs) It’s magic in the sense that you are discovering something new on the spot that works. It’s bull in the sense that it may not have a formula but i out of the questioning comes an answer. There’s a kind of unexpectedness that is quite magical in performance art. Because we want to do something that is out of the ordinary yet says something which is human.

And if it doesn’t work?

If it doesn’t work it doesn’t’ work, then you find something else, you know? We did this thing in Glasgow once—performing five days in a row with 12 people. There was not a dull moment. Every day we found and did something new. All we had were three tables of material.

But in a world where everything is slowly held hostage by the idea of accountability – a festival or an exhibition – the spontaneity of performance art can undoubtedly send alarm bells ringing.

I can’t justify it. That’s why I can’t get our work into Esplanade. Because I think they want some kind of guarantee that you will get audiences. But you know, in terms of audience, I don’t know whether we are ready yet.

(The National Review of Live Art artistic director) Nicki Millican doesn’t believe in free performances. She passed by Singapore once and I was introduced to her at the Substation.

This was a few years before the lifting of the performance art funding ban.

When I started to organise FOI, she found out that we were offering free entry and she straightaway told me, “Lee Wen, you’re just teaching the audiences to expect this for free!”

I told her if we charge even one dollar, we’ll turn away even more people than audiences coming in.

By not paying, aren’t we falling into a kind of trap of not valuing the form, since it literally is a valuation of performance art.

It’s a chicken and egg question. I had a problem when I was doing the Anyhow Blues Project (gigs). My manager wanted to charge ten dollars but I said it will only turn away people. That’s why I put in the sign—“Ten dollars—but you can sneak in if you like. And then she say I sabo myself! (laughs) Audiences here are very erratic, the pool is very few and there are more events going on now.

So how would you assess audiences for performance art events like FOI and RITES?

So far there has always been quite a good turnout. But you don’t see many returning. One of the students who was captivated by the third FOI said she missed 4, 5, 6 and came on the 7^th. I asked what happened to her and she said she lost touch with the art scene. And I think this happens in Singapore. A lot of people come for the curiosity and they stop coming. It’s such a busy world these days, there’s a lot of entertainment, a lot of overtime work going on. So people don’t really go for these things unless they’re hardcore followers…

Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about growing audiences?

A lot of times people talk about how we should do it in public spaces to get audiences, because you’re only preaching to the converted when you’re doing it in museums and galleries. But I don’t really worry about things like that anymore.

It’s always like that in the beginning of things – you’re playing to the people that you know. If it spreads, it spreads. The more you push it, it’s like wasting energy.

But there are times when we do get unexpected audiences. When we were doing FOI in Sculpture Square once, these two Americans dropped by because they saw the information at the airport. They only had a few hours stopover and they had a free bus ride to town. There were a lot of things happening but they only came to our event. And they really enjoyed it. And they said, “We’d rather come to this than go shopping in Mustafa.” I guess it’s good lah, when it comes to publicity—to catch one or two people is already very good.

One thing that I can see that is good about the social engineering here is the educationists are really putting it in schools. We have young people who’ve heard about performance art through the art education programmes. So there are more informed students these days. Generally there’s a growth of acceptance.

I mean, performance art is always something that’s seen in a negative way and is misunderstood even by people who should not be doing that. One architect that we knew from a long time ago, made this comment about the Art Stage scandal (involving Maria Elena Rudolf tearing out the contacts list from an Indonesian gallery’s guestbook)— “She’s doing performance art”.

And I just had to say something to that. Just because it’s a negative act doesn’t mean it’s performance art. It is a very rude thing that she did and out of very bad social manners, not because it’s performance art.

I mean a lot of times we see somebody doing something weird in the streets—and people think it’s performance art.

Can you dumb down performance art?

It’s been dumbed down already. (laughs)

I do see the advantage of making things accessible by making simple actions that do say something quite clearly. (Tang) Da Wu is great at doing that. One of the special performances I saw that Da Wu did was on a theatre stage at Shell Towers (in the late `80s).

I was staying with him in Sembawang. And he asked for my help because he needed a piece of meat for the lunchtime performance.

I bought a leg of lamb, which had a very strong smell, carried it in a plastic bag and when I reached (the venue) he was onstage talking about maid abuse, based on an article in the newspaper.

I had never seen Da Wu doing such dramatic changes. It’s like Shakespeare, man! I never saw him do it again.

It’s amazing how performance art back then seemed to naturally slot into the public landscape, and the idea of these seamless overlaps when it comes to theatre, performance art… I’m reminded of the not-so-recent debate regarding Loo Zihan’s Cane performance and how you openly defended it.

The main question in performance art seems to be about authenticity. We want to know whether it’s real or not. There are a lot of things we don’t believe because of (suspicions regarding) ulterior motives, self-glorification… But when you look at Zihan, how can anyone accuse him of that? He’s doing it very systematically, which comes across as inauthentic. But he’s trying to do it in a way which is based on academic thinking. I don’t really like that kind of approach but I see the value of it, of how it can be a different approach.

Are you still a purist when it comes to performance art?

I’m not. I’ve never been. But I see that the main question we always grapple with actually goes around this main issue of authenticity. How many times have I seen, even in Europe, people discussing things like the difference between theatre and performance. If this is like that, it’s theatre, if it’s like this, it’s performance art.

I think it’s all bullshit. There’s always a theatricality in the most extreme performance art work. Once somebody puts himself (out there) as doing art, I think there’s already a state of theatricality.

It’s just (a question) of range. There’s a spectrum. On the one end there’s the very conceptual thing, on the other, more closer to the Shakespearean traditional theatre. In between there’s all these hybrids. But at the end of the day, once you are doing art, you are putting yourself on the stage already. Even if you’re doing it in real-life terms, there’s theatre involved. Putting out a cigarette on your shoulder is theatre.

So I don’t think there’s something like non-theatre performance where performance art is special. It’s just a claim by people who want to see performance art as really, really unique and more authentic than theatre—which I think is bullshit. Because traditional theatre, when done properly, questioning some perennial human questions, is just as authentic as a performance art piece.

This question of authenticity is more about the skill of the artist.

What do you mean?

There is skill involved in doing performance art. Skill in the sense that you are able to show something really authentic based on the way you do it. I can’t say in what way because in terms of performance art, there’s no clear one way. There’re so many possibilities.

It’s not skill like a carpenter being able to cut wood into two exact pieces. Because you can’t do performance twice sometimes. A great performance sometimes can only be done once and if you do it again, it doesn’t’ work.

Some performances I’ve heard about are so strong that just the idea of it is stuck in my mind.

There’s one, explained to me by Alastair MacLennan, that I can really feel. It’s by Zbigniew Warpechowski, a Polish artist who used to be with Black Market until he stopped.

He stood up, next to a pedestal the same height as him. There was a spike on it. He put his left hand just on top of it, and rolled a cigarette with his other hand.

He looked at the audience, smoked the cigarette. All the time his other hand was just over the spike. He finished the cigarette, put it out, and, very calmly, pressed his left hand into the spike. It went through. Then he slowly pulled it out, looking at the audience all the time. Then he went to the hospital.

A very short performance but such a strong image. I mean, you can’t repeat that kind of performance but people keep talking about it until today. He knows where the point is.

What do you think about the performances that have been created in Singapore today?

I haven’t seen a lot. I’ve seen some of the SPAM performances. I like the idea that they do it in different locations.

The last time I saw them was at Substation. Josef Ng came and made some remarks. He saw a kind of duet (between) Ezzam Rahman and an Australian artist. They did a light comedy piece. A little bit theatrical. And Josef made some remarks saying that he doesn’t see it as performance art but theatre and it wasn’t the kind of thing he did when he was doing performance art. That there’s no attention to the presence of the audience. No reaching out to the audience. The actions were planned that it was more like a choreographed piece.

Then Josef asked what I thought. So I gave my usual answer about how I see the problem as not about whether this is performance art or not. And that what Josef is saying is about that kind of performance art per se based on the `60s idea of performance art, the classic kind we expect. Which still exists but isn’t necessarily suitable for every artist.

I think every artist has to find their own way. Just like painting—not everyone is suitable to do abstract or portraiture. So I said that I don’t see it as a problem that Ezzam did it this way, because he has a sense of humour, likes to play with somebody else and make something dangerous look like fun.

Among the SPAM artists, there’s only Kelvin Atmadibrata who tries to lean towards that kind of `60s-based performance art. But I see also a kind of hybrid form of theatre involving some choreography. I said this is okay and not a problem. Not all artists are suitable for that kind of mentality. It’s not the be all or end all in performance art.

So how did you guys critique each other in the early days?

We were more informal, but there was always Da Wu there. And he had a very good eye not only for performance. One of the things that I really enjoyed was he used to put slides of our paintings next to very well known international artists. And then we talk about it. And it’s very interesting because it gave us more confidence also.

I told you how a lot of time we don’t see ourselves on par with what’s going on with the rest of the world, that we don’t trust ourselves. But putting our works next to these people, we started to think, yeah, why not? They’re just as equally bad as us as we’re as equally good as them. They’re experimenting, but we are also experimenting.

The group obviously took their time crafting a collective response but hey, better late than never right?

Below is their open letter in full. Alternatively, you can read it in their blog here.

***

In Response to Lee Wen’s Open Letter to S.T.

We would like, first of all, to thank Lee Wen for giving us his honest views on what (he thinks) is required of the public in appreciation of performance art, in particular and to a lesser extent of art in general. However, what Mr. Lee deems as art, or even “good art”, is simply not. Not only is it vulgar and demeaning, it doesn’t take a genius to see that the entire generation of artists who were involved in those “acts” were merely ape-ing the west. While there is nothing inherently wrong about ape-ing the west, it is purely stupid to ape the worst parts of the west, which even the west declares to be the pits.

While we agree that the status quo should be relentlessly challenged, any art, performance or otherwise, which stresses individualism as its principle objective or method can hardly be considered to be dialectical or progressive. For whose gains are we talking about, when we pronounce such lofty ideals of progress for the human race? The artist?

Let us take for example the following incident in New York sometime in the late twentieth century.

When Andres Serrano caused a scandal at the New Museum of Contemporary Art by exhibiting his “Piss Christ,” a photograph depicting a crucifix immersed in urine, the liberals came to his defence stating that:

Like Robert Mapplethorpe, Mr. Serrano struggles against inhibitions about the human body. His use of bodily fluids is not intended to arouse disgust but to challenge the notion of disgust where the human body is concerned. It is possible to see Mr. Serrano’s use of bodily fluids as pure provocation. But you can also believe that Mr. Serrano views them as a form of purification. The fluids make us look at the images harder and consider basic religious doctrine about matter and spirit.

Slovenian philosopher, Slavoj Žižek refutes this form of defence with the following hypothetical situation.

Let us say I were to publish a video clip depicting in detail how I defecate, how the anal hole gradually gets wider until the excremental sausage falls out, while also showing the stupidly satisfied/relaxed expression on my face when the business is over –could one claim then that “Mr. Žižek struggles against inhibitions about the human body. His use of bodily excrement is not intended to arouse disgust but to challenge the notion of disgust where the human body is concerned. It is possible to see Mr. Žižek’s use of bodily excrement as pure provocation. But you can also believe that Mr. Žižek views them as a form of purification – the body gets purified by ejecting excrement. The excrement make us look at the images harder and consider basic religious doctrine about matter and spirit”?

Let us, literally, cut the crap here and declare for once and for all, No! The snipping of pubic hair is NOT art, no matter how many times it is repeated, re-enacted, banned or tolerated. Foolish are those who, till now have remained silent about it, but stupider still are those who, out of fear of being labelled philistines, purchased tickets to watch its re-enactment.

The second point in Lee Wen’s letter that we would like to refute is his analogy of society’s treatment of the artist in the idiom to “knock down the nail that stands (or sticks) out.” Perhaps, we should ask ourselves the basic question, “What are nails for?” If not for joining pieces of wood together, if it does not perform its expected function, then, by all means, the nail that sticks out should be knocked down. This should be what everyone expects of society. However, if Mr. Lee’s intention of using the analogy of the nail was to assert the individualism of the artist, then perhaps, we could introduce yet another analogy, that of the porcupine or a bed of nails. If we are to stick out, let us then, stick out together!

There is also an apparent contradiction when Lee Wen proposes the need for plurality in “art and cultural dimensions”, and yet at the same time, he derides what he saw as collectivistic Asian values. So much for respecting plurality and diversity, when it is still the overcoming or triumph of a particular discourse over a seemingly inferior one. While it is not true that universal values do not exist, it is still necessary to critically examine certain values which try to disguise themselves as universal or transcendental, when all they really accomplish is the establishment of a new hegemony.

We appreciate Mr. Lee’s brief lesson on art history and the emergence of the artist as an individual but we are disappointed that his history lesson does not go back far enough (despite his seniority). A sense of perspective is required here to appreciate the next point. The practice of art has always been a social activity; recall the cave paintings 20,000 years ago and the Pyramids of Giza 4,500 years ago.

The common (mis-) conception is that the pyramids were built by a nation of slaves but we beg to differ. They were built by free subjects who willingly took to the whip because they believed in something greater than themselves. The common notion of the artist as an individual genius is a recent, Western invention and now exacerbated by Hollywood movies. What is a mere 60 years of this individualistic, narcissistic egoist particularity when compared to the vast universal history of 20,000 years? In today’s secularized society where most, if not all artists have done away with the idea of God, we find ourselves desperately searching for something to fill that God-shaped hole. And most people find it in the mirror – or in virtual mirrors such as social networks where we post our most intimate thoughts and activities for all to see, but more precisely for us to see ourselves being looked at by others. We hereby request the public to reconsider their role in the entire landscape of culture; not to over-emphasize the role of the individual be it as an artist, scientist, politician, executive, construction worker or domestic maid. For without society, the individual is nothing.

It seems that the only cultural discourses which he allows for are of a decidedly Western persuasion, forgetting the implications which such ideologies have played in much of world history- centuries of colonialism, oppression and bloodshed in the name of progress and enlightenment. And this recent cult of individualism functions in precisely the same way as religion did in the Crusades or contemporary Jihadist terrorism. It is the reason why we do not bat an eyelid when we hear of another Western “humanitarian” intervention on the news- because subconsciously, we do not consider people outside of the Western discourse to be people at all. In asserting our individuality (actually, more people are individualistic in Singapore than Lee Wen would like to believe), we have in fact denied the others of the right to exist. To put it simply, we regress into solipsism, and have lost all touch with concrete reality and social injustice, preferring instead the aesthetic search for beauty, creativity etc., and the repetition of sentimental moral platitudes which ultimately accomplishes nothing, whether in art or for the progress of human society.

Does art exist in a vacuum, apart from social reality? It does not. And neither do artists. If the artist would only retreat into his or her personal world of feelings and struggles, he or she misses out on the larger and broader picture of things, and by necessity the work will be a petty, insipid piece of work- esoteric, self-serving, and above all, appreciated by almost nobody but the cultural “elites” whom the artist so seemingly despises.

Black Baroque Committee

4 May 2012

Our feature on Singapore Tyler Print Institute director Emi Eu came out today. But again, there was much more to share, so here’s our unadulterated Q&A transcript. Enjoy!

***

Perhaps we can start at the beginning – how did you get into art?

My parents are Korean. My mother (Chung Young Yang) is a very renowned scholar in textiles and an embroider herself. For her PhD dissertation in NYU, her book became the only English language historical reference to the textiles of Japan, Korea and China, of court robes. She studies the patterns and symbolism, and she knows about the fabric. She had an amazing collection which she donated to this university in Korea. So there’s a museum named after her.

But she recently established a private foundation (Seol Won Foundation) to promote, nurture and revive all forms of Korean art, including embroidery. It was launched in New York in March and in Korea last week. She’s really a remarkable person.

I grew up surrounded by all these robes and drapes. She prompted me to do an internship at the Metropolitan Museum as a high school student, which at that time was very competitive. I was very lucky. She used to give lectures (there). Her work is there as well. She made new ways of embroidering stuff, from the traditional way.

I did my first internship there and I still remember, at that time, they had a Monet show. So I started looking at the artworks then.

So it was by osmosis? You could have very well gone into to fashion design…

(laughs) I’m not fashionable at all! My mom also did some pattern designs for fabrics when she was in school and did a degree at Parsons. She’s very artistic. But I think I was more inclined to music more than art in the beginning. I played classical piano. All I had was classical music. I really didn’t know very much about pop music—the only people I know, really, are Michael Jackson or Madonna. Like, you know, really popular. It’s okay what!

When I think back and look at my children, and see people who end up in the arts field, whether it be music or visual art or performing arts, you can tell who is really inclined. I guess I was meant to be in the arts, but somehow it became the visual arts.

I really loved playing the piano. I could spend hours just practicing. I loved to listen and just play. My mom was also a very good oil painter, and she kind of forced me to do some stuff, which I didn’t really like. (smiles)

But after I had gone to college—I took up a business degree at Boston University—she really gave me a unique opportunity to go to Venice on a holiday. I ended up working for this gallery, Contini Gallery. (The owner’s) now the exclusive dealer of Botero. I slowly became the gallery director. I was there for four years.

I started going to art fairs since I was 21. I’ve been going to Art Basel since 1991. And I remember, when Jay Jopling was showing Damien Hirst, I just thought, “What is that?”

I was much more familiar with the (works on the) first floor (of the fair). It was always modern art. When I went to the second floor, I was like, “Is this art?”

I remember different structures, it could have been Tracey Emin or anybody else. I was so young I didn’t understand anything. And I was in Italy and it was much more conservative.

I saw so many Piero Manzoni paintings, the assemblages, so many (Lucio) Fontanas. But I didn’t know any art. I was just starting out.

But it sounds so cool. Like, “Oh, I think I fancy a bit of art. I think I’ll just head to the Venice Biennale down the street.”

No, it’s still far! Anyway, I decided I must learn French because a lot of people from Paris have homes in Venice. And quite a lot of our clients were French. So I enrolled myself in Sorbonne to the Language and Civilization diploma course. I stayed in Paris for two years to learn French. While I was there I was kind of floating around and didn’t work for any gallery.

But I got offered a job in Singapore. (Dale) Chihuly was doing his installation for the Ritz Carlton. He had met my parents through a mutual friend in New York and in the course of their conversation, my mother mentioned that I did this type of work. They called me and asked if I wanted to go to Singapore and man their gallery for six months. I said I’ll go for three weeks, so I came to Singapore in 1996.

First impressions?

I didn’t even know where Singapore was on the map! I’ve known my (future) in-laws since I was young, and that’s why I knew that Singapore was a country. (laughs) But I had never been to a tropical country, having lived in the Western hemisphere for so long. When I got out to all these hawker centres and saw all these Asian people, I just had a culture shock. And then it was hot. (laughs)

I went to SAM, which had just opened then. For me, coming from America and Europe, I thought the place was cultural barren. I was 24 or 25 then.

Ouch. So what was your first encounter with prints?

I went to New York and did my Masters for two years—and for my second internship, I wanted to know what it’s like to be a curator. So I applied for the position at MOMA’s Paintings and Sculptures Department. I got it, but the curator at that  time didn’t have time for me and told me to try out at the Prints and Illustrated Books department. So I was, like, sure I’ll go. (laughs) So there it is! I was there doing the cataloguing stuff and just helping them out in the office.

Did you have an affinity for prints back then?

It wasn’t fireworks. Just like the majority of people, you just think print is boring. But once you get to understand it and appreciate it, you (realise) it takes a lot more than just painting or drawing. It’s more difficult. So when I was given a chance to join (STPI), I really jumped on it.

Of course, Tyler was the name that really attracted me most. He’s such an important figure in American art history. I really jumped on it. He was involved very, very much. He oversaw the construction fo this place, he designed this place, after which he was training people. He wrote strategies after strategies to get this place going.

Tyler really believed that in order for us to attract artists from abroad, we have to provide something that nobody else has, which is a one-stop shop. We have an apartment, the workshop, the gallery…

And he left after three months. What happened?

We were very far away from any of the decisions at senior management. It was all happening upstairs. From my observation, what happened was, the vision was the same, but the means to get there were different. They just couldn’t agree.

At first it was quite panicky. We didn’t know what to do. He had actually worked on our first residency programme with Donald Sultan, so we had all these works. And we had a beautiful show by Frank Stella – our first exhibition. But of course, everybody had to take a step back.

After Frank Stella, I organised a show from the Tyler archive, because we didn’t have any work. At the same time, in the workshop, we brought in Chua Ek Kay.

STPI got a lot of flak in the early years for the amount of money being poured into it, its affiliation with a Western brand and the fact that it focused on a “lesser” medium. Thoughts?

It’s not unnatural for people to have an aversion to print because a lot of people do think that prints are reproductions and are much inferior to paintings. And therefore they’re not really drawn to it. And for the government to have spent so much money on this, people I think had a lot of difficulty understanding it at that time.

People didn’t know what was gonna happen. And from my perception and observation, (the idea was) this was government wasting money – who wants prints? But in the meantime, the board, with Mr. Liu (Thai Ker) as chairman, worked really hard to figure out how to really make this happen.

Without him, STPI would not be here because nobody foresaw it. Who would buy, in 1996, S$15million of just pure equipment and stock and no guarantee of expertise because Ken Tyler was on contract basis.

The Singapore government will never put one single cent into something that they don’t know will have a definite outcome. Liu Thai Ker brought it to the cabinet and got an approval. And I’m sure he also got quite a lot of flak when Tyler left but he believed that this was something that Singapore can use. `Cos nobody else had it.

Would you say that it was initially a kind of outpost for Ken Tyler?

No. Basically, Ken Tyler was reaching this age where he had a workshop that had everything except the gallery. He had a beautiful studio, Tyler Graphics, he had a showing room, but his dream was to really leave a legacy. He had one daughter who wasn’t interested in any of this. And because he was very well-known, he used to travel to this part of Asia. He met Brother McNally who was so passionate about art and really wanted Tyler Graphics to be part of LASALLE College. But somehow, things weren’t developed. Then NHB was formed and this was the plan.

When did things calm down?

The first two years were really rocky and I think things started to really form when Irene (Lee) came in 2004. I kept asking Mr Liu to ask Irene. She was with Christie’s then, the one who set up their office in Singapore.

I didn’t know her very well but I knew she could work us in all our best areas to make this work. The weak link, I think, was we didn’t have someone sitting in the position with a vision and direction. We didn’t have a leader. She came in as director and she really put us right. She worked with us for 4 years until 2008, on every single corner of this operation.

She’s really an amazing mentor for me. I was a not-for-profit person and she changed me tremendously. I’ll still never be a businesswoman but I would like to think that I’m one for STPI because I know my product, my resources and what we can offer.

What would you consider as milestones in STPI?

I was able to do the Asia Society Portfolio and from there we were later able to work with Lin Tianmiao. She didn’t know who we were but because we engaged with Melissa Chiu, the director of Asia Society Museum, she came in and thought it was an interesting idea. The milestone was the four MOMA-acquired works. Even before the opening of her show, MOMA curators came down and picked the works.

Before that, Ashley Bickerton did an amazing project. His gallery, Lehmann Maupin, brought his works to the Armory Show in 2006. The work that was made here was on the cover of The New York Times.

It gave such an encouraging to the workshop and to us because when we choose to work with an artist, we don’t how it’s going to go. But when you get a public validation like that, it could only encourage us to trust our instincts.

The STPI has always had a strong international flavor. Were there criticisms about how you engaged the local arts community?

Ken Tyler thought that in order to expedite our reputation—and he was banking on his past experiences—it was much easier for him to bring artists he’s worked with already. So they were all Western artists. But his departure was a blessing in disguise. Yes, it took a bit of time, but it actually created a new market for works (from the region) that are made in an institution like this, to be able to market it to collectors around the world.

It was inevitable that we would get some sort of negative comment – the fact that STPI is a Singapore institution and getting government subsidy and why it isn’t doing more for artists.

Our pool is small. But we do make sure we had at least one artist a year and that’s why we are actually focusing on our time and effort to cultivating the market for the young artists we believe and that’s why we’re bringing them to the fairs.

Speaking of fairs, STPI has been very active on that front internationally. How did this come about?

Irene and I were in Lin Tianmiao’s studio in Beijing once and here comes this big Swiss guy. It was Pierre Huber. He had a legendary gallery called Art & Public in Geneva and worked with Maurizio Cattelan, Subodh Gupta before anybody else.

He was starting this SH Contemporary (in 2007) in Shanghai with Lorenzo Rudolf and he told us, “You gotta come, you’re the best in Singapore.” Irene looked at me and (whispers) “He’s a big guy!”

It was our first time ever. Instead of spending money to do ads in magazines, we used that to go to an art fair and see if we could sell stuff. And we did. We asked Tianmiao for some of her canvas works and we sold two.

We did SH Contemporary for two years in a row, and then we participated in Art Hong Kong when they started. We put in our name and (fair director) Magnus (Renfrew) said, “Oh you know the committee members aren’t really convinced of your proposal.” So we redid the application, we proposed Ghada Amer and Reza Farkhondeh—and everyone remembers us having the best booth.

Our goal has always been to do one in Asia, one in America and one in Europe. Singapore doesn’t count because it’s our home turf so it’s a given that we support.

We’ve always been trying to go to Art Basel and always get rejected. We got a waitlist letter for our first application and we were like, “Yeah!” – but of course it meant nothing.

We’ve also been applying for the Armory Show (in New York) and we got in this March. We brought our Teresita Fernandez, whose works resonates very strongly in America and of course we brought Heman (Chong)’s works as well, because he was also based there.

Besides the fact that we did make good sales and had really good exposure, I strongly believe that STPI’s presence in these places will contribute to rebranding the image of Singapore. Because so many people came and said all kinds of things—and mainly it was, “Wow, you guys are from Singapore.” And a few Singaporeans living in New York came to look out for us because they saw the gallery name.

I can talk to people until the cows come home about how wonderful our place is, how great the works are, but all you have to do is to show. That’s really one of the biggest reasons why we decided to go to the art fairs. We need to show the world and build our reputation as a place that actually does good work.

The day we get into Art Basel is a confirmation of our quality and professional work. It’s not about going there to sell but having made it.

Of course this comes at a time when it seems like Singapore’s participation at an international art event—specifically the Venice Biennale—is apparently being reconsidered.

Well, I really think that whatever we do outside, whether Venice Biennale or the art fairs, we must be very knowledgeable about the turf where you’re presenting. You must make a connection with that place and yet have the Singapore-ness. If you don’t achieve that, it doesn’t do anything.

There’s so many ways to do that and in art, it has to be the type of art that fits into a bigger context. So whenever we go to an art fair, we always think about what we’re bringing that can give us the benefits we’d like to have—because although it’s a big component, it’s not only sales. What are we gonna get by doing this?

This somewhat aggressive art fair tactics has been criticised in some circles for being a bit too much – that you’re functioning as any private gallery would. Any thoughts?

Selling was always part of the deal from the very beginning but nobody ever talked about art fairs at that time. But the question I guess, was for a not-for-profit (institution) going to an art fair.

But because the mandate was that the government was going to give us a grant for a certain number of years, (after which) we’re supposed to find our way to be on our own. And because such nature of works on paper is that it will never be able to achieve that kind of price range as canvas or sculptures, we do so many other things and we’ve become entrepreneurial in finding other ways to make money.

But we don’t compromise on the quality of work that we do. We are very careful in the projects that we take.

So what kind of animal is STPI?

It’s a fantastic animal. (laughs) It’s all in one. Where can you have something like this? Because we’re here, there’s a diversity—we have museums, galleries and this. We just filled that gap nicely. Artists come and create, and these are the ones shaping the path of contemporary art now. It’s coming hot off the press and we’re showing it.

But we’re also doing our education exhibition, like our annual show. It’s such a treasure trove. I don’t want to brag too much but even if I wasn’t here, I really believe this place is very unique.

The gallery functions as a private gallery because we need to promote the works that come out of the workshop. We must embrace the practices of other galleries to compete on that level, otherwise we’ll be left behind.

Back to you and printmaking. Have you actually tried making prints?

When I was doing my internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art as a high school student, we went to visit the ULAE (Universal Limited Art Editions), the place where Jasper Johns did most of his printmaking. I remember something about the litho stone—and how I didn’t understand a thing. It was so complicated.

I tried to make paper here (in STPI), it was horrible. I confess I haven’t done direct printing but I went close to it. And when I organised the very first show after Ken Tyler’s departure, I studied a lot. So I have a head knowledge, I just don’t have practice.

What goes on in your head when you see artists at work?

Well, that’s the thing. I never wanted these artists to make prints—from day one.

Excuse me? Are we talking about Singapore Tyler Print Institute here?

I never ever wanted them to do prints. This is a place to make something unique using print and paper techniques that we have. Well, yes, you can make a lithograph screenprint etching but after you’ve done the other thing. Show me something else.

Even with Chua Ek Kay—he didn’t do prints but he actually did pulp paintings. And we’re like, this is the way to go. Ashley (Bickerton) did something else using printmaking technology. This is more exciting. I can’t compete with ULAE, Paragon Press, Gemini, Pace Prints – they’re accessible to all those artists and so much nearer. If they’re gonna come here, they’ve got to do something different and there’s got to be something else we can entice the artist with.

Back then, what was the typical reaction of most artists when you invite them to come to STPI?

It was very hard! In the beginning, nobody knew who we were. Ashley really helped a lot. Tianmiao helped a lot. Artists were talking to other artists. Cultivating relationships with their galleries helps a lot.

In `08 or `07, Irene and I were in Beijing and thinking we must Zhang Xiaogang. So I called my contacts to arrange a meeting with him. He could come for drinks at ten o’clock but Irene didn’t go because it was too late for her.

So there I was and my friend comes and says, “He’s coming but by the way, I’ve asked another friend artist who’s my favourite.” “Who is it?” “His name is Qiu Zhijie.” “Oh, okay.”

I didn’t know him then and my mind was just “Zhang Xiaogang”. But he didn’t speak English very well and I didn’t speak Chinese. So there he was, smoking his cigar, then Qiu Zhijie comes in—very thing, tall, with a crew cut, speaking his really good English with a very heavy Chinese accent.

And I had to strike up a conversation because Zhang Xiaogang’s not talking right? So he told me how he had just got back from Lhasa. He had retraced the steps of this British spy who was Indian and in the British MI5 and did the whole map from Lhasa to Katmandu blah blah blah…

And I was like, “Oh my goodness, this guy is a genius.” So I told him, “Do you want to come to STPI?”

The next day, I went to Irene, “I have an artist. Qiu Zhijie is coming!” “Who is Qiu Zhijie?! What is he gonna do?” “I don’t know!”

Irene is truly amazing. She trusted me. And I trusted the artist.

And many of them don’t really work with prints, right? Tabaimo and Qiu Zhijie are video artists, Thukral and Tagra are really skewed towards popular culture, etc…

Many times, yes. Some don’t even want to entertain (the idea of printmaking). Some artists, I just have to keep nudging.

Qiu Zhijie, he’s just so brilliant, he’d do anything. But somebody like Do Ho Suh took me five years. He was very unconvinced about us. He was also very busy with other projects and flies all over the place. I just persisted.

Rirkrit (Tiravanija) same thing. I met him at LASALLE in Goodman and I didn’t even know who he was. So I googled him and found him very interesting. I started writing to him and made sure I went to every single event. When I was in Basel, he had a theatre show with Philippe Parreno, so I went and made sure he sees me at his events to show that I’m really serious. So he finally said yes last year and came to visit.

With Tabaimo, I went to Hara Museum. A video artist – yah, what can video artists do here right? I went to Eitaro (Ogawa, STPI’s chief printer). “I found this video artist and she seems really interesting!” “Yah, she’s quite interesting—but what is she gonna do?!”

She did such a wonderful project.

Has any STPI work found itself in auctions?

The fact that they’re not in the auctions is a good sign – it means collectors buy to keep. The prices are always in comparison to their studio works. And the entry point is always accessible.

We’re probably wrapping up now. Thoughts on the local scene?

I think it’s really, really exciting. It’s getting to a place where it would compete on a good level. And I think Art Stage has done that successfully—it has contributed to bringing up the level in such a short time. That jump was easier. And I think it was very timely also because we see a lot of younger generations being interested in art and they’re much more exposed than before and they also travel more. And their whole lifestyle is very much different when I was their age. It’s a very different world now and it’s changing very fast. Now, I think our business plan has to be on a yearly basis.

So, care to share who’s on your STPI wishlist?

We’ve finally confirmed Suzanne Victor for next year. Jeff Koons. Murakami has been here and loves this place. We would like to work with Zhang Huan, a performance artist based in Shanghai. Zeng Fanzhi, Liu Wei… We would love to work with William Kentridge. Maurizio Catellan. Philippe Parreno. We’ll get there someday.

Singapore’s visual artists recently made waves in the film fest circuit: Lucy Davis’ short film Jalan Jati (Teak Road) bagged a promotional award at the 58th International Short Film Festival Oberhausen last week as Charles Lim’s All The Lines Flow Out continued its winning run with a Best Experimental Short at the 2012 Nashville Film Festival the week before. Over at Marina Bay Sands, there was news that the Australian production of the musical Annie will be hitting our shores in July, and auction house Christie’s held a Spring Auction preview inside ArtScience Museum.

Art collective Phunk issued a plea for friends and collectors to donate their works back following a fire that wiped out their belongings last December. A man riding a horse made an appearance at Raffles Place as part of the performance Flux under the Singapore Arts Festival. The National Museum of Singapore reopened its Film & Wayang gallery after a three-month renovation. The Media Development Authority unveild a new grant scheme—the New Talent Feature—for first- and second-time directors worth S$250,000.

All these, however, were overshadowed by the tragic death of theatre actress Emma Yong, which shook a grieving local performing arts scene to its core.

The National Heritage Board held its annual Patron Of Heritage awards, honoured 40 organisations and eight individuals for their philanthropic efforts totaling some S$9.26 million. A new arts residency programme opened its doors courtesy of Visual Arts @ Temenggong, which is spearheaded by local artist Chen KeZhan (whose ongoing exhibition also serves as a fundraiser). ArtScience Museum’s blockbuster Titanic exhibition wrapped up yesterday as its most successful show to date, drawing more than 250,000 visitors. Elsewhere, Cultural Medallion recipient Lim Tze Peng opened his latest solo show focusing on Bali; new group Sight Lines Production debuts with its musical revue Trainspotting; and theatre’s ongoing love affair with Shakespeare continues after Romeo And Juliet with Singapore Repertory Theatre’s Shakespeare In The Park offering Twelfth Night.

Prominent personalities in the art scene were in the limelight last week. Performance artist and Cultural Medallion recipient Lee Wen opened his much-awaited survey show at the Singapore Art Museum. Poet Alvin Pang was selected to represent the country in Poetry Parnassus, which will bring top poets from around the world to the UK in June as part of the Cultural Olympiad, running parallel to the London Olympics. The French government bestowed one of its highest cultural honours to National Heritage Board chief executive Michael Koh. He was conferred the title Officer in the Order of the Arts and Letters for his efforts in promoting French culture in Singapore, bringing exhibitions on Christian Lacroix from Centre Pompidou and Musee d’Orsay to the museums here. Meanwhile, local gallery brands will also have a strong presence at the prestigious Art Hong Kong art fair in May as Singapore Tyler Print Institute, Chan Hampe Galleries, Valentine Willie Fine Art, Gajah Gallery, Yavuz Fine Art and Richard Koh Fine Art all participate. They’ll be bringing artists like Genevieve Chua, Heman Chong, Chun Kaifeng and Vertical Submarine.

Smoking issues aside, I’m sure a lot of folks are raring to catch hotshot Taiwan film director Tsai Ming-liang’s theatre comeback trilogy Only You, which happens next week.

Your non-Mandarin speaking rodent didn’t get to actually talk to Mr Wayward Cloud but the kind (and accomodating and patient) folks at The Esplanade were able to pass on my questions to him. Forty minutes of linguistic back-and-forth later (and I-dunno-how-many-hours-of-transcribing), and we’ve got this mighty fine Q&A with Tsai who talks about, among others, the difference between directing film and theatre, his days listening to Rediffusion as a kid in Malaysia, his rejection of the “virtual world” (which means he probably won’t be reading this) and, of course, collaborating with his fave actors Lee Kang-sheng, Yang Kuei-mei and Lu Yi-ching. Read on!

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Music – in particular old songs — play an integral part in Only You. Can you share something about your particular song choices and why you chose pop music as a structural peg?

I would like to take this chance to thank a friend working in the Singapore radio station who assisted in helping me trace down some old recordings from Rediffusion, including clips of Lee Dai Sor (a famous Cantonese storyteller). Lee Dai Sor was very popular in Singapore and Malaysia during my growing up years and every Sunday, he will be on radio at least twice, regaling us with stories. Basically, the production uses a large proportion of my memories. Things of the past like the radio, old songs, and on-air dedication that were a big part of everyone’s lives then but have ceased to exist now. Phone dedications were popular among the Chinese community in South East Asia then, and to me, there is a sense of warmth in using a radio programme and songs as a medium to convey one’s wishes to their friends in another state. The popular songs of yesteryear and today are vastly different, and it’s relation to the human race has changed too. How we access music has changed too, in the past, as you walk down the street, you can hear the radio programmes being broadcast, but today, everyone is plugged into their own earplugs. Hence, when I work in my memories into the production, it’s unavoidable that these old songs are weaved in as well. All my favourite songs can be found in this production, songs by Li Xiang Lan, Zhou Xuan, Wu Ying Ying, Ge Lan, Miao Li amongst many other singers of the 60s-70s. We have also produced a CD with these songs, with narration by the actors and me. We will be selling the CD in Singapore too. The connection between this production and old songs is very strong, and even the title is from Li Xiang Lan’s classic song, Only You.

Your last movie was Visage back in 2009. Are you taking a break from film-making?

With regards to film-making, perhaps I’m quite different from other people as I’m not very proactive. Very early on, I’ve realised that film-making is a very difficult process, meaning to say that it takes a lot, in terms of hard work and effort. What’s more, you may not necessarily produce a good piece of work that will win the praise of others. Hence, very early on, I’ve decided that in my life, I will be happy with making just 10 films. However, life has been good to me, continually giving me opportunities. In the span of twenty years, Visage is actually my 9th feature film, but I consider it as my 10th piece of work as I have another short film.

After shooting Visage, I started to feel more laid back and didn’t want to do anything. I’m a passive person and almost all my films are commissioned. I have another project coming up. It started with Taiwan Public Television approaching me to film a television series for them. I realised that I like the premise tremendously, and I decided that it would be a pity if it’s made only into a TV series. They approached me around three years ago, after Visage. Hence, I decided that it should be made into a film, and it will be my 11th film or 10th feature film. Taiwan Public Television was very gracious when they learnt about my decision and sold me the rights and the screenplay, leaving it up to me if I want to turn it into a television series or film. After that, I started to raise funds for the film. To date, we have raised almost enough money and if physically I’m up for it, production should start in autumn or winter this year.  We already have a title for the film and it’s called 郊游 (pronounced as “Jiao You”), which means taking a trip out to the countryside.

In this creative context, can you share how Only You come about?

I was invited for this project, it was around the end of 2010, after Visage. I feel that I’ve always only been an audience of The National Theatre and Concert Hall of Taiwan (NTCH) and I’ve never presented any work in the National Chiang Kai-Shek Cultural Center. However, they were very kind and made an exception for me by allowing Visage to hold its premiere screening there as this work was commissioned by a museum. After which, they approached me to work on a theatre production. At that time, I wasn’t sure of what to do, but they shared that they have a plan in mind. They hope that annually, NTCH can, starting with me, collaborate with a Taiwanese director and involved them in theatre productions. I think that by approaching me, there is less of a risk, after all my background is in theatre.

The theme they came up with is “Monodrama”, and left it to me to develop it further. I felt that the theme was very apt and is very close to my style as I like to explore the concept of being alone in my work. Actually, I was moved, after all, I was once part of the theatre scene, having started there and worked there.

There was this incident, many years ago, I went to watch Lee Kuo-Hsiu’s play, and it was at a very old theatre, near the Botanical Gardens. I used to perform in this theatre in my university days, but now it’s not often utilised as it’s a small space and also very old and worn. When I went backstage to look for Lee Kuo-Hsiu, the moment I stepped into backstage, I started to cry. I didn’t know what came over me, but I felt like I’ve arrived home. People were wondering if it’s because the play was very touching, but I said I cried because the atmosphere backstage made me feel very excited, it was as if I’ve met a relative after a long time.

So this allure of theatre, if you’ve been part of it or had a relationship with theatre, you will be very enamored by such an atmosphere. Of course, after I’ve switched to film, I didn’t have much time to think about doing theatre again. Thus, when they approached me, the timing was right, so I accepted the invitation.

Is there any connection between the three monodramas and your movies or do they come from different places?

I feel that in all my works, from film to theatre, everything that I do, they all stem from my inner feelings. If I didn’t have my life experiences or feelings, I wouldn’t know what to work from.  Although I do read novels, listen to storytelling, and watch other films, I don’t have the habit of adapting from novels, almost never. I feel that these things don’t resonate with me, the work that I want to present must be something of my own. For this production, I realised that there are a lot of things to think about. Actually, I’m not thinking about big issues, after all it’s not a big production held in a venue that can fill over a thousand people. I prefer such small places, because to me; there are more possibilities with small spaces. I don’t have to pay special attention to how the box office fares or the views of the general audience, from the young to the old.

I do not need to think too much, after all, people make the choice if they want to come and watch the show. Now that I’m returning to theatre, I’m always thinking about what new offerings I can bring to theatre. I’m always thinking in this manner. I do not have the mindset that with my return to the theatre, I must make it a success, I want to make a profit, I want more fame. I’m always thinking if I can offer something different to the current theatre scene, or to the audience. However, these new ideas will not deviate far from my innermost thoughts towards living and life. So, the content will come still from me, but as for the style of presentation, I will see if I can evoke a different kind of emotion from the usual offering.

Currently, we know that theatre around the world, like films, is influenced by Hollywood or Broadway. Everyone loves fireworks and glitz and envy huge productions that are widely popular and have big sets. In the recent years, the profitable theatre offerings in Taiwan are usually the musicals and comedies. The audience is very receptive towards these productions. But if you take a deep look, you will realise that these productions rely heavily on imitation. These days, the most convenient thing to do is imitate and the audience are usually very tickled by it. It makes people feel light-hearted and the audience finds it funny, but what’s missing is the element of creativity.

For students of theatre, we will know that the stage is not really meant for such productions on popular culture. We seldom see people attempting productions like Waiting for Godot and Chekhov. Personally, I like Chekhov as his material is very quiet, and I wonder why the audience are not exposed to such productions and each time they enter a theatre, they expect a rowdy affair. So I decided to work on a quieter piece this time and the theme “Monodrama” is very fitting. In terms of presentation, this production somewhat mirrors life and yet it has a certain framework to it. After I read the reviews in Taipei, I was very happy as the reviewers managed to pick that out and they felt strongly that Only You is very different from the theatre offerings in Taiwan for the last 10years. They recognised that there are possibilities for new ideas.

Will you be pursuing more theatre again or is this a one-off thing?

While people think that I am very innovative, but in reality, I’ve been going in the same direction. I’m not one to develop myself horizontally, and be multi-faceted, neither do I want to be a thousand-hand Buddha. I stay true to my personality and the style that I’m used to, and see how I can delve deeper. My actors are the same, and my style stays pretty much the same. However, if you are a fan of my work, you will see that I’ve been changing and the changes are very subtle, not unlike the changes in one’s life. It’s not something that you can experience in a short time. You need to observe for a long time, and experience it. For example, one will not know how they will look like at age sixty, until they’ve reached that age. If you keep changing your looks by undergoing plastic surgery, then when you are seventy, how you look like isn’t a true reflection of how you should look like if you were to age naturally. I enjoy observing these changes in life, and in my work, I keep practicing the same style and am keen to see how much I am able to develop it further. It’s always been this way.

This experience of returning to theatre has been a nice and comfortable one, but it has been quite taxing on me too. It was quite draining to work on this production as it’s very lengthy, a total of six hours and I had five months produce three full-length pieces. I am stretched mentally and physically. Each time we rehearse, it’s for three pieces, but there’s nothing I can do about it, except to be tired at the end. However, deep down, I feel good and peaceful because in retrospect, this production has shown me what I can accomplish. Your work is reflection of your life, each time you work your guts out for a production, and the end product will be a testament to your ability, what you can achieve, and what you are able to achieve. I’m happy that with each given opportunity, regardless of whether it’s for theatre or film or other creative pursuits, I approach it with a light heart. If there’s an opportunity and time permits, I will do it. Sometimes, when I look at the world and environment around me, I feel that I have been given good opportunities. The process from start to completion has always been very comfortable. Actually I have been approached by a French company to work on a new theatre project, but I feel that with every work, you need time to work and develop it.

From your personal experience, what were the differences between making a film and directing a theatre piece?

For theatre, it’s happening in real time, so until the day of the performance, you can still communicate with the actors and crew on how to work on certain elements. That is unless you stop thinking about it. To me, a theatre piece is an organic thing and it keeps growing. For film, after shooting and editing, the form is fixed and there’s usually not many opportunities to make any changes. However, for a theatre piece, after the run, it is over. I do not encourage recording a theatre piece and re-watching it, as that’s not the way it’s about or should be experience. I feel that in my earlier years, I feel a great sense of loss when the theatre run is over and the actors move on, especially after all the hard work. I don’t have the habit of recording it and re-watching the play as I feel that it’s not who I am. The audience will know that while watching the production, everything happening in front of them is in real time, and once it’s over, it will only remain in their memory. If it’s a production that they like, what remains will be the fond memories. For films, if it’s preserved well, one can re-watch it over and over again, and this is the difference between the both.

Only You has a very interesting structure – three monologues by three regular collaborators that are, judging by the very interesting titles, seems to be biographical or about the collaborators. Perhaps you can share how you went about constructing the pieces?

The themes in Only You are a reflection of what I’ve learnt about life and how I feel towards certain things. I have a small social circle; I don’t have many friends and life revolves around work, making films and other trivial things. I dislike going online and I reject the virtual world as to me, it is not real. As it is, life can be quite fake, so I am baffled as to why some people are obsessed with having a lot of virtual friends, like in the American films. You can have over 50,000 people wishing you Happy Birthday online and spend tonnes of time checking out who’s checking your profile page, but in reality, you do not know these people. In my life, everyone in my social circle is very important to me. For example, the actors like Lu Yi-ching and Lee Kang-sheng are very close to me, and we do other things together, so we are like family. So, when I started work on Only You, they are able to express my thoughts.

Lu is two years younger than me and we have many discussions on the state of our health, especially now that we’re over fifty years old and have some little ailments here and there. Lee Kang-sheng is my next-door neighbour, and I am privy to his latest obsession. For example, in recent years, he is into rearing sea-water fishes and has started diving etc. While I do not dislike his hobby, I have some reservations about it. If he goes diving at night, I will worry about his safety, if there are poisonous snakes and if he can even see in the darkness. I cannot understand why he can’t be contented with simply rearing fresh water fishes like goldfish! Each time he wants to change the water in the tank, he will need to head out to the sea. Although I can’t really comprehend this obsession of his, the fact is that what he does in his life does somewhat affect my emotions.

So, when I decided to do Only You, I asked these actors out and had a chat with them, finding out if there are particular themes or characters that they’d like to express the play. It was only from our deeper conversations that I realised that while Lee may be my neighbour, I do not know a lot about his life or even what time he goes to bed. His mother complains that he sleeps only when day breaks and wakes up in the afternoon. But I don’t know what keeps him up in the wee hours, so for the show, I started to delve deeper into his private life, and I found out that he stays up to work on his fish hobby or watches the Taiwanese glove puppetry shows. I do the same with Lu and Yang, finding out more about them. In my discussions with them, I will approach the matter from another angle, for example, I will tell Lee that rearing fish is not environmentally friendly and Lee will share his own perspective. Slowly, I find out more about these actors’ lives and realise that the way they think converges with my thinking too. For example, Lee likes going to the sea as it’s a peaceful and mysterious place and he looks forward to discover more about it. Also, that’s the only place I cannot reach him on the phone! This mentality is also similar to me, as I do yearn for some things in my life too. For Lu, she does a lot to care for her body, going for Qigong, learning different things, but when I ask deeper questions, I realised that what she is looking for cannot be bought nor learnt. So eventually, she gives up wanting it. For Yang (Kuei-mei), she may seem like a big star, but what she’s lacking is a life of her own as she is extremely busy taking care of the needs of her family while juggling work and taking on different characters in movies.

So, there isn’t any real story, but I put together the bits and pieces of what we’ve discussed to thread a storyline. For Yang, I wrote the role of a ghost in a transitional state between earth and the netherworld, looking back to see what she has been pursuing in her life.  For Lu, her role speaks of a person coping with her current state of health, and having to accept the helplessness of aging and falling sick. For Lee, his role is a little special as he resembles my dad physically, so to me, although my dad is no longer around, he seems to be manifested in Lee. And I start thinking if this is an indirect way of getting to know my dad better. So I will probe further, and see if there a link between Lee, myself and my dad. I look back at how I ended up being a director, and the work that I do and ask myself why I do what I do. After all, my work doesn’t fall into the mainstream genre and people often criticise my work, and yet I keep at it, and why is that? Eventually, this leads me to think about the religious figure, Xuan Zhang the monk. If you look at the historical records of Xuan Zhang’s life around 2000 years ago, you’d wonder what made him go to India for the Buddhist scriptures. After all, he did not have the patronage of the officials, he was travelling by foot and the journey through the desert was harsh, plus there was no guarantee that he will succeed. Yet, his objective was to get the scriptures back to enlighten the people in China with the teachings. I feel that in different eras and religions, there are some figures who dared to dream, despite all odds, like Xuan Zhang, Jesus and Muhammad amongst many others. What they do isn’t the mainstream, but I feel that in their pursuits toward their ideal world, they have something to teach the rest of the world.

Hence, I decided to connect the story of Xuan Zhang to Lee’s story.

What was it like working with your regulars film collaborators for theatre pieces? Why this three-in-one structure in the first place?

It’s a natural thing to work with these actors. Initially, I planned for a fourth piece of work and I wanted to work with Chen Hsiang-chi but unfortunately she was not available. As a matter of fact, Only You can be developed into many pieces, but I decided that three pieces are enough or else I will never get to rest!

The difficulty was putting together a complete work as I didn’t have a script to start with. We pieced the production together as we worked on it and there were many times when we got stuck. To me, this production is akin to going to work; I don’t think about the script or work on it when I’m at home. NTCH has commented that we spent a lot of time rehearsing as compared to other groups that used their venues. They are also very surprised on our level of commitment. However, they didn’t realise that we actually start from zero, and with each rehearsal every day, the story develops. There is another element for this production, a dance element. We invited Cheng Tsung-lung who was previously from Cloud Gate Dance Theatre to help us in this production. He is very talented and skilled and when I saw his work, I liked it tremendously and invited him to join us. The process was a very interesting one; initially he was supposed to choreograph a dance for each actor, but as we progressed, it changed from that to developing interesting and visually attractive moves that will complement the old songs. That’s why I said that after this production, I realised that there are many new possibilities that I can explore for my future work. I may not approach say a musical film with the same style that I am accustomed to but add in new elements.

Are these three pieces meant to be seen as a complete trilogy by audiences – as in they are meant to be seen as a whole?

For me, I’m ok either way, as ticket availability and budget might be a consideration for the audience. After catching the first piece, some may have the impulse to watch the trilogy. Of course, I’d like the audience to catch all three pieces so they can have a feel of the complete creative concept behind Only You. However, even if they just catch one piece, it will still be impressed upon them that this play is very different from other theatre productions out there.

(Tsai Ming-liang’s Only You trilogy runs from April 25 to 29. Details for all three shows here, here and here.)