This morning I was looking out the window and spotted a large bird sitting at the top of the big rain tree downstairs. Not to toot my own horn, but this was quite incredible considering I’m on the 15th floor. I immediately got very excited because I thought it must be the Honey Buzzard that lives in the neighbourhood; I’ve caught it in flight a few times, gliding majestically between blocks, and it never fails to make my heart race. I’m no twitcher, but in Singapore we are so starved for any sort of natural beauty that I cling desperately to any vestiges of the wild that remain, and any bird larger than a crow or cloaked in anything more than two colours is a novelty. So far, the neighbourhood has seen the likes of Hornbills (a whole flock!), pretty yellow Orioles, Oriental Pigeons (elegant in black and white, very Chanel), and scores of squawking Parakeets, a vision in green. And, of course, the elusive Honey Buzzard. I was very keen to see it spread its wings from a resting position so I kept my eyes glued on it.
Ten minutes later, the large bird was still in the large tree. My baby was starting to cry for milk and I was growing antsy. Just then, something swooped by – with its streamlined form and big, brown wings, it was unmistakable. The Honey Buzzard! Who’s this stranger in the tree then? A flurry of increasingly specific descriptions to Gemini and an impossibly blur photograph later, we had answers. Not a Buzzard, but a Brahminy Kite, another local bird of prey. Now this I really had to see fly.
Another ten minutes went by as I stood by the window and told myself that the baby’s breakfast could wait a little more (the baby did not agree). I badly had to pee so I shot for a minute to the toilet, during which time the Kite that had sat so serenely and comfortably for almost half an hour decided it was time to head off. I rushed back to an empty branch. Heartbroken, I slouched over to the couch to feed my wailing offspring.
Spent a couple of hours at the National Gallery yesterday. J paid a small annual fee for membership and now has unlimited free access (plus free parking), and as an educator I get free access too, so the museum has become a favourite haunt for us and the baby. It’s cavernous in size, but gets lots of natural light. It’s quiet, and there’s obviously lots to look at. Most importantly, it is very, very cold. Due to our proximity to the equator the most valuable trait of any place to bring a baby has been the quality of its air-conditioning, and the Gallery gets an A+.
The special exhibition currently on is an impressively large collection of Impressionist artwork loaned from the MFA in Boston. It’s a rare and special chance to encounter some of the most iconic paintings of the movement up close, a glimpse of glorious European light dappling across fields and flowers and seasides from a happy dream.
We’ve been to the show at least three times now, so I decided to entertain myself yesterday by getting in the way of people taking photos with the paintings for social media. You can spot them from a mile away – fully made up, twirling back and forth for some awful Boomerang clip, twittering with each other while selecting the best shot of the fifty they’ve taken in the past five minutes. I nonchalantly wander over and stand in front of the painting to look at it up close, and can literally feel their hot breath down my neck as they hover impatiently behind me, silently imploring me to get the hell out of the way. It’s possible that I’ve gotten a little too acrid and antagonistic over the years. As someone who loves art, however – makes it, studied it, and teaches it – almost nothing irks me more than people who treat artworks as props for their social media content, and wrangle for the best shot with them but never actually look AT them. I see them all too often: brushing past the ‘ordinary’ pieces, making a beeline for the big and famous Renoirs or Monets or Whoever They Put On The Promotional Material For This Show, snapping a picture then turning on their heels without so much as a brief inspection of the work itself. The final douse of salt on the wound is when the chosen image is uploaded onto socials accompanied by an AI-generated caption about self-improvement (‘I too shall allow light onto the canvas of my life’).
The only thing that annoys me just as much is turning artworks into animated light projections, as has been done here to the likes of Van Gogh, Klimt and Frida Kahlo. What was insufficient about the painting in the frame? Small, static, but imbued with the originality of the artist’s touch? Granted, the absence of the originals might be a matter of accessibility, but in that case I think the works are better not seen at all than turned into circuses of light, an erasure of the artist’s intention and aura.
Too bitter for my own good – should be glad that young people are engaging with art, in any which way, at all. Also, who am I kidding? I’ve definitely been that irritating person trying to get a good photo for my dating app profile.
Goodnight!
Medium Delirium 