dusunApril/May 2012

Ridiculously Free

6

motherlandsherin ng lay hwa

william gentrycolors of cambodia

martin bradley

read it....

e-Journal of the Arts for Malaysia and Singapore

dusun

it’s what you’ve been waiting for

cont

ents

April/May 2012

page 6 editorial

page 8 motherland exhibitionpage 42 sherin ng lay hwa artworkspage 55 martin bradley short storypage 60 william gentry surreal imagespage 97 creating colors of cambodia diary of book

cover khor pei yeou

editor martin a bradley

email martinabradley@gmail.com

Dusun TM

dusun is a not for profit publication

editorialNo foolin’

Dusun goes from strength to strength. With this issue we include our brothers and sisters from across the causeway - in Singapore. Too long have Malaysia and Singapore been seperated, it’s high time they were brough back together again. From this issue forward Dusun covers Singapore and Malaysia.

As part of our new policy of covering exhibitions, in this issue we present Motherland - a Malaysian exhibition featuring artists painting using water-based paints - from acrylic to watercolour.

There is a short story from Martin bradley, - Black Crow, which incidently won the Warren Adler Divorce Short Story prize for 2012.

In this issue we present an up and coming Malaysian artist - Sherin Ng Lay Hwa, who is self taught and paints aspects of her unique cultural heritage. Also William Gentry, originally from America but has been residing in Singapore for a considerable time. William creates inticate surreal drawings and paintings, the kind we like at Dusun.

And lastly, but far from least we present an on-going serial, following Honey Khor as she works towards creating the book and exhibition - Colors of Cambodia.

So here it is Dusun 5, do enjoy.

Now read on...........................................

Ed.

motherland

Motherland (Tanah Air in Malay), is an exhibition of twenty Malaysian artists, using a water based medium, from acrylic to watercolour.

The gallery - Dunia Seni Lukis, in Kuala Lumpur, and artist Chin Kon Yit brough these artists together to explore water based paints and painting. The subject, naturally, is Malaysia as a motherland, the place of birth and representations of home.

The wide variety of painting styles in this exhibition, cover the imaginative as well as representations of home, life and the villages (Kampongs) so dear to the Malaysian heart.

khor pei yeou with her paintings

khor pei yeou - peace

khor pei yeou - love

artists khor pei yeou and goh siao shan

foo jong hoi - welcome the morning sunlight

koh shim luen - siesta I

koh shim luen - siesta III

koh shim luen - siesta II

lim kok hong - this is their life

artists koh shim luen, ken, tan and chin kon yit

chin kon yit - meet in kuala lumpur

faerie lee yi hui - color of nature II

faerie lee yi hui - a ray of hope

mah ai ching - banana tree in the rain

loh soon teik - latex seed series

loh soon teik - latex seed series

artist khor pei yeou with fan

group photo 1

loh soon teik - latex seed series

ung mooi leng - street scene penang

ung mooi leng - street scene kl

siow yin yoong - motherland II

siow yin yoong - motherland III

khor pei yeou and lim kok hong

sharon teoh hui sim, siow yin yoon, chin kon yit and yeoh choon seng

There is a colour photograph, printed on Kodak paper, taken about thirty-eight years ago It is of a tallish, thin man, with a long goatee beard, holding a well wrapped infant in his arms. Although the photograph suffers a little yellowing from age, and one corner of the 6x4 print has become creased, revealing the paper beneath the photographic coating, the image nevertheless remains clear – that of a proud father with his first born child.In the photograph I am twenty years, and hold my first child of a few months. I wear a newly purchased two tone leather jacket, bought as a birthday present from the sales in a local leather store. I hold the young child firmly in my grip, tilting my daughter a little towards the camera so that her mother can take the photograph, and clearly see her puffy cheeked daughter.It is the tail end of winter and we are all a little fresh faced from the cool of the wind. I rest against a wooden gate, a prop for the image. Behind, the slightly cloudy sky reveals a pale chilled blue. We are glad that the child is well wrapped, safe from the elements and, after the photograph is taken, the child is placed back in the buggy, strapped in for safety and comfort. The small canopy is rearranged to protect the child from the chilling wind. The three of us turn and walk back towards our newly rented council house.Times are a little lean. I have recently accepted an appointment as a carer to eleven elderly men - at a home for the aged. I have bought a cycle to help me travel the two miles to work, twice daily, as the job entails split shifts. I spend most of my week cleaning and caring for the men whose relatives prefer the dirty work done by others, shaving and bathing the ex-husbands, fathers and grandfathers who are tucked away, out of harm’s reach, and out of sight of their children and their chil-dren’s children, because growing older is a messy business. Perhaps some of this is evident in the leanness of my face, or the trimness of the cut of the leather jacket I wear, or maybe in the smiling, yet somewhat distant eyes that look towards and through, the camera holder.The child’s mother had given up her job in the bakery, selling fresh yeasty bread in the mornings from the home bakery which scented Head Street with its satisfying essence, to look after the child she had borne but, in time, would have to recom-mence her working life as a domestic helper, cleaning in a residence sheltering nurses and enabling them to continue to care for the sick and the injured.It was not an easy time and the white frame surrounding the photographic image puts a neat boundary around that image of father and daughter, slicing but a fragment from the reality of life beyond the lens, denying the complexity of our lives lived in the 1970s. The photograph is unable to depict the smallness of the lives we lived then, unless the observant viewer can see from the size of the photograph that we were unable to purchase a larger size, to place upon our mantelpiece, to admire the captured resemblance of father and daughter.The fact that this photograph never had a frame perhaps indicates choices we had to make, between the decorative and the functional with the functional, inevitably, and constantly winning out. We were a couple with a small child, living in the now, not thinking to protect this image from time’s ravages and the future yellowing of the paper from the sun as it frequently brushed our mantelpiece, glancing through infrequently cleaned windows. We were a young couple caught up in the living of life, unable to afford a thought for the future, wrapped in the present and struggling to have a future, any kind of future, as long as the future was there.On days other than that depicted in the photograph I would enjoy the company of my small child, she in her buggy and I pushing, walking behind, making sounds and noises I expected a small child to recognise or appreciate, the slight feathering of snow giving us both cause for a smile until, out of fatherly concern, I fix the plastic protection over the front of the buggy, sheltering the child from the weather and also from the connection we had. Alternatively, the child, now growing beyond her years in the photograph would attempt to catch snow and meld it into a snowball, failing as the loose white frozen water falls apart and onto the ground, but nevertheless laughing and clapping her mitten covered hands as she does so, with small clumps of snow relentlessly clinging onto the wool of the gloves. She slips and falls in the snow, laughing but with a slight quiver to her lip as the surprise of the fall gives her a shock. I rush out of parental concern, to see that she is fine and once again struggling to her feet and tasting snow on her face with her pink tongue and laughing in that endearing way a very small child has, drawing you into her moment and sharing the joy and inno-cence of the child. But it is another time. The photograph is an aide memoir. It brings back the child from thirty eight years in the past and delivers her to my sight, stirring my recollections, memories and emotions in a way that little else can. There is much happi-ness in the recalling, but a little sadness too that I am unable to reach out and touch that child, take her, once more, in my arms and pose for a photograph. I can only look and remember, and in remembering consider what is lost from memory and what little still remains of that photograph, of my memory and of the bond we had when she was young.

wong han chong - a new day

There is a colour photograph, printed on Kodak paper, taken about thirty-eight years ago It is of a tallish, thin man, with a long goatee beard, holding a well wrapped infant in his arms. Although the photograph suffers a little yellowing from age, and one corner of the 6x4 print has become creased, revealing the paper beneath the photographic coating, the image nevertheless remains clear – that of a proud father with his first born child.In the photograph I am twenty years, and hold my first child of a few months. I wear a newly purchased two tone leather jacket, bought as a birthday present from the sales in a local leather store. I hold the young child firmly in my grip, tilting my daughter a little towards the camera so that her mother can take the photograph, and clearly see her puffy cheeked daughter.It is the tail end of winter and we are all a little fresh faced from the cool of the wind. I rest against a wooden gate, a prop for the image. Behind, the slightly cloudy sky reveals a pale chilled blue. We are glad that the child is well wrapped, safe from the elements and, after the photograph is taken, the child is placed back in the buggy, strapped in for safety and comfort. The small canopy is rearranged to protect the child from the chilling wind. The three of us turn and walk back towards our newly rented council house.Times are a little lean. I have recently accepted an appointment as a carer to eleven elderly men - at a home for the aged. I have bought a cycle to help me travel the two miles to work, twice daily, as the job entails split shifts. I spend most of my week cleaning and caring for the men whose relatives prefer the dirty work done by others, shaving and bathing the ex-husbands, fathers and grandfathers who are tucked away, out of harm’s reach, and out of sight of their children and their chil-dren’s children, because growing older is a messy business. Perhaps some of this is evident in the leanness of my face, or the trimness of the cut of the leather jacket I wear, or maybe in the smiling, yet somewhat distant eyes that look towards and through, the camera holder.The child’s mother had given up her job in the bakery, selling fresh yeasty bread in the mornings from the home bakery which scented Head Street with its satisfying essence, to look after the child she had borne but, in time, would have to recom-mence her working life as a domestic helper, cleaning in a residence sheltering nurses and enabling them to continue to care for the sick and the injured.It was not an easy time and the white frame surrounding the photographic image puts a neat boundary around that image of father and daughter, slicing but a fragment from the reality of life beyond the lens, denying the complexity of our lives lived in the 1970s. The photograph is unable to depict the smallness of the lives we lived then, unless the observant viewer can see from the size of the photograph that we were unable to purchase a larger size, to place upon our mantelpiece, to admire the captured resemblance of father and daughter.The fact that this photograph never had a frame perhaps indicates choices we had to make, between the decorative and the functional with the functional, inevitably, and constantly winning out. We were a couple with a small child, living in the now, not thinking to protect this image from time’s ravages and the future yellowing of the paper from the sun as it frequently brushed our mantelpiece, glancing through infrequently cleaned windows. We were a young couple caught up in the living of life, unable to afford a thought for the future, wrapped in the present and struggling to have a future, any kind of future, as long as the future was there.On days other than that depicted in the photograph I would enjoy the company of my small child, she in her buggy and I pushing, walking behind, making sounds and noises I expected a small child to recognise or appreciate, the slight feathering of snow giving us both cause for a smile until, out of fatherly concern, I fix the plastic protection over the front of the buggy, sheltering the child from the weather and also from the connection we had. Alternatively, the child, now growing beyond her years in the photograph would attempt to catch snow and meld it into a snowball, failing as the loose white frozen water falls apart and onto the ground, but nevertheless laughing and clapping her mitten covered hands as she does so, with small clumps of snow relentlessly clinging onto the wool of the gloves. She slips and falls in the snow, laughing but with a slight quiver to her lip as the surprise of the fall gives her a shock. I rush out of parental concern, to see that she is fine and once again struggling to her feet and tasting snow on her face with her pink tongue and laughing in that endearing way a very small child has, drawing you into her moment and sharing the joy and inno-cence of the child. But it is another time. The photograph is an aide memoir. It brings back the child from thirty eight years in the past and delivers her to my sight, stirring my recollections, memories and emotions in a way that little else can. There is much happi-ness in the recalling, but a little sadness too that I am unable to reach out and touch that child, take her, once more, in my arms and pose for a photograph. I can only look and remember, and in remembering consider what is lost from memory and what little still remains of that photograph, of my memory and of the bond we had when she was young.

pua lian ho - coconut

I always remember Saadi

visiting his rose garden

traversing the songs of the universe

oh chow moy - kampung life

I always remember Saadi

visiting his rose garden

traversing the songs of the universe

group photo 2

sherin ng lay hwa

jar and tiles

Sherin is self-taught in watercolor & acrylic arts. They give her total freedom to portray her own experiences, styles and expressions. Her refreshing way of seeing the colourful side of being Malaysian, and her love for Peranakan culture is also a self reflection in many ways represented by the vibrant colours in her paintings.

A PERSONAL JOURNEY OF SELF DISCOVERY

How I started painting?My sister had been the one person who had been encouraging me to paint for years, but I never felt the confidence to do so in exploring my art skills, even though I love painting very much and never found the time or the opportunity to do so. After I got married - 2 years ago, it was my husband’s persuasion that got me started painting. He has been very encouraging and gave me full support and was very understanding about my dream of art.

My husband believes happiness comes from doing the things that one loves, and wants me to realize & achieve that side of happiness that is hidden in me. Knowing how much I love and am so passionate about batik & the Peranakan influences, he asked me not to stop my dream and continue with my love for Batik & Peranakan. I am happy because he knows my heart’s desire. This is very important and encouraging for me - coming from my husband. He even prepared a comfy art room where I could paint in a comfortable home environment. This gave me the motivation & the boldness to take my dream’s wonderful journey. I get a lot of encouragement not only from my husband and sister who are art lovers, but also from my mum. My husband loves to paint too, but it is not easy due to work commitment and livelihood. Still he hopes that I would be able to fulfill my dream, as it also means that he would be living his dreams too!!

I am also thankful to a good friend of mine who has been in the art field for 15 years. From the 1st time she saw my paintings, she told me I have to continue painting and not to stop. She was really supportive of my work because, as she puts it, she sees my spirit and love for heritage that is dear to my heart in my paintings.

I am deeply grateful to Baba Peter Wee (President of Peranakan Association of Singapore and a member of the Gunong Sayang Association) who has also given me the blessing and support to my artworks. I have recently had an opportunity to display my artworks under Baba Peter Wee’s showcase “Baba Nyonya Kebudayaan Peranakan” at the KLIB 2011 – Kuala Lumpur International Batik 2011 held on the 9th-11th Dec at KL Convention Centre and had good time and encouraging response at the reception.

About my painting?

Since the day I started painting, it was a journey of self discovery...I can feel the endearing moments with my granny - Siew Kim and all of her influences in my paintings. I had always wondered why I am so passionate about Batik & Nyonya influences and my strong connection

sherin ng lay hwa

to express them in my paintings but now I know why.

My artistic expression journey slowly revealed the strong influence of my granny’s life - when she was with us, and how she still influences me in later days of my life.

This discovery, to my mind is summed up in this words…….“Our past is our life and makes us who we are……”

My paintings are based on my childhood memories and experiences and also from exploring the realms of my imaginations….drawing on the truly wonderful & colourful spirits of my surroundings.

Through my paintings, I want to show the joy, love, beauty, colors of harmony, free spirited, kindness, compassion, peace, freedom, delights, romance … all the wonderful facets of the culture of Peranakan heritage. It speaks of the love and beauty of our ethnic heritage and the colours I use expresses these in all its vibrant emotions.

I started using watercolors in my initial artworks as it is my favourite medium. Now, I am working with acrylic paints. As I have always like the methods of making Batik using wax, I reckoned it is just appropriate to have wax used on all of my paintings to compliment and give more meaning to what I am painting….after all what is batik without wax. Wax was one of the many item/medium widely used during the earlier Batik making days. I use wax as a distinctive medium in my artwork and to also accentuate and identify with the rich heritage of our culture to be remembered. I find it so fascinating that the use of wax was introduced in batik making. It is nothing short of brilliance, I must say. If wax had not been used as an essential part of batik making , we will never be able to enjoy all those beautiful batik from our heritage.

hand fan and kebaya blouse

I hope my paintings will be able to allow everyone to enjoy their home - not just as a paintings that hang on the wall, but as an art of heritage to remembered. I like to use colours that are colours of the past to describe the love & passion as well. This is my main theme when I do my paintings. Just as in life, we need colours, beauty & love to bring balance into our lives. Like a promise of everything special, “colours brings hope into our lives”.

Painting to me is like cooking a delicious meal for a loved one….just like I have learned from my granny’s love for us in expressing and sharing thru her delicious nyonya cooking. Dishing out a nice meal so that everyone can enjoy. Every dish leaves a memorable impression and I hope to share this feeling thru my paintings. It’s my way of expressing love and passion from my heart and I hope it will bring joy and love to the eyes of the beholder. My passion and love for Batik & Peranakan influence?

My passion for Peranakan culture and the love for Batik started a long time ago back in my childhood days. As far as I can remember, it stemmed from my time spent with my granny Siew Kim. She wore batik sarong all day long and had a personal cabinet where she kept all her beautiful collections of batik & Baju Nyonya .As a child , I was always fascinated with the beautiful fabric prints or embroided lacework on her blouses and often wondered what other wonderful things were stored inside that cabinet of hers. I often wished that I could take a good look inside but she would often hide the key to it, which made me even more curious and wild with imaginings. I remembered seeing a pile of batik sarongs, crafted belts, manik (beaded) shoes, etc., and those were the only possession she had and held so dearly to her heart, kept locked safely away in her treasured cabinet.

I remember the kitchen being the heart of the home and the smell of her delicious nyonya cooking would fill the entire house. I was in awe of her cooking and how even friends/people from the Temple she worship at, would look forward to her nyonya dishes which she would bring with her in Tiffin carriers. She would spend most of her time/days in the kitchen cooking delicious food for us. It was her way of showing love for her family and the women ie my sister and I (her grand-daughters) and my mum would be helping to prepare the ingredients that goes into her cooking. No girls were allowed to sit around doing nothing….if we finished our work in the kitchen, then after lunch in the afternoon will be a time to do needle/beading works. That was how I remembered the way it was then.

My mum also shares the same love for batik. She would sew pillow cases, table cloths and even our shorts using batik sarongs as pyjamas and skirts for us to wear. She does these even now for her grandchildren. It is something that she loves and eager to share with loved ones and friends.

hanging baju nyonya

In a sense, Batik was everywhere in my childhood days and even a greater part of my life now. I know that my affinity with batik comes from the bond that I had with my beloved granny and I hold this in a special place in my heart.

Thank you.

Sherin Ng

green tiffin carrier

baju nyonya thru the cabinet

orange nyonya shoes

soul sisters

mother’s love

daughter’s heritage

pink tiffin carrier

wau batik

They sat, three black crows cawing and shuffling ready to pick over the bones of our marriage.

‘Is there somewhere else I can sit, I’d rather not be sitting in that wait-ing room with my ex-wife and her friends’‘It is the waiting room, sir’

‘Yes, I understand, but how would you like to be sitting there, with them, looking at them, waiting for a decision on your marriage’.

‘You’ll have to wait in here then’

I was reluctantly led to a smaller room, overlooking the main road. Cars dashed by, people getting on with their own lives. I was stuck, sat there in that bland room, magnolia on the walls, a lopsided innocuous print of Constable’s ‘Haywain’ flopped against one wall, the shadow of a removed filing cabinet on another, waiting for the negotiation to start, waiting for the solicitor to begin the bartering of my marriage, hassling over the finances, fresh pain on top of the pain I was already shoulder-ing in the realisation of the dissolution of my nine year marriage.

I sat there alone, waiting for my solicitor. She sat and cawed in the waiting room, robbed of the chance for her and her two friends to humiliate me, crush me further, vampire drain me of my dignity as well as finances.

There was a point in that sad divorce when our relationship became adversarial.

‘This is my house and you’re not getting a penny’

Her words slapped me in the kitchen. I had my back to her, wash-ing chicken for dinner, pretending life was normal and gazing out the window at nothing. She was being vindictive – another trait freshly unearthed, water running over my hands, down the sink taking chicken blood with it. I couldn’t argue, just wince at the injustice of her words. She knew that I had paid the mortgage every month, the electricity, gas,

short story

black crowby martin bradley

council tax bills; knew that we had been a partnership, sharing eve-rything, 50-50. It was her way of getting back at me, telling me of her hurt – through her anger. I see that now, I didn’t see it then. All I could hear then were her words, those cutting, unfair words which still ring in my ears eight years later.

It wasn’t black and white. There was no good guy, bad guy. I wasn’t a worn-down hero battling medusa, no matter how hard I try to picture it, we both had our faults. Irreconcilable differences, that’s what it said on the divorce paper. A bland way of putting it, innocent enough con-sidering that paper was really a suicide bomber, about to blast our lives apart forever. Once that seal of approval was stamped by the magis-trate then – boom, the explosion, feelings everywhere, raw and bleed-ing, too much carnage too be surgically sewn and made anew.And what was really sad about that time was that we had once been a couple, relying on each other, shielding ourselves against the onslaught of the world and there we were arming ourselves for battle – against each other, changing bedrooms, changing locks on doors, cooking not for each other but for ourselves – two single people living together who had once seen the world through each other’s eyes – now blind-ed to each other’s hurt, deaf to the other’s anguish.

The strength of that emotional tsunami washed over us both. There were no survivors clinging onto rafts, debris, we were drowned un-der the weight of that wave, never to be ourselves again but reborn separate, having to walk with fresh legs, breathe with new lungs an air which seared with each breath, tore the very hearts of us out but which was then necessary for our individual survival. She was swept towards the singletons that encouraged her loss, trying to shore her up against that tide, but really only undermining her, projecting their private hurts into her then public grief. I stood alone.

That day, the day of the hearing, was suitably grey, raining. It would have been a travesty were it warm, bright, and sunny. I dragged my feet from the car park, along Balkerne Hill, skirted the underpass, and walked those few metres along the main road. All the time I wanted to run in

the opposite direction, forget what was happening, live in denial, let her have the money. But at the same time I couldn’t. I had come too far. It had to end, we had to have closure, put the elastoplasts over the wounds which had become our marriage, knot the sutures and finally wash away the dried blood.

The solicitor went back and forth. The hearing magistrate encouraged that dialogue before he saw us for a decision, wanting us to come to our own arrangements before he pronounced. We bartered, bargained away our marriage, offer and counter-offer and each second ripping the heart out of me, wishing we could have stopped, gone back, turned time back so that we could avoid all that acrimony and stop hurting each other. But we couldn’t, it had gone too far, we were both rolling faster and faster down some steep incline and heading for the rocks.

We hit.

There were few smiles that day. No winners.

The magistrate oversaw our forced agreement, made his proclamation and we became strangely free, no longer bound to each other. I felt giddy, guilty, sad. It wasn’t a proud moment, I had no wish to celebrate, nothing to celebrate only the loss of a binding, the cutting of a special tie and a full-on rush of memories which hit like a second tsunami, quaking me. The autumn air filled my lungs. I stood by the road des-perately holding onto the crash barrier, wanting a caress, a hand on my shoulder, reconciliation. None came. It was too late. A black crow circled, flew off.

Martin Bradley is a writer/poet/designer. He is winner of the 2012 Warren Adler Divorce Short Story Prize (USA) and was Guest Writer at India’s Commonwealth Writers Festival in New Delhi (2010) and Guest Writer at Singapore’s Lit Up literature festival (2010); he has read in Kuala Lumpur and Ipoh Malaysia (2011). Martin writes articles on Art & Culture for magazines and newspapers and designs digital images. He has been the editor of Dusun – a Malaysian Arts and Culture e-magazine and founder/host of Northern Writers – a venue for ‘readings’ in Ipoh, Malaysia.

william (bill) gentry

Bill Gentry received a Bachelor of Art Degree (Fine Art Painting) from Indiana University in 1981.Since than he has worked as a Glass Etching Artist (Los Angeles)Advertising Art Director (Missouri, USA)Songwriter, Stand up Comedian (New York City)Art Gallery owner and Art teacher (Cambodia)Entrepreneur (USA/ASIA/SINGAPORE)He has had numerous solo and group shows over the years of his paintings and drawings in locations such as New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Missouri, France, Malaysia,Singapore and Cambodia. His work is shown on a permanent basis at the Colors of Cambodia Gallery in Siem Reap Cambodia.Bill currently lives with his family in Singapore.

for the love of your body

green growth

study

time

It’s always a mad rush – managing family, business, being a painter and organising the exhibition Colors of Cambodia. Honey Khor handles these commitments with undoubting flair. She dashes about in her sparkling black SUV, dropping off children eager for tuition, professional photos, and treasured artworks. She loves to teach art at her Child Development Centre – daily, with little in the way of a sustained break. From the slightest crack of dawning in Selangor - to the rising of Puchong’s silver moon, she dashes hither and thither, trying desperately to fit 48 hours into 24 - and somehow succeeding. Honey is Superwoman, Wonder Woman and a latter day Nanny McPhee all rolled into one, as she performs her daily tasks with a patient smile.

This is your chance to follow Honey as she prepares for this year’s gala event – the exhibition Colors of Cambodia, in aid of the under-privileged children of Cambodia, held at Penang Village restaurant, Great Eastern Mall, Ampang, Kuala Lumpur. It’s your opportunity to share in Honey’s out-pouring of energy, observe her endless enthusiasm, her boundless, selfless love, and join Honey in her sheer joy de vivre in the preparations for that big day - October 14, 2012.

creating colors of cambodiaby martin bradley

creating colors of cambodia

Honey is on the phone. She gathers a host of people to her. We are all to fly out to Cambodia in March, for a week. Photographers, Honey, two artists, and I are to descend upon Cambodia to squeeze it dry of images and information about the children’s project run by Colors of Cambodia, project leader Bill Gentry.

A book, to be sold at the Colors of Cambodia exhibition, is being prepared. Bill (Gentry) wants to meet up and talk about the book, see where it fits into the project, and how it will look. Honey and I have to journey down to Singapore to meet a tired Bill, who will just have arrived back from overseas. She is desperately trying to get some pages together to show Bill. Honey has to flush out some thoughts and make them flesh in readiness, as well as coordinate the rest of the show.

The big computer is switched on. In-design is a-buzzing with ideas, shapes, and sizes, will Honey meet her self-imposed deadline, can she impress Bill enough for him to sanction the project – she will have to wait and see. Singapore awaits, tension mounts and the Merlion flashes a fishy tail.

The SUV is in for service - in readiness for the Singapore trip. Photogra-phers have been on the phone – do we need visas for Cambodia...what are the sleeping arrangements...can we have single rooms instead of sharing...how far from the project will we be...do we use dollars or local currency. Honey Khor continues to juggle arrangements, as we prepare to meet with Bill and, hopefully, gain his blessings for the latest Colors of Cambodia project (the book) – spearheaded by Honey.

I rifle my small collection of foreign currency, and discover that I have Sing $23 and ten cents, hardly enough for a three day trip. Honey has lit-tle more. It’s time to pay a visit to the bank then.

Meanwhile the computer is a-buzzin’ with ideas and illustrations for the book proposal. Will Bill go for it, can we bushwack him into giving his consent for the project. We momentarily hold our joint breaths. It is becoming a slightly tense time. All rests of Bill’s agreement for the book project. Without his agreement we are back to the computer drafting board and yet more proverbial head scratching. There are more black flashes as Honey’s SUV speeds faster than Superman’s speeding bullet.

And now read on...

It was fantasy time in a brightening KL. Our heroine Honey pitched on – ‘what if we had a book like this or that, full colour, hard covers/soft covers - 100 pages, and how much would it cost? Oh that much!’ Mental gnashing of teeth/tearing out of hair, ‘ok what if we changed it around, no note paper just all glossy art paper, how would that be. Ok, better, but it is for a charity lah! A slight reduction, how slight? Hmmm, we’re getting there.’

The Colors of Cambodia project was moving slowly forward. Honey was having a meeting with the printer to determine the cost of a book, rather than a catalogue for the exhibition. The printer was a nice guy, all smiles and a little twinkle in his eye as he looked at Honey. He gave us some vital samples to impress American Bill with at the weekend, it was all a little too good to be true, but hey who’s complaining.

It was another stage over. Honey, sample books and paper stuffed into her oversized bag, donned her sleek sunglasses and slipped elegantly back into her Honey-mobile and sped off to her next meet.

Journeying to Singapore was largely uneventful. At the Forum (Orchard Road), American Bill had given his permission to go ahead with the book. It was a great relief. Shoulders relaxed, sighs were heaved, and inner smiles radiated. It was a go. Honey Khor smiled her biggest smile ever. Such was Honey’s joy of the book’s approval that her eyes twinkled and she practically shone. Cool, calm, inquisitive Bill was entirely professional. He brought the best out of us. He made us explain what we were doing and where we were going with the Colors of Cambodia book and exhibition project.

Singapore rained. It was a welcome rain, a cooling rain which brought forth the right kind of intimacy needed for an interview about Bill’s involvement with Colors of Cambodia. By the time frothy, milky, teas and American styled cappuccinos were taken, the rain had stopped, and much relief was felt. Honey, not having access to her black SUV, dashed lady-like in her black high heels, towards the local MRT (LRT), swinging her oversized back containing those paper and book samples which had so wowed Bill. On the bus back to JB, Honey gazed meditatively out the window, relieved, but tired.

to be continued....