In this meritocratic metropolis, melancholy millennials like myself lament the transition that comes with so much haste—and so shuaige becomes uncle in the blink of an eye. And so I really have become an uncle: on the week of my first exhibition (DT: An Introduction) my niece on Lillian’s side was born.
Ashlyn turns four this month; her age marks my time in this profession, and each weekend when we visit, she too leaves a mark on me as she grows. And as she grows, I grow increasingly aware of the miracle of life, of the beauty the childhood and age. These were hinted in my favourite Disney movies but it took me time, and the privilege of watching Ashlyn grow up, to understand.
I also grow increasingly aware of what her parents will provide her, what my parents provided in my own upbringing: namely security, shelter and role-models. My parents came from nothing, Malaysian villages and shanty towns, and somehow found their way to Singapore and met, married and made careers. Lillian and I want kids, but what will I be providing to them? I didn’t come from a backwater, I left university to do art, I have neither the type of career nor trajectory that a child born in a Singaporean context would understand as praiseworthy. I’m scared I’ll be the most unimpressive Father. (But at least I ran 8:38 for my IPPT)
