Big Bao 6

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.

Since that exhibition I’ve been pushing the mantle in my still-life works, sometimes relentlessly, sometimes floundering. Compositions became more elaborate, and the write-ups and the thoughts behind them—ever more profound. I told myself and collectors that I was chasing unrestrained sentimentality, but ironically it lead to me feeling more restrained. I took another step, and eased myself further up this mountain trail. I was mid-way to the summit, and I felt the urge to wander sideways and not further upwards.

So I stopped pacing upwards and glanced at the eaves of the ridgeline trees; and I realised that my niece turns four this year in September. 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 in turn grow increasingly aware of the miracle of life, of the beauty of childhood and age. Miracles easily forgotten in a life littered with milestones, each one weighed heavily toward some arbitary summit—some fetish of a perfect life as carved by a beloved myth of meritocracy.

On this journey upwards, I had stopped at neither a milestone nor summit. Under the canopy were beautiful leaves, filtering the fading glow of dusk. This high up, and this late into the evening, flowers were opening up all around me. Resting my backpack onto the ground, I stepped off the trail…

The mountain air was cold yet intimate. As the sky began to glint, I was prompted to dwell not on complex compositions, nor scintillating designs of colour. Lying on a patch of warm fuzzy grass, beneath a cold blue canopy, I thought of simple, more naive paintings. As I retired for the night, I dreamt deeply.

2/8/25