©2016 archemistinthemaking
narrative
From left to right: Paul Morgan, Elle McFadzean, me, Adrian Fernandez, Elizabeth Campbell
Photo: Isabella Peppard-Clark
A few weeks ago, on my 25th Birthday, I stepped forward with a mic to host a public event.
It’s been a while since I’ve found myself speaking publicly in front of an audience, not to mention standing on my own and chairing a conversation. Even though I’ve been through the process of coordination of events - this was the first time where I was able to take ownership of a subject I’ve cared deeply about for a long time…
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It’s been three days, and I am still crying over Extraordinary You…
Last week, I found myself in an emotional mess as I watched a pair of heroes bid their farewell to the show. It has been two days since I’ve braved myself again to finish the show I regretted binging. At this point, I have prepared myself mentally by reading the synopsis recaps to prevent myself from wallowing at the conclusion. I was already holding onto a melancholy after intensely watching the story, and I did not want it to spill into my week.
I could not be more wrong.
Read MoreThis semester I have taken on an elective that requires putting your own personal spin to hand drawings. From designing interventions for a specific group of people to creating wearable architecture out of party supplies to designing a facade, it was rather cathartic to apply my own personality to these drawings (I also forgotten how much I missed hand drawing). But it was onto our third assignment when my friend and I were discussing about how we have to present our drawings that she said something that struck me.
Read More‘Love at first sight’ - it is a cliche that I am a constant victim to. Whether it’d be a quick eye contact at a party, or in a queue at the art gallery, a conference in Europe, if my heart is already missing then I know I will be spending the night trying to figure out where to meet that person again for the fatal encounter.
And it goes the same for me when I see a lovely three by three image on my Instagram feed.
I loved writing before I enjoyed reading.
It took me two years and a few cases of having nobody to play with during recess and lunchtime that I was able to read pictureless novels. Before a group of boys welcomed me into their group, a pile of books was readily made next to me, waiting to keep me company for the next hour on a mint concrete floor inside the toilet stalls. Back then, I heavily relied on reading books that had images to consider the book a worthwhile read (and to have a general idea of how the novel was progressing). I guess it was because the ten year old me was still coming to grips with understanding English as I was still heavily reliant on communicating in Cantonese. This constant translating back and forth between two languages as I read a novel was taxing, moreover made it difficult for me to set up the scenes the author has crafted through text.
Read MoreIf I was facing the five year old me, I would watch her in amazement as she tries to explain to me what was happening amongst the strange arrangement of chairs and cushions, she would point her finger rapidly at the drawing that would make no sense to me while to her it was a map telling us how to navigate through this world full of lava…
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