Shanghai Faces

Shanghai is a city I didn't - still don't - know much about. Most of my time around town was spent people watching, taking in an impression of the lives of its residents. The city is nicely laid out, posh, and rich.

Outside the Grand Theater in People's Square. Apparently the man was trying to sell me the ticket for $30 to a musical about an ancient Chinese monks. On the late autumn evening I walked around People's Square with my iced bubble tea. I stirred the ice cubes with the straw, listening to the sound and movements--it felt like a lovely thing to do in a foreign place.



























Inside a hair salon downtown. The owner and one of his staff chased me down the streets and grabbed me by the arms, half shouting, 'Please give us a chance to know you! We'd love to show you how we can revamp your image!' After 10 minutes of efforts on their part, I was game and agreed to go take a look. The boys shepherded me to sit down and began to show me these magazine spreads featuring Japanese girl with wavy hairstyles. Long straight hair is considered 'outdated' in China and so the boys launched into a brain-washing campaign against me: 'You're so lovely you've gotta try one of these trendy wavy hairstyles!'

After they exhausted their speeches, I found an excuse to leave. The owner was civil enough to see me off and explain that's his usual trick - to stop more fashionable girls or tourists on the street to see if he could win them over. Too bad they ran into a writer who'd get herself into trouble (and pain, in some cases) just to try people out.



























In a bar with Felix Wang and Siyan (not pictured), the famous Shopgirl of Shanghai. Felix is a friend I met from 4.5 years ago in Hong Kong. Two curious episodes happened revolving Felix during my visit to Shanghai.

1) I brought him two bottles of Macallan whiskey and some cigarettes at the HK airport duty free shop. The wholesome package was quickly stolen in the Shanghai airport - for one minute I put it on the floor to help an elderly couple with their luggage and when I turned around the whole thing was gone. I had this mental picture of the bottles being passed between the hands of faceless thieves, who sold them for a fat profit to an obese drinker or a shabby liquor store. Of the glistening, golden liquor in dirty tall glasses...Oh dear whiskey.

2) Felix and I went to a tango thing at a bar on Saturday night. Just as I started dancing with the teacher, Felix - who had no experience in the dance - invited a lady to show him the moves. That was the first time I'd seen a complete beginner in tango - other than myself - shoot up and go for it without being prompted. I consider this very telling of his personality.



















Around the Old City in Shanghai. Some girls in the neighborhood thought I was a journalist on an assignment. 'Maybe she's here to take pictures of our shops,' one of them murmured, 'let's ask her to buy some buns.' I didn't buy the buns because they didn't look as attractive as other street food around.

Curiously, I lost weight and dropped a size in my eight days in Shanghai. I blamed it on my wanderlust - I could walk forever and forget. Forget to eat, to drink, to stop, to settle.




















Waiting to board the plane to HK. The man was listening to a well-known Taiwanese pop song and humming it to his girlfriend. The lyrics go: 'If you love me, don't go/If you say you don't love me, I don't want to hear it from you/Give me just a bit more of your tenderness/The loneliness of the night causes me grief/I dare not think too much because I'm alone.'

A wonderful endnote, wouldn't you think?

Curvy, Savvy & Artsy

This photo makes the front page of my close friend EC's revamped website, from which you can check out his other pages as a freelance photographer, curator and his photo blog. The picture was taken in the main building of HKU. I was clad in a dark red, 60's styled and semi see-through Qi Pao (Chinese dress), and my role was that of a call-girl on her way to meet her lover. One question though: How did I come to look like a dream girl in some oriental romance flick?























At the opening concert of this year's Microwave International New Media Arts Festival on Nov 13. In the photo are Light Surgeons from UK presenting their work 'True Fictions'. I attended the festival's opening ceremony for an art reporting piece and ran into my friend Cedric Maridet, a French artist based in HK. The encounter helped save the evening as I wasn't thrilled about the performance. We drifted off and watched some young girls dance around the venue as if their tickets came with free drugs.






















With Bobit Segismundo at the opening of Haraya on Nov 17 at the HK Visual Arts Center. The exhibition is a part of the annual Philippines Arts Festival in HK. I met Bobit during an interview 1.5 years ago and since then we've become friends. Bobit's works are filled with anguish, and they carry a sense of liberation that comes from a true artistic quest for freedom and autonomy of emotions.

One last note, the Peel Fresco Jazz Fest Week runs until Sunday. Go check it out if you haven't. Last night I caught the Joao Mascarenhas and his Latin Jazz Trio, who I saw at the Street Music concert I blogged about in the last post. EC and I are trying to convince a certain poet we just met *wink wink* to come to our tango party one of these days. See you guys when I'm back from Shanghai next week.

Temperamental Differences

I must write but this morning I can no longer work on my story, so let me tell you something else for distraction's sake.

Early this year I taught a course at The Chinese University of HK, from which I got my master of philosophy (research degree plus research assistant work) in English Literary Studies. The course was English for Communications and my students were Education majors. In a previous post I mentioned my experience of working with the students, like giving out presentation topics that drove them to think out of the box. The most anti-social girl in class had to imagine going to jail where she would be restricted by communal routines and bombarded by her mates, whereas this scholarly girl had to pose as a cosmetic surgeon and to discuss what kind of clients she would refuse Botox injections to.

The latter turned out to be the funniest presentation I'd ever seen in a class. In a deadpan tone she explained the followings: 1. patients aged under 25 should not get Botox as it could not prevent wrinkles but paralyze their healthy skin cells; 2. patients aged above 60 would not benefit from it since their wrinkles are too deep to be filled by the virus; 3. patients with wide cheeks should stay away from Botox because it wouldn't correct their jaw lines--if the injection goes into the wrong places, it'd ruin the contours of their faces. The presentation was so meticulously researched and organized, and the girl was so genuinely into her role that we could see these women with messed up faces, like death masks with Botox trademarks, walking out of the surgeon's office.

These are some of the joys of teaching. As an occasional teacher--who didn't have to put up with the administrative bullshit--I always put in extra effort and heart in my classes. Every student is different and they'd be much more motivated to learn if they feel understood for who they are. I had the privilege of working with relatively small groups, and I paid close attention to the temperaments and sensibilities of my kids. Some were insecure; others needed a shock to their system. In any case, I'd always decipher their works, explain why something did or did not work and give very detailed suggestions on how they could improve. Each student had to deliver the best they could--I wouldn't ask them to do what they could not do, and I would tell them why.

The best memories I have are, of course, the instances when I got my students to fall in love with literature or writing. Years ago a high school girl I taught went on to win a prize at some writing competition--she's on my Facebook list, though I have no idea what she's up to nowadays. More recently, a student in my last class wrote me a couple of effusive emails that took me by surprise. This boy was one of the more sensitive, thoughtful and open in my group. Since we started on Coetzee, Ted Hughes and Pablo Neruda, there's no going back: now he loves to pull a collection of poetry or a novel from his bookshelf, savoring the language and the sentiments. The only problem is money: Books get expensive in this town, so what are we literature lovers to do?

On the top of it all, my student had the grace to tell me that my class helped him overcome his fear of writing essays. Back in my undergraduate days, I was in an ultra-competitive English Department where our lecturers would give us a few hints about the substance of the novels and expect us to hand in brilliant essays. The top students pulled it off with a lot of hard work, and the rest faded out and waited for a staggering 'C' on their grade reports. If I ever learnt the trick of essay writing, I learnt it from reading critics and racking my brain before the computer screen. Which makes it altogether more surprising, when someone tells me I helped save him from some of this pain. So there're good teachers in the world after all, and the profession isn't as lame as it seems!

My most curious discovery from teaching is something I've always known as a student, but only come to live from a different perspective in recent years: Teachers and students can be one of a kind. The anti-social girl and I have some similar experiences in life that I discussed in my comments on her story. Sitting at the back of the classroom, she had this glint of recognition in her eyes when I described my own reaction towards a situation. The student who emailed me is of the same passionate and unconventional type as I am, more or less. Friendship is perhaps the most wonderful thing you can take away from a classroom.

P.S. For our last assignment, my students wrote a collection of autobiographical stories. They're posted here.

Openings

My story is coming along slowly. I don't like to discuss or report on work in progress, but let's say I'm aiming for something a lot longer than the short stories I've written so far. It's supposed to be a chapter of a novel--that's the goal for now, if I don't lose momentum in the next few months.

Which is to say, not much to blog about. Here're some photos of what I've been up to lately. More to come next week.




















At the Street Music Concert 6 on Oct 30, outside the Hong Kong Arts Center. The monthly gigs are hosted by local musician Kung Chi-shing (violinist on the left). Last month's performance featured Brown Note Collective (structural improvisation) from HK, Bangladesh traditional music, João Marcos Mascarenhas Trio. In the photo are Kung Chi-shing, Peter Suart and Rob Lamont (UK Indie), Matt Gano (USA, Slam Poetry) and Julia Mok (voice/keyboard). Special performance by Jing Wong.



















My last day in the Communist Castle on Nov 6. With Carol (receptionist), Fanny (clerk) and Estella (account manager). I didn't organize any farewell party for myself since almost everyone I knew in the office had left. With this departure I'm trying to leave an opening in my life so I can focus on my fiction for a while. Not that I'll sit at home and not try to make any money, but a full-time job isn't on my agenda for now.



























With Eileen Chan at the opening of New Bailey on Old Bailey, an art gallery in HK, on Nov 6. Eileen paints wine bottles and her works have been exhibited at various events in town. This Dec she will participate in the Florence Biennale. My good friend EC (half Italian, smooth and always reliable) is helping her with PR, design, logistics, etc. I'm sure he'll make a fabulous tour guide around Florence too!

Disguises

Years ago I created my fictional alter-ego. After suffering from an extended writer's block, I was at the computer one night when all the chaos, suppression and hopes I had lived came together in a terrible urge within me--I pressed a key with my right index finger. The story turned out to be a self-referential one in which a young writer muses on the creation of her alter-ego: parallel lives on different planes of existence, shared emotions in solitary zones. In the story he's identified by the first letter of his name. Just for myself, I named him after a musician I liked.

Over the years a number of friends have picked that story as their favorite among my works. The story has its merit: it's subtle and visceral, and it has heart and form. I dread rereading it, but I like it for what it stands for in my writing life. It's one of those rare moments when the deeper truths of your life come to you in great clarity, and you birth that nugget of gold you've been trying to reach in yourself. Naturally I have a soft spot for my protagonist. I revisit him in my mind now and then: Has he changed? Is he well or has he lost himself?

There've been traces of him in my other male protagonists since, but I never wanted to reinvent him in full form in another story. I wanted to preserve his integrity in that fictional world, or there simply wasn't an opening in my life for me to touch him again.

That is, until recently when he turned into a real person. This person is an artist of some sort and I've always known him. I see him the way some people see me: openly vulnerable, genuine and gifted, a seeker in life. It was no surprise when my friend A. said, 'You like him because he's your alter-ego.' As the story goes, I took a second look at my friend's portfolio and saw that he has an alternative name as an artist, the same as my protagonist's. We never touched in the past, not until a while ago; it's the first time I looked at him or us.

As I re-create my protagonist on the page, I see endless intrigues and challenges. I'm out of practice in crafting a story and my language; my connection with my alter-ego in life was too brief, punctuated with pauses and limits. It's the seed for a revelation I must seek elsewhere and it has yet to gain substance. All day I work my way through the scenes and the characters: What do they stand for, what do they mean to one another and to me? How do I possess them when my life draws blanks and I'm dazed from an unquenchable thirst?

Fiction gives no answer and it's my only answer. I long to touch my alter-ego in life again one day and my bet is it wouldn't happen. The questions will haunt me until I find him in other connections, though such recognition of the souls rarely comes round. I must wait.

On Love

Last week I got an unexpected reminder of the last person I loved. Two days later I scratched my face by accident as I wiped away my tears. Life is a new life and you live just fine. But nothing compares to when you're in love with someone and you're close. Once it dies the loneliness stays with you for a long time until love comes again--which rarely happens.

My moment of loneliness was amplified by my grinding away at the writing desk. I'm generally a slow writer; it's been months since I forced myself to write fiction and I forgot how hard it was. Just the sheer amount of willpower you muster to write a few hundred words--it leaves you drained for the whole day. You give yourself to it night and day, to build the fictional universe in which you're utterly alone. There's no hope for redemption until you finish the story. Not until then can you rejoin other people in the real world, where you connect and live.

I'm looking to live through this immense solitude for most of the coming months. Before I return to my isolation, here's some excerpts from the novel Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi, which I mentioned in an earlier post:

"How little, when you think about it, can you will into being. Of what my parents and teachers tried to force on me as a child, little remains except a memory of abhorrence. I was never one of those kids who'd do things because they were compelled...You can, of course, will things for a while, but if you are alive you will rebel. You can protect and encourage the most delicate gifts - love, affection, creativity, sexual desire, inspiration - but you cannot requisition them. You cannot will love, but only ask why you have put it aside for so long...

These days I think often of the couples I know or have met, and consider which of them is in love. There are some. It is tangible, you can see it between them, and feel the depth of their pleasure. Not long ago, at the kids' open day, I noticed a couple who were not engrossed in one another - they had things to do. But they were continuously aware of one another. Then, as their child ran about, and she thought no one was looking, she couldn't wait any longer, and she thrust her hand into her husband's hair and he kissed her.

No wonder everyone wants it - as if they have known such love before and can barely remember it, yet are compelled ever after to seek it as the single thing worth living for. Without love, most of life remains concealed. Nothing is as fascinating as love, unfortunately."