Rain

BY EDWARD THOMAS

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me

Remembering again that I shall die

And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks

For washing me cleaner than I have been

Since I was born into solitude.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:

But here I pray that none whom once I loved

Is dying tonight or lying still awake

Solitary, listening to the rain,

Either in pain or thus in sympathy

Helpless among the living and the dead,

Like a cold water among broken reeds,

Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,

Like me who have no love which this wild rain

Has not dissolved except the love of death,

If love it be towards what is perfect and

Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

The first, and last snowfall

Reflections on a semester in Glasgow, I

I had initially wrote the following sometime in mid-November, while I was still in Glasgow on my exchange programme; I remain amazed at how quickly that episode of my life has passed by, how ephemeral it was, not unlike my one-and-only encounter with snow during this particular trip to Europe.

Much has happened since I last penned this, and somehow, I feel that it is only apt that I reexamine my reflections, and complete them a little more, even as I am still struggling to finish processing the far-too-many photographs that I took over the course of those 4 months abroad.

 

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I am, faintly, cast against the delicate flakes dancing on a black backdrop,
Their swansong, on the black, now-mirror asphalt.

 

Perhaps now might be a good time to be a little introspective and reflective about my time in Glasgow, given that 61 days have since passed. I’m nearly halfway into my exchange programme here, and ever closer to returning home.

It’s strange to be away from home for such an extended period of time; the comforts and familiarity of home are certainly missed, and longed for – the important ones such as my loved ones, to the small things like a quick nespresso in the morning.

Yet just as there is a routine at home, a new one establishes itself here – Mondays are studio days, Tuesdays and Fridays are free (the former has become laundry day), and the in-betweens are, in-between days.

Between these new routines, are new experiences. Experiencing the Scottish accent and manner of speaking, on a daily basis, is almost surreal. It’s English, and yet its not. And it certainly isn’t English. I suppose that’s what it’s like to experience Singlish as a foreigner. But bit by bit it’s becoming a little more familiar.

I am thankful that there is so much more free time here, I am thankful that I am able to feel rested each day, not necessarily care free, but far less stressed. I am thankful for the weekend excursions, trips, holidays that I am able to have, and for the others that are to come. I am thankful for my Scottish flatmates, who have been oh so friendly, even if we do not always have much common topics to chat on (and accents to get past).

 

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Now that I am actually back to Singapore, and in the first week of school back at NUS, it seems even more pertinent that I pen down as much of my thoughts on the semester-long exchange programme, lest it one day fades into obscurity, that it remains more than a hazy memory in the future.

In retrospect, my time abroad has not been as carefree as I had initially thought of it as, due to various personal mistakes, as well as the inexorable hands of fate. There were many losses, some material, others more personal, but each one acutely felt, and distressing. Perhaps it was necessary however – a reminder that life cannot simply be put on hold for hedonistic pleasures, that earthly existence is defined by temporality.

My last day in Glasgow was one of haste, with little sense of closure. There was no one left in the flat but myself (the others had all left for home for the Christmas holidays), and there wasn’t anyone to say goodbye to. It was all particularly odd. I simply had a quick breakfast in the city-centre, had one last stroll through Buchanan Street, and not long after, made my way to the airport.

I do think that I miss my time at Glasgow,
I don’t think I’m especially ready for the present semester…

To Uncle JS

To Uncle JS,

It is difficult to put together any words, your sudden departure is a shocking one.

I suppose it is uncommon in the Asian context to describe our familial ties as a friendship, and personally I do not readily describe relationships as friendships, but I want to use that word – it seems quite apt here.

Our friendship was a simple one – a reliable one, that even though we met mostly during family gatherings, each time we meet is always an enjoyable one.

Aunt M and you were always the life of our family gatherings, jovial, exuberant, merry.

I remember the Christmases, CNYs, Birthdays, and the casual lunches and dinners that we shared together. It was always a joy chatting with you, about the stories of your travels, your hobbies, new technologies, and the simple joys of life. Chatting with you always reminded me of the joys of life, and the joys of experiencing life with your loved ones.

There was this one winter that you hosted my family and I at your place in Shanghai, in 2004. Though you were busy, though you had other priorities, Aunt M and you still warmly welcomed us, showed us around, shared your new home – this strange-surreal city – with us. I still remember the now-on-hindsight outlandish animal-print baroque sofa, the hazy city view out of your window at Shi-mao-bin-jiang-hua-yuan, the insanely large decorative bowl of chillies at the Xintiandi restaurant you brought us to one evening, even the simple instant noodle dinner we had one night together, albeit with hairy crabs. All of it was such an eye-opener for me, and I dare say that the time in Shanghai at your place was possibly one of the experiences that shaped my deep passion for architecture today.

I remember the texts and emails that, in the recent years, you would send me. Every now and then, of the beautiful buildings that you had encountered, and asking me to check them out. Thank you for all of those, for remembering me, and caring enough to share these with me.

I realise that many of these memories involve celebrations or feasting in some way, or seemingly pedestrian conversations about our interests, but then again, I think that is a beautiful image to remember.

You lived a full life, one rich in experiences and joy, my Mom shared that with me today. You certainly did, and I am grateful that you shared some of it with me.

To Uncle JS, it is a shame that we don’t have more years of friendship ahead, but I am thankful for those that you have given me.

Goodbye, Uncle JS, you will be missed.

Loch Ness

There’s a terrible mess
On the shores of Loch Ness
Where the monster’s been chucking her bones.
There’s bonnets and sporrans
All tattered and torn
And a pile of chewed-up mobile phones.

Excerpt from Donald Nelson’s Too Messy for Nessie

Loch Lomond
Glencoe
Fort Augustus
Urquhart Castle
Loch Ness

Reflections on a Trip

London
Paris
York
Edinburgh
Glasgow

 

It is not often that one gets the chance to travel, for an extended period of time, with one’s loved ones. Yes, I do hold my parents dear to heart – they are more than just family to me, whatever implications of obligation that word may entail to some.

Beautiful as the places we visited were, it was more important to me (though I’ll admit that this was not always the primary thought on my mind as I was travelling) that we would enjoy our time together – enjoy the food, the sights, the experiences, and the company together.

But travelling is also a stressful experience. There’s so much to keep a hand on, to be concerned about, to be mindful of. I forget that my parents are no longer young, they are in their 50s, and their stamina is no longer what it used to be. I forget that they are no longer the adventurous 20 year-old individuals that once moved themselves across land and seas to work in a foreign land, where they met, that time and expectations had mellowed them. Perhaps I am at the stage where they once were in their youth. And it was this ignorance that left me impatient at times, and irritable at others. Forgive me.

Yet in the years to come, the struggles during this trip will surely fade away, what will remain are the rosy memories (undoubtedly tinted) of beautiful sights enjoyed together, and the company, enjoyed together. Thank you for these moments.

I am truly blessed.

Loch Lomond

O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond

Castle Stirling
Loch Lomond

My folks and I took a daytrip out of Edinburgh to see a wee bit of the Scottish countryside with Rabbies, and it was honestly one of the best guided tour experiences that I’ve had in quite a long time, certainly on the same level as that of the guide in Versailles, and definitely way above any of those of tour groups from Singapore.

Edinburgh Castle would be the highlight for most visitors to the 2 major cities of Scotland, but really I think it should be Castle Stirling. Sure, it’s not nearly as accessible, but its sure a looker to behold, both within and of the countryside that surrounds it. The re-built historic rooms are certainly beautiful, though I’m not quite sure how I feel about the almost Disney-esque inclusion of 16th-century costumed actors. I suppose it brings the castle’s history to life…

The pièce de résistance of the tour however was simply the views from Loch Lomond. It is truly a beautiful place, and it is only upon repeated visits that one fully grasps how vast the body of water actually is. I honestly don’t know which bit we stopped at, but it was quaint regardless, and a perfect place to begin a short hike around the lake. I suppose it’s easier to let the pictures do justice to the place.

Oh how you both have aged, I must treasure the time that I have with you.

Edinburgh ’16

Arthur’s Seat
Royal Mile
Edinburgh Castle

 

 

I can’t think of a better way to experience Edinburgh than by going up Arthur’s Seat. Granted, we didn’t go to the summit, but that’s fine, the view from midways was also divine. Or perhaps that was due to the almost rare bout of sunshine we had that particular evening, I don’t know.

En-route (up and down) was a truly odd piece of architecture – the Scottish Parliament – it’s particularly hard to describe, other than being excessively detailed on the facade, but I think I like it’s bravado. It definitely says something about the Scottish spirit, especially in this particular political climate. I’m sure it’s as relevant now as it was when the Scots first got their devolved government.

 

 

It’s interesting I suppose that we begin each day of Edinburgh seeing this particular staircase – it’s quite the archetype of the Scottish tenement typology of housing (without lifts!) It certainly was a shock when we got there from the train station, not realising that lifting luggage up 4 floors would be such a pain. But it was a pleasantly comfortable abode regardless.

Being lazy tourists that we were (or rather, exhausted ones at that), we opted for one of those open top bus tours to bring us around the city. Oh, Princes Street Gardens is simply a gem, every city should have a generous green space in the middle of its city centre. I suppose that’s what Central Park feels like, though I wouldn’t know.

 

 

And certainly as tourists, Edinburgh Castle was simply unmissable, though its a shame that it should feel like merely a check off the bucket list. I suppose I’m not one to fully appreciate castles, or the complexity of what they are (and certainly more so when they become so touristy). That being said, the Scottish War Memorial on it’s grounds was quite a moving space to encounter, because of how somber it is as an atmosphere, though more significantly because it reminded me of how many have had to die in the name of the inane wars that humanity chooses to wage against their brethren.

 

 

May we learn to live in peace.

 

York’16

York City Walls
York Minster
Treasurer’s House
York Royal Theatre
The Shambles
York Castle Museum

 

I suppose if my time in York had to be summarised into two images, it might be these two – that of the city walls, and York’s winding and narrow (though this particular one isn’t fully narrow enough) alleyways. It’s perhaps most striking that a set of walls can be such a joy to use, both as a point of reference, and just a means to wander from.

Its interesting how most people spend a day or so in York, and my folks and I spent three there.

We had an immensely relaxing time in York, especially after a (overly – I admit) packed itinerary in both London and Paris (though this isn’t entirely by choice, it’s just because everything closes so early in York). And we were fortunate to be staying in an apartment-ish setting in York, so there was always somewhere comfortable to retreat to in the evenings.

I suppose the charms of being in a small-ish town is the ability to walk to anywhere – nothing was more than 20 minutes away from where we were, it was easy to get to know the city’s streets quite quickly (at least enough to get by).

 

 

I still don’t quite know what to make of York Minster; grand as it was, it still just felt like any other cathedral. Perhaps it was the rain that we experienced that day, or it was the other sights from the previous portions of our travels that left me feeling a little jaded. Still charming, in its own subtle way I suppose.

 

 

The rain does make for some lovely pictures though.

 

 

A trip to York wouldn’t be complete without a stop by the Shambles, but in spite of its intrinsic charm, something about crowds of tourists, jostling about with oversized brollies, does not quite make an enjoyable experience. Tea at Betty’s was also equally packed, though far more delightful.

 

 

I suppose that’s it for York.

Paris’16, III

Museum Day

Museé du Louvre
Museé de l’Orangerie
Museé d’Orsay
Sacré-Coueur

 

What is a trip to Paris without seeing its great institutions. But they are certainly exhausting to visit, and certainly I was too ambitious – my feet, and those of my parents undoubtedly, ached unyielding the next day. I suppose there’s a price to pay for culture, beyond the admission fees.

 

 

Unfortunately, during my previous trip to Paris (it was unfortunately a short one, en-route to Switzerland), the Louvre was closed – must have been a Tuesday, or the staff were on strike. Shame. Yet, perhaps it is a better experience to have seen it now than then, when I’m a little more enlightened architecturally, and better yet, in the summer sunlight. Oh Pei’s pyramid is truly a crystalline masterpiece – it remains contemporary even till this day.

 

 

I’m especially proud of the fact that we covered nearly the whole museum in about half a day, though certainly that involved skimming by much of the vast collection – simply to experience the vastness of the Louvre is something in its own right, and a draining one at at that.

 

 

Perhaps a palette-cleanser of sort, Monet’s Water Lilies were delightfully serene, almost zen-like in their oval-opalescent home. There was surreal, a zen-like calm in the space, a far cry from the busyness just outside at the Tuileries Gardens. Monet’s meditative and considered brush-strokes were a joy to appreciate, and inappropriate as this may seem, he might have been the VR artist of his time I suppose, crafting such an immersive work.

I suppose that was the highlight of my time at the Museé de l’Orangerie; it did house a beautiful collection of early modern art as well, but its hard to trump such an artistic and spatial accomplishment that it shares a building with. Certainly the Cézannes, Matisses, Derains were boldly beautiful, but Monet’s were still the most evocative.

 

 

It likely was museum fatigue by this point, but the most enjoyable part of d’Orsay was simply the building. Sure, the Impressionist pieces at the previous gallery were a good primer into this space, but we had by this point seen one too many paintings and sculptures. To marvel at how the (honestly relatively invasive) modern insertions were handled, and to enjoy the spatial richness they afforded to an otherwise cavernous former railway station, is simply impressive. One certainly does not see this sort of PO-MO forms much these days, outside of hipster architectural renderings and branding or wrapping paper, certainly a nice juxtaposition to the forms present in classical sculpture.

 

 

Ending off the day, was a lovely meal by the road-side at a bistro in the Montmartre area. Sacré-Coeur was beautiful, but I suppose its better in the day.

It was a long day.

Paris ’16, II

Musee Rodin
Versailles
Centre Pompidou

 

 

Having booked an afternoon trip to Versailles, we didn’t have too much time to spare at Musee Rodin, but even just a morning in the jardin was time well spent. It was a beautiful oasis away from the annoyance and anger of what happened the day before, and a reminder that this trip was one to be enjoyed, not wallowed away. So onward we trudged to Versailles.

 

 

I remember being completely enamoured by Versailles as a child (along with Fabergé); the sheer scale of it as an undertaking, and the intricacies that it displayed, were unfathomable through mere pictures in books. And to think, this is but a vestige of what it once was before the revolution.

Perhaps this is why what intrigued me the most, once I got there, was how subdued some sections of Versailles could be. Sure, Louis XIV was ostentatiously impressive, but the neoclassical touches were so carefully handled as well. And of course, how modern installations sit in so well (Roman and Erwan Bouroullec’s Swarovski chanderlier was genius). The whole place was simply an enfilade of rooms after rooms, I’m certainly glad to have seen the private apartments as well – it was a refreshing change of atmosphere, away from the intrusions of hoards of tourists.

 

 

Certainly a complete antithesis to Versailles, was Centre Pompidou. I certainly wonder what the Versailles guide must have thought of us when we asked him how we could get there, he certainly thought of the Piano’s building as being an “ugly thing with blue pipes”. Perhaps he thought of us as degenerates (lol), but he was terribly friendly regardless.

I can’t say that I enjoy Pompidou as much as the Tate Modern, simply because of how it is experienced. The Tate’s curation just seems tighter, somehow, while Pompidou feels encyclopaedic or repository-like, particularly in its modern art collection. That is surely befitting of its industrial-high-tech aesthetic. Hmm.

 

 

It was however amazing to see Junya Ishigami’s models on display, though strangely, I can’t say that I have gained a deeper understanding of them (apart from their intricacies), than I had through his book. I suppose that’s just a reflection of how well-crafted the book is.