I dressed like a responsible tourist—my cleanest shirt and my most non-sporty pair of shorts—and went out to do a responsible tourist thing: head to a gallery, the National Gallery of Singapore.
Google Maps said it was a 45-minute walk, so I walked. My speed, my cardio, my young legs would get me there in 35 minutes—no problem. Taking in the streets, I guessed it was a weekday based on the thin pedestrian traffic, empty patios, and idling taxis. “Haha, those suckers are stuck at work!” I bobbed my head to “Long Hot Summer” by Style Council, occasionally busting a subtle dance move, occasionally humming my favorite melodies, occasionally going “BUM-BUM-BUM” to the synth bass. “Ahhhh, walking to music…” I thought, “one of life’s greatest pleasures.” After 35 minutes, I arrived at the gallery, a little sad it ended my stroll.
From the outside, the gallery was not what I expected: it had an aggressively Western flavor, a harsh contrast from the structure I was used to seeing around the continent: the temple. In South-East Asia, temples are on every “best things to see in _______” list; they are the great architectural manifestations of the Orient. Most temples in populated places are still functional, open to prayer and worship. And, if they’re not, local governments maintain them for history and tourism’s sake.
Standing under the National Gallery made me feel drastically different than a temple would. A temple has welcoming beauty. Soft-colored murals adorn its outer walls, displaying the stories and gods that inspired their construction. Inside, gold statues, bamboo matts, low ceilings, wood, donated rice and fruit, and candles culminate to create a peaceful and quiet atmosphere, blocking out the busy streets, encouraging visitors to turn inwards. The Singapore National Gallery was beautiful, but in an intimidating, not welcoming way. Formerly the City Hall and Supreme Court of Singapore, the grey building loomed as a strong fortress for British colonial thought, unwilling to share the reasons for its creations. The tall Corinthian columns held engravings up high, forcing me to crane my neck and squint at the lightly clad, classical Western bodies. One of them was Lady Justice, holding an ancient scale (a symbol of law) paired with a long sword (a tool for chopping heads). I walked up the steps and heaved the door open.
The halls were minimalist, symmetrical, and functional: they didn’t want to distract walkers from walking. The checkered tiles seemed to suggest its visitors move like pawns: forward, backwards, and, only in special cases, sideways.
After paying, I found art in the 20th century courtrooms. They kept the general layout of their past judicial purpose: a judge’s bench, a stand, and balcony seats. But now, to my amusement, the wood-paneled walls had paintings. This room, once the site of imprisonment and death-sentences, was now for displaying images of anti-establishment uprisings, exploited peasants, open-aired landscapes, and unruly wilderness. The former hub for governmental power was now a platform for artists, a type of human who tends to despise government, fuel counter-culture, and pursue a financially risky career so no one ever tells them what to do.
But, as I stood in front of the hanging frames and slowly got absorbed into paintings, I forgot about this ironic context, I forgot that I was travelling, I forgot where I was, and I forgot who I was—the sign of a good gallery. I enjoyed all of it, but my favorites were of Thai farmers and Indonesian landscapes.
The Orchardman’s Smile by Pratuang Emjaroen portrays a man carrying fruits, who looked content until I noticed his rough hands (hardship) and bullet holes (violence) in the background. Music, Lives and Farmers by Paisal Theerapongvisanuporn is a surrealist painting that shows two anatomically distorted farmers—instead of legs, their upper bodies exist on sticks, like scarecrows—leaving their barren field for a distant city. They are guided by a floating pink dress on a mannequin and a two-faced businessman, which represent the consumerism’s allure.
Landscape with Paddy Field and Mountain by Mas Pirngadie had everything I love about landscape paintings. In its slightly Impressionist style, Mas’s brush romanticizes the clouds, sky, mountain range, field, stream, and crooked palms. The farmers—one walking with a scythe, one on horseback— and their small hut are not the focus of the painter’s gaze. Compared to their surroundings, these humans are insignificant; their presence impacts nothing. Surviving in those days was something to feel proud of, I thought. And as I stared at this epic depiction, I fantasized about a lifestyle where I spent days working the land, hunting in thick jungle, trekking across a flat Earth, and falling asleep under unexplained stars.
My favorite painting was Raden Saleh’s Boshbrand (Forest Fire). Almost four meters wide and three meters high, it’s a massive display of nature’s destructive power. A forest fire is pushing animals to the edge of a cliff. A leopard and puma narrowly escape from a flaming bush. An eagle glides beside smoke. A bull wails. One tiger falls off the precipice, dragging a cow with it. But the images focal point is a roaring tiger, staring directly ahead. At a gallery volunteer’s behest, I moved around the spacious room, getting different angles of this tiger’s glare. And just as she said, it looked as if its eyes were following me. After standing in front of the painting together, pondering Saleh’s decision to point the tiger’s eyes at the viewer despite the engulfing flames, the volunteer and I traded impressions on countless works and never felt the need to exchange names.
For the next four hours, I patiently made my way: painting to painting, room to room, floor to floor. The museum halls maintained their intimidating aura, but the artwork enveloped my mind in a meditative cocoon. I felt deep appreciation for silence and cleanliness (absent from my hostel). I was unburdened of a desire to be with people, a fear of being alone. In fact, I saw being alone as a privilege that allowed me to watch and enjoy and think at my own pace. In this state of comfort, short stories, novels, poems, and pretty ideas streamed behind my eyes, uninterrupted. I felt a deep desire to create something great, something that would make people feel the way one of these paintings made me feel, so I sat down on a bench, rapidly recording thoughts into my phone until a lady’s legs passed my line of sight. The fear of being perceived as an unappreciative, technology-obsessed traveller tore my mental cocoon, and I suddenly realized I was freezing. The museum’s A/C was blasting. It felt like Canadian autumn and I was dressed from the tropics.
I looked around at others. A couple guests wore long sleeve button-ups. Volunteers were in khakis and cardigans. I tried to stay, but every time I parked my shirt, shorts, and sandals in front of a painting I started shivering and sneezing. After a gunshot of a sneeze made an old lady jump, I removed myself from the museum, relieved to have the sun wash over my bumpy skin.
I walked back to the hostel in the soft after-glow of inspiration.