Painting with Goh Ee Choo

This is my painting corner. The past year has seen me visit the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts once a week, to take lessons under Singapore contemporary artist Goh Ee Choo. He has won numberous awards and accolades and his works are owned both by private collectors and the Singapore National Museum. But you would never know it just by looking at him.

Mr. Goh, or Laoshi, to his students, is my first true exposure to the quitessential Singaporean. He is very opinionated about Singapore, and all the trials and tribulations that living here entails. Yet, his comments are always done in good-natured humour, and with an endearing self-effacement that one can't help but get swayed, if not altogether involved in his discussions on everything economic and politic, and to our consternation, art.

See, Laoshi is a reformed artist. A Buddhist who has wrestled with his demons and has now found peace teaching painting to bored housewives, cocky art students and working professionals with a few extra hours of spare time in their hands. To say that he is laid-back is an understatement. Nothing fazes the man, and he is a pragmatist when it comes to his students' talents, or lack thereof. I suspect his wonderful wife, Mrs. Goh, who is also an able artist herself, is a grounding presence and must be responsible for keeping him sane and on time (private joke here).

Thanks to Mr. Goh, I found out that I can stick to something and see it through. At the end of the year, I was able to finish two charcoal drawings, two watercolor paintings, and two oil paintings, the difference between each piece evident and startling. I chuckle to remember how terrified we were at the beginning of each painting, how impossible it seemed to get anything finished, and how daunting it was to look at a subject and recognize the various tonal values, shapes, color and proportion.

To compare the first drawing with the one made towards the end of the year is to feel a sense of satisfation, not because the pieces were perfect (far from it!) but the knowledge you have learned and improved is truly empowering. Anyone can paint after all!

I am far from being an "artist" but now I approach my paintings and drawings not with dread and apprehension, but with an inquisitive mind, a more intelligent eye, and a humble belief that in time, it can be done. So thank, Laoshi, for being a patient and encouraging teacher, and a funny one at that.

It's Paris for me...

In a romaticized life, I would love to believe that I was fit enough to live out my years in Paris, France.

I loved Paris during my first (and hopefully, not my last) visit there almost ten years ago. I don't know how much it has changed since then, but from what I remember of the city, it was enough to make me want to live there.

The place itself is steeped in history, the architecture an awe-inspiring tribute to every golden age, the cuisine sublime, the culture rich and the pace a healthy fast but not harried. People still had time to sip a beautifully prepared cup of coffee in various sidewalk cafes, and I got the impression that there was pride in presenting and acquiring the best, whether it was fresh produce or fashion.

Art is alive in Paris, and beauty is a living thing. Every corner proffered a tableau of life as if caught between two portals of faded pulchritude and modernity. My head spun with the magnificent views, whether from atop its most famous tower, or from the quintessential balcony overlooking its many arrondisement. Even everyday chores like sweeping the floor of a brasserie seem like a stage production mounted just for my enjoyment.

Still, it is far from perfect, which is part of its aspect that I loved. I saw man and dog peeing in the streets, and sidestepping canine poop was a form of urban work-out. The city itself was expensive, and there were a lot of places that had thinly veiled shabiness to them. My reasoning was that it couldn't be helped if a "new" building was probably a hudnred years old. And of course the garcons had its reputation for being impatient and rude, but then again, my own experience proved that a fallacy. I thought that they appreciated the pained effort I made to speak their language, and not only rescued me from embarassment but offered delicious suggestions and helped out with directions.

If money was no object, I would like to live in Paris while keeping a farmhouse in the South of France, an apartment in New York and Hong Kong and an expansive beach house in the Philippines. But that's another story.

Too much of a good thing...

Hoarding pantry products, that's my vice.

I love to eat. My pleasurable goal was to be like one of my food idols, Jeffrey Steingarten, and be an omnivore, relinquishing any food biases and prejudices. To this end I follow one code of conduct, "Don't knock it until you've tried it." I never say no to a generous offer to break bread together, or swill tipple, or even cook, for two or forty people at a day's notice.

Both my parents cooked. Some of my favorite memories of my late father was of him leading our young family on a drive to some remote seaside town, where he would inevitably befriend the local fishermen to take him fishing before dawn. He would come back by sunrise, with fresh catch of tuna, squid, grouper and mysterious looking fish that I would blanch at. He would regale us with stories of mixing a dipping sauce of soy, chilis, onions and herbs on board their tiny outrigger, catching the cuttlefish baited by the light, pulling the tentacles off the slippery creature, rinsing the gleaming body into the sea and plonking it down in the sauce before savoring the now exotic dish, usually with a swig of potent, local coconut wine. Back then I thought it was barbaric; now I call it eating sushi.

My mother was typical of her generation. She worked in an office, would go to the wet market on her way home to buy the evening meal, and then go home to whip up various childhood comfort food. She also whipped us into Sunday lunch service, which translated to early morning trips to the market on Saturdays(no mercy on weekends!) to buy ingredients for the inevitable feast that follows mass on Sundays. Our baskets would groan with fresh produce, meat, fish, spices, all haggled down to a regular customer's price, and hastily brought back home to begin their sorry journey to the pot.

The dishes almost invariably require lengthy, two day preparations and long simmering times, but the delicious, savory meals were all way worth the effort. Nowadays, I would desperately try to recreate these repasts of old, but inevitably succumb to the allure of time-saving, prepacked mixes. How many generations of family from both sides must be turning in their graves.

But as life happens, I also have memories of being hungry because there wasn't enough food to feed five kids in our family. With divorced parents, I learned how to be creative in the kitchen to stretch the meager supply. Salt, soy sauce, calamansi and pepper were my extender allies that rescued many a plain bowl of rice. And when I eventually grew up into full adulthood with all its trappings and responsibility, I became obsessed with making sure that the cupboards are never bare, and that stomachs in my household will always be lined.

If you look into my pantry, you will find tons of items, both foreign and familiar. Sheets of lasagna, boxes of spinach fettucine and organic angel hair pasta mingle with soba, bee hon, sundried tomato tortilla, couscous and quinoa. I keep white rice, brown rice, mixed grain rice, plus lentils, chickpeas, red beans, mung beans, black beans and yes, coffee beans. There are dried seaweed, dashi powder, coconut cream and curry mixes. Chilis and pastes, chutneys and relishes, jars of lavender and juniper berries and spices of every scent and form. Salt, oh, I keep at least 6 different types, usually more, with at least three open at any given time. I swear the fleur de sel from Brittany is best on roasted meats, while the Himalayan pink salt works wonders with fish.

There are of course the usual pantry suspects of canned tomatoes, tinned tuna and bottles of mayonnaise and ketchup. There are pancake mixes and chocolates for eating and baking, extracts and flavorings, cake decorations (though I don't bake except for cheesecake and brownies) and food coloring. I keep bags of chips and pistachios, dried nuts and dates and figs; jams and peanut butter and even Marmite. Honey, maple syrup, rice syrup and caramel. Several types of soy sauc, vinegars and oils. Oh, and candy. I can fill up a pinata any day.

So what seems to be the problem? Well, despite my boundless generosity with food, I am against waste. And when one keeps stock of food the way I do, it's inevitable that some of them expire or spoil before I get around to using them, or serving them again. The bottles of Clamato juice I saved to make the Caesar's for a barbecue which changed its theme from Western to Asian? Yeah, down the drain. Together with expired seasoned kim from Korea. And the gourmet hot sauce made in New Zealand, handcarried by gourmand brother. With the candies from Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's and several children's parties... It is unconscionable and an absolutely unecessary waste that could've been put into better use.

I love to cook and entertain. I think having friends and family over is one of life's best experiences. And to see everyone enjoying a meal I've prepared with care (for the food) and love (for the guests), well, it truly is a gift. So it is ironic that though I live to eat, my family eat to live. S I G H... I suppose I just have to divorce the love of food and entertaining with being a flagrant consumer. And stop my Pavlovian response to food. I will do this, I know, for health and wealth, and because I think it is the right thing to do.

In the meantime, I am guessing I have a few hungry friends who will enjoy the fruits of this one vice.

Whistler in Winter Time

Conversations with Dylan (5 years old)

Dylan: (in all seriousness)Mom, I know what boobies look like.

Me: (eyebrows raised) You do?

Dylan: Yes! They are big (eyes getting large), round (hands motioning in circles) and have little dots in the middle!

Me: Oh(wondering if his big-buxomed kindergarten teacher has been leaning over too much in class). How did you know all this?

Dylan: Well, we saw it on tv in Canada. We were changing channels to go to PBS Kids when we saw it on one of the channels.

Me: (thinking I better have a child lock on our cable subscription) Well, Dylan, you know boobies are just body parts. Just like how boys have willies, girls have boobies. It's not a big deal. Stop making a big deal out of it, you understand?

Dylan: Ok. Can you show me your boobies then? (Smiling) They're just body parts.

Me: Argh!

Krabi, Thailand made me homesick

It's funny how you go far away from home for that "much-needed break" only to be haunted by what is familiar. In my case, it was a return to Krabi, one of Thailand's lesser-known, beautiful seaside towns. There are plenty of similarities between Thailand and the Philippines, where I am originally from, gorgeous beaches with breath-taking sunsets being some of them.

We were fortunate enough to stay at our favorite resort in Krabi, Rayavadee, five years after our last visit. If it's at all possible, the resort was even better than what we remembered it to be, and that's saying a lot as it has always been one of the best places we've ever stayed at in Asia. They welcomed us back like long-lost friends, pleased to see that this time around, we have not one but two sons making the trip.

The ecologicaly sound but luxurious villas are two storey, cozy structures topped with a roof that resembles a local wide brimmed hat. The hat, looks exactly like the "salakot" that Filipino farmers wear to ward off the heat of the noonday sun as they till the land. I see the local vendors wearing the hat as they ply the shallow waters, offering everything from henna tattoes to impromptu massages on the beach. I smile and think the scene is probably being repeated in Boracay or Mindoro at that very moment.

The villas are surrounded by lush, landscaped gardens, each unit seemingly dropped into its own private Eden. The paths are shaded by the ubiquitous coconut trees, thoughtfully shed of its delicious but hard-shelled fruits (you wouldn't want one dropping on your head, something that happens when the fruit is "old" enough). Coconuts are of course, practically our national tree, and seeing so many of them swaying in the sultry breeze brought back a lot of memories of endless summers outside the capital. I wondered if I can cajole one of the staffers to climb one for us - it was always the best way to get a fresh coconut drink back home.

Frangipani, birds of paradise and bougainvillea dot the gardens; the same flowers that grow in our yard in Manila. The limestone cliffs remind me of the towering ones in Palawan, and the fine sand make me think of Boracay's own powder that would glow in the moonlight. The snorkeling around Krabi was good, but that just made me wish for the even more vibrant marine life in Anilao and Cebu.

The friendly staff of Rayavadee reminded me of Filipinos too. They always ask me where I am from, as they are always startled to find out that I am not Thai. "We are the same," they always say, pointing to our caramel skin color. I smile my agreement. With each trip I make, I see more and more similarities with the world and its people, rather than differences. I tell them, if you visit my country, they will think you are Filipino too.

As we explore the beaches, I can't help but think about the Philippines and its own beautiful coastlines... The Philippines is, after all, an archipelago of over 7,100 islands. Looking at Thailand's pristine beaches make me lament my own country's treatment of its resources. I can't help but compare the progressive laws that the Thai government has put into place to protect its landscape while promoting numerous towns as tourist destinations. I'm amazed at what Thailand has been able to accomplish in the last few decades, putting itself on the map while remaining true to its culture and traditions.

I pined for "home," the Philippines, where I was born and raised but haven't lived in in almost a decade. I dream of its beaches, its mountains, its valleys, its people... my country with all its heartbreaking problems. I look at its neighbor, Thailand, and hope for good things to happen to it as well. It took a visit to a different locale, yet so similar a place, to make me yearn for home.

Loss

At a little after noon today, I got a text message from my sister informing me that a friend had passed away after a long, heroic battle against cancer. Within minutes, I received several text messages informing me of the same sad news. I still couldn't believe it, and had a horrible cry alone in the house.

I knew the man like everyone else - Francis Magalona, Francis M, Kiko, Franz... a famous rap artist, a television host, a loving father, a cool husband, a friendly guy who gets along with everybody, a great friend...

Francis was my VJ on MTV Asia when I worked as the producer for the Philippines. He was easy to work with, full of smart ideas, had a ready smile and the camera loved him. He was a consummate professional. He was always surrounded by people, and he fed off their energy as they reveled in his.

He was the first guy to text me that Princess Diana had passed away (funny what one remembers). We hosted the Tower Records' launch in Manila. It was one of the best gigs I had as he made it so easy. He's always at the top of his game. And there were countless other gigs - concerts, interviews, video shoots, awards nights... I remember when we talked about his "new gig," as a guest host for Eat Bulaga, a popular noontime variety show. It didn't seem like a good fit for such a cool guy. But he worked it, and he stayed with the show til the very end. And so many discussions about "the scene..."

I found out he was sick last year. It came as a shock then, and then as a further revelation of what a great guy he was. I had lost touch with him since I left Manila some eight-odd years ago. Funny enough, it was through his Multiply site, which chronicled his battle with cancer, that we got in touch again. I had to email him to tell him what an inspiration he is to so many people, and to share with him my own battle with cancer years ago. He replied right away and seemed happy to reconnect our old ties. I was desperate for him to get better. I won over my battle, but his, well... his battle was a very big one. It would've reduced a lesser man to pieces.

He was upbeat. He was fearless. He was lifting everybody else's spirits! If he wasn't at the hospital, he was at his store, or working... He was supposed to make an appearance at the biggest concert of the decade tomorrow. And now he is gone. And we all feel the loss...

Francis, I am sending a prayer to God for you. A thank you prayer. And we will all pray for Pia and the kids. They must be oh so big now. I remember when Elmo was just the cutest toddler, tagging along in our own-of-town shoot... They must be all proud to be your kids.

We will miss you. You have left a gaping hole in our industry, and in our lives. Long live your memory!

Homely Handiness

I live in an old, British colonial house called a "Black & White" in Singapore. It has housed British officers during their years in the Straits, and as you can imagine, it has many charming features, as well as quite a few quirky ones. Like how I have to reset the fuse-box everytime there is a thunderstorm, which is often, considering this country has TWO monsoon seasons. I have to go around the house straightening all the picture frames after a each lightning-filled event, thanking God for whoever thought of installing 12 lightning rods on our roof.

Then there's a series of lightbulb tests and replacement. Which sounds simple enough until you realize there are 64 of them, and about 4 types of bulbs. And the bulb casing falls apart if you don't handle it with kid gloves. Make that rubber gloves or any non-conductor material.

There are also constant leaks, creaks and the occasional shrub that grows in whatever crack the house develops, like in between roof tiles, or door frame... There is also an electric gate that dies with a power surge. And shelves that need hammering every now and then.

On the modern front, a slew of home electronics keep me busy, as well as the never ending parade of electronic toys. I think gadgets should soon fall under the handyman's area of responsibility - still waaaay too many wires and cables, wi-fi extenders and wi-fi dependent streaming toys, phone & Blackberry chargers, digital photo frames, audio-video set-up switching, cable programming... I'm pretty good with sorting those out. Isn't a handyman's first job is to be "handy"???

But the proudest handyman jobs I've done would have to include sewing stuffed animals' seams, gluing school projects together, and framing school art to hang on bedroom walls. There's also that water filter for the fish-then-crab-then turtle aquarium that always need some fixin'. And I score big points everytime I help push in a Bionicle joint into its tight spot.

Still, a smart handywoman knows when to play damsel in distress. A man still has to feel like he is useful around the house, you know. Even when we know better ;).