My parents loved to recall, as frequently as possible, the ridiculous things I used to do as a child. One of their favourites was how I used to dance frantically around the house along an old cheesy love song in my pajamas, wearing a big straw hat, with pink and yellow ribbons on it, pretending to be a singer or a dancer deep in her own emotions. The 4-years-old me must have looked like such a big joke, so much that as I get older, the story gets even funnier to the adults.
I laughed along whenever my parents seized their chance to revise the memory. I have had my childhood stories brought up and laughed at for so many times that I learned to play along and have fun rather than feel embarrassed. However, deep in my heart, I cherish these little memories dearly, because they attribute to a much bigger part of my life: the love for the arts.
Only 4 years old, I barely understood the lyrics I was listening to, but I let myself go with the music anyway. I swayed and strayed with the melodies, hurling myself into the magical, heart-breaking sounds of the guitars, drums and the deep steady voice surrounding me. Just like that, I took my first clumsy steps into the world of music, colours, ecstacy, pain, joy, solemnity and freedom that I came to love so much. I cannot remember much, except for the pure happiness I had as I felt every part of my body responding to the sound of music, like a seed breaking free for the sunlight.
The same happiness I found as I listened to my mother’s tender lullaby as a small child. The same happiness I felt as I, at 6 years old, finished one of my first drawings, that of circles and squares and dots of various colors intertwining, which was like a beautiful city at night in my eyes. The same happiness I had when I, at 10 years old, listened to a beautiful song about autumn in Hanoi, with ancient street corners and tropical flowers that slow down passers-by with their mesmerizing scents, which I could not experience but came to love through the music. The same happiness as I, at 13 years old, first laid my eyes on Van Gogh’s breathtaking “Starry night”, hypnotized by the swirling stars and clouds, not knowing that the artist took his own life 3 months after completing this masterpiece, leaving a piece of his heaven in this painting. The same happiness that I, at 17 years old, embraced as I strolled in the middle of the Singapore Art Museum alone, immersing myself in beautiful hues of colours, finding consolation as I tried to assuage my homesickness. And the same happiness I had while performing on stage, as a dancer, when I’m 19 years old, once again letting my movements and body language take over and express how I feel, this time with much more composure and maturity than when I was 4.
The arts, through one form or another, came to me as an essential part of life. I sing to find joy in sadness. I sketch to feel calm in anger. I dance to find meaning of living in a mass of hurrying, hasty beings of life. I share these joys with my friends, my dance mates, my family to find happiness in them. The Arts is a precious gift I am privileged to have, and I love it dearly, for everyday of my life.
Chaotic world 