Sandalwood Conservation House for Sale

The House on Tembeling Street, is now finally for sale.  

For details, pls go to http://www.conservationhouseforsale.blogspot.com

Ah, precious, elegant, gentle house.

One of these days when I can get my act together, and find that conviction to write that grant application.

One of these days, (God permitting), I will make a new dance.

In my slumber, the new dance is called, The House on Tembeling Street.

Because the House is a beacon, and the street a map, to lives and love, lived and lost.

Thanksgiving

Quick recall...

I began the year making a brave and deliberate attempt to step away from my truest self.

In the Lion City where government decides and dictates, I thought, Best Let Go Of Dance.

But dance is an incessant beast.

It seeks you out. Most times, best perhaps, surrender.

In October, my dancers came- from America, from Canada, from Australia, and yes, from Singapore. The Esplanade, God-bless the Esplanade, offered refuge. So we had two full glorious week of laughter and experiments, and yes, of course, two full weeks of friendship and love.

In the afternoon light, my dancers line the barre in the dance studio. Light streams in. The ocean, the city, the big ships, create the landscape against which we shift bodies, express time, make shapes.

And my heart singing. A simple song of joy and thanksgiving.

Opening night, I rush down to the arts college to sign a contract.

One day I would so love to run a state-funded company. One day, when I still feel young and have belief.

But for now, dance has found me again. For now there is no escape.

And like what Mr. Balanchine said to Lincoln Kristen when the latter asked him to come to America to make ballet...
Mr Balanchine said- "But first a school."

So I've retired from my non-working life of full-time motherhood and house duties. Jon's taken over. The kids aren't thrilled, but my husband is.

For as long as I have belief and am engaged in a meaningful pursuit, this current job keeps me here with him, in this city.

And what a city.

I drive home at 7pm, and I see the city in shades of blue. Rain makes this city glitter, and brood. And oh I so love the rain.

At work, people management is tricky when you are leading a team that you did not select.

But today is Thanksgiving. So I bring banana bread to share.

Perhaps I am a dreamer. Perhaps I am being foolish to be nice.

But if you love art, if you truly love dance art, how can you be any other way, but kind?

For surely art is the balm that soothes. The world is ugly enough. Human nature is ugly and fragile, and beautiful in its fragility.

I like my new job as the new head of dance at LASALLE College.

My Thanksgiving hope? That at some point soon, my dancers will return, and we can make more magic.

This Thanksgiving, I bow at the feet of dance, in gratitude to God and to everyone who believes in me and who gave me belief again.

Thank you for being a part of my journey.


Tammy L. Wong
November 23 2006

Page 6-8, Thesis Document

In 1929, Elizabeth left her jungle home of North Borneo for higher education in the British colony of Singapore. She was nineteen years old when she enrolled at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus on Victoria Street. Elizabeth tells me that she was thrilled to be at school, and spent every night in a small, poorly lit nook, struggling with math. This method of studying hurt her eyes, and she began to need glasses.

Elizabeth loved school. But moving to Singapore hurt. The most difficult thing she had to do was say goodbye to her mother. Her mother stood at the end of the old dirt road leading from their house to infinity, never moving once, her eyes fixed firmly on her daughter's stiff back.

"That was the saddest day of my life." Elizabeth says to me.

As the wagon carrying Elizabeth pulled further away, she shifted in her seat and peered back at her mother, standing forlornly at the edge of the road. Soon Elizabeth could no longer see her. All she could see were road and trees.

It is this very story of parting that plants within me the first ideas for a dance vignette inspired by Elizabeth Choy. The simplicity of her story, her frank love for her mother, and the feeling that this was a parting that could be understood by all, intrigued me. In 2002, I came to graduate school, and in my first quarter decided to begin the dance with an exploration of longing and leaving. Although the two figures in my dance are not two women, the movement is crafted from images of Elizabeth's story that linger. The female dancer is getting dressed. Everything appears to halt as the two dancers are caught trying to depart, to say goodbye.

The left leg that wraps awkwardly around empty space causing each dancer to spin, is an embrace. Two hands cupping mouth, then tossing outward is a kiss. The dancer perching precariously on her belly with four limbs flung out is lost, an abandoned fetus seeking a womb, seeking a home.

In Singapore, Elizabeth ended the school year as its 'top student' and was awarded the prize of honor and a new English dictionary. When her father visited, she gave these to him, and asked him to bring them back to her mother as an expression of a daughter's love and industry.

Elizabeth never saw her mother again.

Her mother died while she was away at school.

God gives us all, Angels (Elizabeth Choy 1910-2006)

Elizabeth Choy 1910-2006

My husband texts me from the car, en route to work, this evening. His words are like little stabs. You have passed on now. But at least, now you are no longer in pain.

I turn the 6 0'clock news on. They say that you have inspired us all with your life. They describe you as "Singapore's War Heroine". On tv, they show little snippets of you, and of course, always, they will talk about the torture you endured at the hands of the Japanese military police.

When I met you, you told me why until this very day, you do not touch the switches in your home. Why you do not even turn the tv on. I listened to your voice, and I am transported into a series of rooms. The rooms that have framed your life. I listen, and tears slide down my face. I have nothing to hide, listening to you.

I listened, but I did not tell you the reason for my seeking you. How I was depressed. How I was on the verge of giving my dancing self up. How I had no idea as to how to move on.

We look at old photographs of you. I suspect that you are proudest of your younger self, standing naked, hair adorned with flowers, boldly and softly looking back at the camera. You tell me- "Which Asian girl would do that!" in post World War Two England.

You touched me with your stories of parting. The girl Elizabeth, the woman Elizabeth. Although we cannot erase the war episode of your life, I am most touched by your other stories. And your hand clasping mine, telling me- "Don't give up, don't ever give up."

The next two years after I first met you, I devoted my life back to dance. All the dance I made, all the research I did, they were all infused by your spirit.

Next month, is my most ambitious project to date. I have to make a piece for the Esplanade. I can imagine you smiling at me, laughing with delight at the honor.

Because in life, God gives us Angels. Someone comes along, nudges us. When I look at the dance I have made so far, sometimes I wonder- was it I who found you, or was it you, Angel, who discovered me?


About Last Night commissioned by the Esplanade, choreographed by Tammy L. Wong
Oct 13 & 14, 8pm, esplanade studio theatre tickets - www.dansfestival.com

Horror Belle

Bella arrived last Friday night. In our euphoria and excitement, we ignored the very first warning sign- Belle with her hair standing on ends, Belle standing straight with tensed limbs, Belle growling. And growling.
And growling.

At nothing.

It has been a nightmare ever since. Yes, I do like chaos and unbridled adventure. But when I pay USD$1695 for a bona fide australian labradoodle, I expect, at the very least, a mellow, loving, sweet dog. And especially so, when I specifically selected 'couch potato' on the breeder's fucking form.

Belle is smart. Belle is traumatized by her travel to Singapore. Belle is aggressive. Belle is hyper. Belle has no discernible labradoodle trait in her- never mind what her birth certificate insists. Belle is best described as a yorkshire terrier in a wool coat that resembles a black woman's artificial hair color (blond) gone wrong. Belle is this Halloween-decked terrier on speed.

I feel so angry for Belle.

Paul says, ok, if it doesn't work out send her back, and we will re-send another puppy to you. Oh and by the way, you are responsible for her freight, as well as the freight of the new puppy.

Do you honestly think that in my current state, I am prepared to accept another puppy from you?

Some degree of madness is fruitful for an artistic life, but folly gets you no where.

I am supposed to be at a shoot for Arts Central yesterday. I told the publicist, sorry, I cannot make it. I am supposed to be at a shoot for Arts Central today. I tell the publicisit, sorry, I am not dancing, sorry I cannot make it anywhere.

Because poor Belle cannot be trusted.
On her first day here, she attempted attacking Jon and Summer.
Yesterday she took a bite of Summer's leg.

And no, we are not sending her back to Australia, back to Tasmania Labradoodles.

Use logic, and some degree of elementary intelligence-
Do you honestly think Belle can survive another international flight, cooped up in her crate? And then a 30-day quarantine period in her native Australia?

It does not matter that Belle was such a 'sweet, gentle puppy' before her departure. What matters is NOW, right NOW. And NOW, Belle is a nightmare. And she needs help. She needs to be re-schooled, and she needs to be calmed down. She needs to be the only dog in a house with one consistent, tireless, non-sleeping care-giver to give her loving. And she needs to re-learn her perimeters.

I am so fucking upset.

I have been Belle's slave for the past few days. Being a slave is not beneath me, if I believe in the master. Unfortunately, I am not the person that is able to provide Belle with what she truly needs right now. Because, I live in the heart of the city sandwiched between neighbors who dislike dogs. Especially dogs that bark. And bark.
And bark.

Belle needs a new home. But how on earth to re-home a mad puppy in Singapore, a society that leaves its dogs tied up outside, sleeping in the garden, spanked for every trivial thing, and oh it's Chinese New Year, so time to spring clean and leave puppy at SPCA?
And did I mention that the majority of Singaporeans live in tiny flats?

Paul and Liz at Tasmania Labradoodles sent me the best boys- Angel and Samson. So with faith and absolute trust, I bought Bella from them.

But Bella is not what we had expected. Sending her back is not an option. Belle is a mistake. It is pointless trying to lay blame on either party or circumstances. Right now, all I am concerned about is doing what is most responsible for Bella.


What are my rights as a consumer? When a puppy works and I write a glowing account- that gets posted on your web. But now, when the puppy is not working out AT ALL- doesn't the curious consumer have a similar right to know, that sometimes, even with the best of intentions, things can go wrong?


This is not a good match at all.
Belle bit Summer.

Even Lady Macbeth who washed her hands of blood, eventually found doom.

We reap what we sow.

There's no escape.

Angel's Week in Pictures

Last week:

1. We celebrated Samson's 1st birthday. Mom gave us a special dinner of minced lamb-meatloaf, cheese and honey cookies, and banana cake with no egg, flour or preservatives.

It's supposed to be good for us.

Go figure.

2. Mom and Dad bought a new couch. And a new carpet. While waiting for the new couch, I decided to stake my claim on Mom's favorite arm-chair. Perched up on this chair, I am the silent king of the Chan dormain, never mind what Dad thinks.

3. Wednesday, Oops. Dad is very angry with me for eating his cell phone.

4. Wednesday- Mom sends Samson and me to Agatha. Agatha gives us a bath, grooms us out, clips my bangs. Everyone says that I look so handsome.

I hate going to Agatha's.

5. Thursday- Mom takes me to Doctor Lin for my annual shots. I am very well-behaved there. Mom lets me look and sniff at his pet chinchillas. They look like they need a new home.

6. Saturday- Mom decides on a new flat for us. The elevator brings us directly into our apartment, and Dad loves the Frank Loyld Wright windows and wooden floors.

6. Sunday- Summer tells Mom that she doesn't want to move. We already live in contemporary architecture and design, and besides she would rather stay in town, than in Chinatown, and next to Borders, than next to Novena Mall. Mom replies that Summer had better study harder, if she wants to move back into district 9, and be able to afford it all.

This week:

1. Monday- Summer gets her math grade back. She is the top math student in her class. Mom is so happy and proud.

2. Monday- I have no idea why Samson wants to eat Jet, the goldfish. Jet looks too slippery and cold. Guess I just don't get the sushi concept.

3. Come Friday, Mom is doing a photo shoot here in our present home. The writer of the magazine interested in Mom's dance is allergic to dogs. Mom forbids her from coming into our home and suggests an alternative venue for the interview.

4. If you like dance, you would not want to miss Mom's upcoming show presented by the Esplanade- www.dansfestival.com About Last Night- commissioned by the Esplanade, oct 13 & 14, 8pm.

5. Come Friday night, Mom says Bella will be here. So now, I am going to have a new sister.

I am not sure what to think. Bella, just stay off my couch, and my armchair, and don't even try getting on the bed, next to my Mom.

Samson has a Birthday!

Last week, my family celebrated my birthday. I finally turned one year old! Mom bought me a cake, and a new toy. Mom fixed a yummy dinner, but Dad had to rush back to work. The day after, Mom sent me to get my hair groomed out at Agatha's.

Mom is distracted these days. She is working on choreography, preparing the house for my new sister Bella's arrival, and house-hunting. On Saturday, she made an offer for a new flat. The new flat is in an unfamiliar neighborhood. But we will still be close to the city, and it is larger than our current home.

The best thing about being one year old is now, I can out-run Angel, and pin him to the ground. Plus Mom brings me everywhere with her. On Sunday she took me to look at conservation homes in historical Spottiswood.

Yesterday, I attempted to eat the goldfish Jet. But Jet is quick and tricky. He is also a lot more slippery than Fred. All I managed was to empty the tank, chomped on the water plant, and made a grand mess on the carpet.

Jet is still alive.

Mom doesn't mind my antics. She loves me. Most times, I think- she secretly loves me best.

Bambina

HOLA! Mi Nombre es Bella!

Hello, my name is Bella! I am almost twelve weeks old, and I am a parchment-colored labradoodle! I am beautiful and if I play my cards right, I will be extremely indulged in!

These past two weeks, grandpappy Paul has been teaching me new things. He tells Mom he is 'tether training', 'lead training, and crate-training me.' And, I have to practise sitting before I get served any meals. Paul has also introduced me to the big boys- Max and Tigger. This is to prepare me for my new brothers, Angel and Samson.


Mom told Paul that she is house-hunting. The new house has steep stairs, but Mom says, no worries, she will carry me up and down them, until I am old enough to climb safely.

You have to agree-
A bambina princess in a house of doting adults and boys is sheer BLISS.

About Last Night

All it takes is just one night to shift one's sense of self, alter the path you recognize as your life.

Su and I were twenty-two years old. I was living in Los Angeles. She was visiting.

That night we got dressed and went dancing at the most popular asian american club, The World, the Beverly Center on La Cienaga, Beverly Hills.

I remember clearly, chatting away as we drove home on the 10 freeway. I remember her voice suddenly shaking, her sheer horror, "OMG! There's a fire!"

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I turned in the direction she pointed and saw what looked like the whole city aflame. A raging conflagration.

When I finally exited on Wiltshire Boulervard, we found ourselves in traffic. The streets were congested with angry crowds of people shouting. Looting. Screaming.

I think I was too stunned to fear for our safety.

The 1992 Los Angeles Race Riots was sparked by a single act of anti-black police brutality. A black man, one Rodney King was stopped by LAPD for speeding. The police claimed that when requested to step out of the car, King appeared menacing. So before they handcuffed him, they beat him up. In self-defense.

This moment was captured on home video and very quickly shown throughout the United States. Later King brought charges of brutality against four of the policemen. Before a predominantly white jury, in a predominantly white neighborhood, the guilty parties were pardoned. This verdict unleashed a three-day fury especially within the poorer, minority-filled neighborhood of LA.


Ah, Los Angeles.

I think of LA as a woman. Her body curves and undulates. She stretches towards the mountains and ends at the sea. On a good day you can see the hint of desert and the Pacific endless, and blue.

A lot of people find LA to be quite ugly. But I find her, home.

In the aftermath of the riots, I questioned the value of art in society, the role it needs to play. I wondered where I was heading towards with my dance. What did I want to say?

That night defined for me, what I needed art to become.
I want my art to be a tool that bridges worlds. A means of communicating.

About Last Night is only remotely inspired from my immediate experience of the LA Race riots. Most possibly the dance is best described as an ode to one night in the big city. And surely the city that moves me is the City of Angels. For as with the issue of race and identity, once we delve past our ethnic differences, we chance perhaps on more common ground. We are merely human, after all. Our humanity echoed in eloquence, in all our cities.


About Last Night, choreographed by Tammy L. Wong, commissioned and presented by the Esplanade. Oct 13 & 14, Fri & Sat @ 8pm. Esplanade Theatre Studio. www.dansfestival.com.sg