The Death of Photography

About half a year ago, I remember having this conversation with my friend Natalia (who also does both psychology and photography), about how the photography hype has been dying down. Most of the photographers I met during insta-meets in Singapore have stopped shooting, in fact some feel like they've quit altogether. At first, I thought I was the only person who felt that way when my Instagram feed got more and more sparse. I was only seeing daily posts from a few friends. Then Yihong told me that he shared the same view, that most photographers he knew had already put down the camera. 

This topic naturally came up because she too had noticed that there were a lot of photographers that she'd met in Singapore who stopped posting. It wasn't just Singapore that was facing this sudden decline in hype, it was all over the world. 

To be honest, we both felt that it's a good thing. With the photography hype that boomed in 2014, a lot of photography trends started popping up too. While some helped to shape our creativity, these trends served as a mould that caged most of the photographers who jumped on the bandwagon. 

From the Brandon Woelfel fairy lights trend, to the typical architecture shots, and then the f/1.8 portraits where background or concepts did not matter. Not forgetting the lace cloths, laundromats, minimalism, the leaf covering the face, the arcade, the reflection, the prism, the bathtub, the diner, the rooftops, and more fairy lights. And when these people wanted to "get out of their comfort zone", they would thrift a cheap film camera and take some shitty street shots, and claimed it to be street photography. They really did Henri-Cartier Bresson dirty. 

It came to a point where everything seemed to be exhausted, every photo that you saw was one of the above. There was no longer any creativity in modern day photography. When asked for a concept, photographers threw out an option from above and expected it to be called a concept. There was no mood, no story behind the photographs. That said, a single reference photo cannot be considered a concept too, just wanted to put it out there. 

Don't get me wrong, when I was starting out, I did my fair share of these. But I realised that this was not the photography I wanted to pursue, I wanted photographs that would make people feel something, that would tell a story. Probably because of the photojournalist in me. 

But after all these trends were used, everyone got bored and sick of seeing them. Even the photographers themselves. None of these photographers tried to improve their craft, or hone their creativity. They only saw what was on Instagram, and limited their visions to just that. Even when the world had so much more to offer, from Henri-Cartier Bresson (the Grandfather of street photography) to the different magazines (e.g. Kinfolk), to Hamada Hideaki, to Nguan (Singapore's best street photographer). 

But I don't blame them. They were only using photography to try and chase fame (and for some, girls). Seriously, the amount of photographers that tried to touch their models under the premise of a shoot was so damn high. But that's another topic for another day. When no new trends could be found, and when they got sick of their own work because they were just shooting the same thing over and over and pasting the same edits on every photo, they finally quit. 

The ones who truly enjoyed photography, sought inspirations from outside of Instagram. Some searched for Japanese photographers who had developed the "everyday life" style. Some followed the Koreans who made boudoir their own. There were those who did concepts one could never have imagined before. 

So me and Natalia had this discussion, that the sudden death in the photography scene was for the better. Without the trends that plagued the photography scene, photographers could challenge themselves and come up with original concepts and we could hear the stories about how these concepts were birthed. 

Another reason, was that all these "fake" photographers, for the sake of exposure, would do free shoots for companies, or events that were not supposed to be free. This made it hard for the actual photographers who were making a living out of this. Nat has a ton of stories for this where she educates "influencers" who think they should have free shoots. But with all the fakes gone, companies have no choice but to pay the photographers for their shoots. 

In fact, I've benefited from it as well. Thanks to my friend Rachel, two paid jobs came my way. And thanks to Rouying, a musician also approached me to help him take photos for his Spotify and whatnot. All of which, can be viewed on my Instagram. 

Side note, but Nat is also the one who made me realise how much I was worth as a photographer. She's the reason why I was confident enough to charge a high rate. To quote her, "if you want me, pay me". If they approach you, it means they value your work, so don't be afraid to give them a high rate. Of course, Michelle has often told me that if somebody asks to work with me, then it means they like my style, but I never equated that with paid jobs. When money is involved, it gets a bit pressurising because I may do a bad job and my reputation may go down. But Nat made me realise that it was all the same, and that I was good enough to be paid the rate I choose to offer. 

So yes, the photography scene has died down by a lot in Singapore. So much so, that the number of friends that I know that are still shooting constantly can be counted with two hands. But it's not a bad thing, because now, more than ever, we can see original works. More inspiring photographs. 

On that note, let me give you a few photographers (who are also my friends) that are worth following. Just click the names to bring yourself to their Instagrams:

@natalianaa 
First on the list is of course, Natalia. She's taught me so much over the course of the two years plus that I've known her. She's the photographer I would definitely want for my wedding, without a doubt. She does an amazing job with boudoir, so if you're in Melbourne and want to try boudoir, she's your go to photographer. 

@jst.elvin
Next up is Elvin. He's the guy that makes Singapore look nothing like Singapore. The j in jst stands for Japanese, because he really makes Singapore look like Japan. His edits have improved so much since I first met him, and it's insane. 

@chenhan_photography
Chenhan is like a teacher to me when it comes to photography. He taught me how to find the best angles for models, and even gave some technical tips when it comes to achieving film-like looks. He's really the guy that has mastered film-edits, you won't be able to differentiate what is digital and what is film on his feed. 

@dillon_photogs
Dillon's a real bro in the industry. He does really unconventional editorial photos, whether it's the props he use, or the posing. I really love his Lepak series, which you can see on his Instagram, because it really captures the Singapore lepak spirit. He even adds his own words to the photos, making them look like they're actual magazines when they're not.  

Last Call

So, if you read "The Knife and Her", you know that I didn't submit that for my creative writing - fiction assignment. I had to redo the whole thing, because my prof felt that there wasn't enough character development. That a minimum of two characters is needed so they can interact and there will be development. To be honest, I was following the whole Murakami style of writing, where it was more lyrical, and mysterious. 

So "Last Call" is the product of me rewriting the whole thing. A simple love triangle story, which I knew he would like because it's "classical fiction". Shout out to Seannyboi for providing me with the necessary information I needed for my character's development. 

It's set in a fictional Singapore by the way. You'll notice I've upgraded Haw Par Villa like mad in this piece of work, but that's because I really love that place and what it was when it first opened.

////

        Five years ago in Melbourne, I met Cheryl at a cafe where she worked part-time. Like me, she was Singaporean. Unlike me, she was doing her degree there. I was on a solo trip to rediscover myself after a break up. 

I was the only customer, so Cheryl sat at my table and struck up a conversation with me. With our common ground being Singapore, and film photography, we hit it off. She offered to be my tour guide. I had five days left on my trip, and she didn’t have any work scheduled. 

“I know a few cute places that websites and blogs don’t know about.” 

She convinced me with just one line. Though I think I would have agreed even if she brought me to tourist spots. 

I met Cheryl the next day at the tram station of Rose street. She arrived early, and was sitting on the bench, reading a book. She was wearing a plain white tee that was tucked into a pair of mum’s jeans. Her round spectacles were a little too big, yet it complemented her face. It was such a simple outfit, but I was awed at how pretty she looked in it.

The streets were lined with cafes and bars. The air carried the aroma of different coffee beans. Behind the tram station, one cafe specialised in eggs, and next to it was a cafe specialising in sandwiches. There were no two cafes specialising in the same thing. A bazaar featuring handcrafted products was being held at one corner too. Cheryl was right. It was a cute place.

She’d brought her film camera like promised. A Canon Autoboy Quartz. I always wanted one of those. The whole day consisted of us visiting one cafe to another, and taking photos of the scenery and each other. 

“There’s still so many places I wish to bring you!” She’d said at the end of the day.

She convinced me with just one line once again. So we decided to spend the next four days together.

I shouldn’t be thinking of Cheryl. I had a girlfriend now. All the photos from that trip were developed and kept in an album hidden in my wardrobe. Time to time, I would take them out to reminisce. Those five days felt special. In fact, Cheryl felt special. If it wasn’t for the distance, I was sure we would have dated. 

My phone lit up. A notification —

[Hey Chris, I’m back in Singapore. Let’s catch up for old time’s sake! You can be my tour guide this time.] 

I pondered over the text for a long time. 

What would I say to my girlfriend? Cheryl’s just a friend. Our lips may have tasted more than just the other’s, but there’s nothing to worry about! Hours of argument would ensue, I was sure of it. The right thing to do was to turn Cheryl down. 

But I wanted to see her. She’d been at the back of my mind all this time. For the past five years, I constantly thought about the what if. What if we had dated? Would I be much happier now? 

I needed a closure. It wasn’t fair to my partner if I was constantly thinking and yearning another. So I agreed to meet Cheryl that Saturday, without telling my partner.

//

Standing in front of the iconic red-waves patterned walls, Cheryl was in her signature look — a white tee shirt tucked inside a pair of mum’s jeans. Her hair was tied in a pony tail, her fringe framed her face, covering just her eyebrows. Hanging from her neck was a different film camera. A Nikon F3. 

I had no idea why she wanted to come to Haw Par Villa. It’s the very essence of Singapore, she’d told me, plus it got renovated recently right? 

In an effort to regain their old popularity of the 1960s, they made it into an amusement park. Haw Par Villa incorporated Chinese myths and folk tales. The “Ten Gates of Hell” for example used to be a cave exhibiting the different tortures used in Hell. Now, it was a gondola ride. One would literally be cruising through Hell. 

Maybe going to Hell made sense after all, given what I was doing. 

We sat down inside the gondola, a lady dressed in a traditional Chinese gown stood at the helm. As we cruised through Hell, the sound of hundreds screaming from the tortures could be heard. Our thighs were pressed against each other, and every time the boat rocked, I would feel the familiar warmth of her body and we would both awkwardly apologise. I could feel my cheeks getting hotter, and it wasn’t because of the ride. I would be joining those who were screaming if my girlfriend saw us right now. 

We started avoiding the other’s gaze after we stepped out of the gondola ride. Maybe it wasn’t just me who was recalling Melbourne. On my last night in Melbourne, Cheryl came over for a drink. At the peak of our intoxication, we found ourselves making out. A few more glasses of gin, and all of our clothes were on my bedroom floor. 

“So what’s going on in your life these days?” She asked, snapping me out of my nostalgia. My face felt hot as I looked at Cheryl. The scent of her body still fresh in my mind. 

“Erm. M-my job sucks. That’s one.” I managed. 

“Then quit. You can do photography, you always loved it.” 

Cheryl sounded nonchalant as ever. I always admired that about her. She lived her life in such a carefree manner. I lived mine with too much caution. When I was with her, I felt a little more carefree. Don’t think so much, she had said to me in Melbourne, you should follow your feelings a little more.

“It’s not that easy. Living in Singapore is a lot of money,” I told her, “besides, my girlfriend disapproves of that.”

“You’ll figure something out,” she said, “tell me about your girlfriend.”  

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“You don’t sound very excited about her.”

“I suppose I’m not.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“Lots of arguments. She can pick a fight about anything.”

“Why don’t you end it then?”

“I’m not sure.”

Cheryl’s words kept replaying in my mind. My parents loved my girlfriend. They wanted her as their daughter-in-law. That was the biggest reason as to why I had yet to end this relationship. I didn’t want to let my parents down again. 

“Why don’t we ride the roller coaster?” She said.

With the staff securing our seatbelts, I could see from the corner of my eye that Cheryl was nervous. 

“Hey, can I hold onto your hand?” She asked, her eyes fixated on the tracks.  

“S-sorry?”

“I’m still scared of heights.” 

I couldn’t bear to turn her down, so I stretched out my hand. 

Does this count as cheating? But any friend would do the same, I reasoned. 

As the roller coaster began the climb, Cheryl’s grip tightened. I was terrified of heights myself. My girlfriend never liked that about me. It wasn’t manly, she would say, a man should be fearless.

Once we took a dive, Cheryl screamed at the top of her lungs. She looked ecstatic even when she was so afraid. I think I was staring at her. She paused to take a breath, and glanced over. She mouthed the words just scream before letting her voice echo throughout Haw Par Villa . 

I took a deep breath. Using all the strength in me, I let out the loudest scream I could muster, “ARGHHHHHHHHH!” My voice cracked. I hadn’t screamed before. Cheryl burst out laughing, but I could tell she wasn’t making fun of me. It was the kind of laughter where I knew she was having fun. I started laughing too. We must have seemed crazy. We laughed, screamed, and laughed again. 

This feels nice, I thought, it’s like Melbourne again. We would laugh at every little thing, and our stomachs would cramp up from laughing. I really missed that. I really missed Cheryl. 

To end off the tour, we decided to eat at the in-house restaurant of Haw Par Villa. It was one of a kind. A Chinese restaurant with decorations from their myths. At the entrance stood the statues  of the ox-headed and horse-faced guards of Hell. 

A waitress in a cheongsam took our order. Cheryl got the braised pork rice, while I went with a simple stir fried noodles. As we waited for our food, my phone buzzed.

[Where are you?]

“Is that your girlfriend?” 

I should have answered her with ease, but the words could not come out. It was obvious that I was ignoring the text message. Cheryl already knew I had a girlfriend, so why couldn’t I answer her? 

“Do you love her?” She asked. 

I could not answer. 

My phone started vibrating. It was her. I picked up the device and stared at the screen for a good minute. In that minute, different thoughts flooded my mind. She was going to ask who I was out with. There was no way I could explain anything to her in a way she would accept. 

Did I ever love her?

I slid the button towards ‘reject call’, and placed my phone face-down on the table. I had an answer, I always did. I was waiting for Cheryl this whole time. It was time I took Cheryl’s advice. Maybe it was time I followed my feelings, and be a little more carefree.

I stretched my hand out towards Cheryl, like I did on the roller coaster, and she took it without hesitation. 

Film Walk (with Shannon)

Shannon praying for a boyfriend (?)

In the midst of all things serious, social distancing, and quarantine, allow me to share some photos me and Shannon took on our little day out from a week back. Both of us own a Kodak M35, the disposable film camera that is actually reusable. So we thought we'd bring them along to take some photos while we caught up on life. 

I think a huge character development worth mentioning is that when I first met Shannon nearly a year ago in Chug, she was super camera shy. Always covering her face when there was insta-stories to be taken, and with her back facing my lens only. I've lost count the amount of times she've said that she's ugly. But having not caught up with her properly in a few months, she's grown to be so much more confident. Now she's actually smiling in all of the photos I took of her, and not avoiding the insta-story. And as a friend, I'm actually damn proud and happy of her development. (Even if 99% of y'all think it's nothing, it's honestly something)

Just a disclaimer, but we went from Telok Ayer to Orchard, then WALKED all the way to Tanglin, and then Botanical Gardens and across the entire Botanics. So while there were a lot of opportunities to take photos, it most definitely killed my legs. 

All in all, I think it was really a much needed catchup. Shannon's one of the gems I found while working at Chug. Our conversation is filled with so many dirty jokes, normal people would have their jaws on the floor if they heard us. And the fact that she loves Gnash's music as much as I do sigh, it's so rare to find another fan. Even though we don't talk often now, our telepathy game still on point though, so much so we really do want it to stop sometimes. But yes, I'm really thankful for this friendship. So this post is an ode to my friendship with Shannon. 

(I tried to arrange the photos in a chronological order to the best of my abilities)
But, please enjoy the cute film photos.

Shan said I matched the robot

tryna look cute on a swing

Shan's turn to look cute on a swing

She was seeking shelter while we were getting lost

checking out some plants

this feels very candid but it might not be

shan and her $1 Dasani 

it got so hot, I took off my outerwear by the way; the sun ray is bomb here too

the leaves were very interesting so poor Shan had to stand there

I'm adjusting my hair to look pretty.....

Shan and her Dasani part 2

"This is the Botanic Gardens I imagined!" - Shan

A must-capture for film: travellator 

Coz film looks best inside MRT

Matcha latte, Kodak M35, and a tired af me

ghosts of a love

"ghosts of a love" is a bunch of poems I had to write in the span of two weeks for my creative writing module. It is the result of me tapping into the feelings of my first heartbreak, and incorporating all that I've learned from class and additional readings. The numbers you see are dates, and it's formatted in a way such that it is a diary of a person moving on from a heartbreak. Before anybody asks, I'll just answer this first, I've long moved on, and I'm in a better place, a happier place now. 

//

ghosts of a love

dustyrobe

fluorescent — 010717 

When a minute feels like a day, 

your words seem to slow down time

I play a supercut in my head, 

of how I should’ve noticed the signs

I still remember how we’d buy groceries, 

in the midst of giggles and sweet words

The way you always danced for me, 

I loved you every single day for two years

Now we stare at the food that’s gone cold, 

like the love we had that was once hot

I’m sitting here thinking if I should go, 

but my words are all caught up in a knot

It’s about time I start letting go of the little things,

before they become what they call hard feelings

//

t-shirt — 270717

I find myself kneeling 

in front of my drawer

some mornings, 

your mustard yellow t-shirt 

clenched in my hands.

It still smells like lavender,

your favourite smelling flower. 

There are nights where I find the courage to walk up to the chute, 

but not before I’m overwhelmed.

With the thought 

of not having a tangible memory 

of you. 

//

photographs — 140518

Photographs, like memories, 

are meant to be erased. 

To be forgotten. 

I don’t believe in photographs 

turning a fleeting moment into forever. 

We snap away at these moments, 

falsely believing that we are 

encasing them to last a lifetime. 

In reality, all that we have done is to 

make these memories tangible. 

It is much easier to forget them this way. 

I think this is why we burn photographs 

after a bad breakup. 

It is a symbolic act. 

We believe we are moving on 

when we burn these photographs. 

Photography is the act of erasing memories, not creating.

//

hungover — 090718

When dawn breaks, the rooster screams.

Like a spear aimed for my ears, 

it shatters my dreams. 

I wake in sweat, 

my stomach queasy. 

My head nailed to the bed, 

the spirals of the nail resonating. 

There is a ripple in my heart. 

I miss you. 

Slowly, it becomes a wave. 

Abruptly, the sea roars. 

I drown in the whirlpool of thoughts, 

and my room spins. 

There is a shriek, 

this time it serves to remind me of 

reality.

//

4 a.m. — 220918

The stillness of the trees, 

of a night that only knows peace.

The moon rests on its bed 

that is so black, the stars look dead.

The serenity begs only for honesty,

it is too quiet for the echos of hypocrisy.

4 a.m. is the hour of honest feelings,

I loved you, and I’m finally healing.

//

moving on — 050419

Your words, they carry so much weight, my heart, it quivers 

All the twists, and all the turns, like a snake, it poisons my mind 

The webs you’ve spun, they made me waiver

Layers upon layers, your lies, my lies, they intertwined

A glass of gin, a cup of monkeys, then a shot of baileys

There’s something long forgotten, I must remember

A little spark ignites, the webs are burning

Tears are shed, dawn breaks, capillaries severed

When the eyes have dried up, and the heart empty, 

the mind is clear, the memories no longer tinted

The threads are undone, the birds are chirping

I take in a deep breath, I pause for a minute

Like a prey that was released from the spider,

I am free to soar, and I’ve never been happier 

The Knife and Her

It has been a long 3 months since my last post, so hello again. The past two months have been busy as hell. I'm in the midst of rushing out work, but allow me to share a piece of writing with all of you. This was written for my Creative Writing short story assignment so hopefully you would enjoy it. I will have to change my entire writing to fit the criteria of the assignment, but it feels like a waste to just delete it because this is my first fiction piece since 2012. It's titled "The Knife and Her" and here it is.

////

The house was quiet. All that could be heard was the slow rhythm of a knife against a chopping board. The thumping echoed down the empty hallway. Across the entryway was a small kitchen, befitting of a newly wed couple. One could only take three steps before reaching the other side of the kitchen. 

On the marble kitchen top were a number of ingredients: Onions, garlic, chicken breast, and some mushrooms. She stood in a daze. Her eyes were focused on somewhere in the distance, the motion of dicing onions operated on autopilot. Slicing and slicing and slicing. The knife was comfortable being wielded by her slender and scar-ridden hand, their synergy terrifying and wondrous. There was no denying that the two had worked together thousands of times. She knew how the knife wished to be held, and the knife knew how she wanted her ingredients cut. 

A single tear rolled off her cheek, falling atop the diced onions. She was indifferent to it, as was the knife. One more tear, then another followed. The knife simply kept moving, only seeking to complete the task at hand. This was a normal occurrence, just one of her nightly routines. 

She continued working in tandem with the knife. Cutting, slicing, and dicing. Both completely unaffected by the tears that were seasoning the onions. As she moved with precision and speed, her eyes remained fixed in the distance. But she knew the knife would not let her down. 

True enough, as they moved on to the garlic, then the mushrooms, the knife showed no signs of letting up on the rhythm either. The knife showed no interest in what she was looking at. It simply kept cutting with the utmost precision, guiding her hands up and down. It was unclear who was in charge. 

Oh how great it would be if this knife could cut more than just the tangible, she wondered. She knew that if the knife could, it would never fail her. But what was it exactly she wanted to cut? She pondered over the possibilities. Was it to snip off the red strings of fate, or to cut off this incessant throbbing in her chest that haunted her nightly?  She did  not have an answer. Yet, somehow she knew that if she did not cut it off, it would soon eat her up from the inside. 

A gust of wind blew in through the slim crack of her window, breaking the silence of the house momentarily. She moved on to the chicken. Without instructions, the knife moved on its own. 

She needed those sliced in finger-sized pieces. And the knife complied. As the pale pinkish chicken breast was being sliced, it slowly began turning into a deeper shade of pink, and eventually, crimson. It was almost as if the knife was checking up on her, testing if she was concentrating on the task at hand. 

The answer was clear, her mind clouded with thoughts. Trembling, all she could think of was what happened just a few weeks ago. Even after all these years with her partner — now husband, she had not felt such pleasure before. But this was not right. 

Never in her wildest imagination had she ever expected to be able to feel like that. That her body could experience such a sensation. That toe-curling, back arching, and blood pumping sensation. She started panting as she relived that experience in her head. 

This was her nightly routine ever since she gave in to her temptations. Tossing and turning around in bed, awaiting her husband’s return but craving another’s embrace. Her husband only came home in the wee hours almost every night, entertaining client after client. That left her to her thoughts and their cold, empty bed. Unable to sleep, she would get up. In her nightgown, she would begin cooking. 

Maybe it was to atone for the guilt she felt, but it offered her some form of salvation and a little distraction from her wild imagination. Her body would be worn out by the time she was done, and the exhaustion would lull her to sleep. But now, her body was so used to the motions, it no longer tired her out. Her mind was once again flooded with the imagery, and lust. 

Finally placing the knife to rest on the table, she turned around. A beeping sound pierced through the quiet night when the induction cooker came to life. Drizzling the pan with oil, she waited for a minute before tossing the garlic and onions in. To anyone else, the sizzling aroma would have whisked them off their feet. But this was merely just another motion. She threw the mushrooms in, tossed them a little, and added the chicken breast. She seasoned it with a  pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a few tears. 

She poured the contents out onto a white, porcelain plate and brought it out to the dining table. She dragged the chair out mindlessly. With a thump, she let her whole weight collapse against the chair. Staring mindlessly at the chicken breast, she wondered what time he would be home tonight, but it did not matter to her anymore. 

The clock hanging on the wall in front of her ticked away. Seconds went by, and then minutes. A faint sound of a liquid dripping could be heard along with the ticking of the clock. Both sounds were in sync at first, but then the dripping increased its pace. Soon it was a trickle, then a constant flow. 

As if the hands of the clock had begun to hypnotise her, she found herself feeling drowsier, her body and head getting heavier. With a thud, her arm went limp and slid off her body. The clock just kept on ticking. The knife, which was in the kitchen, now laid on the dining table. For once the knife was able to cut the intangible. A smile could be seen on her face. Just like the quiet and serene night, she too had found her peace. She had not known how to atone, so the knife helped her with it.