Of beginnings and endings

Cookie

 

It was to be a typical Friday morning last week – I was wrapping up the last Q+A session of the Work/Art/Play class (and what a wonderful class it was this year).

It was bittersweet.

Bittersweet not only because it marked the successful end of the class’ second run. But because after I put my earphones down and started to convert the day’s recording for the rest of my students who could not join us that morning; I had to leave for my mother’s house to say goodbye to my dog Cookie, who was scheduled to be put to sleep after a courageous fight with cancer.

We diagnosed her six weeks ago – right after I began this year’s session of Work/Art/Play. I burst into tears when the vet told us that she had maybe just a few months to live. We thought she had an upset tummy and it was why she was losing weight. Not cancer. Not cancer, I thought. How does one deal with the idea of their first pet dying? I cried buckets. That day had came for me. For us. It was no longer a looming shadow at the back of my mind as I thought about how far we’ve come. It’s here.

An X-ray confirmed that the cancer had already spread to her lungs, although she didn’t show any signs at all, save for an upset tummy which went away. It was probably for the best, the vet said. There was nothing to be done, even if we had caught it early – it was aggressive, and surgery was never an option because of the risks involved. Even a biopsy was too risky.

For the last 6 weeks, everyday I told myself – one day at a time. One step at a time. Perhaps it was just me talking myself through as I walked my class through the modules. It was a phrase that I had mentioned often, and not to myself, but to the rest of my class as they went through the paces of taking down walls and rebuilding a new, firm foundation for their art and business.

One step at a time. You’ll get there.

My mother and I took turns to look after Cookie, and in that past 6 weeks we saw her deteriorate before our eyes. I bought Chinese herbs as an alternative measure in the hope that it would help her with pain, or to slow the process down. We formulated a new diet for her, to make sure that we were feeding her and not the cancer. She slowed down, and lost more weight. Everyday I would worry about her. Did she get enough to eat? Is she cold? Is she in pain? Her new favourite spot was under the car, where she would spend hours lying on her side; instead of coming out to wreck havoc on the garden or to gallop about happily when it came time for her walks.

I thought about life, and death. Of how it was a circle. And that there could not be life without death. But it didn’t work. I was a ball of mess, snot and tears every week. I thought about how unfair it all was. Our family always thought that our older dog, Bessie would be the first to go, because Cookie didn’t seem to have aged at all in the 10 years she’s been with us – she was sprightly, hardy, and strong. We weren’t prepared. It felt like someone punched me in the stomach. It was hard.

One step at a time. You’ll get there.

Early in the week I had made arrangements with the vet to come over, as well as the caretaker. I had to stifle my sobs when I called them, digging my nails into my skin to compose myself. I allowed myself to cry when I felt the need to let it out when I was alone. My sadness came in waves and heaves. I cried out of regret, of sorrow. I cried at not having more time to spend with her. But of all the range of emotions I felt, I never felt guilty, because our family gave her our best. Food, shelter, walks, love. She had it all. She was a lucky dog. We were a lucky family to have her.

Everyday I would whisper goodbye – because I never knew if it was ever our last day together; if she did pass at night.

But when the time came to truly said goodbye, we did. We said goodbye to Cookie. Goodbye to a future with her. Goodbye to her goofy, lovable spirit. Goodbye to her cancer, and to the pain. Goodbye to sorrow. We said goodbye.

I made it. We made it through.

Together.

======

I penned down my thoughts in a letter, which I wrote after she passed. It helped me greatly to put down into words what I remembered fondly about her. It’s a little personal, but if you’d like to read it, you can do so by clicking here. If you’re a pet lover, do share your stories with me this week – I’d love to hear yours.

The scars we carry with us

Acne by Amy Ng

A lot of people I know have fond memories of being in high school (also known as secondary school to Malaysians).

Not me though. I hated most of it.

I felt alone for most of my time in school. I often felt like I didn’t belong in any particular group. I wasn’t among the pretty girls group, nor was I popular. I wasn’t one of the smartest either. I wore braces and had horrendous cystic acne that threatened to disfigure my face. I woke up almost every morning to the sight of a spotty, bloodied pillowcase – signs that one or a few pimples had burst in the middle of the night. It was painful. If the pain wasn’t caused by the acne, then I was pretty sure it was because of the embarrassment I felt whenever I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I didn’t look in the mirror for a full year when I first had it. I turned away everything that had a reflection, and was conscious about bumping into anything that might show me what I didn’t want to see. It wasn’t your run-of-the-mill pimple on the chin, or that pink dot on the nose – this was far worse.

Imagine one pimple threatening to erupt on your cheek; a stirring, angry red mound appears. Only it’s not the only one. This slow burning soon-to-be volcano is then joined by another peak that has threatened to form, right next to it. And another. And then another. Within a few day, these few peaks begin to expand beyond their zones, as though reaching out to its comrades in arms in familiar embrace – and form a big giant mass of pimples, pus and cysts that when magnified would seem to look like a scene out of the insides of a volcano.

It was painful. It was everywhere.

More than ever in high school I just wished that I could be like everyone else. I didn’t need the spotlight to be on my face for the wrong reasons – I’d much prefer the spotlight to be on my work. My personality. My skills.

But having cystic acne made me strong. It made me realize that if I were to shine I had to try harder than everyone else, because I didn’t want acne to define who I was (the girl with some sort of disease on her face). And I certainly did not want it to tear my self-esteem – whatever was left of it – into shreds.

I was nicknamed Iron Lady by a teacher who saw how strong minded I could be. I wasn’t afraid to raise my hand to ask questions, and stood up readily to give answers. I challenged the things we were being taught, and I spoke freely. I didn’t want to be known as that girl with acne. I wanted to be known for what I could become. Not something that had taken residence on my face, chewing my insides, and leaving angry bumps that would forever have scar tissue in them. But not only did it consumed my face – it consumed me.

I can still feel the cysts left behind if I press into my skin deep enough.

One day, I sat down on my bed and cried. I told my mother that I couldn’t bear to go on like this – and that there should be a way to help with my condition. I tried everything – antibiotics, a change in diet, changing my sheets, my skincare regimen, pimple creams, everything. I have not seen anyone had it as bad as me (and I still haven’t encountered anyone who has) and all I wanted to do was to stop it from mutilating my face for good. I could hang in there while it runs its course, but what if it didn’t? What if it robbed me of more than just my face? I knew that one day those scars would leave me (hopefully), but what would I leave behind? What if it robbed me of my confidence, or my self-esteem before I could accomplish what I wanted to? What if it robbed me of opportunities? What if it chipped away at my insides until I was just a shell? The world was a harsh place – if high school was anything to go by, the outside world didn’t look that promising then either.

As my meds kicked in over the next few months, it was a relief. No more pains. No more bloody pillowcases. It was an unconventional treatment at the time, but it worked for me. I became a silent crusader against acne ignorance whenever I could. I yelled out at ignorant fools (and very nearly grabbed them by the collar) who kept saying that the fault lies in the sufferers – that our skin was dirty, and that the solution was that we should wash our face more often. If I thought that would help I would have washed it every minute!

And so it is with everything in our lives. We have stories to tell. Of wars waged against others and ourselves. Personal stories that go untold because we think it isn’t important. Oh but it is! Each and every experience that we have is something we have to share – if not for ourselves, then think of the people you can help. Think of those who are at their wits end. It may very well be that their problem might seem small, but to them, it can feel as though the weight of the world are on their shoulders.

Whether it’s a war at home, or at the office, whether it’s a something that’s visible or isn’t, big or small; people around us are embroiled in battle one way or another. Acne taught me to be kind. Because I wished for kindness when I was battling it.

My scars reminds me of that constantly. And I’m ever determined to leave a mark of my own.

What about you? What scars do you carry with you?

Book review: 50 Years of Illustration

50 Years of Illustration

 

Fifty Years of Illustration by Lawrence Zeegan & Caroline Roberts celebrates illustration and illustrators throughout five decades. Rather than padding up its pages to include engravings of eighteenth-century artists; the realistic traditions set by the great Victorian illustrators and the stylishly academic (although no less avant-garde) works from the 1920 to 1930s – the book begins in 1960; where cultural revolutions in the East and West began to stir.

Just like art that chronicles each decade with aesthetics that define the times, so it is with illustration – along with its illustrators. The past 50 years has seen many changes in technique, details and ripples within the profession itself as it hinges on relationships with many other industries that are changing still. From the heyday of the Madmen era to the introduction of the Apple computer that forever changed how graphics are created forever; illustrators more than ever need to be quick on their feet; and to think of how they can fit in with the world at large.

While it is no secret that there are diminishing opportunities within traditional illustration outlets, there are new opportunities as well, as we become more comfortable in the digital age:

For the new wave of illustrators, working in the digital domain was second nature, having grown up with a computer in the bedroom, playroom and classroom, and having trained in the studios of art schools where digital and analogue technologies sat alongside each other. For these new practitioners, the challenge was in the crossing of boundaries and territories, working in advertising, design, music, fashion, and publishing, as well as traversing from the commercial and to the non-commercial and self-initiated, self-publishing projects. This new breed of illustrator works globally, and yet lives locally. No longer required to live where the work is, illustrators can work anywhere, anytime and for anyone. ~ Introduction, 50 Years of Illustration


I appreciated that the given introduction to each decade sums up the circumstances and influences that spearheaded the illustrators of its generation. So while the book doesn’t tell you how the future would be like in the next coming decade, it offers you a broad, long, lingering look of what others have done before in the past. It’s up to you to connect the dots and to see how you can envision yours as you move forward. Illustrators need to be conscious and relevant of what’s happening around them – and not just of clients. They’re very much artists of the world at large; communicators if you will – who bridge the gap for people to connect visually.

And this is what I loved best about this book.

Pros: The subject matter of the book is refreshing as it concentrates on the past 5 decades instead of a longer timeline; and thus was able to showcase more illustrators – 250 of them – and their works.

Cons: This is a minor gripe, but I didn’t really like the feel of the inside paper – while it was a retrospective look at illustration, I had hoped for a book that didn’t seem to come out from the 1990s; also, there was a bit of transfer between pages (particularly for full colored pages that were bordered in black).

The book will only be out on October 28th, but you can pre-order 50 Years of Illustration via Amazon.

Pages:«1234567...721»