not my last words is a paper scroll installation dedicated to my late father, who passed on when I was nine. My Dad believed in the artistic potential he apparently saw in me, even while I was still creating amateur color pencil drawings as a kid. He was the one who pushed me to learn Chinese Brush Painting, driving me to and from art lessons, and framing up my early (lousy) paintings; little did I know then that my early foundation in this water-based medium would help me easily pick up watercolour on my own years later, which I now specialise in.
Twelve years on, I sometimes still regret not saying my last words to my Dad in those last moments standing by his hospital bed. Yet I realise now that anything I could have said twelve years ago, or even now will not fully encompass everything I have to say to him. Just as the impact my Dad had on my life extends beyond the nine short years we had together and the limits of this scroll, I will continue saying new words to him now and in the future, through everything I do and how I live.
My paintings were scattered across the exhibition space, creating a spatial dialogue with other artists' works. Viewers spot them throughout their journey through the space, just as memories and the influence of a departed loved one stay with us no matter where we go and how much time has passed.
Full Text
“You should say any last words you have to him now.”
I was silent.
Maybe I was shy, or I didn’t know what to do
except trace the rise and fall of that bright green line with my swollen eyes.
Each peak lower than the last, then a continuous flatline.
A constant loud beep.
I was still silent.
/
“You need to take care of your mom and brother now, you know?”
All I could think was,
who’s going to fetch me to school tomorrow?
/
“Teck Long was a great husband, father,
and the most loyal friend that always had my back…”
Damnit, how was I supposed to stand here in front of everyone,
listening to all this without crying.
I musn’t, couldn’t let them see me cry.
/
The hard part was figuring out a response to well-intentioned “are you okay”s.
The harder part was maintaining steady eye contact through soon-to-be-watery eyes.
But the hardest part was showing the right balance of sadness and strength,
so they wouldn’t think I was either heartless or needing a shrink.
/
Each time your death anniversary rolls around,
I marvel that yet another year has passed.
Has it been twelve already?
/
In those twelve years
I learnt to nonchalantly switch radio channels,
when Father’s Day ads played while mom was in the car.
I learnt to forge mom’s signature on school forms,
so she wouldn’t have to see the blank next to where she had to sign.
I learnt to answer “so what does your father do?” in the least awkward way possible.
“He actually passed on when I was nine.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s been a long time.” –reassuring smile to ease tension-
I still haven’t figured out if it is appropriate for me to smile there.
/
I don’t miss you most days, but some days I do.
When I see other dads with their children,
when I’m tired or broken,
when I write things like this and the memories return.
But I miss you only with fondness, not sadness;
you’ve left me with too much to be thankful for and happy about.
/
My only regret is letting you go
without saying anything to you in those last seconds.
Did you wonder why your daughter didn’t speak after your son finished?
Did you want for a familiar voice to interrupt the slowing beeping?
/
I’m sorry you never got to hear everything I had to say.
So if you’re looking over my shoulder right now in some ghostly incarnation,
these are my last words that you never heard.
I wish you could’ve been around to see for yourself
how I took control of my own life so your brothers (my uncles) never needed to step in;
how I may not be the most talented or intelligent, but tried to be the most driven;
how I work hard when it counts, but still have fun most of the time
because you taught me to work hard and play harder;
how I try everyday to be optimistic, easy-going, loyal, generous, capable,
and all the many good things that you were.
I think I became the strong and mature daughter you would have wanted me to be.
I think, I hope you would have been proud of me.
/
But those are not really my last words.
I will continue saying new words in the thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth year,
and many more to come,
through everything I do and how I live.
Stick around to watch, will you?
