Brendan Goh + Tan Hai Han
Homemaking as Therapy
Old: My first thought when my gaze falls upon the façade of this shophouse, nestled in the chaotic neighbourhood of Little India.
Peeling paint, stained walls, folding metal gate. Corrugated roofing sheets, rusting in places. In front, a five-foot way obscured by an accidental collection of objects: spindly plants in containers, steel posts once part of a shelf, chipped boards stacked against one another like a house of cards.
Sometime in the early 20th century, the merchant family who owned the unit next door acquired this one. From here, they operated a small provision store on the ground floor, providing daily necessities to their neighbours, mainly Chinese immigrants living just down the street.
A breeze tickles the back of my neck, bringing with it an assortment of smells. Cumin. Cooking grease. Kalonji. Chilli. Sweat. Jasmine. Sewage. Dust. Exhaust fumes. Coconut. Coffee. Toast.
While Little India has undergone many changes, in the name of urban development, the interior of this home was given the liberty to age. A raised threshold separates the quotidian rhythms outside from time's stillness inside. Beyond its squeaky lattice grilles and patterned fabric lies a world where moments acquire different meaning and tempo. Entering, one is greeted by a sitting room, white walls discoloured by the years. Here are the usual bits of furniture: wooden benches and chairs, paired with cushions; small tables, topped with pink ticking; wickerwork, sitting silent in the corner. Deities repose on an altar, joss sticks sending a delicate plume into the hall.
I become conscious of the dated interior after a slight delay—just as one might take moments to adjust after stepping into a time-stopped vault. Here is an exercise in remembering. Closer inspection reveals fraying linoleum, revealing bare concrete underneath, worn smooth by feet. Everywhere, indelible marks and stains recording years of use and change like growth rings. Creaky floorboards measure out individual treads and weight. A telephone, no longer working after a recent rewiring, lingers by a stairway, evoking past communion with kith and kin.
The house has been amended in various ways. Precipitous wooden steps to the upper floors, originally located near the back of the structure, have been reconfigured: a small landing added, and the stairway repositioned between the hall and kitchen. Partitions erected upstairs, to carve out niches for siblings, cousins, sons and daughters. The corridors are narrow gangways, threading through a labyrinth of rooms.
What does one make of such a space and its disparate objects? What is its relation to the social and urban fabric? Many would dismiss this 'derelict' house and its 'junk'. Yet, such a superficial glance only obscures the reading of this dwelling. If one proceeds carefully, like an archaeologist approaching an ancient mausoleum, objects become artefacts. The house is revealed to be a cultural object, both architectural and non-architectural, belonging to the realms of place and space, built forms and found objects.
In looking at the house as a product of a particular history and culture, similarity is found between this abode and those in another project, Our Home, Shek Kip Mei (Yu, 2007). In the latter, apartments in the Shek Kip Mei estate in Hong Kong were documented before the estate was demolished for redevelopment. In the book, one finds a pictorial archive of people photographed in their homes, amid their abundance of possessions. The commonality shared between this home and those in the archive, are the collections of possessions, some of which go so far as to reverse the relationship between living and storage space. The home and its repository of objects serve as a font of memories for its inhabitants, imbuing nostalgia in these domestic spaces.
It has been argued the building is essentially an object established against mass culture and everyday life when represented through the lens. In order to reify its status, signs of any kind of habitation are often effaced. Even if present, these signs are abstracted into discreet forms. Homes, the most domestic and perhaps even most private of spaces are not spared. Mediation occurs between a dwelling and its inhabitants. The body negotiates power through its use of space.
Will we discover the importance of the phenomenal effort of holding onto things that would have succumbed to the vestiges of time? The collections of feathered fans stuttering in a series of movements; floral motifs embellished on enamelware; biscuit tins stashed with knickknacks; odds and ends strung up on walls in place of trophies - what sort of narrative do they engender beyond their obvious utilitarian functions to their owners? What is the relationship between these objects, the site that houses them and the world outside its boundaries? A plausible point to consider: dwelling is the seeking of a sanctuary from time, of impending senescence and mortality, salient reminders of which are just beyond the door and street. - Brendan Goh
Bibliography:
Appadurai, A., ed., 1986. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in cultural perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Columina, B., 1994. Privacy and Publicity: Modern architecture as mass media. Massachusetts: MIT Press.
De Certeau, M., Rendall, S. trans., 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life: Volume 1. Los Angeles: University of California Press.
De Certeau, M., et al, Tomasik, T.J., trans., 1998. The Practice of Everyday Life: Volume 2.
Krauss, R. “Sculpture in the Expanded Field”, in Foster, H., ed., The Anti-aesthetic: Essays on postmodern culture. New York: The New Press.
Yu, V., 2007. Our Home, Shek Kip Mei . Hong Kong: MCCM Creations.
Peeling paint, stained walls, folding metal gate. Corrugated roofing sheets, rusting in places. In front, a five-foot way obscured by an accidental collection of objects: spindly plants in containers, steel posts once part of a shelf, chipped boards stacked against one another like a house of cards.
Sometime in the early 20th century, the merchant family who owned the unit next door acquired this one. From here, they operated a small provision store on the ground floor, providing daily necessities to their neighbours, mainly Chinese immigrants living just down the street.
A breeze tickles the back of my neck, bringing with it an assortment of smells. Cumin. Cooking grease. Kalonji. Chilli. Sweat. Jasmine. Sewage. Dust. Exhaust fumes. Coconut. Coffee. Toast.
While Little India has undergone many changes, in the name of urban development, the interior of this home was given the liberty to age. A raised threshold separates the quotidian rhythms outside from time's stillness inside. Beyond its squeaky lattice grilles and patterned fabric lies a world where moments acquire different meaning and tempo. Entering, one is greeted by a sitting room, white walls discoloured by the years. Here are the usual bits of furniture: wooden benches and chairs, paired with cushions; small tables, topped with pink ticking; wickerwork, sitting silent in the corner. Deities repose on an altar, joss sticks sending a delicate plume into the hall.
I become conscious of the dated interior after a slight delay—just as one might take moments to adjust after stepping into a time-stopped vault. Here is an exercise in remembering. Closer inspection reveals fraying linoleum, revealing bare concrete underneath, worn smooth by feet. Everywhere, indelible marks and stains recording years of use and change like growth rings. Creaky floorboards measure out individual treads and weight. A telephone, no longer working after a recent rewiring, lingers by a stairway, evoking past communion with kith and kin.
The house has been amended in various ways. Precipitous wooden steps to the upper floors, originally located near the back of the structure, have been reconfigured: a small landing added, and the stairway repositioned between the hall and kitchen. Partitions erected upstairs, to carve out niches for siblings, cousins, sons and daughters. The corridors are narrow gangways, threading through a labyrinth of rooms.
What does one make of such a space and its disparate objects? What is its relation to the social and urban fabric? Many would dismiss this 'derelict' house and its 'junk'. Yet, such a superficial glance only obscures the reading of this dwelling. If one proceeds carefully, like an archaeologist approaching an ancient mausoleum, objects become artefacts. The house is revealed to be a cultural object, both architectural and non-architectural, belonging to the realms of place and space, built forms and found objects.
In looking at the house as a product of a particular history and culture, similarity is found between this abode and those in another project, Our Home, Shek Kip Mei (Yu, 2007). In the latter, apartments in the Shek Kip Mei estate in Hong Kong were documented before the estate was demolished for redevelopment. In the book, one finds a pictorial archive of people photographed in their homes, amid their abundance of possessions. The commonality shared between this home and those in the archive, are the collections of possessions, some of which go so far as to reverse the relationship between living and storage space. The home and its repository of objects serve as a font of memories for its inhabitants, imbuing nostalgia in these domestic spaces.
It has been argued the building is essentially an object established against mass culture and everyday life when represented through the lens. In order to reify its status, signs of any kind of habitation are often effaced. Even if present, these signs are abstracted into discreet forms. Homes, the most domestic and perhaps even most private of spaces are not spared. Mediation occurs between a dwelling and its inhabitants. The body negotiates power through its use of space.
Will we discover the importance of the phenomenal effort of holding onto things that would have succumbed to the vestiges of time? The collections of feathered fans stuttering in a series of movements; floral motifs embellished on enamelware; biscuit tins stashed with knickknacks; odds and ends strung up on walls in place of trophies - what sort of narrative do they engender beyond their obvious utilitarian functions to their owners? What is the relationship between these objects, the site that houses them and the world outside its boundaries? A plausible point to consider: dwelling is the seeking of a sanctuary from time, of impending senescence and mortality, salient reminders of which are just beyond the door and street. - Brendan Goh
Bibliography:
Appadurai, A., ed., 1986. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in cultural perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Columina, B., 1994. Privacy and Publicity: Modern architecture as mass media. Massachusetts: MIT Press.
De Certeau, M., Rendall, S. trans., 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life: Volume 1. Los Angeles: University of California Press.
De Certeau, M., et al, Tomasik, T.J., trans., 1998. The Practice of Everyday Life: Volume 2.
Krauss, R. “Sculpture in the Expanded Field”, in Foster, H., ed., The Anti-aesthetic: Essays on postmodern culture. New York: The New Press.
Yu, V., 2007. Our Home, Shek Kip Mei . Hong Kong: MCCM Creations.
The writer:
Brendan Goh is often preoccupied by things that lie within the realm of the domestic and the homely, and often related to being and habitation. His work, taking various forms such as texts, sculptures and installations are part of his approach to experimenting and understanding what makes lives livable and memorable. Apart from this, he also lends his mind to a range of other imaginative endeavours such as curating, designing, editing and creative directing. Brendan spent his formative years at the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts, before moving on to the LASALLE College of the Arts where he obtained his BA Fine Arts in Singapore in 2007. Brendan majored in Sculpture, but was noted to spend most of his time outside the studio, fascinated with words, people and spaces. http://www.seed.sg/
The photographer:
Singapore-born han grew up in Kuching, Sarawak, where a disparate pace of life attuned him to things neglected and forgotten. With a core interest in recording cultures in transit, his current research focuses on the history, culture and influence of coffeeshops (kopitiams) in Malaysia and Singapore. In addition, he runs an experimental cafe project he titles "hanpresso," where he introduces manners of appreciating both regional and Western-style coffees to visited friends or strangers alike. Since 2003, han has also been actively collaborating with artists, architects, designers, filmmakers and magazines in the archival of their projects.
Brendan Goh is often preoccupied by things that lie within the realm of the domestic and the homely, and often related to being and habitation. His work, taking various forms such as texts, sculptures and installations are part of his approach to experimenting and understanding what makes lives livable and memorable. Apart from this, he also lends his mind to a range of other imaginative endeavours such as curating, designing, editing and creative directing. Brendan spent his formative years at the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts, before moving on to the LASALLE College of the Arts where he obtained his BA Fine Arts in Singapore in 2007. Brendan majored in Sculpture, but was noted to spend most of his time outside the studio, fascinated with words, people and spaces. http://www.seed.sg/
The photographer:
Singapore-born han grew up in Kuching, Sarawak, where a disparate pace of life attuned him to things neglected and forgotten. With a core interest in recording cultures in transit, his current research focuses on the history, culture and influence of coffeeshops (kopitiams) in Malaysia and Singapore. In addition, he runs an experimental cafe project he titles "hanpresso," where he introduces manners of appreciating both regional and Western-style coffees to visited friends or strangers alike. Since 2003, han has also been actively collaborating with artists, architects, designers, filmmakers and magazines in the archival of their projects.
