孔子说：父母在，不远游

Full excerpt of my speech for the WKWSCI’s Class of 2009 graduation ceremony

Now, get on with life - Picture by Ng Chrong Meng (2009)

Mr Pro-Chancellor, distinguished guests, professors, fellow graduates, family members, loved ones, ladies and gentlemen. A very good afternoon to you all.

My name is Kang Li and it is a privilege for me to represent my classmates today.

Before I begin, I promise not to mention anything related to 179, ACRC or FYP. I will not attempt to quote anyone famous. And I will not end my speech with the Vitamin C Song.

All I have today is a list of grievances to make.

First of all, I am a little skeptical about the quality control of our students. To be honest, I think we may have one of the easiest degrees in the whole of NTU. We certainly don’t seem to study much.

How else can you explain the fact that among us here today sits a Miss Singapore-World, various TV artistes, award-winning filmmakers and journalists, student activists who are actually active and a bunch of spirited football players who last year represented our school in an unprecedented victory against all time champion NIE? A remarkable feat when you consider the number of guys we have in this faculty.

And if the students are not spending enough time in school, then people like Heng Ghee and Vincent are spending too much time in school. It is amazing how the school manages to hire technicians who can survive on one-hour lunch breaks and who don’t disappear immediately after five. When they do their job so well, it is impossible for students to put the blame on logistics when our projects go haywire.

Vincent, can you not be so responsible?

And to our professors, please don’t mess with our minds anymore. On the one hand, you are great teachers and we really want to revere you and worship you from afar. But how can you expect us to take you seriously, when you also treat us like good friends?

Friends who share the latest gossips over monthly drinking sessions cleverly disguised as alumni nights. Friends who post photos of their new-born babies over the school’s official website. Even when it comes to fighting for a parking lot, we do it like friends, doesn’t whether you are the holder of a PhD, Master’s or Bachelor’s degree.

There is one exception though, Dr Detenber, who has his own little reserved lot. But I guess that is just a small compensation for the new heights that he, as our new chair, will bring the school to.

Next I need to complain about our parents. What kind of parents allow their children to end up in a communications school, studying for a degree that is regarded among one of the lowest paying? Why hadn’t they push us towards accountancy, or engineering, or even law?

I want to share with you a story about my father.

Since a few months back, I started noticing strange letters on my dining table at home. The strategically placed letters turned out to be recruitment ads from the civil service: Ministry of Defence, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of What Not etc etc.. As it was, my parents still wished that their son would consider a job with more stability, compared to being a freelance photojournalist. The shaky financial situation must have piqued their anxiety even more.

So imagine my surprise one day when I walked past the same table and find not glossy recruitment advertisements, but something even more beautiful. My own photographs. My father had taken the effort to print out every single photo that recently won me an award at a Paris photography competition. All 10 of them.

And that is why I love my parents, because despite all their concerns about the path that I have chosen and the little antics they do to persuade me otherwise, they have never once laid down any ultimatum to stop me from doing what I love. Sometimes, it is not only what they do that shows their love, but also what they don’t.

I am sure that each one of you here today have your own special ones to thank, even though you, like me, may not admit it or say it enough.

So let me take the lead for once, to invite the graduating class to stand and join me in giving a round of applause to these special people.

Thank you and please be seated.

I am sorry I digress from complaining, but I am not done yet. I have one last grievance to make, and that is, with you, my classmates.

Do you have any idea how noisy you are in school? It seems like everyone has an opinion. Some, like Scott, have five. (Don’t laugh, Eugene Neubronner, you have six).

But you know what, if there is anything that a communications school student should do better than anyone else, it is to make noise.

There are many ways to do it. Some do it best when they make a film. Some do it best through campaigns. Others do it on facebook. I do it through pictures. Rong Jun and Shaun Khiu cut an album. You can even do it through research, just ask Gabriel how. So pick your preferred method. Do it any way you want. Doesn’t matter how you do it.

What matters is we all continue to make ourselves heard.

Thank you.

Videocast: http://gallery.ntu.edu.sg/videos/v/convocation/2009/c03/Ceremony+3-7FLV.flv.html

Lijiang, Yunnan Province, 2009

When people in China asked me where I am from, I would instinctively tell them that my ancestors hail from Guangzhou. The truth is I am not sure.

But it is a convenient answer and a most logical one because I am Cantonese and can speak the language. Albeit less fluently now as when I was six years old.

Coming to China has always felt a little bit like coming home. I met an overzealous train warden who felt that it was a necessary duty for him to impress upon me that I am as Chinese as he is.

“You learn Mandarin in Singapore? That makes you a Chinese. How does that make you a Singaporean, that is bullshit!”

“Do you know how much debt America owes us? All we have to do it trigger these debts and America will be brought to its knees.”

“We are the No.1 nation and I don’t understand how you don’t want to be associated with that.”

—————-

I had no prior plan on how to photograph China.

Having entered the country from idyllic Laos, the change in landscape was enormous. From semi-lush jungles, I entered the city-like streets of Mengla, the nearest border town on the Chinese side.

I was surprised not only because of the vast change in sights, but also because I suddenly became capable of understanding people’s conversations. That distracted what my eyes saw. It was like momentary blindness.

—————-

After one week in China, I realized that I wasn’t making wonderfully picturesque images despite being in Lijiang and Lugu Lake, two very scenic tourist spots in Yunnan. In fact, I ended up making a lot of pictures of domestic tourists armed with cameras of all sizes trying to make such shots.

Apart from these Martin Parr-ish moments, I found myself, somewhat guided by instincts, immensely drawn to photographing things that meant being Chinese to me.

A propaganda graffiti extolling the virtues of studying hard and caring for the aged scripted onto a brick wall stopped me in my tracks and I photographed it. A self-inflicted tattoo on the arm of a young man no older than 21 bores the Chinese characters for Wealth. I photographed it as well.

In Singapore, being part of the majority, I have never been confronted with what being a Chinese meant. Strangely. there are traits that I would readily associate with Malays, with Indians and with others. So there must be for Chinese too, but I never thought about it.

As I travelled, locals puzzled by my enormous backpack kept asking me where I was from. They commended, with tinges of surprise, that my pu tong hua (Han Chinese) was very fluent for someone from outside the country. They did not know that I have been speaking that language for the last 19 years of my life. (Before, I only spoke Cantonese)

—————-

At an Uzbek restaurant in central Xinjiang, I chomped down a plate of shou zhua fan, akin to fried rice served with raisins, nuts and carrots. A gentleman from the table beside mine asked where I was from, probably intrigued by my cameras.

“Singapore,” I said, and he nodded in agreement before flicking his cigarette. “You can’t smoke like this in Singapore right?” he asked with a grin.

The restaurant owner came along and joined the conversation. “So you are a hua ren (Chinese).”

“Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore. It doesn’t matter where you are from. One day, you will all just be part of China. If China wants you, you can’t run away,” he announces to the laughter of his four waitresses and some other patrons.

I finished my rice and took out 20 yuan to pay for the delicious meal. In jest, I asked him for a discount since “we are all Chinese.” “It is 20 yuan!” he bellowed. “Because you said you are a Chinese, I am charging only 20 yuan. If you had said you were a Singaporean, it would be 50 yuan!”

I didn’t know whether or not to laugh with the rest. I smiled politely and left the restaurant.

—————-

Finding the Chinese Spirit is a project first conceived sub-consciously when I had no proposed plan to photograph China. It was then realized as a conscious effort midway through my trip, after some conversations with the locals and much thinking on long-distance journeys across the country.

China’s scenic splendours meant little to me. So does its mythological rise to being a global power, a topic that photojournalists around the world are rushing to document. What I seek in my photographs is an answer to the question: What does it mean to be Chinese?

The Chinese spirit I am looking for is something that I think no amount of geological transformations and modern developments can change. I am prepared to find both pretty and ugly answers to my question. Certainly, not everything is great about being Chinese. Regardless, I hope that this will turn out to be a way of figuring out where my ancestral roots lie, instead of blindly proclaiming that I am also a Chinese, like its 1.3 billion people.

It was 10:18
And he was looking for the last family
To take a picture of
Before returning to his country halfway around the world across.

He stumbled upon a door half-closed
And the lights within lit a face that showed
Looks like this could be the one
Before he returns to the hotel for some rest and rum.
He had been doing this for what seemed like 18 months.

He thought “Oh great, what a beautiful light,
“And a picture of this place will be such a sight.”
So, straightening his scarf,
He vowed not to let this pass.

He knocked on the door and a girl answered.
He explained his purpose.
She told him, in the end, that it is now too late,
And he should return next morning when she and the rest will await.
Looking at his watch, he nodded and said, “That will be great.”

——-

And he fears, never gonna take a picture of another girl.
From now, it’s only she that he remembers, The one and only muse of a travelling photographer.
And she is left to wonder, when will he return to take another picture?
Not one to hold much hope, But the sense of uncertainty is too much for her to cope.

——-

He returned the next morning
And true to her words, she had been waiting.
He gave her his best smile
And took off his boots and sat down for a while.

She was a student just like him
But while he had graduated, she was still studying.
Awaiting for her results to go college,
He gave her his blessings and said: “Good luck be with you.”
“And when you do make it, don’t forget that I once said you will.”

The minutes passed and the conversation was great,
So much so that he almost forgot he has some pictures to make.
Picking up his camera, he did his thing.
Posing the folks in the house within.

The girl was last and she stood straight as wood.
She has never done this before, and was quite awkward.
He let her be for her beauty was so great,
Even the awkwardness becomes a visual treat.

Just as he thought that was it
Something in his mind just clicked.
Instead of leaving things like that,
He thought he would take it to another step.

“I can spend more time here but what is the point?”
“I’d rather print this out so that you will something tangible to remember me by.”

——-

And he fears, never gonna take a picture of another girl.
From now, it’s only she that he remembers, The one and only muse of a travelling photographer.
And she is left to wonder, when will he return to take another picture?
Not one to hold much hope, But the sense of uncertainty is too much for her to cope.

——-

And he returned, just a few minutes late.
The printer had some problems which had him delayed.
Sweating like a mad dog, he handed her the prints,
And the smile she gave made him grin.

Waiting for him to take off his boots again,
But he told her that this time, he was not coming in.
She begged him to stay for lunch.
He looked at his watch and it says not enough time.

“I am sorry girl, but I must now be gone.
I have a train to catch, right on the dot at one.”

——-

And he fears, never gonna take a picture of another girl.
From now, it’s only she that he remembers, The one and only muse of a travelling photographer.
And she is left to wonder, when will he return to take another picture?
Not one to hold much hope, But the sense of uncertainty is too much for her to cope.

——-

On the train, he thought about his big mistake.
Why didn’t he gave her a picture of himself instead?
Then he realized that the best pictures of him are not made of photo paper,
But the heart and the memory of a pretty young girl.