SINGAPORE – A certain desolation is sometimes associated with semi-abstract painter Boo Sze Yang’s oeuvre. His most recognisable works are usually in greyscale, both segmented and melting.
Of these, his derelict interiors of empty cathedrals and shopping centres, as well as car and motorcycle crash wreckages, have been said to be indicative of a morbid impulse, with which the artist goes in search of a darker beauty.
A graduate of Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts (Nafa) in 1991, Boo has taught at Nafa, National Institute of Education and School of the Arts.
His works are in collections including at National Gallery Singapore, the Istana and UOB Singapore, and he has held more than 18 solo exhibitions, in Singapore, Taiwan, Australia and the United States.
Boo, who turns 60 on Oct 2, continues innovating. One of his latest series, Romance On Hobby Horses, is based on repeating figures in synchronised dance movements. These more neon paintings reimagine popular images of protest and societal unrest.
This was taken in my grandparent’s house, now Greenwood Avenue in Bukit Timah, where I was born. I may be about a year old. No idea who took it, though.
Boo Sze Yang in 1966.
PHOTO: COURTESY OF BOO SZE YANG
I spent my first six years in a kampung in Bukit Timah, near Watten Estate. In 1972, when I started primary school, my family moved to a rented one-room flat on the 10th floor of a block in Toa Payoh Lorong 1.
It was a bit scary to look down from that height, but every evening at around 7pm, my brother and I would stand on a stool at the kitchen window to see if our father was coming home from work.
Our father worked as a welder in his uncle’s factory. He drove a pickup with a uniquely designed stainless-steel roof that he installed himself, and you could spot it from a distance.
I remember the long corridors on each floor, where we used to play football with our neighbours’ children. On some days, you could hear the karung guni uncle shouting in Hokkien, “Got old things to sell?”, as he made his rounds collecting unwanted items.
We would also wait with excitement for the Malay auntie carrying a basket of fried bananas and sweet potatoes, going floor by floor selling her treats. That was, in a way, the beginning of my experience of modern Singapore.
It’s not something I think about when I decide to do something. Like many others, I try to educate myself, stay healthy, do the right thing and live an honest life. That, to me, is how every citizen contributes to his country.
When I entered art school, my intention was to study design and work in advertising to become a creative art director. But somehow, I ended up studying fine art and became an artist.
Art helped me find meaning in life. Over time, I came to see art as a mirror, a way of reflecting the world we live in. Through my work, I hope to offer something honest and meaningful related to the place I call home.
We have one of the best healthcare systems, world-class universities, an efficient transport system, clean streets and a high level of safety. Everything is incredibly convenient. We are a small country governed like a large corporation, and if you do your part and do it well, you’ll be rewarded.
We’re highly efficient and well organised, but that also makes life very predictable. We’re known as a shopper’s paradise, yet our malls often feature the same types of tenants, selling the same products.
I suppose everyone wants the same things, and that desire for sameness is not just reflected in our urban landscape, but it’s also a mindset. It creates comfort and familiarity, but can dull our sense of curiosity, individuality and the courage to be different.
What I find lacking is space – not just physical space, but emotional and creative space. Space for people to slow down, to reflect, to express themselves freely and, most importantly, to dare to be different.
Catching spiders, shooting lizards with paper bullets using a rubber band and playing football in the void decks. It was a time of imagination, risk and freedom.
We had long corridors to run through and shared spaces where neighbours and children mixed freely.
Today, our public housing is designed to prioritise privacy. There are no more open corridors, and the ground floors feel like a maze. In some of the older estates that still have void decks, you’ll even see “No Football” signs. That says a lot about how things have changed.
When my wife and I got married, we decided not to have children, and now that I’ve reached 60, I don’t regret that choice. I often tell her that the best part of not having kids, apart from the freedom, is that we never really grow old in the same way others do.
We stay psychologically suspended as husband and wife, as someone’s son or daughter. Without children, there’s no yearly reminder of ageing through the different stages of your growing children. I have given up the choice to be a father or grandfather.
One thing that constantly reminds me I’m getting older is my thinning, greying hair.
A more mature, considerate society, one that values its people not just for their productivity, but also for who they truly are.
The life of an artist is unpredictable and insecure, unlike a typical job in a corporation, where you’re rewarded for your effort and there are clear paths for advancement. Being an artist means building your own path, often with limited financial reward and the possibility that your efforts may go unrecognised.
I have learnt to manage my expectations and accept that public appreciation may not always reflect the effort put into the work. Like the process of making a painting, I try to keep an open mind, let the work evolve naturally and, hopefully, the outcome will surprise me.