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The day I learned to accept rejection

Watch the interview on AsiaOne

Many years ago, a couple happily walked into my studio.  Soon to be married, they loved my wedding photography, and were very excited to learn more about my work. 

Then, they saw the nude portraits on the wall.

They started looking tense.  Laughter turned into nervous silence.  

Suddenly, everything turned cold.

They left the studio.  I would never hear from them again.

I felt sad.  So very, very sad.  Were my photos offensive?  There were no nipples, no butt cracks, no suggestive poses, just the beauty of a woman you may admire from a distance.  At least, that was how I felt.  What was wrong with my photos?

It’s ok, I told myself.  It was just the beginning.  People would understand.

I was so happy when the chance came soon after – an opportunity for a public exhibition.  My first!  I chose the same portraits from the wall.  Everything was going well, good crowd, great opening, nervous first-ever speech.  The very next day, however, I was told to “bring these pictures to the back so they can’t be seen”.

No problem.  I’ll hold my own show, and people will understand. The audience trickled in, and among them was a group of men in business suits.  They took a clean, sweeping glance at the exhibits, sneered, and told me, “I thought you have something more explicit?”

I was so angry that I took down every piece and stopped the exhibition immediately.

It only got worse.

I was insulted, shamed, and called a pervert.  My portraits were banned, while others’ pictures of skimpily-clad women with gyrating hips were deemed safe.  I had publicity, but they weren’t interested in beauty – all they wanted was sex.

Why?  Why do people feel this way?  Is beauty wrong?  Is empathy wrong?  Am I taking sex pictures, just because I’m a guy?  Am I not worthy of being sensitive, just because I’m a guy?

I knew my work would be misunderstood, and I was prepared to be judged.  I just didn’t know facing rejection would be so tough.  There are people who kept me going, clients who love my work, friends who pushed me on.  But the rejections never stopped.  For every embrace, I received a thousand slaps.

I began to harbour a bitterness for the horde, a hatred for the masses.  Those dumb people who can’t feel!  I blamed them, and grew jealous of those who were loved by everyone.  Anger turned into sadness, and sadness into despair and desperation.  I wanted to give up, but why should I?  Why should I admit defeat to my enemies?  I didn’t do anything wrong! I would fight, and I would prove them wrong!

Until that day, when she walked into the studio with her husband, her family, and a life support machine.  “We don’t know how much longer”, her sister told us ernestly.

I can hear her wheezing now.  Her breathlessness.  The urgency around her.  But I also remember her strength, for she was determined like no other.  It was her wish, her only chance to finally have beautiful, intimate portraits with her husband.

A few weeks later, she passed on.

I can feel the pain even now.  But I cannot forget how bright and beautiful her smile when she saw her portraits.

That was when I realised that my work meant something.  I wasn’t born to proof something to the world, I wasn’t born to inspire others with my beliefs.  I was simply blessed with an ability to express beauty within people.  Being able to bring joy to so many is the essence to a life well-lived.

I’d be lying if I say I’m no longer affected by rejections.  I stand by my work, no matter what others may think.  But I was wrong, and never again will I blame the world for my troubles.  Instead, I remind myself – every single moment – never to judge others the way I’ve been labelled.  We will never be the perfect beauties everybody wants to see.  We are ugly and beautiful,  selfish and loving, dying and living, angry, sad, and joyous, all rolled into a complex anomaly we call human.

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The Place with a Chime

10″x10″ Charcoal on paper

It’s not a very nice place.

Continue reading The Place with a Chime

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When a large audience is meaningless

Is this a good painting? Can you tell?

What’s a good painting, anyway?

Continue reading When a large audience is meaningless

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Gentle arms on my shoulders

“We brought some toys in case they become difficult”, the parents said.

Continue reading Gentle arms on my shoulders

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More than a painting

“Can you paint a portrait for me?”, the message goes.  “Here’s the photo…”

It was a picture of a young, smiling couple, standing in a busy street somewhere in the city.  Just an ordinary-looking picture, I thought to myself.

“Sure!”, I replied. “Do you want the painting just like the picture, or do you prefer a close-up?”

“I want it as it is.  I want us to be the focus, and I want the place and the beautiful colours.  It’s important.”

“No problem.  Oil painting takes time.  Can you wait 3 months?”

“It’s urgent.”

He paused for what seemed an eternity.

“I guess we will never be.”

We had not spoken, but even in his text there was a sense of desperation and sadness.  Suddenly, the picture didn’t feel ordinary anymore.  I felt an urgency, and a certain kind of pain.

“Early next week latest, ok?  I’ll place your job on top priority and work on it immediately.”

That gave me less than a week.

At once, I sent the canvas to stretch, and made a special frame so he could handle the painting while still wet.  Then, for 5 days in a row, I painted earnestly till the wee hours of night.  At times I wondered why.  There are better ways to earn money.  I could have turned down the job.  I didn’t even know him.  But it was more than a painting.  He could be sitting exactly where I was, brush in hand, every stroke an honest effort, every colour a symbol of hope.

We finally met, and I was shocked.  I thought I had met the wrong person, for the real man, skin to the bones, seemed to have lost half his weight.

He was grateful.  He loved the painting.  But we didn’t talk much.

I wish we did.  I wish I could do more.

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16 years ago…

16 years ago, I spent my time searching for beautiful places to photograph.
Now, I spend my time discovering beauty in people.

16 years ago, I called myself a photographer.
Now… does ‘human’ qualify as a job?

16 years ago, I believed in being the best.
Now, I believe in joy.

16 years ago, I believed in finding my passion.
Now, I know life is a journey, and passion is nothing but an attitude.

16 years ago, I was 30.
Now, I feel like 20.

16 years ago, the more I run, the fitter I get.
Now, the more I run, the fatter I get.

16 years ago, I was happiest when my work was known.
Now, I am happiest when people laugh with me.

16 years ago, I’d feel hurt when people say I shouldn’t photograph nudes, because I’m a guy.
Now, it still hurts.

16 years ago, I woke up to the morning sun, and dread the day ahead.
Now, I wake up to the dawn, and paint the wondrous hues of nature.

16 years ago, I go everywhere with a camera and a bag full of lenses.
Now, I go everywhere with an open heart.

16 years ago, I dream of living in the mountains among the trees.
Now, I still dream of living in the mountains among the trees.

16 years ago, I found a new career.
Now, I’ve found myself.

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Retirement plan

I picture myself in old age,

listening to the stories of strangers who will become friends, 

finding light within darkness, grace among the ordinary,

and expressing life with the most beautiful words and paintings humanly possible.

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What stories do we tell our children?

Little May, just 7 months old, sat in the middle of the big big bed, looking at me with curious eyes. I sat by the bedside, and held her tiny hand gently in mine. They felt so tender, fragile. I could feel her fingers move a little.

I gave her a baby handshake. She stared at me. I shook her hand a little harder – she offered what looked like a sly grin. I shook it again, and again, and again… harder each time… until her cheeks wobbled like jelly in a mini-earthquake. She chirped, giggled, and gave me a giant, toothless smile.

Tumbling backwards on the fluffy bed, Little May laughed and squealed with innocent delight. Mummy joined in, then Papa, cuddling her, kissing her, laughing. Everyone was so happy, it became quite noisy. At one point, I stopped myself in quiet embarrassment, when I realised the loudest laughter came from me.

No posing. No cheese. No counting to 3.

~.~

“Shall I wait outside while you change?”, I asked Mummy.

“No need!” came her quick reply.

Little May looked at Mummy while she undressed, and murmured impatiently. She knew it was time to fill her little tummy.

While Mummy relaxed herself on bed, Little May climbed onto her, and helped herself to an Oreo*. The baby murmured and groaned in pleasure, and playfully pulled at the nipple with little gummy bites.

Mummy smiled, and wrapped her protective arms around her. When Little May had enough, she bobbed her head from side to side, nipple still in her mouth. She tugged at it again, but this time she pulled it so hard and so long, it looked like the nipple will come off with a rubbery pop.

“Ouch!!”, Mummy yelped. Little May propped her shoulders on her lotus arms, and chuckled.

For two hours, Little May spoke to her parents in a little voice that sounds like tiny birds in a nest, like a newborn kitten in a cotton-laden shoebox. I can still hear it now, as I write. A tiny violin playing in my ears. There was no crying, no sadness, and no complaints. Just a loving family in their own world, on their own little island, talking, laughing, holding each other, touching.

As Papa placed the baby on his chest, and pulled her close in a loving embrace, Mummy leaned on his shoulder. Little May whimpered, ever so softly, and touched their faces with her tiny hands.

I struggled to hold back tears.

~.~

I looked at their portraits every night, long after the shoot was over. They’re not my own family. Not even distant relatives. But every time, I was moved to a heartache. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m really a woman. But I do know I love people, and I love Little May and her family very, very much.

~.~

In this mad, rushing world, few consider photography as an emotional experience. This is normal – I know this, it’s been 16 years. But if we harden our hearts, if we treat people like cash-spitting mannequins, if portraiture is nothing but an empty pose, what, then, will be our legacy? What good are the values we pass on? What stories do we tell our children?

Little May’s story may not be extraordinary, but it is a story I will tell my kids, over and over. A story about simple love, real happiness, and an ordinary man, blessed with a life well lived.

* During my time with breast cancer survivors, I learned that some of them – after mastectomy – had the shape of their breasts surgically enhanced, but not all of these “new breasts” come with nipples. Fake nipples, which they mischievously called “Oreos”, are totally optional (I haven’t seen any of their Oreos, but they could have chosen another biscuit with more matching colours…).

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What happens when you’re born with a dream


There was a time when my mum would tower over me like a huge, black shadow, cane in one hand, my poor exam results in the other. Her eyes burnt with a fire that was both fierce and amusing.

“You know how to eat??!!”
“Yes.”
“You know how to eat, why you dunno how to study??!!”

“Why??!!” – Whip!

“Why… WHY??!!” – WHIP! WHIP! WHIP!!!

40 years later, long after the purple stripes on my butt had faded, I still don’t know what eating’s got to do with studies.

Then again, I didn’t know much about anything. They called me “blur”, because I loved to dream. But I also loved to draw.

It wasn’t just drawing, though, like most kids do. It was an obsession.

I drew so much, the knuckles on my right fingers swelled and hardened. I used to peel at them, and sometimes they’d come off in full, flat circles of skin, like little coins.

Maybe my mum understood. Even though she could wield the cane like a pugilistic swordsman, she didn’t cane me for my indulgence. Instead, she sent me for art classes. We were poor, but it didn’t matter.  If only I had a little more sense in my pea-brain, I wouldn’t have used up the precious stack of paper my dad needed for his mathematics students.

When I was 10, I entered my school’s art competition with a drawing of a magnificent bald eagle, perched on a bare, leafless tree, fearsome claws grasping a hapless prey, majestic wings stretched into a clear blue sky. I came in second, and my mum pulled me back to school to confront the teacher, demanding why that kiddy-looking crayon piece won the grand prize ahead of me.

She never confronted my teachers when I came in second in class, or fourth (though she caned me). She had never confronted anyone in school, until then. I didn’t understand, but now I know how much she loves me.

Still, it was all about knowing how to eat.

“You’re so good in drawing!”, everyone said. “You should be an architect.”

Should.

Because architects make money. Architects have real jobs. Artists don’t.

Stop dreaming. Get real. Learn how to eat.

Years passed. I did what I should. Got a degree (computer science – better than “architect”). Got a real job. Good pay. Future looks steady. Everything was smooth like a baby’s cheeks.

I forgot my passion. I forgot the freedom I felt with a pen in hand.

Until the day I became a photographer. For the first time in life, I experienced the bitter taste of failure.

You can say I was driven by passion. The truth is, my most passionate decisions were also my scariest. They were also my loneliest.

When I started nude photography, nobody thought I could make it.

When I gave all my money and time to the needy, people said I was stupid.

When I poured my heart and my feelings into portraiture… well, it didn’t matter – the same results could be achieved with tricks to make people laugh.

Every major step I made came with immediate, heartbreaking failure. I remembered once, during a fund-raising effort, when my once-resolute believe totally broke down, and I hid in a corner to cry. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure how long I would last.

In my darkest hours, I drew. With pen, charcoal, oils, anything I could find, anything I could learn. I drew with no promise and no intention to share with anyone. I just drew, like I’ve always done as a kid.

~.~

It’s been 16 years. I now have hundreds of clients in nude photography, and an incredible portfolio many photographers dream of. Because of my love for people beyond paying clients, my fans have multiplied. And the ones who believe in real feelings? Lifelong friends who continue to support my career, both financially and emotionally.

Not many photographers last 16 years, let alone survive in a niche like mine. My career so far can only be considered an incredible success. Still, there’s something I must do, something I have to continue since I was a little boy with swollen knuckles.

I want to be an artist. Not just any other artist. A successful one.

An artist who sells art to collectors, puts food on the table, and brings joy to people around the world. An artist who lives a life of his dreams with grit, passion, and real emotion.

This is my scariest decision yet, for there is no roadmap for artists, no blueprint for success. Others will say, “get real”. But what I really need is courage, support, and love. The way my mum stood up for me. The way many of you stood by me all these years.

The road is long. Will you walk with me?

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Loneliness, anger, and grass

“Hey, look, I just painted this…”

My two little kids looked at the picture on my phone. It was of a painting I just completed.

Girl: “It’s just grass.”

I laughed.

Boy: “I’ll buy it.”
Me: “Cool. How much will you pay?”
Boy: “$100.”
Me: “Holy-moly! That’s a shit-load of money!”
Boy: “Yep! I like it.”
Me: “What do you like about it?”
Boy: “I don’t know. Maybe the colour.”
Girl: “I buy your grass for $50.”
Me: “Hahaha… But I’m not painting grass.”
Boy: “Then what are you painting?”
Me: “A feeling.”

I wondered if I should give it a shot.

Me: “Ok, how do you paint sadness?”
Both: [blank look]
Me: “You can’t paint sadness, because it’s not something you can see. But you use something to show the sadness.”

I continued.

“Like, you can’t paint the wind. But you can paint flying leaves to show the wind.”
Boy: “So what were you painting?”
Me: “Well… I was feeling kinda lonely. So I painted a big piece of land.”
Boy: “I don’t see anything.”
Me: “Exactly. When you’re lonely and sad, it feels like there’s nothing around you.”
Girl: “How do you paint ‘Angry’?”
Me: “Angry? Hmm…”

I showed a monster face, and roared.

Boy: “Fire!”
Me: “Yes! Burning trees! Lots and lots of burning trees!”
Boy: “Haha! RAGE!”
Me: “Crushed buildings!”
Girl: “Awesome!!”
Boy: “Like war!!! Fighting and killing!!!”
Girl: “Bombs!!!”
Boy: “Fire-breathing dragon!”
Girl: “I bomb your dragon!!!”

We laughed out loud. The streets were empty, but the wind was cool, and the sun was shining.

Me: “Guys, I kinda forgot what Angry feels like.”