Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The title for this post implies that I shot these photos in Hong Kong. In fact, I shot them in Kowloon. I’m not sure if that matters. If I lived in Hong Kong, I suppose it would. Last week, I spoke to friends who grew up in Hong Kong. He grew up on the island; she grew up in Kowloon. They way they told it, you’d think he was going out with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
We might say to a friend: “See the modern-looking building.” But our observation is far from neutral. Modern is not a stylistic quirk or a design decision. It’s an expression of an ideology. It’s a way of being in the world. It assumes the primacy of science, the certainty of progress, the promise of a bright and shining future, the value of democracy, the inevitability of capitalism, the cachet of consumption.
While in Singapore, we had an invitation to the Tanglin Club. Our host, who is ethnically Chinese, showed us the plaques spanning the club’s 150 year history. The plaques listed presidents of the club, almost all with British names – names like mine. In fact, it was a Barker who officially opened the latest wing. Our host pointed out that, until the 1960’s, he couldn’t have been a member of the club – whites only.
Unlike other ethnic areas, Singapore’s Little India seems less interested in tourist kitsch and more interested in catering to the needs of the people who actually live there. That includes a large population of migrant workers employed in construction, road maintenance, gardening, etc., all brutal jobs in Singapore’s humidity.
I’ve already noted the disneyfied feel to much of Singapore. Arab Town is no exception. When I first saw the Sultan Mosque, I expected Iago, the parrot from Aladdin, to swoop down from the roof.
I didn’t expect to find graffiti in Singapore. Given the harsh penalties, I assumed there was enough of a deterrent to keep people from spray painting shit on walls. I was wrong. But most of it is simple tagging. I scratch my head and wonder of the artists: you risked a caning for that?
In North America, I’m amazed at how little traction the whole “cigarettes guarantee cancer” message has gained. To be honest, I’m not amazed at all. I come from a city that elected a mayor they knew was a crack-smoking imbecile.
Last summer, during Toronto’s 2015 PanAm Games experience, I noted a general rise in the prevalence of selfie sticks. It was an impression I had, but nothing I could back up with carefully gathered statistical evidence. That impression returned to me with redoubled force during my January visit to Singapore. Everywhere, tourists were trying to place themselves in shots of buildings, sculptures, signage, restaurants.
I recently attended a talk by the maritime photographer, Kas Stone, during which she mentioned in passing the so-called travel paradox. Most photographers share the experience of traveling to outstanding or exotic locations only to return home with images that are meh at best. There may be a number of reasons for this but one, she speculates, is that we travel with (typically) non-photographer companions who cramp our style.
A photograph from the Toronto Archives’ Globe and Mail Fonds. This photograph was probably shot by John H. Boyd who served as the Globe’s first staff photographer from December 1922 to November 1953. It was shot on December 28, 1922. It shows men on Queen Street shoveling snow into a horse-drawn cart.
Once I’d adjusted to the light, I noticed, for the first time, a print of a painting that hung on the wall above my feet. It was the only adornment in an otherwise bare room. It was a “realistic” painting of a maritime scene: ocean, rocky shore, green grass above the rocks, lighthouse, rainbow, and bald eagles. The colours were gaudy. The horizon line cut straight through the middle of the scene. It was sentimental. It was kitschy.
Naturally, there was a security guard posted to keep the gawkers out. He followed me around. I assumed that he assumed that I was going to try to sneak into the building for some interior shots, so I thought I better say something to assure him I’m not stupid.