I've had a fascination with costumes ever since I started to love the stage. As a teenager I attended Helen O'Grady Speech and drama classes for many years, all thanks to an incredibly kind and generous friend; and they were one of the greatest influences in my life. Not to sound corny, but learning to loosen up and find delight in 'the freedom that lies behind the mask, within dissimulation, the freedom to juggle with being..' (this probably seems very artificial and intellectually pretentious, but I had memorized this quote from Angela Carter for my finals last year, and it popped neatly into my mind!) was actually what made me realize that I didn't necessarily have to categorize myself as an introvert just because I had never thought about being otherwise. We make ourselves. (And I'm absolutely sure that's echoed in another quote from Nights at the Circus, which is suddenly reviving in my memory!) Of course we have our natural inclinations, but so much of it is yet changeable, vulnerable to influence and situation and even willpower, that it's rather naive to decide what type of person we are. Having said that it probably seems paradoxical that I'm also a fan of the Myers Briggs personality test. But then, I'm still not sure what personality type I am, since every time I take the test I get a different result--not drastically different, but enough to leave me in a permanent state of blissful ignorance. Basically I realized that I like to talk, and I like attention--which actually everyone does, just with different preferences on how. I realized that I enjoy the one-sided communication of the stage, the persona you create through acting just as you create characters in writing, the thrill of seeing people laugh or the compliment of a tense silence, seeing the intangible yet powerful connection you've made in that magical space between the stage and the audience. How can I make this sound even remotely relatable. I think I'm sounding more and more alarmingly egocentric and megalomaniacal. It's like being wifi, I suppose. With the additional satisfaction of knowing you created this powerful link without any machinery or technology but simply through your body and your voice. I realized that I didn't have to class myself inflexibly as an introvert just because I valued and needed alone-time, and got exhausted by extended interaction. That in fact...there are such things as high-functioning introverts. (here we go with more labels!) Well, I had fun developing this 'extrovert streak' in myself, and I went into acting on fire with enthusiasm. I enjoyed all my Trinity Guildhall examinations immensely...and very naturally got interested in costumes as well. It is very sad to have to say, after all this soppy nostalgic fuzz, that I had to stop speech and drama classes, and was unable to find another way to keep up acting. However, what remained as a physical and visual reminder was the costume box I had been compiling over all those years. Every now and then when I most miss my drama class days I will sit down and drag out that overweight box, bursting at the seams, ostensibly for the purpose of 'clearing and tidying it up,' (my family had a discussion once whether they should sacrifice much-needed space for that box. My mom decided since it was something I cared about, it was worth keeping); but really just to gloat over my collection and pretend I actually had an opportunity to use all those costumes. Sad, I know. Lest you have any illusions on what I mean by costumes, that box really just held an assortment of unusual and charismatic clothes from all the clothes that I had been given by kind friends and relatives, which I had curated so to speak. So that box holds all sorts of things, from a vintage sailor dress that used to be my mom's, to a Mad Hatter-esque white satin gentleman's jacket with a chain, to a billowing blue balldress, and a gaudy pair of chequered shorts (classic clown outfit material, I thought). In addition to which I had added, over the years, various interesting accessories that I couldn't resist including in my collection. For instance, a stocking mask (who sells stocking masks, really?? I felt like I was buying a gun. It was really badly designed though, and the eyeholes have become a singular mono-eyehole by now. Even if I were to commit a crime I think it'd be the last thing I'd choose to disguise myself with. Besides, it's terribly scratchy.) I am also inordinately proud of my collection of DIY fake moustaches which I made with unraveled black felt and double-sided tape. They came in very handy when I made a Merchant of Venice clip for an English Lit class ages ago, in which I had to play all four characters (Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, and Nerissa.) Free facial waxing, anyone? For that Merchant of Venice video I went through two different homemade moustaches, crawled into my mom's wedding dress, used voice filters to transpose my voice to four different pitches, and almost died somewhere in the woolly depths of a winter coat (the fan was too noisy to leave on while filming, but I was too dumb to think of turning on the air conditioning. I'm surprised I didn't get heatstroke.) Ah, good memories. I smooth out the folds of a lace apron (peasant or Victorian housemaid, I mentally categorize) and check if there are any age spots on the sash. One of the fake moustaches had gotten entangled with some Cleopatra-esque earrings. And horrors, was that actually a scratch on my Sherlock Holmes pipe?? I cleared my desk today; part of my little routine for entering a new year (as if I had a choice about entering.) I took down all the old drawings and quotes and selfmade motivation cards that were on my desk wall (read: just a small purple note that said DO IT. I have a horror of motivational posters. The garish type you buy in stationery shops which are stiff glossy plastic and feature random landscapes with random quotes superimposed on them.) The children's drawings I had been given and the rare piece of junk mail which complemented my wall theme so nicely I actually saved it. Yes, I kept an invite to an Easter event from a church I had never heard of before simply because their postcard was so beautiful; it got center place in my wall for the longest time. Note: good design makes an impact. Don't skimp on your graphic designer. There was a plain postit on which I had scribbled vibrant-purposeful-invest in people-work at fulfilling dreams-live fully in different fonts. It was rather dusty when I took it down, I'm afraid. So much dust, as I gingerly explored the corners of my desk. I discovered my eraser rubbing collection and debated again (as I annually did) whether or not to throw it away. (I kept it. It wasn't easy to collect all those rubbings I produced instead of sweeping them off onto the floor as I wrote, a gesture I felt very conducive to genius but which wasn't appreciated by the family member in charge of floors.) I found small random presents from various children, ranging from little spools of decorative tape to an eraser version of Sadness from Inside Out (I suppose I looked like her, with my shoulder length hair and glasses, though the resemblance isn't very complementary!) and a strange duck-shaped Thing which was absurdly soft and squashy, almost slimy, and as far as I could see, had no real purpose at all. It gave me the goosebumps. Also a pen with an anthropomorphic milk carton on top. (Japanese. Need you ask?) And a plastic hand with movable fingers which apparently enabled one-handed pirates to play Scissors Paper Stone. I sometimes wonder who in the world sits down and decides these strange contraptions are toys. My hedgehog family I dusted off tenderly and arranged in a more prominent spot. Because of my name, I've an aural affinity to hedgehogs (considering I've never even seen a live one.) My eldest sister got me three little hedgehog figurines over the span of time she was in London, from a particular thrift shop, where the saleslady had told her most indignantly about a man who handed in his vast collection of hedgehog figurines--"the poor man was almost in tears!"--under pressure from his girlfriend. Those three were salvaged and came home to Singapore, reunited on my desk; one wooden, two ceramic, of different shades of brown. As I took down the old pieces of decor, threw some regretfully, put others away in my diary, I also took the time to remember the friendships they represented, the goals and hopes. I'd spent so much time staring at them that they ceased to exist, quite literally; the words no longer made sense, they became part of the scenery, I forgot their significance. It was a good time to review. To refresh myself on what others had done for me. What I had wanted to do for myself. And consider, more importantly, what impact that had had on me today. |
the process of appreciating life
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