a space, a place

A space. A space in the suburbs, at the edge of Kuala Lumpur. An office. A studio. A 3,600 square foot shoplot. Two storeys. Too many stories.

An airwell, where the smokers like to hang out. A laboratory. A playground. A black box. A Kotak – that’s already koyak. A space which leaks when it hujans heavily. A space where too many people have the keys. A space for conversations. For meetings. For hangouts. For dropping in, for dropping out.

A platform. For young people, middle aged people, old people. A space for intimate cast parties, and ridiculous street parties. An inclusive space, but also an exclusive space. A space where they charge you low rent or no rent if they like you. A common space. A space to hold space. A ‘safe’ space. A personal space. A collective space. A space for us, and a space for others. A rehearsal space. A space for trying things out, for making a mess, for failing, for trying again. A space to make believe, and to make belief. A space to search for truths, and to fight falsities. A space that is next to Pesona Pictures – that propaganda place. A space where you have to take your shoes off. A space where everyone’s feet is in contact with the same floor. A space where a larger group of people come to watch a smaller group of people do stuff. A space for attention and intensity. A space for magic, mayhem and mistakes.

A performance space. A limited space, but also a space with very few limits, where we try to go beyond our own limitations. A minimal space. A liminal space.

A home. A poem.

A space. A space in Taman Tun, that has always remained slightly out of place. A 23-year old space. A space that appears in 1998 and disappears in 2021. A space that appears during the Asian financial crisis and Reformasi. A space that disappears during the age of Covid-19 and Ismail Sabri.

 

 

A space.

A place.

This place.

I’m not much of a sentimentalist, so this is not a sentimental list – it’s a mental list.

This place has never belonged to Five Arts only. In the very beginning, we shared this place with Dramalab. We’ve shared it with many over the years – a revolving door of members and former members, production managers and collaborators, audiences, and many, many, many others. This place is called Five Arts Centre, but it has never belonged only to Five Arts Centre.

It was in 1999 that I first came to this place, to watch a rehearsal of Marion D’Cruz & Aida Redza’s Playground – the studio stuffy with the smell of sweat and socks, dancers and non-dancers.

This is the place I watched my very first Emily of Emerald Hill – Ivan Heng, in drag, in rehearsal. It’s an emotional scene – he mimes opening and reading a letter from Richard, Emily’s son. I remember someone in our student group asking, “Mr. Ivan, when you read that letter – what’s going on?”, and Ivan saying as he wipes a tear from his eye, “When I read the letter darling, I can really see Richard’s handwriting”. I remember many of us going, ‘Woah, that’s acting…”.

This is the place where Charlene Rajendran – the first of the ‘next generation’ of Five Arts Centre – told me she was leaving. For Singapore. Say no more.

This is the place which was filled for years with the vibrations of the all-female heavy metal band Rhythm In Bronze.

 

 

This is a place which when it started didn’t really recognise words such as creative producing, cultural mapping, rumah angkat-ing, socially-engaged art, dramaturgy, documentary performance, lecture performance, online performance, and much more. This is a place for new words to describe new things – even when we’re not sure yet about the new things.

This is the place where I had my first proper job as Five Arts’ publicity manager from 2001 to 2010 - where I learned how to communicate about art, how to sell a show without sounding like a sell-out.

This is the place where I brought a girl I was trying to impress to watch a rehearsal of a performance I was directing. The girl I was trying to impress, the girl I’m still trying to impress, is Sharyn Shufiyan, and that performance remains her favourite out of all the things I’ve ever made.

Everything I’ve ever made has been made here, in this place. Since I was 19 years old. I am 40 now. But as all of you well know, I have never ever made anything by myself. I’ve made it with you, supported by you, supported by this place. This place gave me space. Community. Criticality. Courage. This place is where I learned how to be an artist.

 

 

This place has given us a lot. But we’ve also given it a lot.

This is the place – 2 decades ago – where I witnessed Leow Puay Tin giving a small performance to four people, including me. Sitting on the floor, close to and across from us, she shuffles a deck of big cards with texts on them, making us take turns picking a card, and she would read and perform the card – a card about chaos theory, another about Buddhism, another about an old man, all of them about things I barely understand. What is this strange thing she is doing? Reading, performing, shuffling, selecting and occasionally singing. Hokkien songs. Wah, like that also can ah? She called this strange, wonderful way of performing – tikam-tikam.

I like serendipity more than symmetry, but I love it when serendipity overlaps with symmetry.

The first production that rehearsed in this place was a play by Leow Puay Tin – Family, in 1998. I never watched Family live – I only ever watched it on tape, on a TV screen, in this place. The last production to rehearse in this place was a play by Leow Puay Tin – Oppy & Professor Communitas, in 2021. Many of you watched it ‘live’, on a computer screen, streaming from this place. Serendipity & symmetry.

Between Family and Oppy, 1998 and 2021… that’s a whole lot of people, work, relationships, creativity, energy

Thank you for all the work you have done in this place. And thank you for being in this space. It goes without saying, but it needs saying - there is simply no way any of this would have been possible without you. Thank you.