* Jean-Michel Othoniel’s Noeud Rouge, Paragon, Singapore. Photo by author.
written By
Briefly on Orchard picking up Paul olive & pomidoro, two small croissants
with the dahl from Wadi fixing two vegetarian suppers. Up/down the
escalators at Takashimaya, omitting Kinokuniya’s coloured piles, piped
music and antiseptic. That could be left for another day. Crossing
for Paragon, where virtue and honour immediately infused passing across the
threshold. (Wondrous dizzying all-overcoming gumption. You smile through
your teeth.) Muji third floor, essential oil shelves middle row by the cashier,
door-girl having deserted her post making it easier. No surprise
the ylang ylang was still not replaced; no-one was checking. Bummer. Ten
days/two weeks now. Japanese Cypress gave a fine taste of the forest, but today
the choice would fall on Rosemary, that would do just fine. Staunch, loyal
ruzmarin, always good to find you there among the crowd; in the
preparation for Greece more than fitting. Early days Bab had planted three or
four shrubs and for the house down the road we added them in the garden
beds front & rear. On the recent trip back down a couple of the older Yugo
visitors had bent outside the Studio door to rub and savour the scent. Svjeta
bilka, holy bush, both Orthodox and Catholics agreed. Perhaps two/three
mil. the length of both forearms, right the way from elbows to wrists. In order
to manage properly the bread needed to be placed on a lower shelf. There
were no cameras and staff was busy. It would be embarrassing to be lectured
by the manager and escorted from the premises; not that there was any
illegality involved. Samples were for sampling, your Honour, right? . . . Even
quality oils retained their scents not much more than an hour here—liberal
lashings were needed. Escalators down past the shopping bags, the hand-
holders and bored spoilt children, on the street clinging to the walls for cover.
With the bread held on an imaginary tray a figure for those watching the
panama pass along the walkway. Time was now arrived for lightening of
spirits, granting levity and abandon rule! . . . In the right mood just a few
metres on toward the bus-stop the festival of the street could be joined here
in one’s own fashion. Particular days there was a juggler down at the lower
level, fountains, vetted buskers, pretty maids outfitted by their madams.
Some few steps on, Voila! The canny French musketeer’s creation on the
upper concourse out front of Mui Mui toward the first service lane. It was
impossible to pass through that section of Orchard without pausing for a
moment’s appreciation, a brief delectation like patting a pretty poodle newly
emerged from its grooming. Atop the black marble plinth the silver and pink
globes took their customary couple of elegant loops that failed the link of the
heart. Missed by a whisker. An admiring passer-by drew the link oneself here
in the act of affirmation the sculptor had allowed his audience, the
lovers, shoppers and the infirm pushed in their chairs, the businessmen en
route to their deals and escorts their clients. The proportions were judged
right; affairs of the heart should not clamour too loudly. With children along
the path too increasing the size here brought risks that the planners had
anticipated. (Some of the playgrounds and exercise yards at the base of
the _HDB_s included not dissimilar structures, in like colours in fact, if not
the very tones.) Fairy floss and the fairground was strongly evoked; the
lightness of Youth’s free abandon. Pulsing emotion coursed through those
prongs like electric current and set spirits afloat for the challenging journey
onward. $180k+ was the reported commission won by the French galant.
Brilliant coup, the man should be credited. Materials, colour, proportion, the
appraisal of the client and site, all judiciously weighed. The chap had pieces
in either the Palace of Versailles, or the Gardens and grounds. Numerous
artwork ran the length of the strip here right up to the embassy quarter at the
top end, all approved by the same committee of management—street
sculptures, ceramic installations, novelty items, the wheelchair keyboard
uncle who performed one side of the road and the new guitarist on the other
delivering muted R&B gospel. Award-winning Orchard Road was a great
magnet for the Indo, the Malaysian, the Thai and Chinese political and
military class, the industrial and agri barons who furnished their homes from
the showrooms of Ikon, Tangs and Paragon. Orchard mixed it with Bond Street,
Champs Élysées and Times Square. Up the top end the street-art was spaced
25 – 30m. It was only at the stop awaiting the bus for the return, picking at
the bread and chewing the cud, that the street banners fluttering high along
the roadway either side were noticed. What did we have here, a circus was it
really coming to town? Did the eyes deceive? It needed a moment to confirm
and another to digest. A circus. Truly. Here in the midst of the cleanliness, the
void decks, the garden beds and the hundreds upon hundreds of kilometres
of sheltered walkways? A ground-breaking centre of malls, digitisation,
innovation and automation was bringing a circus to their town. It could only
be the traditional affair under a proper big top, with trapeze artists, fire-
breathers, strongmen and clowns. Elephants and galloping horses in a sandy
ring perchance. Certainly there would be a ringmaster in his top-hat and tails.
Remarkable. Who would have thought. How would parents and teachers
explain such sights in the days ahead to the children? There were still open
fields on the island where tents could be erected, even around the Orchard
precinct where the audience for this circus could be found. Community,
religious and political events were common under canvas in SG. We were not
done yet either. Hang on a cottonpickin’ minute. No! There was more still
coming this way. On a closer look alternating with the circus banners were
others telling of the old favourite sing-a-long EVITA soon to open on these
shores, the popular opera featuring the hit song. Similar colour in the
advertising made it difficult to distinguish between the banners at first. Old
Juan’s lovely, tragic Evita in her radiant skin and curls. The Singaporeans
would be able to manage the lyrics. Political packaging that was
perfectly suited for the local market—the costuming, trilling tunes, the stage-
set raised high. Domestic and tourist markets both with the very same stone.
Weekends the crush on Orchard was said to be something to behold, filling
even the great forecourt at the base of Takashimaya that always looked
problematic weekdays and recalled the European rallies of the 30s.
Singapore 2011 – 2019
