Creative Arts Programme Portfolio Joshua Choo (3.10) Theme: Progress Anglo-Chinese School (Independent) Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Index Prologue- page 2 Poetry (I) Work in Progress- page 4 Reflections- page 6 Eulogy in ‘F’- page 7 Reflections- page 9 Prose Birthday- page 10 Reflections- page 12 Poetry (II) Running- page 13 Reflections- page 15 Deluge- page 16 Reflections- page 18 Epilogue- page 19 Page 1 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Prologue Progress = regression? I am Joshua Choo from Anglo-Chinese School (Independent), currently in Year Three. This is my portfolio for the Creative Arts Programme in 2014. The theme for this portfolio is progress. When I say ‘progress’, what do you think of? Of course; progress has good connotations. In the Merriam-Webster dictionary, it is defined as: Noun 1: a forward or onward movement (as to an objective or to a goal), advance 2: gradual betterment; especially the progressive development of humankind Verb 3: to move forward; proceed 4: to develop to a higher, better, or more advanced stage Sounds good, does it not? But I would like to explore the uglier side of progress; has progress, or can progress, lead to regression? Now, I am not talking about technological or infrastructural regression; I am referring to the idea that progress may mean losing things that make us human, or the idea that progress may not even be necessary (when progress is defined as technological “progress”). This portfolio covers and addresses these topics, among others. This portfolio’s purpose is not to put progress down, or act as if it is something to fight against. This portfolio is exploratory of the negative effects of progress. The works in this portfolio include some work I have previously done, along with some newer ones that I wrote quite recently. The first of these, Work in Progress, is close to home; addressing the plight of foreign workers. Page 2 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Second is the poem Eulogy in F, which I wrote after reading about Huaming, a city in China. Third is Birthday, the edited version of a prose piece I won the Flash Fiction Contest 2013 with. Running is fourth, and reiterates the messages of previous poems. Last, but not least, is the poem Deluge, which covers an idea of connectivity meaning isolation from people. I hope that this portfolio will be a good read. Page 3 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Work in Progress You need us. You need our labor, Our sweat fuels the growth of your roads, Your buildings, your factories And endless scaffolds that clamber into the air. We flesh out your sterile plans Into realities of steel and cement With the days we spend manning metal machines. We toil, trading time and tearing our muscles For money, which we send back home. And yet You people Stare, And mutter as we walk past. You people Glare or shrug us away, like we're animals Or something useless and gross and unwanted. You people Dismiss us as uneducated, poor, dirty. Not all of us are uneducated Or backward. Being less rich than you Because of birth isn't a crime, Last I checked, And we're not dirty by choice. I've seen the blogs, comments, posts Slamming us because they're anonymous And we can't fight back. Slamming us about our continued presence And what we do. Oh, so being underpaid and having Page 4 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 To break our backs for you, To do every job you don't want makes us Despised? What sort of logic dictates your actions? In any case, We feed your insatiable quest For progress, feeding your hunger, Our families back home, The growth of your roads and Buildings and offices and malls With our sweat, our blood, Our tears. Page 5 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Reflections This first poem was written in the persona of a foreign worker. There has been some recent excitement involving them, namely the riot in December, so I decided to write something that looks at their situation from their point of view. I do not think that we should disrespect them, seeing as how they have built so much for our country. They have fuelled our progression in recent years, helping us to erect many buildings all over the island. And yet, many of us sneer at them, complain about them, and write discriminatory blog posts about them- many of whom are ill-treated despite the best efforts of the government. I believe that the Little India riot might have been a sign of their fermenting discontent coming to the fore. So, how does this link to the theme? We have regressed as a society if we ignore the plight of these people, who fuel the growth of our nation’s infrastructure- and hence, progress. We cannot dismiss them as less important. They are still human. They have contributed a lot to our society. We could at least show them some gratitude. If not, we’ve all regressed as people; and all for the sake of progress. Page 6 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Eulogy in ‘F’ Freed farmers flee fertile fields For freshly fabricated flats. Former farmland flourishes into Flashing ferrous flesh, foundational frames Filling formless, hollow furrows. Full and fleshy like fresh fruit, faith Fills the farmers' minds. Free from farming, toil, labor. The Flats are new, free for the farmers who Freed their fields for progress. Futures open, look optimistic as Fresh flowers, full and fleshy with life. Finally, the flats are full with Families, friends. Fellowship. Finally, modernization is here, as are Fully-formed buildings, offices, hospitals. In the Following days, weeks, months, years, Ferrous skins flake and peel apart, Fresh paint falls away. Once Fresh, hope has now fallen, fractured, Fled. Nothing more now, other than Futile pleas for renovation, or for the old times. Forlorn farmers stare out of the windows, Failed expectations rotting away at their Feet, full and fleshy with decay, like moldy fruit. Gone now are the expectations. Here are the tough realities, like rusted steel, Unemployed children in internet cafes, and they can’t pay rent, or Page 7 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Thick metal sheets diverting gazes, Gazes that would find Those old, abandoned fields. The fields that Fallow and fester beneath the city lights. Page 8 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Reflections I wrote this poem after reading a news article about the Chinese town of Huaming, which suffered an improper form of modernization. It was rapidly developed into a city, but the residential apartments began to decay and fall apart, and futures began to look bleak. Granted, it may not be entirely fair to use the decaying apartments to study the idea of progress, given the corruption that led to the houses being flawed. However, this is a case of regression in progress. In my opinion, the government ignored the people in their attempt to modernize and improve the town. The government didn’t seem to take them into account when carrying the modernization out; easing the transition in slowly would have been a better idea. My point is that progress is supposed to address problems, to help people. When progress is carried out, we cannot afford progress for the sake of progress, or profit. The human factor involved cannot be ignored. Progress is supposed to help people; in this case to improve living conditions and the quality of life. The opposite cannot be allowed to happen in society. Page 9 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Birthday The moon was orange that night. It was a bronze sickle in the air, a crescent hanging in the murky sky. It seemed to be aimed at the green-painted house that sat at the top of a road that ran up a hill, wedged as it was in between two others. The moon’s cruel light joined with the streetlights’ sodium glare, illuminating the old man sitting in the porch outside the house. The old man struggled out of the red plastic chair that sat in front of the door of the house. The orange light fell across his shoulders as he stood, emphasizing every line and liver spot on his face. His feet shuffled into their places in his threadbare slippers, and he limped forwards, painfully reliant on his walking stick, until he reached his car. Its black skin, once smooth, was pitted and dusty. It was despondent in the moonlight, parked outside of the protection the porch would have afforded it. It was old and rusty. Obsolete. The letter had come that morning, informing him that he was unfit to drive; the car was to be removed. Ironically, it was his birthday that day. He got into the driver’s seat, his hands trembling, legs stiffly folding into place. He shut the door. The air grew stale, but he didn’t mind. He was remembering everything it had been; a symbol of independence, freedom, the fruit of his ventures. The memories of driving his children to school, his wife to the market, then his grandchildren to parks. He only had memories now. Those memories were failing him. So were his children. Nobody had visited that day; everyone was too busy, too ready to ignore him. All caught up in themselves. His sons, whom he had provided for, spent sleepless nights on… all of them had left him behind for other things. Muttered Page 10 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 excuses over the phone, promises to visit later. As if he was some triviality, an irritation. But he needed them then. He needed an explanation for all the legal jargon, the footnotes. He needed to know if he could do anything for the car. He would have been angry with their absence, but he was just too tired. He clutched the steering wheel, reliving all those hours, days, years, on the road. How he’d grown into the car. It was a part of him now, like any of his organs, but of metal and rubber rather than flesh. Painfully, he couldn’t do anything about its death. He relived the morning; the feeling of moving through thick gauze, not eating. Relived sitting outside the door the whole day, staring at the car. Relived the sensation of his lips moving slowly at times, as if trying and failing to form a eulogy, and that of moving to the car time and time again, tapping it vaguely, imprinting himself into the dust on its skin. His wife insistently begged him to eat, something in her voice broken and afraid. He would not look at her. He could hear her now, inside the house, muttering. He could hear her low voice, like the shudder of an engine, from somewhere, far away from him. The old man stared, unseeing, out of the car’s grimy windshield, inhaling the stagnant air. His stiff face shuddered, his eyes crumpling; and suddenly he wept, crying for himself and his dying memories, his sobs caving his chest in, his breaths exploding into the dead grey lung of the car. The moon smiled sardonically, floating mockingly over the dead car, the dying man, both ignored by the world that rushed around them. Page 11 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Reflections This short story was my first attempt at writing flash fiction- a short story of under 500 words. I edited it slightly to better suit this portfolio. The old man in the story was inspired by my grandfather, who nearly lost his car. The events in this story are entirely invented. The central idea of this short prose piece is that of somebody who has been left behind by others who are too wrapped up in themselves, in their own progress. It is something that is all too commonplace now; we have become more self-absorbed as people. We spend our time shooting off details of our lives into social media, and some people are even losing the ability to socialize properlywhich is ironic, considering the fact that social media is one of the main culprits. Those are topics that I will not elaborate on, though- there are enough articles about this online. I wanted to explore the situation of someone who’s been left behind by his children, who have moved on and away from him. Page 12 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Running He used to run to get fit. He used to run to see how fast he could go, to see what would change around him. The scenery blurring and shifting, as his steps hit the ground like a drumbeat. He'd run, his breaths filling the airit was a canvas; his breath was paint. He'd make masterpieces, trailing away into The starting line, which was less than an atom in the distance. He’d stop, panting breaths like waves, lapping and tidal; An artist out of paint. Then he'd run again. The paintings fill the spaces he runs through; Many say it's an improvement. His shoes hit the ground, once twice, thrice, once, twice, thrice To the beat of the wind in his hair, his face, his lungs. He doesn't stop, even now. The waves break against the shore he runs on. Sand hissing away into the wind, Trailing tiny whispers. The wind slaps his hood Against his ears, clamping it to his face, shutting his ears to the sea's Shouted pleas: pleas for him to stop. His muscles are now pistons, Page 13 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Tendons are cables. Steel made stainless and idolized. His breaths paint over the scenery, graffiti made easy. Remaking the world. He runs, never looking back at the driftwood he crushes underfoot, or the natural art his breath covers. Page 14 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Reflections This poem was originally supposed be written in the point of view of a farmer’s son, one who ran, set in Huaming (see Eulogy in ‘F’). The metaphor and the poem grew and twisted, and this was the result. I cannot say much about the topic that I have not already said, as I have already spoken on the problem of having “progress” for the sake of change. To me, change for the sake of change is a very materialistic ideal, and a very shallow one. We cannot ignore the constraints of our natural resources. We have to keep in mind that they are finite, and that we cannot simply keep using them up for unimportant things- such as new waves of smart phones. The global volume of electronic waste has been steadily increasing over the last few years; newer phone models are constantly being released, leaving older models likely to end being discarded. Phones are thrown away by the million every year, or are left unused. Hardly any are being recycled, and shortages of rare-earth elements- which are utilized in smart phones and other electronics- for future generations of electronic equipment are likely to occur. This is one example of a finite resource we have; this sort of “progress” is definitely a problem. Page 15 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Deluge The invisible signals slice through the air, clear creepers winding and growing into long braided tributaries, like nerves, a sinuous sensory network. Steel vertebrae knit your signals into knots of broadband. Everyone has a signal now, a veritable net, pulsing into their sleek plastic screens, their slick silicon wires. This web of connection ties everything together, binding you such that you are free to see anything you wish to, to upload anything you want to. Everything is so searchable, you don't even have to waste your time burning brain cells away. Just type your question in or use voice recognition if you Don't want to type. Your phone winks back at you. Other people's lives, stories, knowledge shower like water off your face, pools cooling in your shoes. All you want to do is Send your own cloud into that invisible, atmospheric weave, rain your stories like Page 16 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 a tropical shower into someone else's mind. Disperse your photographs like water droplets as if you're irrigating a dust-crusted desert. Isn't that all that matters? No need for deep thoughts. Page 17 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Reflections I wrote this poem after considering how connectivity might not equal to human contact. The world is more connected than ever, but if we cannot make proper contact with other people, it does not really mean anything. Everyone being connected through social networking will not mean anything if we are reduced to commenting on others’ lives, basing our happiness on how many people “like” our statuses. I am not complaining about social networking, or how much access we have to the world around us. I appreciate it, and I’m not criticizing people who use it. I am just trying to imagine a more dystopic near-future, where people are only focused on themselves, and barely care about other things. The internet is a great mass of information, overwhelming in its volume, and is a helpful resource. I do not deny that. However, we have to think less nowadays thanks to our “smarter” smart phones, and we are less self-reliant. When we need to remember something, we make a note of it in our phones. When you have a question, you do not need to think- you search it up with your phone. Smart phones have also altered the social norm- it is “acceptable” to stare at a screen when others are talking. This is what “progress” has done to society. I’m not trying to complain or act as if I am above this, but I am simply bringing this forth as food for thought. Page 18 Creative Arts Programme Portfolio 2014 Epilogue Progress≠ regression So, is progress a kind of regression? No. I do not believe that progress is altogether bad; I obviously cannot put progress down, which is still a good thing. Developing technology, science, or ourselves obviously is not bad. I am not against progress. However, progress can result in regression. That is the premise of the works in this portfolio; that progress has nastier areas, and its own downsides. I think that there are cons to almost everything. There are always two sides to one coin; progress is both good and bad- though you cannot say which side outweighs the other. It is both a guardian angel and a destroying demon. Sacrifices are always made in society for progress. It is undeniable that humankind is a changed creature when compared to what it was, say, thirty years ago, and that the world has been altered by our efforts on a vast scale. I believe that it is important for us to reflect on how things affect us and the world at large- and that is what I’ve attempted to do here. I trust that this portfolio has managed to highlight at least some of the issues progress has caused, and has been a good read. Page 19
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