Rules Are Rules 3

Rules Are Rules

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What great luck! The guided tour of the art gallery at the National Museum is scheduled to start, and the only people in line are me and the colleague who has been showing me around his city. We'll have practically a private tour. And now the tour guide arrives, and as a bonus it's a young and pretty woman! Bookish with glasses, apparently of Chinese extraction (I'm starting to be able to tell the Malay folks from the Chinese, somewhat), and she's extremely cute. Maybe about my age, perhaps a recent college graduate. Exxxcellent!

She introduces herself as Ting Ting. Of the Cheng or Deng or Zheng family, she adds - I'm shaky on the exact pronunciation or spelling but I guess Weping's supposed to recognize it. The moniker we're invited to call her is delightful. Is it supposed to sound musical, like a bell?

Her dyed and streaked nut-brown hair, cut fairly short, suggests to me that she is westernized, or at least western in influence. She is dressed in an attractive but tasteful loose fitting pink shift that reaches just above her knee, and she is wearing low-heeled sandals that might seem too casual in museums I have visited elsewhere but probably are appropriate in this climate. Of course if I were a woman with pretty feet sporting a perfect carnation-pink pedicure, I'd probably want to show them off too.

Ting Ting reviews the list of rules posted at the entrance - no touching of the artwork, et cetera. Rules are rules she tells me, when I ask pointlessly about a nuance to one of them. I suppose these rules are no different than in any gallery anywhere else, but she goes over them as though they are special to this one museum, and I'm moved to remark that Singapore has a lot of rules. Yes, Ting Ting replies without cracking a smile, everyone knows Singapore is a "fine" city. I laugh, even though I have heard this joke about a dozen times already in my short time here - police enforcement of misdemeanors is legendary, and fines are assessed on the spot. But of course I brought the joke on myself this time.

There is a sign at the grand stairwell down to the gallery that warns some images could be unsuitable for young children, and at least for certain parents the warning might be appropriate, as I learn as soon as we walk down. We are confronted with half a dozen larger-than-life oil portraits of nude women - full frontal views -- most of them rather abstract renderings but still realistic enough to cause some parents to shield their children's eyes (and maybe their own). Good times, good times. Our guide strides past these pictures without commenting on them, directing our attention toward some structural art in the middle of the room instead. I consider making a smart remark about the paintings but decide against being a complete jackass. At least not right away. Maybe if I develop a rapport with our guide, I'll ask her which portrait is hers, on the way out. Although, I note, the joke wouldn't work because all of the ladies in the paintings are much too full-busted to be our guide.

Anyway, she goes on to explain that one of the themes of this structural artist is to make explicit the rules of physics in our lives. Not laws, as she calls them, but rules. I mention that this might be in keeping with her earlier comment about the city and its many rules. She seems to misunderstand and responds that while Art itself does not always have to conform to rules, the physical representation itself certainly must, if only at the molecular level such that the medium itself operates as intended by the artist. An interesting philosophical tangent, I suppose, but it reduces any discussion to nearly circular reasoning or even tautology if you pursue it to an extreme. I do not bother to be argumentative about it, and merely shrug in polite acknowledgement of another's point of view. But I feel as though, were I to choose to rebut her comment in this or any way, she could easily produce a further counter-argument to mine; she's very bright and alert and seems like she would enjoy matching wits and engaging in some banter, if pressed.

She now leads us further into the gallery, where there are many rooms leading off in all directions. The first room we go to contains several video players that show people making dry monotone statements while in various arty poses. And here I thought the avant-garde movement died out in the 1920s or 1950s or whenever the beatniks finally stopped playing their bongos. We stop to watch them for a few minutes, but our guide offers no hints about what the point of this project could possibly be, and we do not bother to ask. Then we enter the next room, with a variety of paintings displayed on the walls. One large mural/collage has a strong anti-war theme, but I am the one who has to explain to Ting Ting who Dean Rusk was and why he aroused such ire in the artist from only ten years ago. She's very smart, no question, and not much younger than myself, but details in American history would naturally be more my forte than hers. In any case, she explains that the artist was very outraged over the perceived failure to follow the accepted rules of war. Even though our tour group is only two in size, I feel that her comment is particularly directed to me and my response to the concept of rules.

Then in the same room, we turn to a piece of fabric stretched taut on a frame. This, Ting Ting explains, is a section of the particular artist's bed sheet. She points out two faint stains; these are from masturbation, she states coolly, with no more inflection than if she were stating the thread count of the sheet. Gee, I didn't know I had potential as an artist - I blurt this out before thinking twice. She tilts her head and looks at me oddly; I think I see a trace of a smile, then I decide maybe it's just wishful thinking on my part. So the jackassery has begun, in spite of myself. I resolve to censor my next off-color comment; it's my policy to ration them as a matter of self-discipline.

In the next room is another multimedia presentation, photos and video, with a woman's voice-over that I find strangely erotic even though the topic seems to be a sad but mundane childhood. I'm glad already of my resolution to self-censor, when Ting Ting explains that the subject is a prostitute who is speaking obliquely of her incestuous experiences as a mere child of five.

The next room contains more paintings and wall-mounted collages and manufactures. As with some of the other rooms, the connecting theme is not obvious to me, seemingly a random grouping of pre-Renaissance and very modern and everything in between. In that "modern" category is a sequence of hyper-realistic paintings, viewed through a network of mirrors. It's apparently the progression of a child into a man; two of the pictures are nude, one as a very small child, the other as a young adult, each showing the penis fully erect and in complete view. Ting Ting makes no special mention of this aspect, as she tells us the basics about this work of art. We learn it is autobiographical (duh!) although not strictly representational of the artist himself (whatever!). My companion and I take our time independently looking around the room at the many other artworks, and at one point I catch our guide inspecting the phallic adult panel when she thinks I'm not looking - I try to not betray that I noticed.

But as I wander the room, her path gradually intercepts mine again, diagonally away from my colleague. Ting Ting asks me which work of art I find most affecting. I say I'm not really sure. She replies that I seemed to avoid the one involving the nude boy/man; perhaps that is an indication of what affects me most. I shrug and smile, not really willing to admit an aversion to it. Ironic, since I had made the conscious effort to not make her own viewing of it uncomfortable for her.

"Is it because of the unusual representation of the genitals?" she asks neutrally.

"What do you mean?" I respond. The guy's dick, I mean the full-grown version, seemed about normal to me.

"The artist conveys meaning by what he or she chooses to emphasize or exaggerate. Clearly this artist has a statement to make concerning the genitals. What is your opinion concerning his artistic statement?" I feel compelled to meet her gaze steadily, as she speaks.

"I don't really have one," I admit.

"To not have an opinion is also an opinion," she says gravely. This sounds to me like some kind of hippie philosophy, or more likely another avant-garde one. Before I can think what to say, she adds, "to accept the abnormal as normal is a political statement, in and of itself."

"Abnormal?" I ask, genuinely seeking clarification. "You mean the size of...?"

"His genitals," she completes. "Yes. From the small size as a child, to the exaggerated length and thickness as an adult."

I pause, trying to see if she is totally serious. "I can't say that I, uh, thought it was out of the ordinary."

"Interesting," she says simply. I half-expect her to flamboyantly turn her gaze to my crotch, as though I am bragging, but she continues to look me in the eye during this exchange.

"I mean," I begin, and then stop, as I try to avoid making this personal about myself. "It's just, I don't know." Inept, but better than saying that mine is bigger.

"Just as the artist conveys meaning, the viewer of the art also provides meaning by the interpretation. It is different for each viewer. The work of art is thus different for each viewer. We each have our own experiences that shape our responses. You, apparently, have a different experience. Different cultures have different norms for genital size. Large genitals may be seen as the mark of a barbarian. The artist, born here, may have been trying to evoke that emotion, in his remembrance of growing up. Perhaps it was traumatic for him, as his genitals attained adult size."

I am intrigued but also nonplussed by her apparent eagerness to discuss men's dicks, and not really sure how to debate this trite form of bullshit art criticism if that's all it is, and so I merely stammer that this might be true. Disappointed, probably, she suggests that we move along, though I couldn't be sure if her disappointment is in not getting stimulating art discussion or stimulating sex talk.

I ask, as we move to the next room, whether she works here full time. No, she replies, she's a volunteer, Sundays each week. Is she an artist, I continue. No, she works at a bank; she just approaches art as a consumer, not as a producer. If she works more than one day a week at the museum, the city's rules require a different level of certification than which she wishes to go to the effort of obtaining. Against my previous resolution, I decide to risk a bit of being the jackass again: I say that one day a week is probably something I could handle, but working in the gallery as a full time job might be too stimulating. Stimulating, she repeats, more as a statement than a direct question; and now I realize that in effect I was thinking aloud and had betrayed my previous inner dialog, in partial response to her testing me about genital size. Yes, I say quickly, overload - visually and sonically and everything. You mean the sexual aspect, she states bluntly. My colleague Weping, a quiet man about 10 years older than myself, who has seemed bored and has had little to say throughout our tour, looks at me and then her quizzically.

Not just that, I backpedal, but everything; I add that it surprises me how much it affects me. I did not want to come right out and say that she had read my meaning too precisely for my own comfort. Art is meant to affect you, she says simply; if there is any rule governing Art, it is that. I say I agree. She looks me directly in the eye again and says that Art may affect the person in the mind. She pauses and adds, or in the heart, and I nod. And then after a slightly longer pause she adds, or in the genitals.

I could not suppress a chuckle. That word again. Genitals. I don't recall for sure whether any of the artworks we have viewed truly affected me in my genitals. But her use of the word certainly does. She is so formal; but an erotic heart beats within her small but pretty chest. I am becoming certain of that. And I am curious whether her own genitals are affected. Are they lubricating themselves as she give us this tour?

If Art is meant to affect you, can a person also be Art? Not just an artist, but the Art itself? A wet pussy is kind of a work of art, I suppose.

I tell her I agree that all of these aspects are valid. She smiles, maybe just a little superiorly, and says that many Americans become embarrassed when touring "her" museum, for this reason. Not everyone, I feel the need to reply. Certainly, the degree of nudity displayed here is no greater than I have seen in many other museums, whether in the US or abroad; but I do not tell her this. Perhaps she is merely less cosmopolitan, or maybe a little more arrogant, than I had at first imagined her to be, and it is my own fault for assuming anything about her.

Weping says something to her, in a different language which I presume to be Mandarin. She replies in a few syllables. He responds with something equally brief. I look at him, expecting an explanation, but he shakes his head no and says it's no problem. I'm not sure what just took place and decide to say that she didn't hurt my feelings if that's what he thought. He just waves his hands and says it is fine. I look at her and she says to come with her to the next exhibition hall. We both follow her.

It is a large, darkened room with a massive table in the center, upon which an elaborate model train set has been placed. After letting us view the panorama for a few minutes, she tells us to crouch down and look across the scene to see the small town that has been reproduced in miniature. It certainly is ornately decorated, in magnificent detail. I am not sure whether that is the only purpose of the display, or if I am missing something deeper. I mean, growing up, I knew an old man in my neighborhood who put together train sets. Tracks that went round and round on a large table much like this one. Lots of people put together train sets. From this lower angle, I ask Ting Ting what the artist may have meant in creating this. She tells me it's up to me to decide. Weping says he notices that there are no people. Maybe that's the point, some kind of urban alienation or something. Ting Ting comes over to our side of the table and crouches down beside me. She places one hand at the small of my back and the other at my shoulder, for just a moment, to position me. She says to look at the train station, then at the buildings near it.

I don't respond specifically to her instruction. I ask her why she assumed I am American, earlier. Maybe I'm Canadian, I say. She says it's because I look like a cowboy. I laugh, having no idea what in the world would make her think that of me. I'm wearing business casual clothes, after all, for a day of sightseeing before my conference begins. I ask her whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, to be a cowboy. She says, maybe both, Yankee Doodle. Maybe instead I'm a criminal with the American Mafia. Maybe I'm a spy with the CIA. I laugh and tell her she's got an active imagination. Do you, she asks? I demur and say probably not anything like hers.

She asks whether I see it yet, the meaning of the display we are looking at. I say no. Use your imagination, if you have one, she urges. She says it's the erotic placement of the buildings. I still do not understand. She positions my head again and says to look at where the train is going. There are arches next to the train track, and a lookout window above the arch. At last, I figure out that the design looks like a stylized torso of a woman, seen from behind, with the train entering between her legs, doggie style. I say rashly that the artist could have made it more clear if he had at least made the train go forward and reverse. In and out, in and out, in and out. Ting Ting corrects me to say that the artist is a woman.

She tells us that this is the end of the official tour and asks whether we have any questions. My work companion Weping says abruptly that he needs to be getting home; his wife is expecting him at her parents' house for dinner. I say to him that this is fine - it being only a couple of miles back to my hotel, I do not need a ride from him, and the museum is still open for another hour. I bid him goodbye and add that I will see him Monday morning.

I linger and ask Ting Ting what is upstairs, and she says that the ground level is the entry and gift shop, the permanent collections are on the second story, the museum offices are above that, and top story also contains an artist's studio area. The tours she gives are only of the special exhibits down here.

She asks whether I, as an American, would be shocked to know that she has another unpaid job within the local artistic community, namely modeling for the art school that uses the upstairs studio that she mentioned. I answer her question with one of my own: why does my being American matter? She responds that Americans are easily shocked, sexually. Or, so she has been told. I ask if the reason she thinks I would be shocked about modeling is that she herself does nude modeling. She says yes, that is the exact reason. Also performance art, though she struggled to find the right words in English to express what she meant. You would never do such a normal and natural thing as modeling for student artists, she adds, practically in accusation.

I don't reply directly. Instead I ask whether it is possible to go up and see the studio she works in. A private tour, she asks. Sure, I say. She replies that the office and the studio are not open on a Sunday. It would be against the rules to unlock the door and go in, she says.

It's fine if you don't want to, I say amiably.

Rules are rules. Am I, an American barbarian, asking her to break the rules? A private tour of where the nude modeling takes place? Her gaze is steady as she interrogates me on this point.

Rules are made to be broken, I reply.

I have the key, cowboy, she says. But it would be against the rules, she repeats.

She keeps using inflammatory words like cowboy and barbarian. To her I must just be Yankee Doodle Dandy. Maybe I should offer to stick a feather in her cap and see whether she calls it macaroni. Yankee Doodle get it up, and with the girls be handy. I might even give her something as thick as hasty pudding.

Let's do it, I tell her.

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It was an uncomfortable flight home, after my meetings were concluded four days later. And it felt even worse, the day after that. I went to see a doctor at the urgent care clinic. The diagnosis was quick: a raging infection of both the urinary bladder and the prostate. Fortunately, it is easily treated with normal antibiotics. Non-specific, the doctor terms it. So at least it's not the actual clap. In a day or so I shouldn't be pissing razor blades anymore.

Maybe Ting Ting's idea of performance art is spreading disease.