Just last year, I was in charge of publicity for my hall, which meant a ton of designing. I felt like I was churning out canva posts day and night and was quite tired of the repetitive thought process where I just find suitable elements and create a cohesive composition.

Needless to say, I was quite stumped when Esther had asked us to only use simple shapes to create a book cover. Funnily enough, I typically only get a headache when I'm trying to understand complex concepts and study for tests. Week 5's activity made me realise creative work can stretch the brain to an extent where I could feel it throbbing a little while staring at the daunting blank canvas.

Well, this is my 6th or 7th iteration of the cover, and I am finally satisfied with it (to a certain extent because I always feel I can improve). I wanted the reader to use their own imagination and create a vision of how PA would look like, so I tried to only illustrate the mess he creates rather than his appearance. As for Detective Catty, I wanted to keep her mysterious, but give her detective hat a design that includes elements of pencils—since she is the one who provides PA with pencils for his drawing endeavours in the end.

As for colours, I went with something warmer because I see my sequel as a heartwarming and sweet story that feels like a cozy blanket wrapped around you.

In Week 5, we had to create a board game! I thought of a recent board game I played, Avalon, which is a game of deduction and deception. I always thought the game could sometimes get a little too serious, and that’s not what games are for, right? To me, a game can be challenging. It’s good to force the brain to think, but I thought games should ultimately retain their fun. Playing late night Avalon in hall was sometimes draining to say the least, because it was a time when I couldn’t focus much anymore, and I wasn’t the best at keeping track of who did what. I thought, perhaps, we could create a similar game of deduction and deception in which the mission was more lighthearted and occasionally funny - to cook a dish with good and bad chefs! For sure I did not expect creating a game to be so difficult and to have so many points of consideration, so it was a surprise when we kept hitting dead ends and loopholes. 

Funnily enough, this reminded me of (yet again) the time when I had to design many collaterals as my hall’s publicity director. I think it was a point in time where I really doubted my abilities as a creative, because I simply couldn’t feel confident with what I came up with. By the end of this course, I hope I learn to cope with this and find a different perspective for creation. 

But back to my little story about when I had to design many things… I was in charge of designing a shirt for subcommittee members. How hard can that be right! I got the concept down: hall is a game of monopoly! Throw the dice and see which experiences you land on. So I started creating a hall-life version of monopoly’s board design. There were so many elements to work with, and a tweak here meant another tweak there. I quickly got fed up with the process, but deadlines are deadlines and I had to produce something of quality. Imagine my disappointment when I received feedback that I had to remake it because it wasn't of mass appeal. I then made it a little simpler because I had really lost the motivation after the arduous process. But both times, I had spent a considerable amount of time and effort on the designs.

So, imagine my disappointment (again!) when I overheard one of my subcomm members (loudly) pouring scorn on the design. I was utterly defeated and felt like I had no talent at all. I still have the thought sometimes, even till this day. So, the fear that people would find out I designed the shirt and jeer at my abilities started to haunt me day and night. I resented myself more than the subcomm member. Even with multiple other commitments to tend to, I grovelled in my spare time to create another wholly different design. I got the help of my very talented co-director to draw an S swoop for me as I just couldn’t get it down. 

Slightly more confident than before, I submitted the new design for my President’s review. “I like this S swoop here.” (That wasn’t done by me…) “The guys might not be that into this shade of pink.” (I spent a ton of time deciding on the colour…) “The lining for the phoenix is too thick.” (This was the hardest to draw…) I had been devastated before but I was dumbfounded then. I thought I had finally created a design that, while not the best, was well-aligned with the hall’s image/theme. Well good news is, I only had to redraw the phoenix with thinner lining, and change the main colour. I look back now and find it very similar to the board game creation process, except that the latter was more fun and stress-free. How amazing would it be if we could create just for fun without having the eyes of evaluation scanning every inch of our art? Perhaps it is time I make art for the sake of myself, not others. :) 

1. The shirt was meant for members of a one-year membership.

2. This was released a little after the halfway-point of the membership... perhaps people didn't see the need to get it since their "membership" is soon ending?

Or, it was just not appealing enough... regardless, I want to be happy with what I have achieved as I have improved over the entire process, and am now better with forming cohesive compositions.

I have a few thoughts for W6’s session: 

1. Hongcheng’s guest lecture made me reflect about where I stand in my own creative journey. He spoke about the “spelunker stage”—a single player exploring and creating personal stories and worlds, but at risk of getting lost. It hit a little too close to home. Currently, I feel like I am wandering endlessly in a forest with no navigation, uncertain of what kind of creative path I want to take—whether PR or journalism. Do I want to shape stories for brands and their consumers, or highlight stories I feel are important to the public?

2. Hongcheng's artwork is chaotic in a way that is deeply personal. His game, as he mentioned, is hard for others to interpret, yet they still find their own meaning in it. I think that’s the fascinating thing about creativity—what makes perfect sense to the creator might feel like a puzzle to someone else. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe creativity isn’t about making something universally understood, but about making something that invites others to engage, to find their own meaning. 

3. When Hongcheng asked us to doodle freely without thinking, I couldn’t help but hesitate. Since there were others in class, I wanted to draw something pretty and worthy of praise, and I wanted to be validated for my ability to create. Instinctively, I thought about drawing flowers—something I was very used to, and enjoyed drawing. I wasn’t thinking about expressing myself or letting go, but instead, I thought about what would look nice. This was telling of my discomfort with giving myself freedom to experiment, rather than to be spontaneous. Perhaps that was also why I felt a sense of relief during the first lesson, where we could just let the ink flow, without our own control (even though it was a tad bit scary because I didn’t know what I would make of the final, unintended work). 

4. And now I know this may sound ironic, given I just talked about how I should be more open to letting go and being spontaneous. But at the same time, I still want to draw flowers! Maybe the resolution isn’t to abandon them but to explore why I’m drawn to them. Can flowers still be a form of spontaneity? Can they take on new shapes, meanings, or imperfections? Maybe the act of repeating something familiar can also be a way of experimenting—just with subtle shifts each time. I don’t have to reject what feels natural to me in order to embrace creativity. Maybe it’s about finding new ways to see what I already love.

5. This brings to mind the concept of chaos and creativity. The two concepts are created in several ways. Chaos can engender creativity, and the process of creating can lead to chaos. I have come to realise that I fear chaos, hence my tendency to draw flowers which I am familiar with. I came across a quote by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, which I didn’t quite agree with. “The normal condition of the mind is chaos. Only when involved in a goal-directed activity does it acquire order and positive moods.” Hongcheng engaged in a goal-directed activity, yet the outcome was still chaotic. But does that matter? Perhaps creativity isn't about imposing order on chaos but about finding meaning within it. Hongcheng’s work is a testament to the idea that chaos doesn’t negate purpose; rather, it shapes and enriches the creative process. His game may not be conventionally structured, but it still holds meaning—both for him and for those who engage with it in their own way. Maybe true creativity isn’t about eliminating chaos, but about learning to navigate it.

6. Maybe being a spelunker means learning to accept the confusion first, and to explore without fearing chaos, to find an outlet for creativity, even if I haven’t quite figured out what mine is yet—be it PR or journalism. But I remind myself not to forget the “big picture” that Hongcheng warned of. I remind myself that what I want to do is to tell stories that are meaningful, regardless of the choice of outlet.

I had suggested the idea as I had been reading Teo Yeo Yenn’s This Is How Inequality Looks Like. She wrote, "An aspect of the script of meritocracy that is rarely commented on but widely accepted is therefore this: the system aspires to fair competition, but the outcomes of competition are inevitably unequal positions in terms of academic credentials, professions, income, and wealth. In other words, although no political leader anywhere would emphasize this in the terms I’m about to, dreams about ‘meritocracy’ have never been about and do not pretend to lead to equal outcomes. Inequality, in fact, is a logical outcome of meritocracy.” 

But in the process of designing the game—Esther, you spoke about the barrier to entry and whether it was inclusive. Initially, I had not realised why that was important, given we were of the impression that all games had some sort of challenge and restrictions. But as I am reflecting on the session, I thought about two things: Who were we really speaking to? More importantly, who were we leaving out? Our mechanics required a certain level of vocabulary to craft a winning sentence, reinforcing the very system we sought to critique. If meritocracy privileges those with better access to education and language, then our game, unintentionally, did the same. Instead of challenging the status quo, we were replicating it.

Amabile’s Componential Theory of Creativity offers a framework to understand what was missing. She proposes that one crucial component of creativity is task motivation—the intrinsic drive to engage with an idea because it is personally meaningful, rather than because of external motivations. While we were invested in the message of the game, we may not have been driven by an intrinsic passion to make it truly engaging or transformative. Instead, we focused on designing something that proved a point, but we didn’t explore how that point could resonate or spark change.

The second missing component of creativity was a social environment free of expectations. Creativity flourishes in spaces that encourage diverse perspectives and freedom to experiment. But our process may have been constrained by unspoken expectations—perhaps, the pressure as “scholars”, a subconscious pressure to create something “intellectual” rather than accessible. If the goal was to reveal the limits of meritocracy, shouldn’t we have designed a game that didn’t require players to be “good with words” to succeed? Instead of just illustrating the problem, how could we have subverted it?

In the end, our game did what we intended—it reminded us of a flaw in the system. But was that enough? If creativity thrives in breaking patterns rather than reinforcing them, then maybe the real challenge wasn’t just in exposing meritocracy’s failures, but in imagining something beyond them.

A shadowed stage, a heart grown cold,
The curtain's dust, a story told
Of faded dreams and silent nights,
A passion dimmed, extinguished lights.

Then came a class, a mirrored gaze,
Where actions spoke in subtle ways.
A hand outstretched, a whispered sound,
A world reborn, on hallowed ground.

Through mimicry, a spark ignited,
A flame within, once long benighted.
The stage returned, a vibrant hue,
My love for theatre, fresh and new.

No longer lost, no longer still,
My spirit soared, with newfound thrill.
The spotlight's warmth, a sweet embrace,
My passion found, its rightful place.

But chains of duty, heavy, tight,
Bind fast my days and steal my night.
The books and tasks, a pressing tide,
Where dreams must wait and passions hide.

A yearning heart, a spirit keen,
Yet other calls must intervene.
The stage awaits, a distant gleam,
While burdens press upon my dream.

Note:

This session, I felt really in awe by Jaspreet and her confidence to dance in front of a crowd. She showed me how beautiful Indian dance could be, and how it connects people across races and cultures. I am inspired by her to be less fearful, and to simply be in the moment.

To say I struggled would be an understatement. 

When a tree is planted on a plot of land, roots extend with time. They stretch deep into the earth, a complex network of fibers and anchors, a tangled mess of time. The tree knows not the intricacies of its roots, the knots and twists that make them. It can guess the colour, texture, length, but to trace their path is a tall order not all nor I can do. 

I wanted to uproot this tree and lay bare its roots—the hidden architecture that supports it. And in that uprooting, I struggled to pull the tree out even an inch from the ground. I fear I might lose the very essence of what makes it stand tall. The side I wish to portray, the visible canopy whose leaves rustle green in the wind. But the roots lie beneath, tangled and deep, waiting to be understood. 

(2 days later)

A dream came to me, a dream of endless meadows and meandering fields. 

A quaint, pale yellow house in the midst, away from the bustling city. 

Dreams are mysterious. It might have been a mere figment of my subconscious thoughts—formed as I went about my day—perhaps from the time I took a grab home and gazed out the window at the trees racing past. I vaguely recall feeling a sense of tranquility.

Now I start to see a tension between where I long to be and where I belong. Every so often, I feel a desire to live close to nature; to be surrounded by stillness; to wake with the sun and sleep with the stars.

The countryside calls to me like open air: slow, intentional, comforting. But my roots—family, friendships, memories, the very scaffolding of who I am—are intertwined with the hum of the city. It's where my story began. The tree cannot simply replant itself without some tearing, without risking the unravelling of those quiet, unseen bonds beneath the surface.

So I sit with this duality. I long for earth beneath my nails and sky above my head, but I also find comfort in concrete, in crowds, and in the pulse of familiarity.

Pull, pull, pull—Do I really want to uproot myself? 

For now, I will follow the ebb and flow of time. See how it goes.

But I hope that in time to come, I still remember that: 

roots can stretch in more than one direction. 

As I watched the ink bleed across the page, I slowly let go of the need to control it. There was something strangely relieving about allowing the material to move without interference. The marks didn’t need to make sense—they just had to be.

Later, Esther showed us Jo’s poems. I was enthralled by her use of imagery in a poem that feels like a stream-of-consciousness and free association. How she saw a story that emerged from ink blotches, and how I too, could make sense of the black splotches.

Xiuwen and I had a moment of exchange—we tried to interpret each other’s piece, and while there were vast differences in what we saw, there were also striking similarities. For my piece, we both felt a sense of doom as if the blotch is a silhouette of a compunctious outlaw who is unable to break free from his crimes. As for Xiuwen’s piece, we saw a lonely building drifting with the clouds. It made me think about how two people can look at the same abstract mess and draw out completely different, yet strangely resonant meanings.

This first exercise reminded me that creation doesn’t always need direction. Sometimes, letting go is the first step.

In one of the segments with Germaine, we had to dress as our greatest fear. I turned myself into mouldy bread, or at least I tried to. I was actually handed this mysterious brown costume, I had no idea what it was supposed to be. But then I saw these fuzzy white balls lying around, and I got the idea of mould, so I tied them to myself to make it look like spores. And voilà! I was bread gone bad. It was funny and a little gross—but I loved it.

In this performance, we don’t just sit back and watch. We danced. I found myself grooving side-by-side with Germaine and Jaspreet, who were not just performers but joyful co-conspirators in this party unlike any other. We formed a human train at one point, bodies linked, laughter spilling, feet half-tripping over one another. Many of us were panting at the end, yet laughing like we just did something incredibly fun. There was something so freeing about it, like the rules of “normal” had melted away and all that was left was movement, silliness, and connection.

I let go of myself that evening. Let go of needing to be proper, or to understand everything, or to perform a certain way. And in doing so, I found a little pocket of authenticity—of being present with others without needing to explain or justify. The whole event was chaotic, yes, but also deeply intentional. It was playful, but it wasn’t trivial. It was about inclusion—not in the tokenistic way, but in the quiet, generous space it gave each of us to just be.

It made me reflect on how spaces—even something as seemingly simple as a party—can include or exclude, depending on how they are designed, who gets to host, and what assumptions are carried in. In the end, The Usual Party wasn’t usual at all. It was messy, brave, and unexpectedly moving. I left feeling a little more open, a little more human, and definitely a little more fond of mouldy bread.

When we were asked to create a mask of our inner self, I didn’t have a clear plan in mind. I decided to just go off intuition, letting my hands move before my thoughts could catch up.

I was absent in the previous lesson, so I started making my mask before I did my collage - the reverse of the order everyone else followed. 

I found myself drawn, almost instinctively, to shades of green and textures of woody bark. I grabbed blue paint too, because I envisioned a sky that felt near enough to touch. There was something calming yet alluring of the vibrant green. I began making trees, but as I put it below where my eyes are supposed to be, trees looked like tears. I craved to be in nature, yet it didn’t really feel right. I felt a sense of dissonance. The trees, at first meant to symbolise calm and growth, now looked like they were weeping. It caught me off guard—how quickly something comforting could turn melancholic. Maybe it mirrored a deeper feeling I hadn’t quite named.

I crave to be in nature—its stillness, its quiet beauty—but when I’m really honest with myself, it doesn’t completely feel like home. I love greenery, the scent of rain, the softness of petals… but at the end of the day, I still belong to the city. I belong to the noise, the movement, the structure. I guess it’s a strange in-between: yearning for one world while feeling anchored in another.

Collaging: 

The messiness of collaging was something I really enjoyed. There was no pressure for things to align perfectly. In fact, the imperfections made it feel more real. It mirrored how our inner selves aren’t neat or easily categorised. They’re layered, patched together from instincts, contradictions, and the things we’re drawn to without fully knowing why.

As always, I was drawn to pictures of greenery. Lush trees, winding vines, open skies—they gave me a sense of calm I crave. But interestingly, I also found myself cutting out buildings. I couldn’t leave them behind. As much as I’m drawn to nature, I know I can’t imagine myself living completely isolated from the city. I need the convenience, the energy, the rhythm of urban life.

I even made sure to include a little path in the collage—something for people to walk on. Because as much as I enjoy solitude, I also find comfort in being part of a crowd. There’s something soothing about the anonymous togetherness of a busy street, or the shared experience of a public space. Maybe this collage wasn’t just a reflection of what I’m drawn to visually, but a small window into the contradictory things I need to feel whole: quiet and noise, stillness and movement, greenery and concrete.

Reversed Process:

Starting with the mask before the collage helped me access something more instinctive. With the mask, I wasn’t thinking too hard—I was just responding to shapes, textures, and feelings in the moment. There was something primal about it, like creating with my hands before my brain had the chance to intervene. It set the tone for the rest of the process, allowing me to approach the collage with a similar openness. 

I thought it was notable to mention also that I was in a rush for time, as I wanted to complete my mask but also try to work on the collage. Despite so, the process was calming and with every piece of green leaf I glued to my mask, and with every cutout of flower I pasted to my wooden board, I was reflecting on what my inner self might be trying to tell me. Why was I drawn to these images? Why green, blue, brown, and pink? Little did I know, this mask and collage making session engendered the sparks of a revelation about myself and where I truly belong. 

I decided to draw a scene from Little Red Riding Hood, specifically the moment where she sees her grandmother being eaten by the wolf. But even that choice felt… calculated. I wasn’t thinking like a child, who might’ve picked the most exciting, funny, or confusing part of the story. Instead, I thought about what would be easiest to express using basic shapes.

I drew an eye from the side profile—but then I only realised after that a child probably wouldn’t know how to draw that. I only knew because of biology diagrams I’d studied in school. 

Even in an exercise meant to tap into a childlike way of seeing, I couldn’t unlearn what I already knew. My choices weren’t intuitive—they were informed by prior knowledge and a desire to “get it right.” It made me think about how children create not from a place of accuracy, but from instinct and imagination. A child might draw a floating eye, or one looking directly at you, because they’re drawing what they feel, not what they’ve been taught is anatomically correct.

Trying to mimic a child’s drawing made me realise that a child’s creativity isn’t about being naïve or random. It’s about responding to the world honestly, with whatever tools they have. It’s intuitive. Expressive. Sometimes nonsensical. But always rooted in feeling, not fear of being misunderstood.

In contrast, I noticed how much I tried to anticipate what others might think of my drawing—how easily it could be interpreted, how “readable” the story was. It was a reminder of how quickly creativity gets wrapped up in performance and clarity, even when the task is simply to draw like a child.

But beyond the poem, Jo herself changed my perception of people with Down syndrome. Growing up, I had a very surface-level understanding of people with Down syndrome. When I asked why someone looked or behaved a certain way, I was often just told, “They were born that way.” That response left me with a vague sense of difference, but not understanding. No invitation to see them as creators, thinkers, or dreamers like myself—just “different”.

Jo’s work completely shattered that. Her writing was not only expressive but expansive. It opened up fantastical possibilities, from magic carpets to mysterious shadowy landscapes. Her story “Pencil Attacker” was another favourite—it felt like something out of a mischievous fairy tale.

I found myself letting go of preconceived ideas. What does it even mean to write "well"? What does it mean to be "different"? Jo's work isn't just “good for someone with Down syndrome”—it’s brilliant, period (Gen Z slang!). Evocative. Fun. Imaginative.  

This experience reminded me that creativity doesn’t belong to a certain group of people. It’s not about intellectual status or ability. It’s about how deeply you can connect—with your own imagination, with others, and with the messy beauty of the world around you.

Ah, I also made a silly mistake. I had left my mask behind in hall… I guess, both literally and metaphorically. I was very thankful for Eugenie and Dominique. Eugenie helped me retrieve it, while Dominique helped to click through my slides so I could focus. In that moment of scrambling and nerves, I was reminded of the sturdy everyday support that makes a place feel like home. 

Esther told me to perform without the mask — because there simply are times when you have to think on your feet when something doesn’t go as planned. I was worried and stressed, but ended up with an idea that felt better than what I had initially planned — leaving behind my mask (metaphorically) — my urge to leave home for nature. It felt like it was meant to be, because my whole story was about choosing to stay, to face myself, and the messy truths I carry. 

This monologue was never really about immigration. It was about escape. About freedom, guilt, duty, and the complicated kind of love that you so appreciate but wished was more affectionate. It was about being young and tired, grateful yet restless, and learning to mourn the roads not taken.

More than anything, it was a letter to home. A place I wanted to leave — and also, deeply, a place I never truly could. And in writing that out, I found a way to forgive myself for not having all the answers.

I thank everyone, and Esther who’s reading this now, for being so open to my emotions and embracing my vulnerable side. 

I am also grateful and privileged to have heard the stories of my friends, with emotions as raw and intricate as any other human would hold.