Mother’s Day at Gardens By The Bay

For this year’s Mother’s Day, we went to Tulipmania at Gardens By The Bay. I wouldn’t do this post if it has no relation to art. Nature has inspired me in my illustrations and being surrounded by a fields of flowers and other non flowering plants was definitely an endless pool of inspiration.



But here’s the highlight of my day: There was this art activity corner where we had to design our own postcards. The moment I saw a watercolour set, my heart skipped a beat. It was therapeutic, especially after walking so much. There were people from Laselle who I guess volunteered to hold this activity, I’m not sure but they were great. So here are the finished pieces done by my family.


Brother’s impressionist work of ‘Autumn’, Mum’s dancing caterpillar, my yanky doodle landscape, and my sister’s minimalist piece of a flower.

Until next time ­čÖé


If only I had known

I was dancing with my loved interest too long that I didn’t realize she was already dead. If only I had known.

fizzyfiiz (Dancing with the dead)

Wonders of Cold-pressed paper


This is my first attempt at using cold-pressed paper for my water colour paintings and I am loving it. I bought the 12 by 9 inches set of 50 pieces from Art Friend at Bras Basah and it’s heavy. I didn’t know that cold-pressed paper was that thick and heavy but then again it explains why the paper does not buckle or tear when I accidentally pumps in additional water on the paper. So I divide the paper into halves so it’s a nice postcard size, perfect for gifts or simply because I work well with smaller images and I wanted to safe cost.

I’m still working on how to do a proper bloom in water colour. Every time I have a wet brush in contact with an already wet spread of colour, it doesn’t bloom as expected. Maybe the layer was still extremely wet. Oh to those who do not know what blooming is:

That’s some good blooming. I can accidentally get this effect from my coffee stain but not with water colour. Why?

So apparently I have to blot onto my layer of ‘almost dry’ surface in order to achieve that.


Losing yourself in growth

“I didn’t┬áknow who I was standing on top of until I┬árealized┬áthat person was me”


You pledge to always improve yourself; to grow into a more successful person that you forgot the person you were before. After being in Junior College did I decide to not lose myself in all these attempts to climb up the career ladder. It’s hard to balance your own identity and the hunger to succeed. And while some people see no reason to look back at our past, I see the past as the present and that who we were before have helped us in some way and we owe it to ‘them’.

I didn’t want to be a part of that boring academia all my life. Creativity fills me and I want to bring that part into my University life. I don’t know how but I want to be free, expressive and as cliched as this sounds, be myself. Maybe my shy nature has prevented me from letting people know who I really am. But then again once I do that, I might be afraid that people will not like what they see. I’ve been building this wall around me and it’s hurting me for it’s fear that I’ve cemented the bricks together with.

A confused teenager becomes of me while I try to push away the fears that I have reared all my life. What does it take to remove them from my system?

If only there’s a better way.

“I know why the caged bird sings” by Maya Angelou

Well, Happy World Poetry Day! I decided to post a poem by Maya Angelou about ones longing for freedom and liberty.

“I’ve lost touch of my human side that I’ve let the bird out of its cage and made it my home”


A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

– Maya Angelou

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