At Gillman Barracks, a gallery assistant explained the Art Outreach to me: “non-profit, art not just for consumption.” But then he shook his head, “I think it’s hard for Singaporeans to appreciate art outside of consumption. They come just once, take a few pictures, and leave.” He asked me what I thought and I said that I agree though I also confessed to having an image of #singapore that is 7 years dated. Once rife with socio-political iconoclasm, my preoccupations with the little red dot nowadays are mostly familial – I overeat to make up for lost time, milk nostalgia out of a rapidly changing city. Each time I leave, I feel immense sadness, but quietly too, I detect excitement in returning to the inchoate mess of a life I’ve forged for myself. I think about my 160×200 bed with the cheap bedsheets and my six pillows and giant teddy bear, about cleaning my fridge and then going out to buy enough ingredients to make a big pot of chicken congee. I think about acquaintances, friends, lovers, those inbetweens and those not-yet-to-come.

A day before my flight back to Berlin, I returned to Gillman Barracks. At the Homecoming exhibition by Pucuk Cemara, I lingered around one painting in particular. A person wrapped in a sarung sits in front of an empty plate, presumedly after having finished their nasi campur, an Indonesian rice dish paired with iced tea that is commonly served in a warung, a small, usually family-owned eatery. The joy from a hearty, homecooked meal is glaringly absent. Instead, the person is solemn, mournful even. In the background the final boarding call flashes ominously, one last chance to stay… or go. I did not return to the Art Outreach that day. Was I, in that manner, more Singaporean because I did what the gallery assistant had feared? That I took a few pictures and never visited again. Or did it make me more of a stranger playing out the inevitable transience of touristing?