Strategy

This kind of error two months in ought not have occurred. A museum visit that afternoon and talking to a prospective Arts Management MA subsequently resulted in a particular cast of mind. The concept of the "engaging museum": how to foster museum and gallery attendance and the associated benefits involved?... In the can-do Singaporean context where the next big chance is always keenly sought after, something else again. Here marketing the arts and creativity for its tourist and other potential just beginning to get into swing.

         The lad was sitting at No Signboard Seafood here on Geylang. The eatery is a little famous locally. Somehow or other the name of the place seems to be considered charmingly piquant here. In the middle of brand-conscious Singapore, here was a dash of defiance, originality and bucking against "trend". (Trend is a prominent preoccupation. Anxiety about Singapore's place in the global march on the one hand; and on the other resistance to manipulation.) The operators have clearly done well with No Signboard. Since its initial establishment another outlet and that at prime position: the foot of the Durian building on the Singapore river. Given the origin on Geylang, quite some leap.

         On the riverbank the modern architectural fit-out; original on Geylang Road is housed in a kind of large garage, the seating over a wide concrete area out front that was clearly a former car-park. Hardware-store outdoor furniture covered by tarpaulins. The usual cheapest plastic has here been replaced by cushioned chairs with steel fretwork backing and upgraded tables. Thirty or forty tables, waiters snappy quick-stepping, black trousers, crisp white shirts that buck the trend of shorts, tees and thongs elsewhere.

         Smooth maitre 'd at No Signboard clearly holding a position within the family structure: bright eyes, on the toes ever-ready manner, carefully measured pleasantry. It must be his friends who turn up in the porshes.

         Valet service available for $4. There must be more paving out back.

         Almost every night the place is full to overflowing. Potted palms and other plants making only token effort to mask the starkness. Diners don't come out to the Geylang original for ambiance. And unlike all other eateries in the area, it is diners from far afield who make up the clientele here: the price-list makes that abundantly clear, as do the dress, deportment, the presence of pampered children. Within the garage-kitchens in back large tanks hold the catch. Can't do better than that. Satisfy the most discerning.

         The young man at the No Signboard table the evening of the museum visit had a thick tome before him. In passing it didn't look like airport fiction. That's not usually read after dinner by a local, not even one visiting Geylang without company.

         Sitting solitary at No Signboard somewhat unusual too. This is dining out territory—men with girlfriends, family groups, expatriates in the company of local hosts showing sights.

         This fellow sat alone at a front table against the footpath, book in hand absorbed. It wasn't a book for killing time. It wasn't being used to await arrival of a companion. Going past the first time some of this could be observed straight-off on the fly.

         Forty-five minutes later, there he was still. Same seat; same book. Progress apparent in turned pages. An observer with an eye knew an honest reader. These were not the riffled pages of a quick, easy and careless read.

         Forty-five minutes close devotion: thirty pages in and carefully following thread. The posture alone told the tale clearly enough. Earnest beavering if ever there was.

         Page-turners don't result in that crouched posture, slight rigidity of bent brows, the angles. In twenty-five or thirty years of sharp eyeing, Sontag, Vidal, Bernhardt and the other hard-arses of their ilk have never been seen on any table top anywhere in the world. Here in Singapore a week ago a chap was found burrowing into Regarding the Pain of Others. No need to tell you, as big Ivan the Croat next to the corner Milkbar back home would say, the chap concerned duly received the most hearty congratulation that was possible in the circumstances.

         On the buses Jeffrey Archer popular. Many unknown authors of the same ilk—the packaging always a giveaway. (Digital games consoles need no mention.) Here at No Signboard there was something else afoot.

         Going past the second time almost an hour later the book was raised a little from the table top. With the fading light the reader had both bent a little and at the same time raised the text. Had it been raised just a little more the cover and title would have been plain to see without straining and craning. It was large font. Still there was enough light and angle to clearly make out The Art Strategy.

         Lad early/mid-twenties. Black tee. Pimpled. With the cast of dark skin, a hint of the north. The physiognomies and features here are nothing short of startling. What a uniformity we have back in the old town for all the celebrated migrant mix (recent East Africans aside). At No Signboard a diner might be an ex-pat, but unlikely in this chap's case. Rather in his case the look he gave was of the dishwasher or kitchen-hand knocked off early. Financing his studies with shift-work; poor Malay family not qualifying for the tertiary stipend. An artist and intellectual, budding though he be. What can the arts accomplish at present without critique and analysis may have been his thinking. The case was uncertain.

         You couldn't jump to conclusions no matter how promising things appeared from five paces. Not in Singapore like anywhere else. And really, No Signboard? You wouldn't really call it auspicious if you stopped and thought. No, hardly. The Sontag reader had been discovered at Hanis, at the base of the Singapore National Library. A few weeks before an artist had sat at those same tables there with a football-sized latex cast of Lee Kwan Yew before him—former PM, country founder, recent Senior Mentor Minister, dad of the current PM, royalty in anyone's language, but caught in that rictus on the table-top, royalty as it prefers itself not to be seen.

         Large capital city libraries attract independent thinkers. You wouldn't put your money on No Signboard Seafood, even on Geylang, right on the edge of the red light district where someone said recently girls do it for ten without dis-robing, merely lifting their dresses.

         Singapore is beginning to think outside the box of finance, transport, shipping, logistics and direct its attention to the recreational art market. That competitor cities have been making serious dough from art event entertainment has not passed without notice. Somehow or other tourism is already significant here. In transit short-stay shopping and biz side-line in the main one guesses. This has been extended recently with two casinos and one or two prime world class sport events. Now the push for the Art spectaculars. Therefore The Art Strategy at No Signboard in the last hour before midnight?....

         Turned out the preposition had been unsighted. The usual thing—smaller font. At the disturbance the chap adjusting, returning to the present, blinking. No one here is asked about the book they're reading. Like anywhere else, the wrist, fingers, neck, glasses, hair-cut, shoes, nail and lash extensions, handbags, billboards tees, all get the summary evaluation. Who in the fuck cares what some schmuck is straining their eyes over?

         School kids one understands. They ought to be reading. Mag flippers—that's OK if it's the right one. Newspapers get a legitimate leafing like everywhere else. Not books. Unless of course they're the ones that can help you on the chase. Loads here. How to Win Friends &etc. at least three times so far. (Such disbelief the fellow concerned displayed when challenged. Stout in defense....) Dale Carnegie. I kid you not. Numerous follow-ups on the Self-enhancement shelves in the shops.

         Chap on the MRT couple weeks ago hanging off a strap didn't have a console in his free hand. Under thirty and wasn't playing cartoon games or numbers. In Singapore. Broad daylight. Wasn't on the cellphone either, or iPad. Girls he wasn't furtively eyeing. (Very little of that kind of eyeing to be found here, particularly on the MRT—the trains. Buses more so. And that from the foreign workers. The office people going into the biz district emasculated like all others over the world. Too much to think about, too many bills, too tired, sleepless from the heat. Never see the construction workers or labourers on the MRT. They've been told that's for shirts and ties.)... Still there the strap-hanging chap on this particular Green Line Pasir Ris MRT. Young fella. Definitely under thirty. Finance, cus service, IT in the guts somewhere, Bugis probably.

         It was a book held in the free hand. Heavy, large format, sparsely spaced text. Re-issue. Not a piece of shit. Experienced observer with a practiced eye could make the identification from two straps off, without swinging over in the slightest, without swaying. (Larger font with the larger format.) The Art of War. Not any of the manuals for a video game either. He's wasn't thinking guns and rockets.