Kintsugi

SAKURA

I want it on record that I did not start it.

Monday morning. Critique. I’d been up since five mixing the grey for the shutters on my painting, four layers, each one dry before the next. Professor Go had looked at it for a full minute and said one word: “Restrained.”

Go does not hand those out.

Then the door banged open, and Ren Lim walked in twenty minutes late.

Iced coffee. Wrong sleeves. Hair like he’d lost a fight with a pillow. He looked at my painting of the Campbell Street shophouse like it owed him money.

“A funeral,” he said. “For a building nobody cares about.”

Excuse me?

“Say it louder,” I said. “The back row missed your insight.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He slurped his coffee. On purpose. “It’s a wall, Tan. You spent a whole semester on a wall.”

“It’s a hundred years old.”

“So’s my grandmother. I’m not exhibiting her.”

Somebody in the front row laughed. I wrote their name down in my head. Never lending them my notes again.

“What did you hang this term?” I said. “The projection that crashed?”

“The crash was the piece.”

“It was a blue screen.”

“Blue is also a color.”

“It was Windows blue!”

“Founding member of the blue family.”

I honestly considered throwing my brush at him. It cost ninety ringgit.

Go slammed her folder shut so hard the projector jumped.

“Right. Enough.” She pointed at me. “Tan. ‘Restrained’ stands.” She pointed at Ren. “Lim. You’re on the Centenary roster. Learn the names of the people you insult before you insult them.” She pointed at the door. “Both of you. Out.”

In the corridor I said, “That was rude.”

“It was accurate.”

“You didn’t even look at the shutters.”

“I looked at the shutters.”

“Then you saw the four layers.”

He paused. Just for a second.

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw the four layers.”

Then he walked off, and I stood there feeling weirdly like I’d lost, and I didn’t know why.

* * *

Tuesday

The Centenary briefing had a banner the size of a badminton court.

MERBOK HOLDINGS PRESENTS: 100 YEARS OF MAKING.

Dean Hamid thanked the sponsor twice. Once in English, once by reading out the amount. He said “synergy” four times.

The solo slot went to Isabel Chew. Third year in a row. Silver photographs of empty lots and gutted shopfronts. The series was called Vanishing Facades, and I want to be clear that I have nothing against her. I just hope she trips on something soon.

She stopped at our row on her way out.

“Oh, good. The sponsor’s pairing.” She smiled at Ren. Then at me. It was like being licked by a very cold cat.

“Congrats on the solo,” Ren said. “Again.”

“Someone has to be reliable.” And she left. Heels clicking. Every click was a tiny insult.

“I hate her,” I said.

“I love her,” said Ren. “She’s like a horror movie. You can’t look away.”

Go caught us in the corridor with a paper cup of cold coffee, watering the orchid on her windowsill. That orchid has been dying since first year. She waters it like she’s being paid to.

“Before you start,” she said, “I didn’t pick you. The Dean’s office made the roster. Merbok funds the wing, the wing funds my department, and the sponsor wants one flagship piece. Heritage meets digital. That’s you two.”

“So we’re PR,” said Ren.

“You’re funded. Different thing.” She pulled out a folder and held it away from her body like it smelled.

“My bursary’s Merbok too,” Ren said. “So, you know. Love that for me.”

“Then be careful, Lim.” “Their lawyers sent terms. Item four, section nine, subsection c. That’s the sponsor’s withdrawal clause. I’ve read it eleven times. It doesn’t improve.”

“What does it say?” I asked.

“Nothing shown may reference Merbok Holdings or its acquisitions. Nothing.”

“Or what?”

“Or the venue goes, the wing goes, and Chew gets your slot as well.” She tipped her cold coffee into the plant. “Ten years ago a developer killed my solo two days before opening. I took this money so the department survives. I’m not proud of it. You’ll be graded on your work, not on my conscience.”

Go put the cup down on the windowsill and looked at the orchid instead of us.

“How long do we have?” Ren asked.

“Ten weeks. Studio 7B.” She walked away. Then, over her shoulder: “It has a roof. Mostly.”

I looked at Ren.

Ren looked at me.

“Ten weeks,” he said. “With you.”

“I’ll have the complaint form ready by lunch,” I said, and meant it.