Silpa: the Art of Love

Chapter 6
Welcome to Thailand

On a plane again, heading to a new destination. I haven’t had this buzz
since I went to Washington what must be five years ago. In fact, I
haven’t been outside Australia since then. Life in the interim had become
too much like hard work, studying and teaching, but this plane’s taking
me further and further away from it all and I can feel the burden falling
off my shoulders.

The flight is due to land at four in the afternoon local time, which means
I’ll probably be right on time for one of Bangkok’s legendary traffic jams,
much worse than anything I’d experienced in Adelaide and Sydney if the
reports I’ve heard are to be believed. Being a Sunday, perhaps the
congestion will be lessened. In any case, I’m to be picked up from the
airport by two lecturers and taken to a hotel near Silpakorn University.

The lecturer’s names are Tawatchai Boonchan and Charnwut
Krusuankrusombat – there’s a mouthful – two names mentioned in the only
email I’d received from Charnwut telling me they’d pick me up. I have no
idea how to pronounce them correctly, and I don’t have enough cultural
knowledge to know which Thai names are feminine and which are
masculine. In the email there were no gender markers. They talk about
‘Ajarn Tawatchai’ and ‘Ajarn Charnwut’ or ‘I’ and ‘we,’ never ‘he’ or ‘she.’

I’d popped the names into the Google search engine and came up with a
hit on Charnwut. He’d recently had a solo exhibition at a place called Tadu
Contemporary Art Gallery in Bangkok that was reviewed in Bangkok Post
newspaper. His work is highly conceptual, difficult to commodify and sell,
like mine, and I anticipate having many lively discussions about art and to
sharing an affinity with him. I also learned from the Silpakorn University
website that ajarn simply means teacher. So I’d assumed they’re both
males, though I hoped Tawatchai to be a woman.

I’m so exhausted from everything of late, all I want to do is sleep on the
plane. I’ve had no time for dreams, my conscious day-world having
completely overwhelmed my unconscious in the rush to prepare
everything and tie up all the loose ends before leaving Sydney. I brought
my sketchbook and look at the last drawing from two weeks ago, from
the night before my meeting with the selection committee. The picture
evokes the original image, which comes back to me on viewing it. I can’t
help but thinking that this plane is taking me closer to the woman I’d
drawn, and as I feel myself overpowered by sleep, it’s as though the
fuselage beneath cracks open and I plummet out of the open sky,
tumbling uncontrollably, inexorably downward, splashing into the sea of
dreams below.

They’re there, the woman in the drawing, with him, carrying her limp body
in his arms along a path early on a foggy morning. I still can’t see his face,
as I’m walking behind him like in a funeral procession, but can see his hair
is going grey; he’s more mature than what I had originally thought, and
his build is not as athletic as I’d earlier assumed either, leading me to
suppose he’s probably more of the intellectual and creative type than
the physical. Her cinnamon skin has marbled since seeing her on the
deathbed, the lifeblood in her veins having stopped flowing. Her
uncovered face is still a thing of beauty, frozen as it were in the chill
juncture of departure, though her eyes are no longer beams of light, but
cold and beclouded like frosted glass.

I feel incredibly sad for her. She’s so young, perhaps a little older than I,
too young to die. I want to stretch out and close the dulled eyes but,
instead, wishing to comfort the living, place my hand upon the bearer’s
shoulder, squeezing to give comfort and moral support. Slowly he begins
to turn his head, and I expectantly wait for my first real view of who he is,
when I feel a hand on my own shoulder shaking me.

I realise it’s the steward asking me to put on my seatbelt as we’re on
approach to Bangkok Airport. Before I forget the image of him carrying
her, I take out my sketchpad and pencil and rough out his back, her head
hanging to one side, and her feet dangling over the other. Not much, but
enough to remember them by. Pity about the timing of the steward, I
wanted to see the man’s face, only it’s always like that with dreams.

I get my first firsthand impression of Thailand out the window. From the
air Bangkok is not impressive. After taking off from Sydney we circled
south and west before heading due north straight across the heart of
the city’s expansive western suburbs on a fine, crisp day. The blue
harbour, emblazed with sunlight and streaked with the white lines left in
the wake of the city’s fleet of ferries, framed the city’s famous landmarks
of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House. The cityscape gleamed
with morning freshness, and the suburbs were a patchwork of well-ordered
squares, though browned from a long period of drought and water
restrictions. Bangkok, by contrast, is chaotic and without a centre,
jumbled together, less geometrically consistent, and without any defining
features like the city I’d left. What’s more is it’s overcast, making
everything dull and grey. I should know better than to try and compare
the two, like apples and oranges, and put aside any judgmental thoughts
based on such superficial observations.

Upon landing I pass through immigration and customs slowly but without a
hitch, leaving the restricted area of the terminal wondering how the two
lecturers are going to know me. Looking lost and aimless every tout in the
airport is drawn to me, jostling for my business. Through the swarm a
well-dressed man cuts his way effortlessly, stepping out of the crowd
directly toward me.

“Anna Golden?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m Tawatchai. Sawadi khrup,” he says, greeting me in Thai, placing his
hands together and bowing in what I’d learned from the Internet is called
a wai, a traditional Buddhist greeting. “Please let me help you.”

I pass him a suitcase and we shake hands Western style, then I return
the salutation and feminised Thai phrase, “Sawadi ka,” again, learnt from
the Internet.

Seeing I’m with a local the touts leave me alone, setting their sights on
the next hapless looking tourist to exit the barrier. Tawatchai, although
obviously Thai, doesn’t look typically Thai at all like the other locals in the
airport, appearing rather more Iranian or Turkish. He’s quite handsome and
mature, with dark features, thick wavy hair, and a suave moustache. He
doesn’t look like your archetypal artist either, dressed stylishly in black,
including a casual dinner jacket.

“Welcome to Thailand,” he adds in a deep, resonant voice.

“Thanks.”

“How was your flight?”

“A good chance to catch-up on some sleep.”

We’re joined by a third person, dressed rather more casually than
Tawatchai in jeans and a t-shirt, and with a long ponytail trailing down
the centre of his back to his waist. “This is Charnwut,” says Tawatchai
by way of introduction.

“Sawadi khrup,” he says, greeting me in Thai, and also wais me. “Let me
take your bag.”

“Sawadi ka. No thanks, I got it.”

We head for the parking lot making small amiable conversation as we go.
Immediately outside of the air-conditioned interior, I’m hit by a wall of
humidity, like I’d walked into a sauna. Although used to hot weather in
Australia, especially now with the drought, the heat there is dry, while
here it’s wet, leaving nowhere for my sweat to evaporate.

“After taking you to your hotel, we will take you for dinner,” says
Tawatchai, “and tomorrow morning we will pick you up and take you to
Silpakorn.” I’m surprised when he presses his car remote control and the
lights of an immaculately polished late model black Mercedes Benz flash
to life. I must admit I had no idea what to expect, however I didn’t
anticipate to be chauffeured in such luxury. Then I remember that Mal
gets around in the latest BMW and can only guess that Tawatchai must
be on tenure, and that career university lecturers are paid as well in
Thailand as they are in Australia.

The traffic lives up to its notorious reputation and we’re stuck motionless
for long periods, even once we get on the expressway. “The traffic is
always bad when it rains, on Sundays too,” states Charnwut, and
abruptly changes the subject. “Tell me about your work. What do you
plan to do here?”

“I want to install an exhibition, only first I have to see the space, and I
want to connect with the local people and culture before deciding what
to do.”

“You’re an installation artist?” he questions.

“I am, as well as other things. I teach Feminist Art at UWS, and I’m
interested in involving Thai women, especially sex workers, in my work
here.”

Charnwut raises his eyebrows, I’m not sure exactly why. “That might be
hard to do,” he cautions.

“Would it be better if it was easy?” I respond.

“That is not what I mean. I mean you only have three weeks before the
opening. I think it’s a good idea, but to involve common people you don’t
know in your work you would need more time to organise.”

“Are there any female teachers around who might be able to help me?”

“Yes,” replies Charnwut, “there are some, but they might be busy.
Tawatchai and I will help you. We are the ones who organised the
exchange with Malcolm.”

“Okay. Do you know about women’s issues, Charnwut, especially relating
to sex workers?”

“I know something,” he answers evasively, the question obviously putting
him on the spot. I think this might be because if he says he knows it
might be embarrassing, and he doesn’t want to say he can’t help me
either. He finally comes up with an appropriate response, “I know it will be
difficult to involve them. Do you have an idea of what you want to do?”
“To find some women – sex workers – and for them to be involved with
the exhibition from conception to completion.”

“We will help you,” interposes Tawatchai before Charnwut can say
anything else. “Don’t worry.”

We talk about other things; the history between our two universities that
only recently renewed their sister status, and how so few of the staff
who they used to know from before are still working at UWS. I don’t know
any of the names they mention of the old academics. We move on to
discuss Thai art, modern art and other things in general until we arrive at
the Royal Hotel. First thing I notice about the building is a massive floodlit
portrait of the King and Queen of Thailand hanging from the facade.

Across the road from the hotel is a park Tawatchai tells me is called
Sanam Luang, and on the other side of that is Silpakorn.

After checking in and freshening up in my room I return to meet them in
the lobby. The restaurant they have in mind is just around the corner,
and I savour the original Thai cuisine that tastes more genuine than any
of the many Thai restaurants in Sydney, no matter how delicious they
may be.

“How is Malcolm?” asks Tawatchai.

“He’s fine,” I reply, not wanting to speak of him.

“He’s a great guy,” he enthuses.

I sink my teeth into my tongue.

“Since renewing our agreement, you are the third UWS artist to exhibit
here besides him and Roger Cedric,” comments Charnwut. “Did Mal tell
you about us?”

Malcolm had boasted to me about his trip to Thailand and how successful
his exhibition at Silpakorn had been. It was over a year ago and the
names he mentioned were fairly meaningless to me at the time. Since
we’d broken up, our conversations had been limited to official meetings,
and I hadn’t been able to pick his brain about the personalities here or
anything else that might have been useful. Roger had been in competition
with me to go on this exchange, so I didn’t want to talk to him about it
either.

“He mentioned you,” I answer.

“Roger’s a great guy too,” says Charnwut, forcing me to bite my tongue
again as I nod politely.

The two of them don’t only contrast in appearances, but in personalities.
Tawatchai is charming, always the gentleman, while Charnwut is rather
aloof. Tawatchai has never spoken about art, while Charnwut speaks of
nothing but. It turns out Charnwut is head of the Sculpture Department,
and Tawatchai was once the dean of their faculty and currently works as
a lecturer in painting.

“How can that be? Did you get demoted?” I ask Tawatchai.

“Here we take turns as dean,” he explains. “Every four years we elect a
new one.”

“I wish we did that in Australia. Once someone’s made it to dean they
stay until retirement. You can never get rid of them, let alone vote them
out!”

With a stomach full of food, I’m unable to stop myself from yawning
involuntarily. My eyes are barely open and they escort me back to the
hotel. After arranging to collect me from the lobby at 8am the following
day, I collapse, fortunately, on the bed. I wonder if the man carrying the
woman will visit me tonight, and decide to try and sit at the shoreline of
sleep for as long as I can, contemplating my distorted reflection on the
stirring surface in my state of semi-consciousness.

It’s difficult to fathom the true meaning of dreams. Their symbolism is
psychological and I know logically mine only tell of my own personal
inner-self: she represents a part of me as does he, my Jungian animus.
They have no other divinatory meaning or independent existence in the
real world as separate people. They’re not visions or apparitions, they’re
just imagination and my mind trying to rationalise. Only I don’t know what
I’m trying to tell myself.

I see her shimmering face and his back toward me beneath the gauzy
surface of the water. I reach to grab them, only the refracting light
breaks my arm and sends it off course at an irregular angle away from
the target. They disappear beneath the ripples, leaving me no choice
but to go after them, slipping into the fathomless deep.