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We RAT on John Clang

You know that John Clang profile story that came out in the newspaper a while back? Well, guess what, there’s more—and why waste such a long, fruitful, fun (and rather open) conversation with the dude when we could RAT it out with the New York-based photographer on the blog?

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You know that John Clang profile story that came out in the newspaper a while back? Well, guess what, there’s more—and why waste such a long, fruitful, fun (and rather open) conversation with the dude when we could RAT it out with the New York-based photographer on the blog?

***

Let's take off from something you mentioned in one of your works at the National Museum. You brought up a conversation with your parents who asked when you were planning to come back to Singapore and you said you can't. Why?

It’s basically out of selfish reasons. In my mind I know exactly that I should. I would like to, but I believe I should have a life of my own and pursue whatever I want to. A lot of the series (in the show) are partly inspired by the analects of Confucius where he says “If your parents are still around, you don’t leave them. But if you have to leave them, you must have a fixed destination.” So I can’t because I do not want to.

To, ahem, quote a U2 song, have you found what you're looking for in this "fixed destination" of yours?

Hmmm, I know exactly what I’m looking for. I like living in a place where I’m a total stranger. I’ve a fascination about being a stranger. When I was a little kid, seven or eight, I would spend quite a fair bit of time stalking people. At that time, my parents had to work and couldn’t really take care of me. So they put me up with different families. My mom worked in Emporium as a salesperson till 11pm. My dad worked was a hawker. He worked from 3 o’clock till next morning at five.

A lot of the time they couldn’t take care of me and my brother. So they put us with my aunts, my mother’s brother’s family… I’d only see my mom maybe twice a week, maybe around 11 plus, and on the weekend. So we stayed with relatives and I would always look out for my mom by the window.

There’s always this looking out through grated windows. And while waiting for her to come, I’ll see a lot of strangers walking past. I’d always wonder where they’re going. So I would sometimes pick a “target” and just follow them.

There was one moment where I was living in Bras Basah Complex with an aunt. In the mornings, I would go down near Popular Bookstore, see people from afar and follow them around the whole complex. Just to know what’s other people’s life about.

Why?

I had tics as a little kid. I talked to myself in the mirror and had lots of conversations. My mom didn’t know what was going on and would sometimes slap me—they probably thought I was autistic and something was wrong with me. Of course after all these months of slapping, I stopped talking to myself. But the conversations continued in my head.

I do a lot of strolling. I don’t bring my phone. Only Elin (his wife) knows how to contact me. I only got a phone because of 9/11. Before that I didn’t have one. I’ll disappear and only come back when I need to.

Just to walk?

It’s just a way to be away from other people so I can have a “conversation” with myself again. I’ll have questions and answers in my mind. In Singapore, it’s very hard for me to have my own personal space and I almost feel like I need to “exile” myself in a cave, like Bruce Nauman. You go to a ranch and live on your own, basically isolated.

So in this case, I live far away from my homeland, and I can actually think better. I don’t feel that I have to meet friends or anything. Even in New York, I don’t really go anywhere. I don’t party, don’t go to any social gatherings. The only time I would meet friends is Friday night when we have dinner. The rest of the week I do my own thing. So it’s kind of, like, we’re away from Singapore but our apartment also (makes me) feel like I’m in Singapore.

So you want to feel at home but not at home.

Yeah. To feel at home means I have the memories. But being at home itself means I won’t have the time and freedom to do what I want to do. Being away from it, I think I can observe better—an outsider looking in. If you ask me if I’m comfortable living in Singapore, I’d say yes. Probably too comfortable.

How did you get into the arts?

My family isn’t artistically-inclined. I discovered photography when I was 15. But not as in the technical kind of photography. We couldn’t afford a camera. My school, Anglican High School, had a photography club. I liked the idea of art classes, but I didn’t like formal drawing and all these things.

Photography clubs in schools at that time tended to be a very snobbish kind of club. It’s like, who has the biggest camera, the best camera, whose parents can afford it. And obviously my parents couldn’t. So I refused to join the club.

I also thought it was all so “salon photography” — you all go to Chinatown and shoot people holding umbrellas, or Chingay or some dragon boat thing… That’s no longer the case but in the late `80s, it was quite strong.

I managed to convince my mom to buy me a camera for S$120, which was quite a lot of money for us. It was a Praktica model. I promised her that I’d do something good with it.

I remember the first pictures that I took was when I brought Elin out — we were dating then already — to Orchard Road, outside Wisma. She held the light while I took photographs of a tree at night. I used up the whole roll, 24 frames, just for that one tree. And when I came back, all the images were super dark. My friends teased me that it was too dark to see anything, but I told them, no, no, it’s deliberate.

So you bluffed them?

I was bluffing—and also ego, lah. I told them it was the way I expressed myself and I wanted the work to be this dark. You can’t see it but I can sense it. That’s what art is all about. And as I said that, I started to believe it.

You’ll have the technical masters, obviously, but you also have to express. You cannot do work that looks sound and polished just because it has to be. But you need to have the expression. That’s what I discovered when I was 15. And from then on, whatever I did went through that route.

But at the same time, I also understood that I had to polish up my technical craft. So after I my O-levels, I thought of applying at NAFA and Lasalle. For some reason I forgot to go for the entrance exam at NAFA. I went to Lasalle and realised that the photography thing was very slow there. I was pretty disappointed—and it was pretty expensive for my parents.

Was it hard to convince your parents?

I just told my mom I was going to art school. I belong to that group who, when they want to do something, they just do it. But they believed I was responsible enough.

Every time I did painting in Lasalle, the lecturer would want A1 or A2 sizes and I’ll always give A4 sized ones. I had no money to buy the paint! I had to work to support myself. It was study, work, study, work. I sold shoes at Toa Payoh. Tele-marketing. All sorts of things. Later on, I went to assist (Chua) Soo Bin.

How did that come about?

I saw him in a documentary and thought, “Oh this one’s a Cultural Medallion award winner!” I looked him up, called him up, spoke to his producer and said that I’d work for him for free. But he paid me actually. After school, I’d just go there, hang out, assist him. At that time it was him, Wee Khim, then myself. He didn’t talk much. He’s really quiet. He’ll spend, like, five hours doing one shot, waiting for the sun to move.

I learned a lot from him. His patience and how he observes things. I always wondered what he was looking for and when the images came back, I saw all the nuances. He had a great influence on me.

Nowadays, young artists have all these mentorship programmes to assist them.

Last time it was hard. On Sundays, you go to Page One or Basheer to read books. Those were the pre-Internet times. You had no one to reach out to. And all the photographers just keep you out. I was lucky at that time to meet Suzann Victor and she liked my work a lot. She pulled me into a show at 5th Passage—it was my first exhibition, actually.

What did you show?

It was all photography, with a lot of montage. Very similar to what I’ve been doing now. At that time I already believed that photography can be used as an expression. I was 20 years old and thought, “Okay, now I finally have a gallery where I can continue showing.” Little did I know that a year later… (laughs, referring to the “Josef Ng controversy” that eventually led to the closure of the art space) and after that, there was nowhere to show already.

I’ll get offers to show in Raffles Hotel, Park Mall, and I didn’t like the whole atmosphere—the venues were wrong, the audiences were wrong. So I thought, you know what, we’ll produce work but we won’t show. And if we show anywhere, we won’t sell.

So when we eventually went overseas, in Paris, in New York, it eventually became difficult for the galleries because if they can’t sell a work, there’s no point. But the reason for that was because I wanted to show in Singapore first.

Let's backtrack a bit. So what did you do after your 5th Passage adventure?

I set up my own studio. I had this fascination about having my own studio. My bacnk account had about S$4,000. So basically I was able to pay my first rent—and I only had one lighting equipment. My basic rule was that anybody who hires me can’t step into the studio. They wait outside. Because I had only one light, I’ll do multiple exposure la. Everything I did was slightly different.

These were commercial clients?

Yes. Batey, the agency that did Singapore Airlines, went to see my 5th Passage show and the creative director was very impressed. It was my first time to go to an ad agency. Everyone seemed to be so cool, and they treated me very nice. And they told me to do a pitch for them, without restrictions, and that’s it. Everyone seemed to love whatever they saw because it was so unfinished.

Did photojournalism ever enter your mind?

No. Photojournalism wasn’t what I believe in. That’s about catching the moment and recording it. And of course you can twist your facts and how you want to present your thing. But I wanted my photographs to be an expression of my thoughts. I always believe that whatever I’m thinking, someone else somewhere will think the same way as me.

And a lot of times, I don’t want my work to be politically-inclined or “big” topics. I want it to be really mundane. I want my photographs to mark a time. So if I do something now, there may be nothing spectacular about it. But 30 years, 50 years, 100 years later, people who are looking at the work will not just see photographs of, say old Singapore or anywhere in the world—which you can definitely find on the Internet—but images of how man thinks at a certain moment. That was more interesting to me.

I don’t want to do spectacular, beautiful photographs. I don’t believe in pretty images. I believe in the processes behind it. If I listen to a certain music or drink a certain coffee to create a certain kind of work, of course when you see the (final) work you don’t see all these things but I know it’s there.

So when I look at other artist’s photograph, I can see the whole process behind it. Of course, not many will appreciate photographs in that sense. Some may see it on a surface level.

When did you start calling yourself John Clang?

The reason was that I couldn’t get an appointment (in Singapore) if I called myself John Ang (His real name is Ang Choon Leng). At that time, curators were (usually) some ang moh tai tai whose husband works here. You tell them you’re John Ang, nobody will see you. But if it’s John Clang—it’s really quick! It sounded German or something. And I’d bleach my hair white to match the name.

That’s the insulting part of it. I’d see photographers coming from America and the works are really horrible and they’ve actually told me that they like Singapore because people treat them with a lot of respect.

I once had a big argument with Vogue Singapore at that time. One day, the editor came in and said, “I understand that you shoot for Her World as well.” Then she told me not to shoot for them because Vogue was of a very high standard. And in a way I told her to f*** off. They hired an American photographer who lives in Singapore and whose work sucks and I feel ashamed to be next to him, so what made her think that I’d be ashamed to be with Singapore photographers? I was 21-22 years old. Lost of slamming of tables. I never worked with them again.

I told Elin, if that’s the way it is, then I’d rather do what I want to do and not care about all these people with egos.

When did New York come into the picture?

In 1996, we were shooting a campaign for Levi’s Asia Pacific in New York and we really loved the place a lot. Actually, the guy who used me is an artist now—Anothermountainman from Hong Kong. Stanley Wong. We got along really well. I was really passionate about photography and he really wanted to get into it.

(But before we moved) I told Elin I wanted to do film. So I called Willie Tang, who was very known for his film work at that time, and said I’ll work for him. I told him he needed new blood—and I was that new blood.

You were quite sure of yourself, huh?

I like to push myself into a corner. If I promise something, I’ll do it. So I was his DOP (director of photography) although I had no idea how to use a camera. (smiles) It was an exchange – I learn something from him, he gets the free labour. My commitment was two years. The two years, I gave it a lot and worked like crazy. I did my first commercial, first MTV…

And then, New York.

We were there on Jan 3, 1999. But prior to that, I actually decided not to go. I wanted to put all my savings into buying an HDB flat so that I wouldn’t think about New York anymore. The idea of going with my wife freaked me out, because I had to support my parents every month. And because we literally didn’t know anyone, didn’t know where to get a place to live.

So we started looking for (a flat) but for some strange reason we couldn’t find a place where we wanted to live. And then one morning, Elin woke up and said, “Let’s go to New York.”

All along, we never talked about New York, because I knew that if I mentioned it, she’ll say yes because she’s very supportive. But she said we should feel hungry again. So we went.

How would you describe your relationship with Elin?

I saw her when I was 13—this long, tall giraffe. (smiles) We’ve become like partners. She understands I’m an artist and has lived with that. I see her more like my soulmate. That’s why sometimes I use John Clang, sometimes it’s Clang—which represents both of us. Everyone who knows me knows her.

So you and your soulmate took the big leap ... and?

I was sick for three months because I was very stressed. We went in January and it was really cold. And of course I had no idea it could be that cold. I got my first flu in my life. First ear infection. We had to call the ambulance three times. We rented a small room in East Village. Every day we’d be counting our dollars and cents. Every phone call home was very expensive—I had a piece of paper next to our phone, and I’ll making a list.

So how did you support yourselves?

I got myself an agent. But the first nine months there was nothing at all. In America there are so many photographers. For one project, they can have 10, 20 photographers to choose from out of thousands. So it’s impossible to get much work.

We lived on our savings. I was very lean before I went to New York and I became really fat because we were eating lots of instant noodles!

What would be the turning point?

There was this competition by Surface magazine and they were looking for young photographers all over the world. I had nothing much better to do so I submitted my work and I got picked for the second issue of their Avant Guardian (portfolio). I did a series of works and got noticed by Hermes.

They sent us a fax one day and I was, like, “Hermes? What is it?” We asked our agent who said it was a big deal. At time it was run by Martin Margiela. They wanted to fly us to Paris to meet them and in the end, we were there and they’re looking at the two of us dressed in shirts and jeans and a Muji coat… (laughs)

I did my first campaign for them and everyone loved it and started talking about this young guy named John Clang. And then I did something quite stupid.

Which was...?

They asked me to do the campaign again and showed me their main visual. And me, being a very responsible person, struggled with it for two weeks before telling them it really wasn’t for me. I suggested Guido Mocafico but they kept coming back to tell me I should do it.

My agent at that time told me I’d be f***ing stupid if I turned it down. But I told Elin I was so stressed that If I did it, I would be doing them an injustice because it just wasn’t me.

But no matter how nice I put it, they probably thought I was snobbish. I had good intentions, but over the phone, with my accent, they probably think I’m a snob—so that was the last one.

And then?

I joined this agency called Art And Commerce, who had Robert Mapplethorpe, Annie Leibovitz, Steven Meisel and all these. Before I went to New York, this was one of the “dream agencies”. They signed me up.

Was there any backlash to your success?

Of course, when you’re very successful at that moment, you start to hear rumours. A popular one was that my wife was a rich man’s daughter and that’s how I got all my connections. Or I was just faking it. You hear all sorts of things that could break you. The difference between here (in Singapore) and the US is that there, they celebrate talent. When I was there, they embrace me, regardless of where I came from. I felt very comfortable there.

How mcuh of a New Yorker are you now?

You see, New York is not America. You have Italians, Koreans, French—everyone has their own accents. So in New York, I feel totally comfortable retaining my accent. I speak very fast and very few people understand my accent. So that’s to my advantage. (smiles) It almost makes it like I make sense. I’m like that Italian director who did Life Is Beautiful. Yes, I’m a New Yorker—I’m aggressive in pointing my view — but I also respect other people’s views.

Was it a case of trying of trying to make it big?

I never tried to “make it big”. A lot of people think that way of me, but I just wanted to do my thing. My first press interview in Singapore (for his show at Jendela in 2004), it was also a very conceptual approach and nobody really seemed to get it. I told Elin, if I talked art to the reporter, who will care? It will be a small column. Nobody is gonna care about photography anyway.

What made me known in the public’s eye was how much money I made. I told her, if we mention how much money we made, everyone will pay attention. Then everyone will look at the work—and you have a chance to educate people through photography. The first thing you tell them is how much you make. Then you bring them in and show them the work and they think, “Oh, I can also shoot that.”

So in a way, you built yourself as a sort of go-getting fall guy and a caricature of a successful artist?

Correct. If I tell you a rags-to-riches story, everyone will be interested to know the story. And I’m willing to share. I want the story to inspire—but you also need the mass medium to be hooked by it.

Was there a backlash among the artists?

Yes, of course. But it’s not important. There will always be this group of people doing their own thing and be miserable. They can do (work for) 20 years and no one will see what’s going on. But if they want to be seen, I thought, I could be one of those who step up. Singapore is so small, you only need a few photographers, a few artists to be known, say, Ming Wong, (Ho) Tzu Nyen, when they showed their stuff, you draw people into it. Photography was even harder because it’s seen as the outcast of the scene.

Do you consider yourself part of the Singapore art scene or the New York one?

The Singapore art scene. Singapore has become very vibrant. Right now there’s so much things going on that it’s become a really good market for artists to come back here.

I think the scene is growing so strong. I’ve got my own mentorship programme—I choose five people—and I guide them for nine months to a year through MSN.

During my time, I couldn’t speak to anybody. I had lots of questions but nobody will answer me.

If it's the perfect time to be back here, why aren't you back here?

Yes, but I may look the part of being aggressive but I’m not. I don’t pursue such things. I believe in doing work. If it happens it happens. I will show here but at the end of the day, when you think about it, the commercial aspect of art is purely commerce. If I have to become a doorman or a taxi driver to support my art, I will. It just happened that I’m able to do certain campaigns and sell. It just made me luckier in that way.

Compared to your shoe-selling days, young artists now seem to have it easier — mentors, grants, even festivals. How does that make you feel?

I feel good about it. But I tell my mentees they have the opportunity to do what they want to do—so do it and don’t complain. If you can get a grant, use it. It’s not about how I don’t get help or something.

For example, Lee Wen. He’s a fantastic artist. I adore him. During his time, it was even harder for him. Now he had a solo show (at SAM). Such people, if you ask the youngsters, some of them don’t even care or know about him.

So do I envy them? No. I think if you’re hungrier, you create more.

(Being Together: Family & Portraits runs until May 26 at the National Museum of Singapore.)

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