Three Years

1     The Sickbed

        In July 2013, Shu’s cancer recurred. News of her illness was tightly sealed off. She allowed only her sisters and two or three close friends to know about her condition; I was not one of those few. I understood that a patient needs quality rest and would not want to repeatedly explain her condition to visitors; an exhausting process in itself.

        I learned of the news through Ye Qiuyue. Qiuyue had been Shu’s roommate during her years in the UK, and their friendship had endured to this day. Like me, Qiuyue is a music teacher, and we often exchanged work-related information. After learning of Shu’s condition, I did not go to visit her; I did not want to put Qiuyue in an awkward position. Instead, I asked Qiuyue to deliver a medicinal pillow to her, filled mainly with cassia seeds, meant to relieve pain and improve sleep quality. I told Qiuyue to say that I had just returned from traveling and brought back a small souvenir.

        Two days later, Shu sent me a text message:

        “Thank you, the pillow is helpful.”

        During this period, we exchanged greetings during festivals. When major news broke, we would trade a few brief comments.

In early October 2013, Qiuyue told me, “If you have time, you should go visit her.”

        What? Had the restrictions been lifted?

        I understood immediately. Shu’s condition had worsened; things were deteriorating rapidly.

        On a drizzly morning, I arrived at Shu’s bedside.

        In fact, visitation had not been fully opened. A notice was posted on the ward door:
       “Visitors, please report to the counter and inform family members through the nurse. Entry is permitted only with approval.”

        After some trouble, I finally saw Shu.

        “Thank you for coming,” she said.

        I said to her, “You don’t need to force yourself to entertain me. Let’s just talk casually. If you’re tired, close your eyes. I’ll stay for a while and then leave.”

        Shu nodded.

        I told her, “The reason I joined the Southern Arts Troupe was because I saw your performance at a concert organised  by the School of Performing Arts.”
       At that concert, Shu played “When Flowers Bloom in the warm spring” and the two-piano piece “The stormy season”. At the time, I was still a high school student. It was the first time I had heard piano music that was localized and alive; so bright, clear, and full of youthful vigour, completely different from the sentimental Western style. It was deeply impactful.

        On impulse, I wrote to the School of Performing Arts to request the music sheet. I waited eagerly every day. Three months later, a reply finally came. The letter contained only a few lines, saying that the score had not yet been ready to release.

       I couldn’t understand it. Coming from an “academic” background, I believed that a piece should exist on paper before being performed. I was rather disappointed and concluded that this was merely an excuse; an unwillingness to share a “secret manual.” So I let the matter drop.

        Another year passed. The Southern Arts Troupe was recruiting new members. Through a friend’s introduction, I timidly went to audition. I knew the connection between Southern and the School of Performing Arts; perhaps I might be lucky enough to get the score after all.

        In the hospital room, I asked Shu, “Do you remember our first meeting?”

        She looked at me quietly.

        “At the (School of Performing Arts)?”

        “No, not at the school. At Southern.”

        And so we fell into a time tunnel……

        When I joined the troupe, other new recruits only had to pass two assessments: an interview, and a performance report after three months of training. I alone was the exception. I had to pass three rounds. The third was a piano exam, with Shu as my examiner.

        Unlike the learning-oriented approach at the School of Performing Arts, Southern at the time was work-oriented; new members were only accepted if they possessed the necessary working ability. Although I had already completed Grade 8 in piano and music theory, the pressure was still real.

        The exam took place in an old building on Lavender Street. That day, after hearing me play, Shu kept smiling with her lips pressed tight.

        What had gone wrong? My heart was pounding.

        Eventually, I realized it was the piano. A Chinese-made Nie Er piano, whose pedal squeaked incessantly during play.

        Her laughter added a touch of comedy to the tense exam. Shu let me pass, and thus began my six years of activity with Southern.

        Listening to my story from her sickbed, Shu summarized succinctly, “So you joined Southern because you liked that kind of musical style?”
       Her thinking was still so clear and calm; I was surprised.

        Before leaving the hospital, I asked her if there was anything I could do for her.

        After thinking for a moment, she asked me to find a piece of music for her: Rachmaninoff’s Nocturne (Morceaux de Fantaisie, Op. 3 No. 5, Serenade).

        “Alright. I’ll bring it next time.”

        I left the ward and passed through several floors. Whether it was because the signage was unclear, or because I hadn’t yet come back to my senses, I kept turning left and right, unable to find the exit; my mind still lingering in the 1970s……

2     Days of Feverish Activity

        Shu began studying ballet and drama at the School of Performing Arts at the age of thirteen. In the early 1970s, not yet twenty, she followed the rising tide to Kuantan, living with fishermen and gathering material. Later, together with Ng Lay Hoon, she completed the music for the ethnically styled ballet The stormy season  (also known as Fishermen’s Song), a full-length work of about fifty minutes.

        After that, Shu became an accordion teacher at the school, teaching four cohorts of students.

        Although her name appeared on Southern’s music group roster, she was rarely seen at Southern.

        Not long after I joined Southern in 1974, I was immediately involved in rehearsals for the long play Growth, playing the younger brother of the protagonist as the understudy. I heard that Growth evolved from the earlier Sparks of Youth, in which Shu had been one of the main actors. The story dealt with betrayal of one’s class background and closely reflected her personal experiences. Sparks of Youth was denied a public performance permit, but Growth passed inspection by the Ministry of Culture. However, by the time Growth was staged, the cast had changed; Shu was no longer on stage.

        After Growth was performed, I prepared programs for the Life and Arts Evening. Due to my background in harmony and composition, arranging music became my main task at Southern. In addition to writing scores and serving as the live accompanist, I also composed the dance music Bamboo-Cutting Dance. There were over ten performances. During the day I was serving national service; at night I rushed between venues. Life was hectic, nerves taut.

        One evening after a performance, Shu appeared. She did not say whether it was good or bad; she simply said, “You used a lot of octave scales in your accompaniment; very showy. You should record that kind of effect.”
       Her comment helped me understand her habit: she would first play the music, then summarize and improve it; rather than the conventional method of composing first and presenting later.

        Through hands-on participation, I began to understand Southern’s earlier days: music composition and accompaniment relied heavily on improvisation, without precise notation. I also began to understand the earlier reply from the School of Performing Arts: “The score has not yet been organized.” Through my contact with Shu, I also confirmed that the reply was indeed in her handwriting.

        Life in the troupe in the 1970s was busy. Days without performances were no less hectic: technical practice, internal showcases, group study sessions, immersion in daily life, conversations with strangers from all walks of life to collect material, field research, creation…… For someone bookish like me, this was undeniably a great expansion of horizons.

        Although I did not catch the fishing sails in Kuantan, I learned about local life through partners’ videos. Though I did not conduct long-term immersion, I visited chicken farmers in Punggol and vegetable farmers in Choa Chu Kang on weekends. These activities broadened my view and made me pay attention to aspects of life I had previously ignored.

        On March 17, 1976, some leaders from the School of Performing Arts and Southern were detained for questioning by the Internal Security Department. Southern did not cease activities. Shu remained a teacher at the school, while I shouldered responsibilities to continue Southern’s music creation. If the three years after 1974 were my “internship” period at Southern, then the three years after 1977 were my period of “giving back.”

        Picking Lovesick Seeds (later retitled Song of Corn with new lyrics by Han Yongyuan), Heart Song, Thanks, We Are Not Machines, We Are Human, We Are Morning Runners, Climbing Suite, Starting Point, Remembering Xinghai; these were all works completed between 1977 and 1979.

        Late at night, I would feel secretly proud. The literary quality and melodic richness of these works surpassed earlier pieces like Welcoming Spring and Perform with Fiery Passion. Yet the objective reality was that none of these works ever became popular or widely sung.

        Why?

        I knew; I had missed the fishing season.

        Just like the fishermen who wait for the monsoon season to end, we can only bide our time. It is the time for grounding, reflection, and breathing.

3     Coconut Trees on the Boundary Embankment

        After a brief detention, Goh Lay Kuan soon returned to work at the School of Performing Arts.

        In 1977, Shu went to the UK to study. Someone needed to take over music composition for the dance department’s performances, and I was “recruited.”

        Goh Lay Kuan handed me an eight-bar theme Shu had drafted for Ode to the Coconut Tree, saying, “Take a look. Whether to use it or not is up to you.”

        The theme flowed smoothly, similar in style to The Stormy Seasonand Nine Boats. I thought it would do; and save the effort of composing a new melody. Over the next two months, I added material, arranged instrumentation, and completed a sixteen-minute dance piece. In addition to playing the piano part myself, I mobilized friends who played violin and cello. Huang Yuanzhang, the Yuan Xiu brothers, Zheng Tingming, Qiu Ruiman, Lu Guohua, Chen Guiqiang, to rehearse and record together.

        In the 1980s, the Ministry of Culture and arts groups developed positive interactions, opening a new chapter. Government and arts groups were no longer in opposition. The Ministry organized drama festivals and dance festivals. After Ode to the Coconut Tree premiered in 1978, it participated in a Ministry dance competition in the early 1980s and won an award. Friends who attended told me that the dance music was credited to Shu, and they felt it was unfair to me.

        I shrugged and smiled it off. I knew the credit had nothing to do with Shu; she was in New York at the time. In an era that championed collective creation, an individual name was merely a convenient representative of a group.

        One could say that many individual efforts ultimately cared only about whether the work added value to the collective, with no consideration for personal fame or gain. People from different groups often did not understand the actual process, and misattributions happened frequently. Every era has its own culture. Whether it was a collective creation or a main creator synthesizing work, the collective era was one of anonymity.

        I did not mind that Ode to the Coconut Tree bore only Shu’s name. It could even be seen as affirmation; a form of elevation. On the surface, collective creation represented a kind of grace and realm we once possessed. In today’s world of individual accountability, it is hard to believe or understand.

        Of course, there was another side to the coin. Creative individuality was suppressed; professional competence had to face the inflated self-awareness and scrutiny of the masses. Often it was like “a scholar meeting soldiers.” After passing small-group review, works still had to face full troupe approval; mass-meeting-style inspections that often devolved into irrational criticism. Many imperfect but promising works failed review and died prematurely. Such an atmosphere was not conducive to creation.

        Creation requires learning, but learning cannot replace talent, personality, creativity, sensitivity, and the indefinable X-factor. Simplistically believing that technique alone produces creation is another misconception, easily leading to sloganized, conceptualized, politicized works made merely to fit the occasion.

4     The Listener

        In June 2011, I visited Shu in the hospital.

        She was undergoing chemotherapy; hospital injections by day, home at night. Her demeanour was relaxed, calm.

        “It’s just a small matter,” she said. “Cells as tiny as pinholes; nothing serious.”
       Then she changed the subject: “Have you seen any interesting performances lately?”

        I replied, “I flipped through the entire arts festival program, front to back and back to front, and still couldn’t find anything that moved me. But recently I’ve been watching Chinese TV dramas, the espionage series The Listener.”

        She listened quietly, without saying whether she would watch it or not.

        At the time, Shu was not worried about her cancer, but she was uncertain whether to remain in the workforce after discharge. Apart from chatting about shows, this was the more serious topic of our meeting.

        I said, “Everyone reaches retirement eventually. If you’ve saved enough, stepping down is fine. After that, focus on fulfilling some long-held wishes.”

        I visited her twice at the hospital. Later I heard she had completed chemotherapy and recovered.

        After her medical leave, Shu retired from work, busy with rehabilitation and practicing Baduanjin. For a long time, we did not see each other.

        Later, Qiuyue told me, “Shu went to the U.S. She enjoys a quiet life.”

        “Always appearing and disappearing, fond of creating a WOW effect,” I muttered.

5     Avoidance

        In December 2011, I suddenly received a call from Shu. She warmly invited me to help her complete arrangements of some 1970s compositions, giving me great freedom of choice. “You can choose any pieces you like,” she said. We also discussed mobilizing choirs. I introduced her to conductor Chua Joon Hian of Metro Philharmonic Society, but I declined the invitation to re-arrange the music myself.

        I had my reasons, but they were not easily explained over the phone, so I chose not to say them.

        Persistent as she was, two weeks later Shu called again with the same request. I again clearly stated my unwillingness to participate. Naturally, she did not understand my cold attitude. I did not want to create bad karma. All I could tell her was: “Everyone’s karmic conditions are different. Relationships between people, between people and events, and perspectives all vary. Perhaps next time, when conditions are right, we will work together.”

        We did not argue, but after hanging up, my heart was unsettled. I knew it was because I couldn’t explain myself clearly; an experience hard to articulate and hard to be understood. I was not trying to avoid anything. It is in an artist’s nature to need to feel right about what one does; to pass one’s own internal test. Especially now, as a freelancer with no group affiliation, I had no moral obligation. I wanted to answer honestly to my own heart; to be sincere, not perfunctory, not playacting.

        After a period of preparation, the final Everybody Sings performance at the Innovation Park took place as scheduled. It was a grand affair, with groups from the Malay Peninsula joining in. September was peak season for student piano exams, and I had unavoidable responsibilities. I did not attend, though I wished them success.

        Busyness was the truth; but also an excuse. In 1972, when The Stormy Seasons premiered, I paid out of pocket to watch it three times. This time, however, I felt no urge at all. Why? Diminishing marginal utility? When something is too familiar, does desire fade? If youthful idealism, humanistic concern, and adolescent restlessness were the original driving forces behind performance art, then the international climate of the 1970s provided fertile ground. Performances reflected seething social emotions.

        Forty years later, times have changed. What is the meaning of replaying old works? Without the atmosphere of the era, where is the vitality of the music? With ideals shattered, pragmatism and materialism ascendant, replaying old works becomes mere nostalgia or self-entertainment, lacking positive significance. Re-performances and rearrangements often become superfluous embellishments; I do not believe in such performances.

        Most friends from those troupe days have lost contact. Friendships can continue through other interactions; emotional knots must dissolve with time. The passion of that era is archived and irreproducible. Performance is no longer the best bridge; let the sweetness and bitterness remain in memory.

        Of course, this is only my personal view. I do not agree with revivals of old works, but I also do not demand others share my stubbornness.

6     Return

        In July 2013, Shu’s cancer recurred, and she frequently went back and forth to the hospital.

        In early November 2013, I visited her again. After some casual conversation, her sisters suddenly asked whether they should accept XX (one of the sisters) staying overnight at the hospital to keep watch.

        Shu refused outright, speaking with parental authority: “No need. I can sleep on my own.”

        She had always been everyone’s elder sister; not by age, but by role, as protector and leader. Even now, her mindset had not adjusted.

        I slowly said, “Don’t reject others’ kindness too strongly. At night, if something urgent happens, your sister may understand your accent better than the nurses. Everyone gets sick sometimes. Caring for others is also a form of learning.”

        The room fell silent for ten seconds.

        Then Shu spoke: “Alright, let XX come. Now you need to arrange for visiting friends to go have dinner at the cafeteria later.”

        I played music for her on my phone. Rachmaninoff. Her left hand was partially paralyzed, making movement difficult, so I held the phone to her ear. She listened quietly, calm and composed. We stopped talking.

        Beneath the passionate melody of the Nocturne lay a steady pulse; beneath the cheerful mood, a hint of weathered depth, fully expressing the stubbornness and dignity of the Russian spirit. Looking at her serene expression, one word came to mind: “return.”

        The tumultuous worldly days were gone.
       The days of charging into battle were gone.
       The days of frantic busyness were gone.

        Classically trained, she had returned.

7     Called to Duty in Crisis

        After about ten days in a coma, Shu passed away on December 28, exactly three years after her cancer diagnosis.

        On December 30, I went to pay my respects.

        One minute before leaving the memorial hall, I received a call from her second sister, Shuchun, asking me to host the memorial service the following day.

        She explained that many of Shu’s close friends, classmates, Southern comrades, accordion students, and colleagues would attend, and they hoped for a relatively neutral host to organize speeches.

        I suggested several candidates, but she had concerns or couldn’t reach them. But was I an appropriate choice?

        After Southern’s brief time on Lavender Street, it moved to Hougang’s Sam Kiang Place. Back then, Southern and the School of Performing Arts were only a five-minute walk apart. I was at Southern; Shu was at the school. We rarely met.

        I once tried to enrol in her accordion class but was not accepted. She only agreed to meet me once a month after her regular classes to briefly check my progress. I was still serving national service, and in total I had only three lessons with her before she left for the UK.

        Two years later, I went to France. The year after that, she went to the U.S.

        We kept in touch by letters. Once she asked, “When do you plan to come home?”

        I sensed a subtle competitive tension. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to imitate others, didn’t want her to become my shadow, nor to be rivals. I replied, “It depends on our conditions. When we no longer have the capacity to absorb, that’s when we return.”

        Six years later, I returned home. She stayed in the U.S. until earning her doctorate in music.

        Later, she began working; not teaching piano, but serving as music director at an innovation technology group.

        After studying abroad, we both “withdrew completely” from arts troupes. Yet another unspoken coincidence.

        When she happened to be in Singapore, she would attend my students’ recitals, offering feedback and occasionally lamenting that she was no longer doing music work in a substantive sense.

        Work kept her mostly in the U.S. When she returned home to visit family, Qiuyue, Shu, and I would meet to watch performances and listen to music, followed by free-ranging discussions; three people, each a teacher to the others. This continued until her illness.

        Every life situation is a lesson. I never expected that, at the end, Shu would still offer me this final exercise. But was I truly the right host?

8    The Final Lesson Shu Arranged for Me

        On December 31, 2013, the Christian chapel in Choa Chu Kang was remote, yet over a hundred people came to the memorial hall. I suddenly saw many long-lost friends, including many well-known figures.

        By a twist of fate, I became the memorial host. The sound technician failed to show up that evening, so many things had to be improvised. I suddenly recalled a youthful reminder before stepping on stage: The show must go on!

        Since Shu was a musician, I decided to play recordings of her performances and selected works to structure the evening’s proceedings.

        Together with the attendees, we watched her 2012 performance of the piano piece Nine Boats at Everybody Sings. Onstage, she was valiant and poised. The continuous octave passages were clean and precise—careful, yet the former passion had mellowed.

        Her U.S.-composed piano piece Heart-to-Heart showed a stronger emphasis on harmonic colour, sensitive handling of light and dark, graceful and elegant; clearly different from the surging momentum of The Stormy Season.

        She also played the accordion piece Thread and Shuttle in the Heartfor visiting accordion students at her U.S. residence. It was warm, gentle, and no longer tragic.

        Organizing, guiding, listening to, understanding, and absorbing everyone’s speeches was also a learning experience for me. It allowed me to understand Shu, the era, and my own past path from different angles.

        Accordion students recalled that Shu was close in age to them; simple, kind, flexible. She didn’t force staff notation, teaching instead with numbered notation, allowing teacher-student relationships to easily become friendships lasting forty years.

        Shen Wangfu mentioned that before teaching accordion, Shu had only self-studied for a year before opening classes. He emphasized her courage; built on her solid piano foundation. I also wondered: why did she choose the accordion? Was it lighter, cheaper, better suited for group teaching and collective performance, and more aligned with the practical needs of arts troupes at the time?

        Shen also noted that accordion students typically graduated after two years and were encouraged to join different groups and assist with accompaniment. This effectively built networks and facilitated the spread of works. It also answered my earlier question: why Southern’s Heart Songand Song of Corn failed to spread. Besides losing radio exposure after 1976, it was also due to a lack of network-building.

9    Curtain Call

        Shu loved mountains. I loved mountains. Yet we never climbed together.

        She was at the School of Performing Arts; I was at Southern.
       She was in London; I was in Paris.
       She went to New York; I returned to Singapore.
       She began research and development in computer music; I remained an ordinary teacher.

Often she was the pathfinder, the experimenter; I was more conservative, academic.
       She belonged to the stage; radiant and explosive. I preferred calm, rational observation.

We rarely met. But does not meeting mean no connection? We wrote letters, sent cards. After her illness, we used calls and texts. Every day I sent her photos of flowers blooming in my garden. She would reply: “Nice,” “Beautiful,” “Sweet”…… If there was no reply, I knew she was unwell that day.

        There is a kind of relationship called spiritual communion.

        The final line of Growth says: “A person cannot choose their origin, but can choose the road they walk.”

        I have passed the stages of youthful bravado and believing man can conquer nature. Fatefully, I now think: a person can choose neither their origin nor the era they are born into; yet these determine cognition and growth. Still, by living earnestly and sincerely, we live out ourselves and our era.

        In the 1970s, creations at Southern and the academy bore strong local concern; an imprint of the times. But I do not believe these works “pioneered local creation.” Since the 1960s, teacher Leong Yoon Pin laboured tirelessly for over fifty years. Boh Chit Hee’s Rubber Forest, My Mother from the 1960s also carried strong grassroots spirit and was widely sung among community groups. In the 1980s, “Xinyao” drew from Taiwanese campus folk songs, blending commerce, pop, and literary qualities; another reflection of the times.

        Originally, I planned to end the memorial with Shu’s beloved Rachmaninoff. The disc was already loaded, ready to play. At the last minute, I cancelled. Suddenly, I felt, why burden everyone with such heaviness? Let the solitude of the music remain mine alone.

        At 9:30 p.m., before Shu’s memorial tablet, I bowed deeply once more, then left swiftly, without looking back.

        Shu was three years older than me. Perhaps it was precisely this three-year gap that mapped our life coordinates.

        Three years can be fleeting, or devastatingly long.

        Three years later, where will I be?