| Photography by Law Kian Yan
An Ode to My Mother
2017
Past the anger, hurt & grief... what remained was a longing to connect.​
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To say: I see you.
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And that, is love.
If objects could speak, what stories would they tell us?
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This project explores objects as a conduit - bridging the gap between my mother and I.
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I crossed over to my mother's world of objects to see her for who she was.
This is an ode to my mother.
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"My sister always buys me expensive things. But when I want to buy her something, she refuses."
"I bought this for Joshua because he had an accident. But I didn't give it to him because I was too shy... It is cheap." [Joshua is her sister's son.]
"This teapot cost $30!"
"I kept it because it looks very nice." [The clock had stopped working.]
"My father never bought me anything. He bought this for me on one of his sailing trips with the British to New York."
"One of these was given to me by my father."
"I don't know why Nei Nei gave me this. Since you were close to her, this one is for you." [Nei Nei is her mother-in-law.]
"These are my wedding bangles. Your Nei Nei gave this to me long long after the wedding. She took away all my presents. Khek people are like that." [Nei Nei is her mother-in-law. Khek is a dialect group.]
"Amanda bought this for me for Mother's Day." [Amanda is her sister's daughter.]
"When I showed my mother my engagement ring, she threw it onto the floor. Because it was not gold."
"My mother didn't give me anything when I got married. She gave this to me much much later. She also bought one for your Ah Boh." [Ah Boh is her older sister.]
"I used this watch very often. It cost $300."
"Actually, I wanted a Rolex watch. But the salesman recommended me this limited edition Omega watch instead. I only wore it once or twice. It is too dainty."
"This is expensive silver. Actually I bought it for you, but I don't know if you like silver."
"I want to give this to my only granddaughter."
"This is your father's first gift to me. A long long time ago when I was 19."
"Your father promised to buy me a diamond ring when he has the money, but he never did. I bought this for myself on a trip to Switzerland."
"These were given to me by a guy who was interested in me. I don't remember his name anymore."
"I work because your father never spends time with me."
"My principal always made me the lady of the occasion. These dresses are expensive, but I only wore it once or twice."
"Your father did not come to my graduation. My principal came to support me."
"I don't know why you would say that."
"I bought this for you as a gift for your theatre performance, but you rejected it. You misunderstood why I bought it."
ARTIST NOTES
"My mother likes things. I do not."
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Growing up, I had always craved for a heart-to-heart connection with my mother.
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A letter I wrote to her when I was 13 years old had this at the end, circled in a pen-drawn bubble:
"I need your love and attention. Material things can never satisfy."
I always felt that she was trying to buy my affection by giving me money or offering to pay for an expensive item like a new camera or computer.​
That was her love language.
In 2017, when she was dying of lung cancer, I was hoping to finally connect with her on a deeper level.
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Isn't that what was portrayed in movies and such?
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Yet, all my mother seemed to be interested in was going through her stuff - from pots & pans, to travel memorabilia, to random items in her dresser drawer, and jewellery.
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I was angry and heartbroken.
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Here she was, dying, and all she wants to do was go through her stuff with me?
But is it just stuff?
As cartoonist Brian Fies articulated after losing his house & everything in it to the California wildfires in 2017:
"Well-meaning people say it's just stuff. But it was our stuff. Stuff we created. Stuff we treasured. Stuff from ancestors we wanted our descendants to have."
"Stuff is a marker of time and memory. It's home."
It was not just stuff to her. It was her stuff. And her stuff held the story of her life.
In response,I decided to photograph her stuff.
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It was a distraction from feeling so helpless that my mother was dying.
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In the process of photographing her stuff, stories behind each of the objects started to surface, piecing together a narrative of my mother's life I never knew.
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These objects spoke to me in a way my mother could not.
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Saying everything that was unsaid.
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My mother, seeing these objects being recorded visually, found comfort that she was being remembered in some way.
Why did you stop?
Midway through the project, I stopped. Afraid that finishing the project means my mother will die. And if I didn't finish it, then maybe... just maybe... I can delay death.
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"When are you going to finish taking all the photos?" she asked.
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Soon, I said.
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It took everything in me to finish photographing all her things.
Thank you for doing it for me quickly.
The doctor had her morphine dose changed. And for that one magical hour that my mother was lucid and not in pain, I showed her the project - photos of her stuff, paired with the stories she had told me.
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She was awkward and uncomfortable at first. But when she came to the last photograph, her expression visibly relaxed.
Now you know my story.
This is a gift to my mother, and hers to me.