Published: June 19, 2026

Searching for the Invisible Thread

As I found myself rummaging for snacks at one o’clock in the morning, I knew that I had slowly succumbed to pressure. My solo exhibition was drawing near.

Every time I prepare for an exhibition, I find myself retracing my creative journey. And each time I look back, I am reminded of the same truth, – that creation rarely goes according to plan.

Many people would imagine that artists began with a theme and then created works around it. In reality, it is often the opposite. The journey of creating feels more like searching for a thread.

At first, you only catch hold of its loose end, with no idea where it might lead. Along the way, countless thoughts emerge—some from reading, some from observation, some from memory and travel, and others from those inexplicable intuitions that visit at one in the morning.

In the beginning, they seem unrelated. Works created across different places and moments gradually take shape, and only later do you realize that they have always been speaking to one another, — like pearls waiting to be strung together.

The creative process is not about making pearls. It is about finding the thread. And when the pearls are finally strung, the theme slowly unveils itself.

The Unreachable Eden

This time, the thread led my works toward From Eden with Love, whose Chinese title is translated as Letters from the Purple Clouds Village.

The Chinese title is a poetic resemblance to Eden, where it exists on no map, no flight can take you there, and no coordinates can locate it. It is less a destination than a place one longs to reach yet can never fully arrive at—a landscape that exists somewhere within the heart.

Perhaps everyone carries an Eden of their own.

It may come from childhood, from a particular moment in the past, from someone who has already left, from an unfinished longing, or from an imagined future. It does not exist in reality, and yet it shapes the course of our lives.

Sometimes, the reason we are still able to move forward is because we have quietly reserved a place in our hearts for somewhere like this, where we find strength to carry on in reality.

A Way of Seeing Formed by Many Cultures

As an ethnic Chinese born and raised in Brunei, I grew up immersed in Chinese culture while speaking English and Malay, and living within a Malay cultural environment. These influences were never separate worlds. Together, they shaped the way I learned to see.

For that reason, it feels perfectly natural that Chinese, Malay, and English appear side by side in my work, just as Hokkien and Teochew sometimes find their place there as well.

Later, when I studied and exhibited in France and Italy, new cultural encounters found their way into my creative language. Occasionally, a line or two of French or Italian would drift into a poem.

Even in my English poems, traces of the my roots remain — echoes of Southeast Asian stories and the Chinese understanding of family origin, memory, and belonging. Likewise, my Chinese poems bear the imprint of many cultural crossings.

Yet wherever I go, whatever language I use, creation eventually returns to its source. At its heart, so much of what I create is tied to moments of warmth and tenderness, which often leads me back to the time I spent with Ama (‘Grandmother’ in Hokkien and Teochew dialects).

My mother was Ama’s only daughter, and I am mother’s only daughter. While Ama was blessed with many grandsons and granddaughters, I was the only granddaughter from her daughter.
As a child, I was especially attached to her.

Many of my earliest memories of the world are memories of her: ordinary afternoons spent together, sleepless nights after rain when frogs croaked too loudly outside, and those simple, unremarkable moments that nevertheless carried warmth and solace.

Yellow Powder and Gentle Solace

Recently, while preparing for “From Eden with Love”, I wrote a poem titled “Yellow”, where it begins:

What is the colour of memories

if they shall have one?

I think yellow it is

Part of the poem reads:

My small hand you held

as you led me to a low stool

where you gently spread

medicinal powder

on my little wounds

I curiously asked

Ama,

why are my wounds now turned yellow?

You smiled and said

Because they are healing

Only years later did I understand that some words are never meant solely for a wounded child. Certain comforts stay with us for a lifetime.

Looking back, I realize that my work has always circled around stories, memory, and tenderness. Perhaps they all originate from those years wrapped in love.

The Leaves Outside the Window

When I was in Primary Three, our classroom was on the first floor. During lessons, I loved gazing out the window at the leaves.

“Huifong, daydreaming again?”

My Chinese teacher would tease me with that familiar mixture of sternness and affection.

An English teacher once wrote in one of my assignments: Huifong, stop building castles in the air.

It was because whenever I looked at those leaves, I felt drawn toward the mysteries of nature. The same breeze passed through them all, yet every leaf danced differently.

Some moved lightly.

Some slowly.

Some spun in circles.

Others merely trembled.

Why, I wondered, did the same wind create a different dance for every leaf?

Decades have passed, yet the habit remains. Before I begin creating, I often sit by the window, coffee in hand, watching the leaves.

I watch the wind pass through them. I watch shadows drift across them. I watch the small changes most people overlook. And sometimes my thoughts travel with the wind — beyond the branches, beyond the horizon, into the clouds, until they arrive gently at the Eden in my heart.

Words Floating in the Air

Poetry arrives in much the same way. Yet poems are rarely written on purpose. More often, while I paint, I feel as though words are floating through the air around me.

Not complete sentences. Just fragments. A few scattered words. Unformed thoughts drifting past.

Every now and then I would reach out, catch a few of them, and place them on paper. A poem would begin to take shape.

Each word became a pearl.

And slowly, the pearls were threaded together into a necklace. Some things are better expressed through colour. Others are better carried by language.

Poetry and painting walk side by side. When the image can say no more, the poem continues. And when language reaches its limit, the image carries the story further.

Yearning Beans , Childhood, and Brunei

Not long ago, I was visiting a client for work. Unable to drive directly to the office, I parked some distance away and continued on foot. Along the way, I noticed small red seeds scattered across the ground.

For a moment, I froze.

Yearning beans.

I had not seen them in years. As a child, I loved collecting them. After school, my classmates and I would crouch beneath the trees, gathering them one by one and stuffing them into the pockets of our uniforms before carrying them home to fill in glass jars.

Then life moved on. I transferred to a new school. The trees disappeared. Those mornings disappeared. Eventually, even the memories disappeared.

Years later, while vacationing in Scalea, Italy, I came across similar red seeds. I hurried closer, only to discover they were not yearning beans at all.

Yet in that instant, Brunei returned to me. And so did childhood.

Both seemed impossibly far away. Later, I created a painting titled “Ardent Yearning for the Southern Land”.

The “southern land” was Brunei, and it rhymes with the word “melancholy” in Mandarin. Memory is often like that—sweet, yet touched by a hint of quiet sadness.

Reuniting with My Younger Self

After finishing my appointment and walking back to the car, I found myself crouching down to collect the beans.

At first, I intended to pick only three as a token for keepsake. Then I picked ten, deciding that ten would make a more auspicious number — the perfect ten.

Holding them in my palm, I realized I still loved them as much as ever. Their tiny heart-shaped forms. Their brilliant maroon coating that reveals a tint of red-orange glow. Their unmistakable beauty. Suddenly, I remembered an ordinary morning from childhood.

I was standing beneath a tree with my classmates, saying: “Look—yearning beans are heart-shaped. Aren’t they beautiful?” The moment those words resurfaced, I felt as though I had been pulled through a tunnel in time.

For a brief instant, I was that child again.

A Letter to Myself

Perhaps Eden has never been a distant place. Perhaps it does not belong to the future. Nor does it belong entirely to the past.

Perhaps it exists only in a moment — in the rustling of leaves. In the sudden arrival of a poem. In a yearning bean resting once more in the palm of a hand. In a memory thought long forgotten, unexpectedly returning home.

In such moments, we encounter ourselves again.

From Eden with Love may be nothing more—or less—than such a simple moment of reunion.

The paintings are letters.

The poems are letters too.

They come from the same place. The same search. The same longing. And we are both the writers of those letters and their very own recipients.

For this exhibition, I also wrote another poem titled “You Come into My Poem”. Part of it reads::

You come into my poem and

walk between the gaps of the verses

My most delicate childhood

now appears, without hindrance

before you

Ama hands me a bowl of soup

with hand-rubbed meat balls

The soup is warm

just like her palms

and just like this poem —

its breathe still warm.

Perhaps those midnight trips to the kitchen in search of snacks were never really about hunger. Nor was it pressure that woke me.

I think I was searching for a place of solace – my very own Eden.

That bowl of meat ball soup. A letter to myself. Pearls unstrung. Yearning unsung. And eventually, that invisible thread which will bind them all together.

---

来自紫云乡的信

发布日期：2026年6月19日

寻找那条隐形的线

当凌晨一点起床翻找零食的时候，我就知道压力已悄然而至，因为个展将近。

每一回筹备展览，都会折返审视整个创作历程，而每一次回望，总会印证同一件事：创作从来不是按部就班发生的。许多人以为艺术家是先定下主题，再围绕其展开创作，其实更多时候，创作像是在寻觅一根线。起初只触到线头，不知它将引向何方，沿途涌出的无数思绪——有的来自阅读，有的来自观察，有的来自记忆与旅途，还有一些来自凌晨一点钟无法解释的直觉。

在创作初期往往互不相干，散落在不同的时间与空间里的作品渐次成形，才发觉原来它们始终彼此呼应，像一颗颗珍珠；而创作的过程，不是在制造珍珠，而是在寻找那条线。最终，当珍珠被串联起来，主题才慢慢浮现。

无处可寻的紫云乡

这一次，那条线将作品引向了 From Eden with Love，中文题为《来自紫云乡的信》。比起英文，我其实更偏爱中文名字。因为紫云乡不在任何地图上，买不到机票，也搜不出坐标。它更像是一个想要抵达、却永远无法真正抵达的地方，一处存在于内心的所在。每个人心里，或许都藏着一个属于自己的紫云乡。它可能来自童年，来自某段旧时光，来自某个已经离开的人，来自一份未竟的思念，也来自对未来的想象。它不在现实中，却真切地影响着我们的人生。有时，人之所以还能向前走，也许正因为心里始终为这样一个地方留着位置。

多元交融的观看方式

身为东南亚华裔，自幼受中华文化熏陶，兼习英、巫语，又生活在马来文化的语境中。这些文化从来不是彼此割裂的，它们共同塑造了观看世界的方式。因此，创作里同时出现中文、马来文与英文、福建话与潮州话，并不足奇。当我后来再到法国和意大利深造及办展览，接触他们的文化以后，诗里也会偶尔出现一、两句法文或意大利文。

英文诗里藏着东方的韵致、东南亚的故事，以及华裔对亲情、记忆与归属的理解；中文诗里，同样留有不同文化交会的印记。然而，无论行至何处，无论用什么语言诉说，创作终将回到最初的源头。归根结底，许多情感仍系于温情——与外婆共度的时光。

母亲是外婆唯一的女儿，而我也是母亲唯一的女儿，是外婆唯一的女外孙。小时候我格外黏外婆，关于这个世界最初的记忆，多半与她有关——那些共度的再平凡不过的午后，那些雨后被青蛙吵到睡不着的夜晚，那些平淡却温热的日常。

黄色药粉与温柔慰藉

近期为《来自紫云乡的信》诗画个展写的一首诗《黄色》，诗中写道：“如果记忆有颜色 它应该是黄色。”

你牵着我的小手

带我坐在小木凳

然后在我跌倒的

小伤口

小心翼翼地敷上药粉

我问，阿嬷

为什么

我的伤口变黄色了

你笑着说

那就是快好了         

多年后才明白，有些话不止是说给受伤的孩子听的，那份温柔的慰藉，会在往后的岁月里，长久地陪伴一个人。回望来路，创作里始终绕不开故事、记忆与温情，它们大约都来自那些被爱包裹的时光。

窗外的树叶

而更早以前，这一切或许已有迹可循。记得小学三年级时，我们的教室在二楼。上课时，我总爱透过窗户看树叶。“黄慧芬，又发呆了？”中文老师总爱这样半严肃半逗的方式问。英文老师曾在我的作业这样评价，“Huifong, stop building castle in the air。”（别在空中建城堡，指做白日梦的意思）。

每当我透过窗户看树叶时，风吹起时，树叶就会不停摇曳，让我对大自然的奥妙感到好奇。明明是同一阵风，为什么每片叶子却舞出不同的节奏？有的轻快，有的迟缓，有的旋转，有的只是轻轻摇曳。

为何同样的风，叶子会有不同的舞蹈？

几十年过去，这个习惯依旧未改。每次创作之前，我喜欢坐望向窗外树叶的椅子上，手握着咖啡，看风经过，看光影游移，看那些微小而易被忽略的变化。有时，思绪也随风飘远，越过树梢，掠过天际，飘向云端，缓缓走入我的紫云乡。

空气中漂浮的文字

诗也是这样诞生的。除了作画，我也写诗。而诗并非刻意写成。很多时候，画画时总觉得空气里浮着许多文字，它们不是完整的句子，只是一些词，一些碎片，一些尚未成形的念头，飘来荡去。

偶尔伸手，从空中截住几个字，将它们落在纸上，诗便有了形状。一个个字便像一颗颗珍珠用线穿起来变成一条美丽的项链。有些事物适合用色彩诉说，有些适合用文字承载。诗与画并肩而行，彼此扶持。画面说不尽的，诗接着说；诗到不了的，画面继续延伸。

相思豆、童年与文莱

日前因公外出，车开不进去客户的办公室，只得停在停车场，再步行一段路。途中忽见地上散落着一颗颗红色的小豆。怔了一瞬，哦，是相思豆！ 已很多年没见过了。

小学时最爱捡相思豆。每次下课，总爱跟同学蹲在树下，一颗一颗拾起， 装进校裙的口袋里，然后再带回家装进玻璃瓶。后来长大了，转学了，那些树不见了，那些午后也不见了，渐渐地，连这件事也忘了。直到多年后，在意大利的斯卡莱阿度假时见到类似的红粒，走近细看，却不是相思豆。

那一刻忽然想起文莱，想起童年，文莱和童年一样遥远。于是在后来创作的一幅作品以《相思南国》命名，南国指的是文莱，而“南国”与“难过”，读音相近。记忆有时就是这样，带着一丝甜，也带着一丝惆怅。

与小时候重逢

后来办完事折返车的途中，我蹲下身开始捡起相思豆。原本只想捡三颗好好回顾一下，后来却捡了十颗，来个十全十美的寓意。将相思豆置于掌心细看，还是那么喜欢它——立体的心形，珠干红透着鲜橘红的颜色，多么独特！ 我想起那个下课的上午，我也这样跟同学们说：“你看，相思豆是心形的，多么漂亮！”就在那一瞬当这些文字掠过脑海，我仿佛被牵进时光隧道回到了小时候。

或许紫云乡从来不是远方。它未必在未来，也未必在过去。它可能只是一个瞬间。当风吹过树叶，当一句诗悄然浮现，当一颗相思豆重回掌心，当某段以为早已遗忘的记忆忽然归来。那个瞬间，人与自己重逢。

写给自己的信

而《来自紫云乡的信》，也许正是这样一次重逢。那些画，是信；那些诗，也是信。它们来自同一个地方，来自同一种寻找，来自同一种思念。而我们，既是写信的人，也是收信的人。

我也为这次个展写了另一首诗《你走入我的诗里》。诗里是这样写的：

你走入我的诗里

穿梭在字句之间

我天真无邪的童年

一幕幕在你眼前展开

外婆递给我的肉丸汤

还是热乎乎的

她的手心是暖的

就像这首诗一样

带着呼吸的温度
 

或许我半夜起身觅食，并非为了果腹，也并非是压力把我叫醒。或许我正在寻觅一所归处，我的紫云乡——那一碗外婆递来的肉丸汤。那一封我写给自己的信。那一颗颗的珍珠。还有那一条隐形的线。