The Tuba Diary
The Art of Staring into Space
December/ January 2025
The Tuba Diary
The Art of Staring into Space
December/ January 2025
As I'm writing, I’m grappling with ideas.
There was simply too much to absorb during my first visit to Langkawi. Too many places, too many impressions, too many possibilities. I knew I had to slow down and focus on one site that had its own story to tell.
Pulau Tuba kept pulling me back.
I found several possible sites there (which I’d like to keep secret for now — not because I’m being mysterious, okay maybe a little — but because I needed more time with them). I wanted to sit with the places first. To understand what kind of work could emerge from them rather than forcing an idea onto them.
And trust me, this part was hard.
Maybe one of the biggest challenges during the early stage wasn't finding ideas. It was filtering them.
I kept returning to my notes from the workshop.
"Try to explore new things, be it your practice or anything. You can even change your whole proposal/idea." — Hoy Cheong
Every corner of Pulau Tuba felt like it was tapping me on the shoulder, whispering "Pick me! I have a story!"
I’ve realized my creative process mimics the mangrove. It’s never linear. It’s bercabang—a sprawling network of ideas that seem to grow in every direction at once.
I spent a lot of time just… staring. Thinking. Staring at walls. Staring at my notebooks until the letters started looking like ancient hieroglyphics. I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought I was either a very dedicated wall-inspector or just someone who had completely forgotten how to function in public.
But I was busy. In my head, at least.
I kept returning to a piece of wisdom from Hoy Cheong: Write your ideas down whenever they come.
So that became my routine.
No matter how random, strange or incomplete — I wrote them down.
And let me tell you ideas rarely have to show up during office hours. They arrived quietly, usually at the most inconvenient moments: while I was trying to eat, while I was mid-scroll or just as I was drifting off to sleep.
The internal battle was always the same. Part of me would whisper, "Just go to sleep, finish it later." But the other part, the anxious artist part would scream, "No! If you don’t write this down right now, it will vanish into the void. You will regret it!"
So, there I was—waking up, stumbling to the laptop screen at 2:00 AM to type out a half-formed thought before it escaped.
I spent hours scrolling through the photographs from my first visit to Langkawi. Staring at those images felt like checking in with the island itself. I would look at the texture of the site and wait for the image to speak back to the notes I’d been scribbling.
But eventually, the screen just wasn't enough. The digital files felt too detached. I realized I couldn't map the island if I couldn't hold it in my hands.
Just print them out, Fatihah! my brain finally whispered.
So, I did. I needed the weight of the paper. I needed to shuffle, organize and categorize those images physically—to create a tangible archive I could actually touch. It was a slow and messy process but transforming those digital pixels into physical prints finally allowed me to start translating the visual weight of the island into something that made sense.