Byline: Cassandra Naji

All the small things

Ayako Kimura holds up her coffee cup for closer inspection. “Finding the beauty behind everyday objects, catching their energy, the echoes of their life – this is what photography can do.” Seeing my nonplussed expression, the 28-year-old photographer says softly, “Now perhaps you understand 60% of what I’m trying to say, but the photographs will show you 95%. To see the small things is enriching.” She places the cup back on the table.

Kimura’s first solo exhibition, opening at Craft Peace Cafe on November 17, is full of small things. A Clear Pulse features images of quotidian objects which are often overlooked in the rush of life: a spill of rambutans, an unopened lotus, a wrinkled hand. “I want to capture their history, their energy, their beauty,” Kimura says, explaining her fascination with these apparently unremarkable everyday objects.

Beauty is a common thread in her photographs, which are characterised on a stylistic level by soft light, static composition and a low-angle composition redolent of traditional Japanese aesthetics. The Osaka-born photographer, who has been based in Cambodia for over a year, admits that her tendency to find the best in her photographic subjects, be they a roadside cow or a handful of green peppercorns, might well stem from her day job as a commercial photographer. However, she also sees her fascination with beauty as integral to her personality as an artist: “I respect the subject and I want to show its good side; maybe this is my character,” she muses. “But if I were a war photographer maybe this would change!”

While far from a latter day Robert Capa, Kimura is not averse to using her depictions of beauty to examine serious social issues. Like many creatives in contemporary Cambodia she expresses concern over the swift changes sweeping the country. Moves towards mass-production and assembly line aesthetics, comparable to the cultural shifts experienced by Japan in decades past, affect people in invisible ways. “In modern Japan everything is readymade, everything is identical. This affects people’s views on beauty, and changes cultural values.”

The rubric of industrialisation and globalisation which subtends modern living is largely absent in A Clear Pulse. Instead, the photographs depict timeless scenes: landscapes, portraits and numerous still lives. One striking image, a swarm of brown bodies clambering in the branches of a banyan tree, captures the childlike joy in life which Kimura is so keen to portray. “I want people to notice the small things in life before they’re gone. I think this is what I can do.”

WHO: Ayako Kimura
WHAT: A Clear Pulse photo exhibition
WHERE: Craft Peace Cafe, St. 392, BKK1
WHEN: From 2pm November 17 (tea and cakes provided!)
WHY: Learn to appreciate the little things

 

The signs, they are a-changing

In the bleakness of the three years, eight months and 20 days of Khmer Rouge rule, during which the spectre of death loomed ever large, one group of artisans in particular found themselves on the wrong side of history.Cambodia’s sign-painters, straddling two spheres especially reviled by Pol Pot’s troops – commerce and the arts – were ideal ideological prey for the regime. Murdered almost to a man (sign-painting is historically a male endeavour), there remained few sign-painters to pass on their craft to younger generations. This fact, coupled with the rising popularity of digital design and the economic attractions of mass production, means that the country’s tradition of hand-painted business signage is at risk of fading away altogether.

 

“They are part of a Cambodian tradition that’s in decline, and isn’t practised by anywhere near as many people as it used to be,” says Sam Roberts, author of a new book on the Kingdom’s painted signs which will be published this month. “This is something that would otherwise be lost, a piece of Cambodian tradition that could disappear. By making a record of the craft, however small a record this is, it means that when these signs are obliterated, if anyone wanted to bring them back they have a record of them.”

Undoubtedly a rich resource for future generations, Roberts’ book, Hand-Painted Signs of Kratie, is much more besides. By tracing the sufferance and survival of sign-painting, the book explores shifts in Cambodian aesthetics and culture, proving a means to reflection on the country’s past, present and future.

The story starts in the halcyon days of the 1960s, Cambodia’s golden age. Sign-painting was then an accepted and thriving profession, the most effective form of communication in a country with minimal infrastructure and a low literacy rate in many areas. The craft was employed to advertise a plethora of goods and services, from dog-meat sellers to public health pronunciations.

With the coming of the Khmer Rouge, signs and their painters fell out of favour, along with all other perceived symbols of capitalism and liberal aesthetics. This explains the paucity of extant signs from that period, a loss lamented by aficionados such as Roberts, who laughingly compares the hunt for pre-Pol Pot relics to the quest for the Holy Grail. The profession picked up once more in the 1990s as NGOs and businesses flooded the country, but this resurgence was not to last.

“It’s definitely on the decline right now,” says Roberts, more than a little sadly. “Even the signs in the book, a lot of them aren’t there any more.” While there are practical and economic explanations for the increasing popularity of cheap, mass-produced signage, Roberts notes there may also be deeper socio-cultural trends shaping Cambodia’s urban landscape.

“My theory is that these signs and their demise are indicative of a phase of a country’s development,” he explains. “There’s a perception that digital signs are more modern and perfect, and people value that. I think a culture has to go through that phase of mechanisation and digitisation, and when it emerges from that people begin to appreciate the value of hand-crafted creations.”

Coming from that post-industrialised perspective, Roberts’ appreciation of the hand-crafted aesthetic is apparent throughout the book. Juxtaposing 170 photographs with thoughtful exploration of Cambodia’s art and history, Hand-Painted Signs of Kratie is a continuation of the author’s fascination with ‘ghost signs’, the peeling painted remnants of early 20th century advertising still visible across Europe and North America. Founder of an online archive of such signs, Roberts acknowledges that he is “a sucker for nostalgia”, but he’s adamant that appreciation of a hand-crafted aesthetic is more than just longing for times gone by.

“I don’t want to see a regression to the Middle Ages, but I do think there has to be a balance between a digitised society and reconnecting people with humanity,” he insists. “When you see something handcrafted it mediates a connection between you and the person who created it… And that’s more soulful, more human than everything being mass-produced and mechanical.”

Hand-Painted Signs of Kratie will be available from mid-November and will be followed on December 4 by an exhibition at Cambodian Living Arts, giving Phnom Penhites the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the signs of changing times.

WHO: Sam Roberts and Cambodia’s sign painters
WHAT: Hand-Painted Signs of Kratie
WHERE: http://kratie.ghostsigns.co.uk/buy
WHEN: Mid-November
WHY: See the ghosts of signs past

 

Secret spaces and magical hours

They call it ‘ruin-lust’ and photographer Chea Phal has it bad. The symptoms? A romantic fascination with forgotten and decaying buildings coupled with a determination to capture their image before it is too late. The result? Forgotten, Sometimes Hidden, an exhibition of hauntingly beautiful photographs of Phnom Penh’s overlooked, unloved and at-risk architectural treasures.

This romantic fascination with decaying buildings and their sociological significance is far from a new phenomenon. It subtends the artworks of the 18th and 19th centuries, from Casper David Friedrich’s landscape paintings to Eugene Atget’s fin de siècle photographs of Paris in the throes of modernisation. In the latter half of the 20th century. Detroit, a city in seemingly perpetual decline, provided the perfect backdrop for photographers in the grip of ruin-lust, such as Romain Meffre and Yves Marchand.

It was Marchand’s photographs of Detroit in dissolution which inspired Chea, whose first solo exhibition is being unveiled at The Plantation Hotel during this year’s Our City Festival. “Marchand’s photos were mind-blowing,” he enthuses. “That’s what made me jump-start to photographing these buildings.”

Forgotten, Sometimes Hidden follows the trajectory of Chea’s countless days spent exploring Phnom Penh, during which he seeks out the city’s architectural secrets. The photographs capture the historical and aesthetic value of 12 buildings: some are well known, such as Vann Molyvann’s White Building; others are anonymous, rendered only through close-range shots of crumbling brick or exposed internal structures. “I guess when people see my pictures they might see the building first,” Chea explains. “But then they notice the emptiness inside.” This emptiness conveys a certain vulnerability as if, stripped of intended form and functionality, these buildings lie helpless in the face of eventual destruction.

Chea’s anxiety about the fate of Phnom Penh’s architectural landmarks is symbolised through his use of natural light in Forgotten, Sometimes Hidden. Part of the exhibition is dedicated to photographs taken in the so-called ‘magic hour,’ that suspended moment between day and darkness standing as a metaphor for the moribund buildings’ twilit existence. “I sometimes revisit the same places again and again to seek better lights. For me, the rather dark atmosphere can give us some sort of feeling that those buildings are fallen in an unfortunate situation,” he says regretfully. “Somehow, these structures are the least permanent of things. People feel differently about the city’s development, but for me Phnom Penh is losing its identity. I try to photograph it before it’s gone.”

For Chea himself, his work conjures mixed emotions. “There’s the excitement of seeing and capturing what most people haven’t seen or failed to see. It’s both thrilling and challenging to get into those neglected buildings and photograph them. Then I imagine what the building looked like in its prime. Some buildings deserve better care and love, and it saddens me to see their withered condition.”

The exhibition constitutes not only an image of a city in flux, but also a portrayal of an aspect of Cambodian history and identity in danger of disappearing. Chea hopes his work can connect people to this shared history, capturing the present while linking it to the past and future. “Nothing would make me happier than if I can provoke the audience to rethink this wonderful architecture. I think in about a decade it will be very hard to imagine what Phnom Penh looks like now. I hope the frozen moment in still pictures could help the next generation to understand and learn about our past.”

WHO: Chea Phal
WHAT: Forgotten, Sometimes Hidden photography exhibition
WHERE: The Plantation, #28 St. 184
WHEN: Until October 7
WHY: See your city before it’s gone

 

Dish: breakfasts first for a Kingdom

Breakfast: the most important meal of the day. But in the Kingdom of Wonder breakfast can often leave you wondering; when born and bred Phnom Penhites eat their first meal of the day they appear, to expat eyes, to be erroneously chowing down on their evening meal. Rice, noodles, mystery meats – a morning mash-up confusing enough to send even the most adventurous scurrying for the comfortable familiarity of one of the city’s numerous Western coffee shops. A caramel latte, a pain au chocolat, a bit of toast and jam: now that’s breakfast. It will also cost you about $10, thank you very much.

But step outside your air-conditioned comfort zone and you’ll discover that Khmer breakfasts are (despite occasional appearances to the contrary) delicious and, for those experiencing that end-of-the-month penury, dirt-cheap as well.

Bobor 

Touted as Cambodia’s rebuttal to Scottish porridge, bobor does not in fact contain the mighty Scottish oatflake, nor does it come in a box branded with a burly gentleman in a raunchily wind-blustered kilt. In fact, bobor has more in common with gruel than porridge. But don’t let this put you off; it’s a great way to start your day. A simple dish, it consists of soft-cooked rice drenched in steaming broth and spiced up with sundries. In more salubrious breakfast establishments, such as those lining Monivong Boulevard, you can choose whether you want your bobor with chicken (sait mowan), beef (sait gow) or fish (sait trai). But if you’re feeling brave just pull up a stool outside any morning market stall, ask for bobor and get what you’re given. This could range from the tender chicken breast, to crispy squid rings, to the marginally less appetising congealed pigs’ blood or unidentifiable gizzard. Topped off with roasted garlic, diced mint leaves and freckles of onion leaf, bobor is truly the monarch of the porridge glen. And this is coming from a Scot.

Bai Sait Chrouk

Cambodia’s answer to the bacon roll. You’ll spot a pork and rice vendor by the billows of smoke emanating from their street-side charcoal grills and, of course, the irresistible whiff of bacon. Pork and rice, like Ronseal, does exactly what is says on the tin: it’s just pork and rice. But the meat is consistently well-seasoned, oscillating between sweet and sour and complimented perfectly with a heaped spoonful of pickle or sweet chilli sauce. If you’re really ravening you can request a fried duck egg to top it all off. The breakfast of kings, and those with moderate to severe hangovers.

Num Banh Chok

If you’re one of those people who has ever, in a moment of weakness, found yourself at the fridge consuming last night’s cold curry with your bare hands, then prepare thyself for a new dawn. Num banh chok, Cambodia’s breakfast curry, is a national treasure as unique to the country as Angkor Wat or Howies Bar. Recipes vary noticeably from province to province, but the heart of the dish is constant: a whorl of thick rice noodles unceremoniously dumped in a bowl, fresh bean sprouts, chillies and herbs, ladled with a mild fish-based coconut curry. This is topped by wild herbs, long beans and lotus stems. A twist of fresh lime completes your breakfast curry.

Kuyteav

A Phnom Penh breakfast icon which, according to legend, cannot be truly replicated outside the capital’s environs. Of course, kuyteav is offered at roadside stalls from Poipet to Bavet, but what makes the city’s version special is its direct provenance from the first influx of Chinese immigrants centuries ago; the dish has remained unchanged ever since. The premise is simple: vermicelli noodles dipped in pork bone broth, and mixed with whatever remaining bits of said pig are to hand. The secret of kuyteav’s success is in the seasoning – an array of lettuce leaves, bean sprouts, herbs and caramelised garlic can be added during the cooking process, or presented separately for your individualised dining pleasure. Recipes are handed down as heirlooms and range widely from family to family, making kuyteav the adrenalin sport of breakfasts. But if you want the real deal, head to the corner of street 107 and Oknha Tep Phan: Phnom Penh kuyteav was born in this area, and it was here that it was first resurrected after the fall of the Khmer Rouge.

A bite of world history for breakfast? All of a sudden that caramel latte starts to look just a little less tempting.

 

Coming home

“Of course I’m nervous!” laughs Jean-Baptiste Phou. “I never imagined that a thought I had sitting on my own in front of my computer would one day become all this!” He gestures round him in amazement.

The ‘all this’ to which he is referring is the frantic preparation for opening night of Phou’s first play, Cambodia, Here I Am, which will show at Chenla Theatre and has the backing of the French Institute. Little wonder the first-time writer and director is having a minor case of pre-premiere jitters.

The play, which toured France last year, centres around four Khmer women stuck in the waiting room of the Cambodian Consulate in Paris. Three are returning to Cambodia for disparate reasons; one is on the cusp of a new life in France with a French husband. Four characters spanning four generations, each holding very different perspectives on the country they putatively call home. As they discuss Cambodia and their increasingly tenuous connections to it, their struggles and hopes surrounding identity and self-hood are subtly revealed. “They all have their own idea of Cambodia,” explains Phou. “They all strongly defend their vision, but that vision is subjective and they are all wrong and right in the same way. They tease each other all the time; there’s tension there.”

A group of characters stuck in a room tormenting each other? Sounds suspiciously Sartrean. But Phou denies such direct referentiality, although he admits that being born in Paris it’s “pretty hard to get away from Sartre”. In an attempt to purify his creative process, the playwright closeted himself away from external influences during the genesis of the work, attempting to find his own authentic way of telling the stories of the four Cambodian women populating his mind and his page.

The result is innovative and intriguing. While making use of accepted Western dramaturgy, such as character motivation and causal narrative structure, Cambodia, Here I Am determinedly includes elements typical of Khmer classical theatre: shadow puppetry, traditional instrumentalists onstage with the actresses, Apsara dance. However, Phou didn’t feel the mere inclusion of these traditional motifs would be “interesting enough”, so he added his own authorial-directorial twist. The shadow ‘puppets’ are flesh and blood actors, silhouetted in magic-lantern motion; the instrumentalists sporadically interact with the actresses; even the Apsara dance, venerated in Cambodia, is done with a tongue-in-cheekiness, becoming a vehicle for examination of cultural stereotypes and Western perceptions of what it is to be ‘Asian’.

It’s this nod to the prismatic nature of perception that for Phou holds the key to Cambodia, Here I Am. “For me it’s about representation, false representations, stereotypes and fantasies.” Even for Cambodians – be they emigrants, immigrants, returnees or lost sons and daughters – Cambodia is a many-splendoured thing, irreducible to a glib slogan no matter how catchy the Ministry of Tourism’s ‘Kingdom of Wonder’ tagline may be. Phou’s play provides a glimpse into the complexity of comprehending Cambodia, and the subjectivity of any theory that claims to do so.

Unsurprisingly, the play refuses to present its audience with a neat and tidy ending. When do cross-generational, cross-continental identity crises have neat and tidy endpoints? “Is there any resolution? No, that’s something tricky…” muses Phou. “I don’t want the play to be didactic. But despite all the tensions and different experiences and different representations, I wanted at the end to really connect the four characters, connect the four generations. It’s not a happy ending, but they are all moving towards Cambodia in some way. And they’re all asking the country, ‘Please accept me as I am.’”

WHO: Jean-Baptiste Phou, playwright and director
WHAT: Cambodia, Here I Am
WHERE: Chenla Theatre, Phnom Penh Cultural Centre, Mao Tse Tung Blvd
WHEN: 7pm September 8, 3pm September 9
WHY: Who among us isn’t having an identity crisis?

 

Dish: Vive la P’tite France!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is practically impossible to talk about French food without coming off like a pretentious wanker. Mere iteration of words such as rillettes, escargots and worse, coq au vin is often sufficient to leave many non-Francophones scurrying for the hills, or at least in search of their dictionary. It is thus with some trepidation that we embark upon a review of La P’tite France, which has recently relocated from the Riverside to BKK1: writing about food is hard enough; writing about food which puts the haughty in haute cuisine is, to say the least, intimidating.

Entering La P’tite France, all such trepidation fades. This may be something to do with the immediate arrival of a carafe of crisp rosé wine ($10) and a continually replenished plate of homemade crisps (whether crisps are a quintessential element of French dining is a moot point, but free crisps rarely elicit complaints from anyone). The outside dining area, overhung with tropical greenery and tinged with the fragrance of frangipani flowers, completes the relaxation process; the chocolate box Monet prints which adorn the interior are less pleasant, but hardly offensive.

As should be the case in any French eatery, the alcohol menu is extensive. Aperitifs take up a page of their own, as do digestifs, with Armagnac, Courvoisier and calvados nestling up to bottles of Muscadet and Chablis. The Kir Royale is oh-so temping, but at $7 seems a little decadent. There are of course non-alcoholic drinks on offer, but people, we are in France!

And, being in France, we must act like proper gourmands. The food selection provides ample opportunity to do so, being replete with meals emblematic of the age-old conundrum of how French women eat this stuff and yet remain thinner than the rest of us. A mere perusal of the starters is enough to pile on the pounds: pork pate laced with Armagnac, chicken liver salad, duck fois gras on toasted brioche… all very naughty. The main courses are a carnivore’s playground: surely it’s illegal to make customers choose between roasted duck in raspberry confit or prime rib eye in pepper sauce? Disappointingly, there are only three fish dishes on offer, unless you count whelks as fish, which hopefully no one does. Pizza and pasta are also available, for the unadventurous.

The Steak La P’tite France, the restaurant’s signature dish, comes perfectly cooked and garnished, although the accompanying skinny fries look less fine dining, more fast food. Maybe a more grown-up incarnation of the humble potato would be more fitting. Big fat chips, for example. The pan-fried red mullet is both crispy and delicate, with just the right amount of salsa verde, providing a perfect excuse for much plate-mopping with the complimentary homemade bread.

No French dining experience is complete without a cheese platter; there is probably some law in France that actually mandates the consumption of cheese after every meal. La P’tite’s comes with Camembert, Brie and a mild blue, alongside slices of apple and walnuts. The cheeses themselves could be stronger, but perhaps La P’tite France is making a concession to palettes not wholly accustomed to cheeses which smell hellish but taste like heaven.

The rest of the desserts are also classiques: chocolate mousse, profiteroles, a hot melty tarte tatin topped with ice cream. And the somewhat mysterious but welcome offer of ‘extra alcohol or cream, $2’ with any pudding; who could resist? To round it all off, the attentive staff deliver a complimentary shot of passion fruit liqueur unbidden to the table. That kind of liberté, égalité and fraternité really cannot be beaten.

La P’tite France, #38 St. 306; 016 64 26 30; laptitefrance.com.

 

The Greatest Ladyboy Show On Earth

The red velvet curtains part tantalisingly slowly. Atop a glittery stairway to heaven, a statuesque blonde, pink mini-dress and legs up to her armpits, turns just as slowly and winks even more tantalisingly to her audience. “Diamonds…” she lip-synchs smilingly. “Diamonds…” A gut-wobbling sound system kicks up and suddenly we’re into a cabaret explosion which would certainly put Nicole Kidman into a corner, and might even give Marilyn a run for her money. A phalanx of stunners surround the blonde, twirling and lifting her as she performs feats of derring-do previously thought to be impossible in 5-inch stilettos. These are probably the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen. Except, as you’ve probably guessed, they’re not ‘girls’; they’re ladyboys.

Welcome to Siem Reap’s Rosana Broadway, the greatest ladyboy cabaret on Earth. Or at least in Cambodia. In fact, it’s the first and only such show in Cambodia. Gay friendly bars such as Phnom Penh’s Blue Chilli and Siem Reap’s Khmer Queen have been putting on drag shows for donkeys’ years, but Rosana Broadway is something else. A 900-seater auditorium, choreographers from Thailand, close to 100 high-kicking ladyboys and transvestites – this is no hole-in-the-wall affair. This is Las Vegas cabaret come to the Kingdom. In fabulous frocks.

General Manager Mr Atth Saengchai is keen to clear up any erroneous presumptions about the sort of outfit he’s running. There will be no funny business at Rosana: “We’re not a bar, not a café. I tell my staff you are talented, you are actresses and you have to be proud.”

Mr Atth knows what he’s talking about. Founder of the famed Calypso club in Thailand, in which Lady Gaga’s bejewelled presence has been spotted, he’s an old hand on the Thai cabaret scene. And quite a scene it is too: venues such as Miss Tiffany’s and Mambo in Pattaya can pull in almost 1,000 punters a show, with up to six performances a day in the tourist high season. Being a star in one of the top Thai cabarets can bring fame and fortune for the luckiest ladyboys.

Moreover, Thailand has had a thriving and increasingly socially accepted gender-bender culture for years. Ladyboys now have jobs in the corporate world as well as in entertainment; the ladyboy volleyball team The Iron Ladies are a national symbol; even the macho world of Thai boxing succumbed years ago to the charm and skills of Nong Tum, renowned for fighting with a full face of slap on, and planting the occasional cheeky kiss on her male opponent.

In Cambodia attitudes can be a little less laissez-vivre. Although Siem Reap and Phnom Penh both have a range of LGBT-friendly venues, traditional ways of thinking have sometimes made life tough for Khmer ladyboys. “Ladyboys here weren’t accepted.” Mr Atth shakes his head wonderingly. “They felt they had to hide something in the daytime, but they are human beings; they should have a better life.”

Backstage at Rosana’s, the rehearsal for that ticket to a better life is in full swing. Ladyboys, transvestites and members of Siem Reap’s gay community are jazz-handing so energetically it looks as though someone might sprain something vital. Diana Ross blasts from enormous speakers as a performer shimmies a perilously perfect bottom and a teenage boy backflips around her, pausing momentarily to grin before busting out some breaks. In high heels. The music morphs into Bollywood, and 20 dancers slip effortlessly into Apsara poses, their tilting heads and hands as beguiling as their shy smiles. The choreographer, in muscle vest and hair band, beats out the rhythm with his foot, while in the corner a gaggle of ‘girls’ are trying on tiaras with an aplomb that makes Kate Middleton look like an amateur. It’s like being on the set of Fame, but with less leg warmers and better hair extensions.

The energy in the room is infectious. That said, this is no summer camp; with two shows a day, 365 days a year planned, Rosana’s performers have to be at the top of their game. Each performance will last over an hour, and will be tailored to fit its audience as snugly as a sparkly leotard. “If we have a majority of Koreans one night, we will include more Korean songs,” explains Mr Atth. “If we have more Chinese, then more Chinese songs. But always this is a Cambodian show. We want local people to feel proud.” The huge phallic representation of Angkor Wat which forms the backdrop of the opening number should do the trick.

The Cambodian focus is mirrored in the performer demographic, with more than 70% Khmer to 30% Thai cast members. Mostly untrained before Rosana rolled into town, the Khmer ladyboys are being mentored by their more experienced Thai counterparts. Ana, the Monroe blonde, is happy to be part of the training process: “I’ve been in cabaret since I was 18, I love to be onstage. But I left Thailand and came here to help ladyboys in Cambodia. Before, they had no jobs – so sad.” She flutters her hands in front of her face and her voice becomes gravelly with emotion. “We did not choose to be born this way, but we are people, just like everyone else.”

Vannara, a 25-year-old Siem Reap native imbued with an elegance for which most women would gladly sacrifice their right arm, is one of those benefiting from Ana’s experience, as much in life as in the art of cabaret. Born to dance, at the age of 12 Vannara used to sneak into Apsara classes: “I didn’t tell anyone in the class I was a boy – no one ever guessed.” Now she says her family are happy she’s found a job at Rosana and can support herself. “It’s a little bit hard here compared to Thailand, but this is just how it is.” She looks up through a miasma of dusky eyelashes and smiles: “Maybe because people like Ana come here things are changing. Now no one around me hates me, because I don’t do anything which is wrong.”

At that moment the choreographer readjusts his hairbow and claps his hands. Twenty ladyboys skip to centre stage and stand, fingers clicking, counting down to what they hope will be the chance of a different way of life. From the wings, a transvestite with pigtails lets out an impromptu “Whoop!” of encouragement. Social attitudes may change slowly, but on this stage, at this very moment, in these sequins, the greatest ladyboy show in Cambodia is about to begin.

WHO: Your friendly local ladyboys
WHAT: Rosana Broadway Cabaret Show
WHERE: National Highway 6, Siem Reap
WHEN: Opening September 15
WHY: Not your average cocks in frocks

The sound of silence

Ludwig van Beethoven’s legacy looms large over classical music: nine symphonies, 32 piano sonatas, 16 string quartets, a plethora of quintets, trios and concertos. Well aware of his prodigious musical abilities, the German composer once remarked of himself, “Beethoven can write music, thank God – but he can do little else on Earth.”

 

There is an underlying poignancy to this statement, despite its self-aggrandising third person iteration, for although Beethoven could indeed write masterful music, he could not hear it. In a cruel twist of fate’s knife, by the composer’s middle age he was almost completely deaf. Although he continued to compose until the end of his days, the distress caused by his condition was profound. At the premiere of his acclaimed Ninth Symphony, he turned to receive the riotous applause of the enraptured audience; hearing silence and nothing more, he wept.

Despite being deaf as a doornail, Beethoven is credited with having changed the face of classical music, in particular chamber music. Oft described as ‘rational people conversing’, chamber music was designed to be performed in palace chambers by a small group of instrumentalists to an intimate and, more often than not, aristocratic audience. Haydn, Beethoven’s mentor and self-appointed ‘father of chamber music’, was initially supportive of his protégé’s chamber compositions; that is, until the young pretender surpassed his teacher in skill and fame. In a fit of pique, Haydn took to ridiculing his former friend, and the two behemoths of chamber music parted ways forever.

Almost 200 years later, Beethoven and Haydn are being brought into harmony once more. The Kuala Lumpur Piano Trio will be playing chamber music by the two estranged maestros, as well as a selection of their contemporaries, as part of the InterContinental Phnom Penh Concert Series 2012. The concert traverses time and space, bringing the sound of Enlightenment Vienna to contemporary Phnom Penh, performed by musicians from Vietnam, Malaysia and the UK.

Diverse in nationality, the Kuala Lumpur Trio are nevertheless united in virtuosity. Violinist Nguyen My Huong is a fixture at the Hanoi Philharmonic; Bang Hean has played the piano in orchestras from London to Hong Kong; Steve Retallick is the principal cellist at the Malaysian Philharmonic Orchestra. Combined, such musical prowess makes for a ‘passionate collaboration – the hallmark of an exceptional chamber music ensemble’. Riotous applause is guaranteed to ensue. It’s just a shame that Beethoven won’t be able to hear it.

WHO: Kuala Lumpur Piano Trio
WHAT: Beethoven, Haydn, and contemporaries
WHERE: Intercontinental Ballroom 2, InterContinental Hotel
WHEN: 7pm September 1
WHY: You can still hear Beethoven, but Beethoven cannot hear you

 

Talking about a Revolution

Yean Reaksmey’s afro enters the room long before the man himself. This is hardly surprising: the 21-year-old self-styled arts advocate is somewhat diminutive; the hair, conversely, is huge. But both ‘fro and physicality play second fiddle to Yean’s most striking aspect – his unquenchable thirst for revolution.

“Different things made me a revolutionary,” he confesses. “Ever since I was young, I fought with my parents because I wanted to be independent. My father was strict, he worked in the military… so I rebelled a little maybe.”

This rebellion led Yean, at the tender age of ten, to leave the family home and strike out alone. “We were not poor, I didn’t face any big economic difficulties or anything like that. But I wanted to be independent. So I told my parents I would grow my hair, and I started supporting myself.”

Working first on a farm and then in various restaurants, he eventually found his way to Phare Ponleu Selpak, Battambang’s renowned arts NGO. Training in performing arts and traditional music, in which he still dabbles, Yean flourished at Phare: “Everyone here, every single person, inspired me to think innovatively.”

Inspired he may have been, but the revolutionary wasn’t ready to roll over and play nice quite so quickly. He suspected there was a lack of independent spirit among his fellow students, and perhaps even in himself. “We knew how to draw, but sometimes we didn’t have our own ideas, we followed other people. I realised I was facing exactly the same psychological problem as the other students. So I decided to do something different.”

That ‘something different’ was Trotchaek Pneik, a collective of 12 fiery Phare alumni and students bent on taking the arts scene by the balls. The group’s performers, musicians and visual artists have exhibited in group and solo shows around the Kingdom, collaboratively honing their creative techniques while quietly plotting their art revolution. “Maybe right now Trotchaek Pneik doesn’t have a lot of money, but money will come,” muses Yean. “But right now we just need to build our army so we’re ready for the future. We believe in the power of art for change-making in this country.”

Yean brings his special brand of art revolution to Phnom Penh through his position as gallery manager of the small and informal space at Equinox Bar. This relaxed venue suits Yean’s manifesto perfectly, providing a forum for artists from both Trotchaek Pneik and beyond who, while talented, have yet to establish themselves firmly on the Phnom Penh arts circuit. Eschewing the white cube exhibition aesthetic, Yean is determined to make Equinox a democratic arts space for young Cambodian creatives while remaining true to his collective’s socially conscious principles.

The exhibition currently on show, Filling the Negative Space, walks this fine line between artistry and social awareness. Featuring works by Chantha Kong and Tim Robertson, the mixed media pieces foreground the impassive faces of figures such as Chut Vuthy and Chea Vichea, reminding the observer of the often grim reality of heroism in today’s Cambodia.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Yean’s energy extends far beyond filling negative spaces on the walls of Equinox. Last month he participated in a Slovenian workshop on sustainable development, and is now preparing to speak at Singapore’s Community and Cultural Development Symposium in September. And his chosen topic of discussion? Yes, you guessed it: Arts and Revolutionists.

“Every day I tell Trotchaek Pneik one thing: ‘Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful and committed citizens can change the world.’ But maybe I just say this because I’m a revolutionary guy! My nickname is George, like George Washington, the revolutionary.” He cackles. “Just kidding!”

He’s not kidding though; this revolutionary is for real.

WHO: Yean Reaksmey and Trotchaek Pneik
WHAT: Arts revolutionaries for social advancement
WHERE: Community Cultural Development Symposium, Singapore
WHEN: September 17 and 18
WHY: The times they are a-changing

Fonki Town

On the whitewashed walls of Phnom Penh’s French Institute, something mysterious is taking shape. A wrinkled hand emerges, a smile tilts shyly for the camera, a pair of black eyes gaze unblinkingly at the street below. Faces, a family, a stippled memory wholly personal yet, paradoxically, nationally pertinent.

The normally sedate French Institute is not the only Phnom Penh structure to be lent some graffiti cred by Fonki, a Khmer-French-Canadian street artist. One month into his fourth sojourn Fonki selected a rundown section of Russian Boulevard as the locus for his initial Phnom Penh paint-up, with full and smiling permission of the building owner. Mixing rad Montreal lettering with trad Khmer kbach aesthestics of form and colour, the piece was a hit. “For me the whole process was awesome,” enthuses Fonki. “People are curious, especially the kids. You’re there for four days and you know the whole neighbourhood.”

Knowing the whole neighbourhood can have its downsides, though; the neighbourhood watchdogs know you just as intimately. Barely a week after Russian Boulevard was given its make-over, Fonki returned to find his work inexplicably white-washed. He is surprisingly sanguine about the effacement: “The chief of police, he said ‘Yeah! Do your thing!’ So I thought it was it cool. Then after a week they buffed it! But I don’t mind, you know. Graffiti is epheremal.”

Perhaps paradoxically, Fonki is using this ephemeral and oft-maligned genre to express the inescapable truths of family, nation and identity. Both the mural adorning the Institute – the largest yet in the 22-year-old’s career – and the short-lived work on Russian Boulevard (not to mention the myriad ideas gestating in Fonki’s capacious, electrifying, high-speed brain) address ideas of permanence and contemporaneity, of past and present. This is no surprise given his family history.

As Khmer Rouge troops closed in on the beleaguered capital in 1975, Fonki’s parents fled to France and then Montreal, where the young graffiti artist was born and raised. “I’d always been drawing,” he says. “My parents never complained or showed their sadness… but I could feel some of that. I couldn’t complain or be the sad guy after everything they’d been through, so I put all my energy into street art. I realised I’d always been doing graffiti but I didn’t know it!”

While innocently making his mark as the new graffiti kid on Montreal’s urban block, Fonki immersed himself in illustration, studying animation and film at Concordia University with an old friend, Jean-Sebastien Francoeur. The twosome teamed up with Andrew Marchand-Boddy, who divides his time between winning film awards and doing flip-tricks at his local skate park, and decided to make an off-the-cuff 15 minute short about Fonki’s prodigal return to Cambodia.

Several months and 80 minutes of celluloid later, Wet Paint is a bona fide feature film in progress. It follows Fonki from Montreal to Phnom Penh, spray can in hand, giving workshops to Khmer kids and revivifying the rotting walls of Phnom’s Penh’s forgotten buildings. “This is a beautiful city,” explains Fonki, “but it’s changing so fast. That’s why I had to come now. My generation is craving… something… solidarity, identity… something.”

It’s that elusive something that Wet Paint hopes to uncover, positing freestyle art as the expressive mode of choice for the post-genocide generation. And despite Phnom Penh’s notable dearth of visual street art, Fonki feels the city is poised for a distinctively Cambodian graffiti revolution: “Our culture has so much richness of form and colour, we could do so much. In the ’80s and ’90s we couldn’t move forward, we had to try to save what had been eradicated. But now I think this generation can move forward. Now, right now, we can build an identity and be proud to be Cambodian. When you paint in Cambodia, you paint your own story, sure, but you also paint the story of your family. And the story of every other family as well, and more than that.

“But hey I don’t know, I’m just a painter,” he laughs. “For sure I’m not going to save any lives with graffiti – I’m not a doctor! But there’s one thing I always say: add colour to your present if your past seems grey. When I came here and I thought about that, I thought, yeah, everybody lost someone in the genocide. But you know something? The future is now.”

Fonki’s largest ever mural will be unveiled on July 26 at the Institut Francais du Cambodge, with live music and entertainment.

WHO: Fonki
WHAT: Street art
WHERE: Institut Francais du Cambodge, St. 184
WHEN: 6:30pm July 26
WHY: Behold the awesome power of the spray can