Today, I’m going to start with the photograph. I’m not sharing photos of my grandparents or the rest of my family online because I respect their privacy. But I decided when I recognised the time was right to start publishing these essays that I wanted to recreate the Peranakan Chinese style of studio portraits.
An internet search of these portraits show couples and women dressed up in traditional clothing, with elaborate hairdos and jewellery (gold and jade are a favourite), and usually indoors. I recreated the sepia tones and the studio lighting, but I chose to do mine outdoors to reflect the different landscape, my dress is not exactly made traditionally (but it’s inspired and was given to me by an aunt), I am wearing a jade ring from my Mama and one from another aunt.
I tell you these details, not because I picking apart a photograph is a hobby, but because these details are deliberate choices I make as a photographer. I can see these things intimately, even if the viewer does not see them immediately. I point them out, because I think they tell an interesting story beyond the subject of the photograph itself, and they’re the kind of details I wish I knew when I look at some of these old portraits from what seems like another era ago on the internet.
I am always much more interested in the histories of the many unnamed, rather than the grand sweeping narratives we’re often taught. So I suppose it’s no surprise that I am also interested in my own personal histories.
In learning about my heritage and my history, I have asked a lot of questions. It’s brought out even more questions, but it’s also brought out some emotions too. And as I’ve spoken to friends who are first- and second-generation immigrants, one of the feelings that comes out the most is that of guilt. But what do we have to feel guilty about? Don’t we have it all?
Australia has its own version of the American Dream. And our parents have big dreams too. Our parents want us to do well, to achieve what they could not. So that has an interesting impact on our education—we are simultaneously assimilated and competitive but we are also taught to obey authority and not question “elders”. But this “minority myth” is just that, a myth. We are not a monolith, and we are discovering the injustices and inequalities and incomprehensible mysteries of our world and its capitalist and democratic structures. Pitting marginalised communities against each other only means that the majority wins.
Although minority and immigrant communities are often taught, through a mix of personal insults and systemic marginalisation, that ambition is not for us and that we must put our heads down and simply work hard, this is far from the truth.
There’s another sphere where this plays out, in that of the arts. Obviously generational wealth is a key player in the game, but it is also interesting to me to see artists living in and living between both worlds—in my mind, Western art history looks very linear, whereas Eastern art history looks very circular.
The differences have less to do with materials or instruments, and more to do with the psyche of the two broad cultures. Asian cultures tend to value family, and have social norms that prioritise putting others first, hard work, and deference to authority, as opposed to individualism, legalism, and private ownership.
On a slight tangent (but its relevance will become clear), but art history as it is posited by Western scholars and artists alike is very much premised on the idea that it is a universal study of art history and not specifically Western. And I myself embody the very idea that Western countries do not just contain people whose roots are generally recognised as being the country (even if that land was stolen). Of course, when Western art does actually engage with non-Western art, it rarely considers the position of the West.
The same goes for how the West treats Asian religions. Many of the Peranakan community have embraced Christianity, and in Singapore, the Kampong Kapor Methodist Church, founded in 1894 by an Australian missionary, Sophia Blackmore, is considered one of the first Peranakan churches. During its establishment, Sunday services were conducted in Baba Malay language (it’s still used there today). I have no affiliations with this particular Church, but I do think it is interesting that while some Peranakan Chinese practice a mix of Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism (the distinctions aren’t really that concrete), others really came to admire the West.
The thing is, this guilt of mixed identities and cultures weighs on a person. We don’t necessarily want to become a doctor or a lawyer, or when we want to pursue certain creative subjects, we’re pushed towards science or commerce because our parents want us to make something of ourselves. But we feel compelled to because of how much our parents sacrifice.
I’ve been more privileged than most, being able to travel to Malaysia and Singapore to spend time with our extended family, but I know for a fact that my mum wishes she could spend more time there. It’s kind of a mix of feelings really, because while we have good lives in Australia, there is also the feeling that we’re not doing enough for our families who live overseas.
So when we don’t fit in, living between two identities, we feel like we don’t fit the narrative of either the Western story, or the non-Western story. And that’s fine, because we are carving out our own stories. We just want the space and the audience to be able to tell those stories ourselves. And I want our legacy to be passing on these stories to future generations.
A final note. These six essays have been my personal reflections on what my story is right now, but that could just as easily change in the next month, year, decade. I wanted to write it down, because writing is how I express myself best.
I’m often asked where my name, Netania, comes from. “Is it a mix of Natalia and Tania?” or “Can I shorten it to Nat?” is what I’m commonly asked. For the record, it’s in fact a Christian name, not an ethnic name, and it comes from the feminine version of Nathaniel. It means grace of God, and it is in fact a place in Israel.
The other question I get asked is “where are you from?” I don’t mind this question, so long as there’s no subtext or wrong intention behind it. But as my essays have hopefully shown, it’s so much more complicated than that. It’s small talk for you, but it’s a whole story for me.
So writing this has been therapy and catharsis. It’s been about me reclaiming the opportunity to talk about who I am, no holds barred, and imperatively, without anyone asking me first.
Thank you for joining me on this journey.
