Kōyōmi—viewing the autumn leaves—at Kiyomizu-dera or Nijō-jō inspires quiet reflection for many of us. This autumn, I find myself thinking about how I can savor time more deeply.

The ancestral system of shichijūni kō, Japan’s 72 microseasons, gives me a couple of ideas. This traditional calendar divides the year into 24 sekki, and each sekki is further split into three parts, forming 72 brief periods with poetic names such as “grass sprouts, trees bud” (approximately March 1–5), “wheat ripens and is harvested” (approximately May 31–June 5), or “evening cicadas sing” (approximately August 13–17).

These are not just poetic phrases; they reflect an intimate observation of the earth’s rhythms and the slightest tremors of life. In addition, they are reminders that man is part of nature. Thus, the first insight offered to me by shichijūni kō is this: I can see beauty all around me when I decide to be attentive, and I am a part of this natural beauty.

As each kō shifts into the next, I am reminded that change is constant. Seasons transform, friends enter and leave our lives, interests rise and fade, children grow, seek independence, and eventually return. Anger dissolves. Each morning carries the promise of a better day.

How many of us know that a Philippine-born Spanish artist founded the Museum of Modern Art in Cuenca in 1966—years before the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid was inaugurated in 1974? Born in 1924 to a wealthy family that developed real estate in the Philippines, including the popular Ayala Malls, Fernando Zóbel y Montojo became a renowned abstract artist whose works are collected by prestigious institutions such as the Tate in London and the Prado in Madrid. In addition, his extensive art book collection laid the foundation for the Fundación Juan March, a cultural heritage institution.

Zóbel began his artistic journey with figurative painting. His evolution from figurative to abstract art is the focus of the special exhibition Order is Essential at the National Gallery Singapore. Since I often struggle to fully grasp abstract art, I explored the exhibition with the curiosity of a child.

The first part of the exhibition presents Zóbel’s sketches from his classes at Harvard University, where he studied Literature and History. In the 1940s, history students were also required to take fine arts courses. This makes sense if we think about archaeologists, who study artifacts with keen observation and often sketch their forms. Zóbel drew images from teaching slides that flashed rapidly on projector screens, training his eye to capture defining characteristics with an economy of lines. Looking through his sketchpads, I was reminded of the importance of close observation.

After graduating from Harvard in 1949, Zóbel completed paintings in Manila that show the influence of European modern artists, including Henri Matisse. His Self-Portrait (1954) depicts an artist’s swivel chair, a painting of a human figure in correct proportion, and a view of leafy trees through a window. One might ask: where is the painter in this “self-portrait”? Perhaps the answer lies in the adage that one’s actions define the man. In this example, we see the depth of Zóbel’s thought process.

We find similar flat shapes, strong lines, and bold colours in Carroza (1953). A carroza/karosa is a religious float paraded during Holy Week or fiestas in many Philippine provinces. This painting, portraying a faceless Virgin Mary amid bright yellow lamps, won first prize in the semi-annual competition of the Art Association of the Philippines in 1959. Zóbel’s modern art directs our attention to form, shape, and colour—elements we often overlook when viewing figurative paintings.

Encountering Mark Rothko’s No. 14 (1960) in an exhibition at the Rhode Island School of Design inspired Zóbel to consider the possibility of narration in the absence of figures. Many of us may recall the emotional intensity of standing before Rothko’s colour block paintings. Intending to convey human tragedy or passion, Rothko’s works are known to move viewers to tears. This cathartic experience deepened Zóbel’s investigation into abstraction.

In developing his own approach to abstraction, Zóbel focused on controlling line. Watching the family cook write a greeting on a cake using an icing pipette gave him an idea. His Saeta series demonstrates how he ejected oil paint from a glass hypodermic syringe without a needle. Saeta is the Spanish word for “arrow.” Zóbel’s process is akin to an archer releasing an arrow, balancing control with the natural forces of wind and gravity. He could decide how much pressure to apply on the plunger as he moved the syringe across the canvas, but gravity and motion ultimately shaped how the paint registered on the surface.

Zóbel’s fascination with line was also informed by East Asian inkbrush painting traditions, where line is central to composition. He was particularly drawn to Chinese calligraphy. Anyone who has tried or observed calligraphy knows the immediacy and dynamism of brushwork: the initial dark impression when the ink first touches the paper, the lighter voids created by quick strokes, and the faint trailing mark as the brush is lifted.

While colour theory educates artists on the vibration and frequency of hues, Zóbel, following the Saeta series, experimented with creating a sense of vibration using only black oil on a white ground. One of the most celebrated works from his Serie Negra (Black Series) is Ícaro (1962). Referencing the myth of Icarus—who flew too close to the sun with wax wings crafted by his father Daedalus—Zóbel used his syringe technique to apply lines, then dragged a dry brush across select portions, suggesting vibration and evoking Icarus’ tragic descent.

Economy of form and colour also appears in Zóbel’s Dialogues with Artists series. A keen student of art history, he often revisited works by masters through books and museum visits. Lorenzo Lotto’s Maiden’s Dream/Allegory of Chastity (1506) depicts a young woman seated in a field, showered with flowers by a putto, while satyrs observe from the corners. Behind them, the sun rises or sets over a mountain range. In his dialogue with Lotto, Zóbel stripped away all extraneous elements, focusing only on the narrative of the Virgin and the Holy Spirit. This shows that abstraction is not spontaneous but rooted in something concrete. Instead of simply replicating Lotto’s work, Zóbel introduced his own abstract visual language to engage with the historical piece.

One of the exhibition highlights is La Vista 26 (1974), inspired by a photograph taken from the window of Zóbel’s studio in Cuenca. As he explained: “When I look at it, I see all sorts of things that do not interest me so much—houses, trees, roads. I eliminated all distraction and colour, leaving only structure and light—only the view in my mind.” His abstraction distilled reality into essence.

Order is Essential runs until November 15, 2025, at the National Gallery Singapore.

Like a statuesque, beautiful lady, the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao invites you to look at it. Architect Frank Gehry (born 1929) used undulating curves throughout the façade, roofs, and walkways, all rendered in titanium—a lightweight but strong, corrosion-resistant metal used in aerospace. The silvery curves of the Guggenheim building contrast with the verdant squares of elegant Bilbao, its modern look complementing the traditional vibe of Casco Viejo (Old Town). Casco Viejo is located opposite the Guggenheim, with the Nervión River running in between. For many decades, following the discovery of iron in the surrounding Bizkaia province, Casco Viejo buzzed with industrial activity. The rise of iron and steel mills, along with the development of shipbuilding and port industries, led to Bilbao’s economic dominance within Spain in the late 19th century.

When we gaze upon a beautiful face, don't we feel the urge to examine each component in some attempt to figure out if it is the eyes or the nose or the sum of all parts that accounts for the beauty? In like manner, the stunning modern architecture of the Guggenheim Bilbao beckons one to explore its stunning collection of modern art.

Appreciating Jeff Koons’s 40-foot-high Puppy (1997) is one delightful way to approach the Guggenheim from the esplanade. One can’t help but smile while walking around this playful sculpture made of flowering plants such as petunias, impatiens, begonias, and pansies. This living artwork playfully references the charm of an elite English garden. After all, puppies and flowers are two of the sweetest things in the world for most people. This enormous work of pop art—based on Koons’s small wooden sculpture White Terrier (1991)—was created to communicate love, warmth, and happiness. It also serves as a cheerful invitation into the interior spaces of the Guggenheim.

Another way is to approach the museum from the large-scale bronze sculpture of a spider called Maman (French word for mother). Standing nearly nine meters tall, Maman (1999) is inspired by Louise Bourgeois' mother who was a weaver. A spider, masterful in building a web which is simultaneously its home and its means of catching prey, is a metaphor for the complicated nature of motherhood. Its thin, long legs towers above us, somewhat imposing as it does so, and at the same time seem precarious and vulnerable.

After picking up one's entry ticket, one can freely explore the interior exhibition spaces of the Guggenheim which are curving, uneven in size, and connected to each other. Contrary to feeling lost as some experienced, I felt as though I was in a continuous mode of exploration through the labyrinths, encountering works of art from slightly different perspectives as I wove in and out of galleries and, in so doing, making novel connections. Let me share you some highlights.

Richard Serra (1938-2024) experimented on the effects of natural elements such as air or sea water on large-scale abstract steel sculptures that he christened Torqued Ellipses (1996-9), Double Torqued Ellipses (1997-9) and Snake (1996). Audiences walk around and within the tall and wide expanses of ellipses, looking closely at the physical changes in steel in different conditions, and sensing how space alters one's perceptions of sound and scale.

Interior with Mirrored Wall (1991) is a visually pleasing pop artwork. Roy Lichtenstein (1923-1997) disrupted modern art in the 1960s when he incorporated bright primary colours, black outlines and dots into the graphic quality of comics. His creative expressions inquire about the relationship between fine art (What do we consider “art"?), advertising (What kind of advertising creates desire?) and consumerism (What drives a purchase decision?)

El Anatsui (born 1944) has long been collecting metal caps of liquor bottles which he flattens, twists, crushes, stitches and assembles as a tapestry that he hangs like magnificent fabric on a wall. His patterns in Rising Sea (2019) reference the waves that may engulf a skyline, urging us to think about climate change. The artist also refers to geopolitical history; liquor was introduced into Africa during the Atlantic slave trade.

Refik Anadol (born 1985) inputs Frank Gehry's forms into a software programme that generates colourful moving AI-generated landscapes that are projected onto the walls of the exhibitions space called in situ. Anadol is interested in collective memories, the perception of time and space, and collaborations of man and machine. His work entitled Living Architecture: Gehry is complemented by immersive soundscape composed by Kerim Karaoglu using AI-generated audio of recordings captured within the Guggenheim. The audiovisual presentation captivates and inspires reflections on how art, like most facets of our 21st century lives including the Guggenheim Bilbao, is a carefully chosen balance of natural, manmade and technological elements.

Spoiler alert: Some descriptions may be too graphic for the queasy. (I beg your pardon.)

9 February 2025

I was up before 7 a.m. to drink a tonic that prepared my stomach for breakfast—idli with coconut and tomato chutney. The local banana was small and sweet, and paired well with a cup of coffee that I mixed with half a cup of freshly squeezed coconut cream. By 9 a.m., I was inside one of the therapy rooms.

One of the things I truly enjoy here is listening to the two therapists sing a prayer to the Ayurveda god before each treatment. Though I know next to nothing about Ayurveda, their lovely voices calling out to the divine to bless their hands and bless me bring a sense of calm.

Then the therapists began massaging my body lightly with herbal oil—a preparation for the 500 ml of medicated liquid administered as an enema. I was amazed that I could hold the liquid for a few minutes; yesterday, my insides could not take even 250 ml. Perhaps my digestive system is finally learning to cooperate with the healing methods here.

After bathing myself clean, I sat on a chair and ate spoonfuls of lightly salted broken rice porridge. As she prepared the poultice that would later be applied to my knees and feet to ease chronic pain, the therapist reassured me that an emptied stomach responds well to a warm and easily digestible meal—this made me smile.

I returned to my room to study, accompanied only by the sounds of insects and soft human chatter outside.

My fellow patients, Mangala and Vish, and I wore identical blue disposable gowns during our communal lunch of thali. We had cotton strips soaked in herbal oil wrapped around our arms and elbows, or waists and hips, or knees and legs. Others wore disposable caps on their heads—they had just received head massages with medicated oil to address headaches, hair loss, or mental concerns.

I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon treatment. Abhyanga involved applying medicated coconut oil over my entire body using long strokes by two therapists who worked simultaneously on each side of my body, through a sequence of sitting and lying postures.

Afterward, I sat inside a wooden apparatus where steam aided the release of oil and toxins from my body. I rinsed, drank herbal water, and felt renewed.

Back in my room, I continued working on my unfinished batik painting project. An artist at Muzium Kraf had sketched the Kuala Lumpur skyline with the iconic Petronas and Alor Setar Towers, and I was enjoying the process of applying color pigments.

Around 5:30 p.m., I took a walk around the village. Tall plavu (jackfruit) trees, short elimbi (cucumber) trees, and fields of pineapples were everywhere. There were also trees I couldn’t identify, and I remembered that Kerala—thanks to its strong Ayurvedic tradition—maintains impressive biodiversity.

The sun had set by the time I returned to the hospital, and after finishing dinner of poppadums, Keralan short rice, and dahl, I was already feeling sleepy.

From a short videotaped lecture by the late inspirational Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh came my new mantra:
“Life is available only in the present moment.”

Above was my journal entry for February 9, the ninth of my 19 days at an Ayurvedic hospital in Kerala. At the time, I was just beginning to understand how Ayurveda heals. (“Ayurveda” is a Sanskrit term that loosely translates to “the study of life.”)

I was curious about each of the treatments—oil massages for the body and face, water baths, head treatments, medicated oil wrappings and poultices, herbal liquids and pills, and even the vegetarian diet. Days were slow and quiet and seemed longer than usual.

Everyone wore a ready smile, gave a nod, and sometimes offered a whispered namaskar (Hindi for “hello” or “good morning”), accompanied by a hand gesture with palms pressed together. Pooja (Hindu prayer ritual), held twice during my stay, made me realize that healing is not just a physical but also a spiritual process.

The 500 ml enema was the third in a sequence of five, which began and ended with a 50 ml medicated oil purge to cleanse my gut. Before these enemas, my body had been prepared through various treatments. Other panchakarma purges also took place during these 19 days to detoxify me: smoke was blown into my ears, medicated drops were drizzled into my nasal passages and massaged around the orbitals, and I gargled medicated water to cleanse my throat and mouth.

What led me to this 19-day Ayurveda retreat?

Digestive problems, including food intolerances and the autoimmune condition known as Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), caused me years of bloating, diarrhea, gas, and disrupted sleep. 

While Western medicine relieves symptoms, Ayurveda focuses on treating the cause(s).

Why Kerala?

Why not Kerala—with its abundance of medicinal plants, welcoming and warm culture, organized tourism, and holistic healthcare infrastructure? Treatment packages tailored to specific needs often include video consultations, all meals, a private room, and airport transport—and can be explored online.

How do I sustain the positive results of my Ayurveda retreat?

In addition to a three-week supply of herbal pills, a vegetarian diet was strongly recommended to strengthen my weak gut.

According to statistics, the average global lifespan in the 1950s was around 45.7–48 years. By 2015, it had risen to approximately 72.6 years. This suggests to me that I, in my fifties, am living in a sort of “bonus round”—and that I must be kinder to my gut.

Could my gut benefit from eating more vegetables, which are easier to digest than meat? Could I digest food more efficiently by eating slowly—say, chewing each bite about 32 times before swallowing? Could warm food be better suited to my Asian DNA than cold alternatives? Might I sleep better by adopting this new diet and slow-eating practice?

In other words, changing my eating habits to fully overcome digestive issues—and consequently improve sleep quality—is my way forward.

Three months after returning to “the real world,” I can now finish a meal without the runs. This means my body absorbs more nutrients from what I eat. Gratefully, I no longer suffer from heartburn, and my stomach grumbles far less. Instead of feeling sleepy after meals, I feel more energetic—because my digestive system requires less effort to process vegetables.

What are my practical learnings from Ayurveda?

• A vegetarian diet is gentler on a weak gut.

• The Slow Food movement—which promotes sustainable agriculture, traditional cooking, and seasonal food—benefits not only the local economy but also the human body.

• Embracing a simpler lifestyle helps keep my stress levels manageable.

One new habit I've embraced is yoga nidra, also known as Non-Sleep Deep Rest (NSDR). This practice, combining breathing exercises and meditation, calms the parasympathetic nervous system and promotes both relaxation and digestion.

In conclusion

I cleaned my gut—thanks to Ayurveda! Though challenges still lie ahead, I now feel encouraged to listen more attentively to my body and make wiser food choices.

“Hanapbuhay,” our alternative term for pamamasko, was a Christmas activity we eagerly anticipated as children. Setting out by age groups, we greeted each aunt, uncle, and grandparent (both direct and secondary) within the compound, receiving Christmas money that we tucked into envelopes or trouser pockets. Because of the sheer number of children doing the rounds, we had the habit of identifying ourselves and our parents to second-degree relatives, some of whom crossed our names off a list to avoid giving Christmas money twice to the same child. Looking back, the value of those coins and small bills was nominal compared to the delight of re-encountering relatives for pamasko.

Reflecting on these memories, I feel grateful for “being seen" during these Christmas lunches. Ninang, ever the busy bee as the perennial host, made time to validate me for doing well in school. (Mom was unabashedly proud and kept her siblings informed, belying the strict parent she was at home, ever ready with her kurot when we were petulant or quarrelsome.) I even received trivial questions unrelated to Christmas, such as: “What mnemonic device is useful for remembering the periodic table?” Imaginably, these short encounters also included candid feedback about my sense of style (or lack thereof): “Ging-ging, ano ba'ng klaseng gupit 'yan?” or “Bakit pare-pareho ang suot ninyong limang magkakapatid? Lalaki ba kayong lahat?" (Obviously not. My father simply found it easy to dress us alike.)