What does it mean to pay attention to an artwork? To really pay attention – not scroll past, not glance, not skim the wall text and move on. It means giving up control. It means letting the artwork speak before you speak over it. When I first stood before Yee I-Lann’s Orang Besar Series, I didn’t know that was what I was doing. But now I realise – I was listening. I had given the artwork space to speak.
When I first encountered this piece, I didn’t yet have the words. I saw a mass of black-and-white bodies, climbing and reaching in chaotic desperation. Above the tangled limbs and pressed suits, a single umbrella floated. At first, it seemed fragile, almost absurd – like offering a paper parasol in a storm. But then I noticed the reflections below, the indigo bleeding through, and it clicked. These people weren’t just climbing – they were wading, knee-deep in floodwaters, the umbrella a shield, a bare minimum in a world that offered none. My gaze shifted. On the left side, a tree anchored the chaos. Its roots curled into the base, its vines slithering like veins. Ancient, persistent. A quiet witness. The climbing men weren’t just anyone. Their polished attire – business suits, briefcases, upright posture spoke of ambition, status, a power grab. This wasn’t a rescue; it was the legacy of old systems, colonial roots enduring through time.
I needed answers. I darted to the small exhibition label cowering next to the domineering tapestry. ‘The Orang Besar Series’ were the four words that have imprinted themselves in my mind ever since. I paused, letting the phrase linger. In the context of traditional Malay society, ‘Orang Besar’ or, ‘Big Men’, referred to elite individuals whose power stemmed not just from wealth, but from their indispensability and control over networks of dependents. These “men of prowess” held authority through influence and necessity, shaping the survival of others. This revelation made me return to the tapestry with new eyes. Were these men scrambling for power, or were they striving to obtain the patronage of the Orang Besar?
My grandmother, noticing my curiosity, told me, “That’s a banyan tree, a parasitic ‘strangling’ tree.” She explained how it germinates on a host, growing around it for support, eventually engulfing and killing it. As I reflected, I saw the connection: the figures in the artwork, struggling and climbing, mirrored this dynamic. Power, greed, and patronage can make us parasitic, depending on others while draining them. But what draws the line between dependence and exploitation?
My eyes drifted to the next piece, and I could almost hear the tension in the air; the men staring up, mouths agape, waiting for sustenance. Next to them, the pitcher plant’s trap lay open, mirroring their pose. In that moment, I realized the men weren’t just waiting – they had become the trap itself. Reflecting on this, I thought about how paying attention to something means seeing beyond the surface. It’s about recognising the subtle ways we can become trapped by the systems we depend on.
My attention lingered until the final piece, where I almost felt the quiver of the humble plant, recoiling at the slightest touch. In this artwork, the dependents shrank into a ball, elastic and pliable, like playthings. The moment felt instinctive, human. I-Lann’s imagery seemed to reflect this vulnerability – like the plant, the common people, faced with even the smallest threat, shrink back in fear, seeking refuge by curling inward. As I looked at this, I reflected on my own moments of vulnerability – times when, like the plant, I retreated inward for solace. I realised then that paying attention to art is not just about observation, but recognising the raw emotions that connect us all.
I paid attention to the banyan tree, its roots strangling the host, mirroring the men’s parasitic dependence on the Orang Besar, threatening to consume them. I paid attention to the pitcher plant, its false promise of nourishment, drawing the men into their own entrapment, waiting to be fed and consumed. I paid attention to the humble plant, recoiling in fear, much like the men retreating into the Orang Besar for protection instead of asserting their own power. In these images, I saw not just plants, but reflections of human dependency, fear, and the fragility of power.
As my gaze shifted, I realized I-Lann’s work wasn’t just historical; it was a critique of present-day issues. Themes of nepotism, entitlement, and a generation avoiding adversity unfolded before me, reflecting our own struggles with dependency and self-reliance. The men, retreating in anticipation, reflected how we often shrink in the face of difficulty, relying on those superior for support.
As I reread the exhibition label, I was surprised to learn that the work was made in 2010 – it sat so far ahead of its time in addressing notions of privilege, fragility, and dependency long before they became part of today’s discourse. As I reflected on this, I realised that while it took my own effort to truly pay attention to what the artwork was saying, I couldn’t help but imagine the immense attention I-Lann must have had to everything around her in order to create such a thoughtful and aware piece of art.
This moment of realisation reminded me of what it truly means to pay attention: it’s not just about seeing what’s in front of us, but about allowing art to strip away layers of our experience, and daring us to confront the unseen forces that shape us. In Yee I-Lann’s work, I didn’t just see a reflection of society – I saw an invitation to question how we navigate the systems that sustain us, without becoming ensnared by them. Paying attention is the thirst of curiosity, the drive to seek answers, and the reflection that follows. It’s a conscious choice to confront social issues, to see the truths often hidden in plain sight, and to reflect not with ignorance, but with awareness – a commitment to understanding the world we live in.
