In Ngiap Heng’s studio, the roles are reversed. Unlike my own workplace, there’s no need to do anything. No need to interrogate my paintings or pick up a brush. 

Instead, my self can become the canvas on which the casual exchanges between Ngiap Heng and I leave their imprint . . . in an unconscious hand gesture, a lightly furrowed brow, or dimples carved out by a stupid grin. The space between his photographer’s eye and my presence is a generous one, in which I can bask within the sheer absurdity of being a body in space at a particular time. And do nothing and be no one in particular.