Two sets of models were shortlisted for a final decision during a casting discussion for a campaign we were working on—while I no longer remember names and faces, I recall the first set being a pair of conventionally attractive, racially-ambiguous models—a highly sought after look by perceived virtue of marketability and perceived international presence of a brand: “Is the brand local? Maybe they’re international? Since they hire ang moh (translate: caucasian) models!”. The other set consisted of a lanky, blond model and a lithe, bald-headed performer: both gorgeous and hadn’t fit into the preconceived notions of gender expression. At a time where most brands are still trying to reel in from putting yet another female model in an oversized T-shirt as a dress, fashioning marijuana motifs and wearing snapback backwards, we knew the latter option would be a much tougher sell. Maybe it’s our sheer conviction, or being at a time where high fashion was steadily co-opting (read: appropriating) streetwear culture, we managed to push through—while it was a creative decision for us, within a largely heterosexual, young audience in local streetwear, androgynous styling was both a creative and business risk for our client. As part of the duo of our finalised choice, working alongside interdisciplinary performance artist Tess Pang (it/it’s) solidified my impression of it being an enigmatic presence through the energy it emits and receives.
Tess and Joash for Pestle & Mortar Clothing FW18
While prepping myself through pre-existing interviews, a recurring theme was how Tess was commonly referred to as a multidisciplinary artist (“interdisciplinary” would be a more accurate description) working across a multitude of mediums from performance art, writing, dance, theater and other forms of physical work. “Performance arts differs from theater and dance because of the intention behind,” Tess explains while referring to a piece it was commissioned for the Halal, Haram exhibition organised by Sisters in Islam. Titled GRACE, the piece involved a recital of Siemone Weil’s work, a song in Latin and a boxing piece. Performance art takes on a less structurally-rigid format, hence allowing the exploration of its relationship with God: one that’s intricate, confusing and could potentially be reduced through a stricter format like theater or dance.
The inflection in Tess’ voice gives plenty of indication that performance art is where it finds the most freedom. While skilled across dance and theater, having labels to a performance as such sets the audience up for their own expectations towards what it should entail, like how a broadway production should involve dialogue and musical numbers. Although the decision to subvert and disappoint the preconceived expectations is ultimately its decision as an artist to enact, Tess prefers an open format instead: one that grants the artist with an autonomy to set precedence and build context without expectations. “I get to feed the audience with what I want, and the audience can take what they want from it, or nothing at all for those who don’t understand it,” it explains.
For an audience-centric line of work, being at peace with the dynamic nature of one’s range of capabilities and talent can be difficult for creatives who are constantly met with well-meaning, yet confused acquaintances who resort towards pigeonholing for the sake of their own understanding. “While you recognise and acknowledge what you do, how do you get that across to someone who doesn’t always get it?” I wonder.
“Perhaps it’s the willful defiance—some days I want to challenge and irritate those who come in with expectations, other days I feel differently. I’m not always at peace with it, nor do I always have the right words for it. I believe that as artists—as people, we are infinitely capable and possess infinite potential. If I say I’m just this one thing, I’m already limiting you and your understanding of myself. I wouldn’t do that for myself, and I wouldn’t do that for you.” With regards to personal assurance, Tess circles back to a few mantras that come in handy at different times. “Trust in the wisdom of other people. I know I'm not the first person who has gone through this, or wants to be many different things and to not be sure of how to put a label to all of this,” it adds. For a concept like faith that comes across unstable and uncertain, Tess understands how surrendering to the unknown can be unattractive for creatives who crave for a sense of stability. As I suggest that trusting the process could lead towards the removal of fear, it disagrees. “We acknowledge the fear is there: the fear of inadequacy, the imposter syndrome. Talking about it helps but it doesn’t take it away, it only makes the process more human.”
In a budding arts scene, any form of work often gathers positive affirmations while lacking grounds for critical evaluation: effort is easy to witness and witness, while areas for improvement require deeper understanding backed by a benevolence towards others. More often than not, we are presented with a circle-jerk reaction that can easily manifest mediocrity and an inflated sense of achievement when all we offer and receive is praise. Across the myriad of platforms that Tess has dabbled in, how does one benchmark against a certain standard of excellence, if possible at all? Unlike conventional, cookie-cutter roles, Tess thinks of people as artistic references, not role models. “I’ll like a producer for what she does as a producer, but she might not be a dancer,” picking and choosing facets of those it admires allows a more fluid, realistic approach towards upward comparison. If anything, this has made Tess a lot more careful when prompted to talk about those who inspire it. Instead of dropping names like ricochet, Tess was quiet, hesitant almost. After going through a rolodex of names, it admitted the difficulty in doing so came from acknowledging that some would feel differently about people it had in mind. “There are a lot of people I admire, but I’m not sure why I’m hesitant to name them. I like the women at Five Arts Center—the way they carry themselves and how they are so supportive of the younger generation. While they can be perceived differently, I believe their intentions are true especially having been around for so long and having done so much for the performance industry.” Although acknowledging that these are not women who are easily impressed, Tess reassures that they are warm individuals who just don’t take shit from others. “This makes it difficult when you’re working with creatives here. We don’t tend to be very disciplined. You get the aspect of freedom, but you also never get people showing up on time,” Tess admits.
The fashion industry seems to be the latest medium for Tess to exercise its artistry. Previous interviews have yet to really uncover its beginnings in this industry. “It all started with dancing for Mizz Nina back then, she had her dancers model for her merch line—I wouldn’t count that as modeling, we were just able bodies that can showcase the shirts,” Tess laughs. In art school, it went on to help out friends in design courses and did shoots here and there. Tess doesn’t consider itself a particularly fashionable person, and admits not knowing about its history beyond the everyday style it engages with. Like many of our stories, how it ventured into the mainstream was through being at the right place, right time and knowing the right people. Through a contact made during its Mizz Nina days landed it a gig shooting for a local brand Out of Order, and the fellow model who happened to subedit for Cleo brought Tess in for a shoot later on (both Joash and Tess became the finalised models I’ve mentioned above, too)—as for landing itself on the cover with Nia was the result of a model who didn’t manage to turn up on set. “I can’t believe that this is now a part of me. How I get all these opportunities and how people want me to be part of their work.”
“Whether I’m dancing, on set or in a film, I approach all of them as character work. It’s a different challenge, though, to know whether I’m thinking about the audience as a larger group, or to drive all of my body into the single focal point of a camera instead.”
As a seemingly rapid shift, I wondered if fashion came across as a fairly organic progression upon Tess’ experience in previous platforms. “When I moved back to KL in January 2018, I had left Singapore upon coming out of a very dark period of time. While I did very well working for a contemporary art gallery, I wasn’t doing any performances that satisfied my creative needs. There was this mind, body disconnect and I didn’t know it was happening.” “Burning out?” I offered. Tess recalls running on survival mode and not being aware of how it became a machine with an oncoming short circuit. If anything, the vicious cycle felt rational.
Perhaps driven by a change in scenery, it felt like a switch was flipped upon its return to KL. “I eventually came out of that funk, and became open to anything that came my way,” Tess expresses. Like a pendulum, Tess experienced a transference of energy—whatever it emitted there seemed to be a form or reciprocation from others creatively, and the momentum generated only snowballed into an insatiable hunger for the next form of creative expression.
Across the various mediums of art Tess has engaged in, I wanted to know what it was able to bring into its work in fashion. “Whether I’m dancing, on set or in a film, I approach all of them as character work. It’s a different challenge, though, to know whether I'm thinking about the audience as a larger group, or to drive all of my body into the single focal point of a camera instead,” Tess explains. In fashion, it’s either the clothes that do the talking, or the way it carries itself informed by the direction on set. The common direction that revolves around just “being yourself” comes across a little ironic, considering how Tess claims to be only at about a 1 or 2 on any given day, when people actually expect it to be at a 8 at all times. Being on set with Tess meant that professionalism was only the baseline, its curiosity and presence through the entire process were standout qualities that translate across the final product.
For an appearance-centric line of work, Tess is cautious of the unwarranted responsibilities that come along with being visible. “I don’t want to make it about me anymore, it should be about a wider audience,” Tess traces the sentiment back to its past of growing up with magazines that didn’t include anyone who looked like it. “I don’t need to feel like a celebrate image, and it’s a journey I’ll need to go on my own to help somebody else—I don’t want to be part of someone’s experience that goes ‘I want to look more like that,” while effective as a marketing ploy, Tess is certain that a play on aspiration can come across just as detrimental. “Perhaps it’s about having more people being visible, and given all these options, the audience can choose to look like you if they wanted to and not be forced to conform due to the lack of options,” I offered in consolation.
A recurring theme across the shoots that Tess is often featured booked for is based on non-conventional beauty. Other than the obvious, both of us agreed that there wasn’t much Tess contributed towards that narrative beyond having no hair. There was a chuckle in response. “Do you think this is how the industry defines non-conventional beauty? And if so, what prompted this focus away from mainstream beauty?” I ask.
“It’s an unpopular opinion, but perhaps it’s driven by mainstream, commercialised forms of feminism through let’s say—Beyoncé or the TimesUp movement. These are important movements in empowering women, but lots of brands latch on to them and ride that shit out. This is how it infiltrates popular culture, and as a reaction people start to look towards alternative, ‘unconventional’ forms of beauty as a way to keep that conversation running and appear relevant. That’s not to say it’s entirely disingenuine, though.”
“I don’t need to feel like a celebrate image, and it’s a journey I’ll need to go on my own to help somebody else—I don’t want to be part of someone’s experience that goes ‘I want to look more like that.”
Oftentimes a result of boardroom and corporate decisions, I can understand why execution for intricate matters can often come across as trivial. Rather than a lazy redesign of their offerings with a rainbow motif, how will brands be able to make their intentions apparent, genuine and come across well? “Maybe it’s bias, but it’s clear when queer people are the ones making those decisions. You see a lot of brands doing things for Pride, and a lot of times it just feels wrong,” Tess shrugs. At a time where society is still grappling to present queer people beyond caricatures on extremes of either vile or victims, Tess knows when brands get it right: rather than exoticising bodies of queer folk, the ability to present them as they are delivers a much more powerful message instead. For obvious socio-political reasons, I wanted Tess’ opinions on how the industry can do better in terms of catering towards supporting queer talent. It often becomes a tough battle to pick: instead of insisting change from the established institutions that remain stubborn, a better alternative comes in the form of creating new spaces to support budding talent. “They can always do better, but do we need them? Personally I don’t. It’s an unpopular opinion, but I can always depend on learning from others if they don’t change,” Tess admits. For many local creatives, it’s a tough pill to swallow. For reasons ranging from wanting positive affiliation to having limited outlets in earlier parts of our careers, being paid in exposure and painful pursuits for unpaid invoices are tough realities we live in.
“What makes Malaysia a great creative scene, and what makes it feel otherwise?”
“The grittiness. Possibilities are driven by our loose sense of order and discipline. It could be due to years of rampant corruption, but now it feels like things are possible because there’s no money. People become creative with funding, and make ideas happen just by connecting with others—we find ways to get there,” Tess compares the local scene to Singapore’s, where the system is a lot more established but comes along with a much higher barrier to entry. Without having an environment that’s already being put on a pedestal, not only can creatives worry less about having formal training, they can easily work from a place of insecurity while seeking kinship from those who feel the same. “Maybe it’s not something we can necessarily bring towards an international level at this moment, but someone will make it eventually.” Tess also makes an interesting observation that could stem from privilege or years of parental conditioning: “Compared to the run-of-the-mill stories you’d hear about how struggling creatives have to take up a few other side gigs especially in the service industry, I’m not sure how we managed to bypass that here. Maybe it’s the Asian thing where we wouldn’t be able to go home and tell our parents this, but we’re still pretty lucky to be able to find sources of income that’s tangentially related to our core skill sets to support ourselves.”
Have we been able to form our own identity in the arts scene? Or is the Malaysian identity still something that’s underway?
“While there is a Malaysian identity in theater, I don’t think we do in the arts scene, not yet,” Tess expresses. “It’s difficult to pinpoint in this region, because of the many different colonial powers that have come before, this has ultimately impacted how we consume culture—it’s very weird that some of us have spent our lives growing up here and yet speak with an American accent.” Time and time again, both flattery and criticism towards local work bears the distillation of somebody else’s work, ultimately making even the most generous of compliments sound backhanded. From personal anecdotes, proud self-proclamations of being ‘liberal’ among our peers still largely subscribes to the North American context. What does it truly mean to become a liberal Malaysian? “I think there needs to be a lot more thought being put into the construction of our own belief and value systems,” Tess agrees.
Still from Yuna’s Forevermore. Tess pictured on the left.
At the time of our interview, I asked Tess to share about its experience working with Yuna as one of her supporting talents in Forevermore. “That project gave me shivers all over while working on it,” it recalls the amped-up energy on set and stunning wardrobe courtesy of Haida and Zulvanny. “We don’t have a lot of Malaysian artists that really make it beyond—not that it’s a definite marker of success, but she’s really a phenomenal artist through the way she works. All these crazy shoot schedules, not only did she not seem tired, she didn’t skip a beat at all,” Tess shares. Handpicked by Yuna herself, the initial disbelief and excitement over an exchange of DMs on Instagram have only gone on to showcase how organic collaborations are formed in our local scene. “A lot of times it’s word of mouth, knowing how the system is built and how it works—for better or for worse we always depend on the camaraderie we’ve made.”
For someone who has travelled so much, I ask if Tess considers Malaysia home. “Malaysia is where I live right now. I’m a citizen, but I don’t feel like I know what it means to be Malaysian. It’s comforting to know that a lot of people don’t as well.” There is some dissonance it feels towards the idea of nationalism, compared to say, an American who proudly declares their pride and knows their rights (even at the cost of their own lives in this day and age). “There is pride in our food though, I guess that’s a very Malaysian thing,” Tess laughs. Driven by rapid globalisation and the sheer curiosity towards a world beyond our immediate degrees, we often find our peers feeling like third-culture kids even without having left their home countries before: my personal example involves being raised with loosely Confucian-based values and a Westernized educational system have assimilated into a mish-mash of often complementing, yet clashing perspectives. We both agreed that it’s how we become displaced from our root culture.
“The grittiness. Possibilities are driven by our loose sense of order and discipline. It could be due to years of rampant corruption, but now it feels like things are possible because there’s no money. People become creative with funding, and make ideas happen just by connecting with others—we find ways to get there.”
“Are you content? What you would like to do next?”
“I don’t think I’m content, while I’m very grateful for where I am internally. On the front, I’m insatiable. The next direction I feel like will be film and stage work,” Tess smiles and admits to not being a planner-type person.
Later that year, I witnessed Tess in Impermanence, a multidisciplinary showcase of light, dance and sounds that rings close to a forgotten, carnal memory. While stripped away of flashy production sets and skilled touches of a Photoshopper, I got to witness Tess in another form of a lab-like setting, where senses of sight and sound are meticulously controlled. Once again, I got to experience Tess in its pure form of energy again, pulsating through an audience whose expectations were bound to be subverted, no matter how familiar they already are with its work.