I met a giant on Sunday.
Catherine Lim walked into the gallery at the basement of the National Museum of Singapore while I was ruminating a piece of Liu Kang. “Ms Catherine Lim!” I nearly shouted loud enough for the benefit of the entire museum.
“Have we met?” she asked.
Well, we kinda did, early this year at the Art Stage where she wore a black clingy turtleneck and even tighter black pants.
This time, she had on a red dress that accentuated her slim waist and a girlish figure many 24-year-olds would kill for.
My partner in crime, June, fawning over this local literary giant almost as much as I did, prompted my favourite author to remark, “I didn’t know I had so many fans!”
Woojin, our friend from South Korea, ever-ready to snap anything and everything, thrust his Samsung – what else? – smartphone at June.
“But you have to be in the picture too,” Catherine Lim protested on behalf of June.
Eventually, we managed to accost a father to be our photographer. Even though his daughters – impatient and wanting to move beyond Chen Wen Hsi’s depiction of a scene at the museum – were tugging at his Bermudas, daddy’s good-natured explanation, “This is Catherine Lim, she’s a famous writer. You might get the chance to study her (works) one day,” calmed them somewhat for him to take this excellent picture: