Chasing Mentors and Meaning
Recently it’s been a strange sort of limbo. A slow, creeping realisation that the path I’d so carefully mapped out, the one leading towards the hallowed halls of academia and a PhD, might just vanish. It’s like watching a sandcastle succumb to the tide, grain by grain. I will admit this search for a supervisor has been a peculiar dance. A courtship, almost. You extend a hand, a carefully crafted email, a resume whispering your accomplishments. You delve into their published works, trying to decipher their intellectual heartbeat, hoping to strike a chord, a shared resonance of thought.
Do they see me? The persistent hum of doubt continues, a low thrum beneath the surface: Am I enough? Have I revealed enough of myself, my potential, without appearing… desperate? And then you dissect their papers, eager to prove you grasp the nuances of their field, that you’re not merely another face in the crowd, but an individual with a distinct perspective, a unique voice waiting to be heard. You want to show them the hours you have spent thinking and working, the knowledge you have accrued, the unique insights you have that the rest of the world has not quite reached yet. But what if they don’t see it?
SUSS it seems has slipped through, supervisors there are all busy and misaligned with the scope I’m pursuing. It's a quiet sting, because I truly believed they saw the potential in the research, the value it could bring to the world. Just the other day, Seth and I were dissecting this very conundrum, our voices echoing slightly on the walk back from Puzzle Pint. I pondered with him on the intricacies of academia, this complex ecosystem that often seems so resistant to the new, the unconventional. To introduce something truly novel, something that pushes the boundaries of current thought, you need a champion, a mentor willing to take a chance, to embrace a project that might lie just beyond the comfortable confines of their established expertise. Funny that it all boils down to a leap of faith. A plunge into uncharted intellectual waters. And perhaps, understandably, not everyone is ready to make that jump.
There’s still some faint hope for NTU though. My head of department has put in a good word, connecting me with two potential supervisors. But even that feels like a fragile thread. Perhaps I should broaden my search, cast my net wider, keep sending those tentative emails into the vast, echoing void, hoping, praying, that someone, somewhere, will recognise the worth of what I’m trying to achieve. I’ve even entertained the notion of those digital frontiers of academia, those online PhD programmes offered by universities from the UK.
And in between the quiet moments of emails sent and applications submitted, I find myself drawn back to the familiar embrace of writing. It gives me a kind of solace. Family Triptych needs more attention, I’m still reviewing the second part on that conversation between the son and the father. And there’s also Offerings to the Academy which warrants further introspection, just enough to make it feel more balanced. The channeling though, this swirling, undirected energy, giving the words more form and substance. It’s deeply satisfying, this gradual accumulation of words, this slow, deliberate act of building a body of work that is uniquely, undeniably mine.
Last week there was a moment of unexpected joy, a small miracle that bloomed in the most unlikely of places. Just as the Kinokuniya bookstore was undergoing a transformation (which apparently has been making waves), rearranging its shelves, making room for change, I stumbled upon it: "The Curator’s Handbook." A simple, accessible guide to the world of curation, a world I hadn't seriously considered before, but one that now sparks a flicker of interest, a potential avenue to support my grandfather's gallery. It’s been a delightful read so far, and I find myself wondering why it took so long for this book to find its way to me. Why such a profession, a profession that seems so essential to the ecology of the arts, could be so easily shrouded in mystique, enveloped in a fog that obscures its true scope of work. Because it is, after all, a vocation that beautifully intertwines art history, project management, and, after reading the book, I suppose a certain understanding of class. And it is still a job nonetheless.