The Choreography Of Everyday Life

Ahead of the launch of Peter Tay’s second monograph, Marc Almagro ponders the recurrent themes in the Peter Tay backstory, and the possibilities of retelling them

The first monograph on Peter Tay’s works came out in 2013. Published by Sanctuary Niseko in Japan, it was a hefty volume that came in a thick cardboard box, its cover a gleaming black field with just the title, Peter Tay, stamped in silver foil in sans serif font. The sides of the book were hand-painted with black ink and when you opened each page for the first time you heard a distinct crackling sound. You consider the size of the book that is large enough for a tea service and you decide that it was all deliberate — the hard case, the glossy cover, the crackling sound.

Designed by Ms. Jacinta Sonja Neoh, the book didn’t have much text; it’s clear from the get-go that it was going to be a visual trip. Peter told his story in the first few pages before the parade of twenty selected projects, each one with a brief introduction preceding a series of photographs, commenced. Prof. Erwin Viray, who was both editorial adviser and editor, wrote a page’s worth of text, which ran near the end of the book like an epilogue. The rest of the volume was filled with photographs by Mr. John Heng. Most of them were representational, capturing moods and evoking moments rather than showing off interior design that many people doubtless expected.

And who could blame them? If one of Singapore’s most talked-about interior designers put together a book, a shiny catalog with clear photographs and comprehensive captions wouldn’t be a miss.