Chapter 3

“The Artmaniac Jin”

Growing up, I jumped between music, dance, instruments, and silly performances with ease—always loud, curious, and quick to pick things up. I loved being good at many things, until I watched a friend play an advanced piano piece so effortlessly that it cracked something inside me.

For the first time, I wondered if skimming across everything meant I’d never go deep enough in anything.

But later, watching her switch casually from piano to badminton “just for fun,” and hearing my brother teach me the French word flâneur—a wanderer who explores without urgency—I realized mastery wasn’t the only path. My half-finished songs and scattered hobbies weren’t failures; they were my rhythm. I didn’t need to conquer every art form to belong in them. I could simply wander, learn, and enjoy—and somehow, that felt enough.

Moments ahead

Pt1. Jack of All Trades…

I have always been loud, even when I didn’t mean to be.

My dad noticed it first – the way I hummed under my breath while playing with blocks, the way I tapped out rhythms on the table during breakfast. “She got that from me,” he would say, his voice full of pride, as if my energy and restlessness were badges of honor. Sometimes he would hand me his guitar and strum simple chords, letting me bang the strings while he sang off-key, laughing the whole time. Other times, he taught me how to make noise with spoons and cups, to turn ordinary objects into instruments.

It felt natural to move through the world like this – to try, to play, to make something out of nothing. I joined my first choir when I was four. By five, in Australia, I was in another choir — this time singing in English, a language I was still learning. I stumbled over the words at first, but the music carried me forward. Soon, I was dancing in after-school classes, strumming the guitar, singing, learning to perform for the camera without a hint of shyness. I even used silly props – a toothpaste tube, a plastic cup – and turned them into performances, making my mom laugh until she cried.

I was proud of it. A jack of all trades. Every new instrument, every new dance, every little performance came to me easily. I could try anything and quickly feel competent. And I loved it.

Until the day my friend invited me to her graduation performance. She played Mozart’s Rondo alla Turca on the piano, Grade 8 Trinity College level, flawless, fluid, breathtaking. I sat there, my heart pounding, my hands itching to play something, anything. I had tried piano before – a few simple covers, nothing serious. All I could manage now was a clumsy cheap copy of that Mr. Bean’s intro song.

For the first time, I wondered. Is being good at many things enough? Or am I just skimming the surface?

It was the first crack in the smooth surface of my confidence, the first question that would grow in me – the question of depth, mastery, and the strange tension between curiosity and focus.
But that was for later.

For now, I just sat there, watching the keys move under her fingers, listening to the music, and feeling something unfamiliar – awe, wonder, and the tiniest spark of envy.

Pt2. …Or Flâneur of All Rhythms?

A few weeks after that graduation performance, my friend invited me over again. The moment I stepped inside her room, she sat at the piano and played a gentle melody – a piece I didn’t recognize, yet it carried warmth, precision, and a quiet joy. I sank into the chair beside her, listening, letting the music curl around me like sunlight through leaves.

When the last note faded, my eyes wandered. In the corner, a pile of sporting equipment caught my attention: a badminton racket, a pair of worn basketball shoes, a tennis ball resting lazily on the shelf. I asked about them, and she laughed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, these? I just play. Sometimes with my little brother, sometimes with Mom on the pavement outside. Just for fun. Nothing serious.”

Her words twisted something in me. She was a master at piano, yet treated sports as a light amusement. I thought I wasted tons of time without mastering anything. But here she was, moving through both worlds with ease and delight, without needing to conquer them all.

Around that time, my older brother was studying French. He would often burst into the living room, yelling random words he’d learned, then grin and quiz me. “Hey, guess what épanoui means!” I shook my head, puzzled, not wanting to admit defeat. One evening, he came to me again. “Flâneur.” I sighed, thinking it was another word I’d never use.

“Flâneur?” I asked with pretending interest.

“It’s someone who wanders,” he explained, “someone who strolls through life, observes, enjoys – without a map, without a hurry. Someone who takes in the city, the art, the music… the world, just because they can.”

I blinked. The word lodged itself somewhere deep in my chest.

Suddenly, I realized I could be like that in my art. I didn’t need to master every form, nor did I need to worry if I was good enough at one to justify trying another. I could explore, stumble, laugh, and move on, absorbing the beauty of each thing, each moment, in its own rhythm.

That day, I let myself imagine a different kind of path. One where the journey mattered more than the destination, where curiosity was enough, and where mastery was just one flavor among many. My friend, with her piano and badminton, my brother with his French words, all of them had shown me that life and art don’t always demand seriousness – sometimes, joy is enough.

I left her room that evening with a lightness I hadn’t felt before. My collection of half-learned instruments, unfinished drawings, and clumsy performances didn’t feel like failure anymore. They were my rhythm, my wandering, my celebration.

I could be a flâneur of all rhythms – moving through music, dance, painting, performance, without the weight of needing to excel at all. And in that freedom, I discovered a kind of joy deeper than applause, deeper than trophies or grades.

From then on, I embraced my path: unpredictable, messy, playful, yet mine. I didn’t have to be a master of all trades – I could simply wander, explore, and delight in the beauty of each. And somehow, that made all the difference.