Young Noire: Mommy, watch me! I can ride a horse now!
Mother:
Hmm, how wonderful.
Young Noire: Mommy loves me a lot. I know she does.
Young Noire: Look, Mommy, I drew this.
Mother:
That's lovely, my sweet girl.
Young Noire: She was always so gentle and patient with me. Her words were a constant stream of encouragement and support.
Young Noire: Mommy, can you listen to the new song I learned on the piano?
Mother:
You go ahead and play it, darling. Mommy still needs to finish chatting with your uncles and aunties. I'll be sitting in the living room listening.
Young Noire: Still, deep down, I always felt ... she never tried to form a deeper connection with the person I truly was. All she wanted was for me to be a "good girl."
Young Noire: Until ...
Young Noire: Mommy, I heard the aunties chatting in the kitchen this morning.
Mother:
Yes?
Young Noire: They said ...
Young Noire: Her eyes were fixed on me, as if silently urging me to keep talking.
Young Noire: Then it hit me—I'd found the perfect hook to keep Mommy's eyes on me forever.
Young Noire: I need to hold on to this moment, and show her a part of myself she's never seen before.
Young Noire: Auntie said that ... she lost her purse on her way to buy groceries this morning.
Mother:
Oh? And then?
Young Noire: Auntie searched all along the way she'd walked, but in the end, she had to go to the police.
Mother:
Hmm ...
Young Noire: It feels like Mommy's not fully focused anymore. Maybe it's because she already knew how the story would end.
Young Noire: But then ...!
Young Noire: I spoke louder to hold her attention. I had to think up something to change the course of the story.
Young Noire: She saw that her pocket was torn, and her wallet slipped into the lining of her pants.
Mother:
So the wallet wasn't lost after all?
Young Noire: But ... actually ... it was all just a dream I had last night.
Young Noire: I made it all up. I made up a lie to get her attention and then made up another one to keep it.
Mother:
Oh, next time, you should tell me that part of the story first.
Young Noire: But if I had told you that first, how would I have managed to hold your attention?
Noire: As she walked away, it was like she was stepping into a heavy fog formed by her other responsibilities. Where she wasn't only a mother—she was a businesswoman, a leader, a manager ...
Noire: It was an expanse of white created by combining every color in the world.
Young Noire: It's the best color to complement all the others.
Young Noire: Without the white, we wouldn't be able to see the red clearly.
Young Noire: Shh ... She hasn't even figured it out herself yet.
White 1991
Noire: Oh, the phone's ringing.
Bright incandescent bulbs fill the room with a solid white light. Her new studio is practically identical to the one she sold back home.
Her first film.
An old group photo.
And the wheelchair she made the choice to depend on.
Noire: It's a snapshot of my life, but it's still not enough to recreate an authentic version of me.
Noire's fingers dance through her short hair, her head gracefully tilting to the right.
Noire: A green light ... Is this green metaphor really enough?
She absorbs herself in thought.
Noire: Or perhaps we need to alter the order of colors as they emerge from the darkness?
She mumbles.
Noire: Standing in front of that grave, Qi Xing would be so angry with me ...
Noire nonchalantly waves her puppets away. They retreat back into her wheelchair.
Noire: Maybe it's because I can only think of Teresa in situations like this?
Lost in her thoughts, the wheelchair slowly rolls her back to the computer.
Noire: What do you think that was? A memory, or a story?
Noire: Do you think that's true? Really?
Noire powers up the computer, and a blue glow washes over her face.
Noire: Try as we might to disguise it. Stories are just lies with good marketing.
Noire: And you are the observer to this little tale, so you alone have the power to judge.
