Performatively Reading

In October nineteen ninety-nine, the City of Sydney Council unveiled what would be the most iconic and referenced landmark of my generation at the entrance of Chinatown. It towered fortuitously at about eleven metres tall, the gold that flowed downwards was impressive and glistening; giving a sense of prosperity and harmony as it completed the bark it’s flowing out from.

They called it the Golden Water Mouth, but everyone I knew just called it the gold tree. It was where my friends and I would meet up during the rare weekends we were allowed to travel to the city alone. It was where I would eagerly wait for my first and second dates, my classmates and family. All of my life, there was never a time where I wouldn’t walk past it whenever I was in the city.

It was imposingly tall when I first laid eyes on it.

The gold was going dull when I was waiting beside it for my friends.

I felt how aged and cracked the trunk was when I walked past it to get my wedding dress.

I felt the heaviness in my heart when I learned that it might not be possible to continue to repair and care for the structural faults in the timbre.

I sat next to it and took in the evening air as I watched the sun setting down for the day, the blinding golden rays giving the installation a brief moment to glistening proudly again. And for that small moment, it was like how I saw it the first time.

Standing tall at about eleven meters, gold pouring down the wood in harmony; promising prosperity and good fortune to those who enter past the threshold into Chinatown.