A boy with both of his eyes closed. His right hand lifts to gently apply salve across one eyelid, while his left hand cradles a small jar of Tiger Balm—used not just as a remedy, but as a symbolic vessel. From the jar, mustard seed flowers bloom upward, delicate and bright, as if growing from memory and faith rather than soil.
The image is inspired by Revelation 3:18: “…and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see.” A passage about healing, transformation, and spiritual clarity—a call to turn toward what truly restores the soul. He applies the balm not to ease physical pain, but in search of vision beyond the surface.
But there’s irony in the act. Anyone who grew up with Tiger Balm knows: putting it near your eyes would burn like wildfire. It’s the last place it should be applied. It stings, it overwhelms. It’s meant for sore backs, mosquito bites, headaches—not something you’d dare rub over your eyelid. That contradiction is intentional. It reflects how the path to clarity is often uncomfortable, even painful. Healing doesn’t always look or feel gentle. The very thing meant to soothe can first sear and awaken.
Tiger Balm, in this painting, is more than just an old-school remedy—it’s a relic of memory. A jar that sat on grandpa’s shelf. A cure-all for every bump, ache, or childhood woe. The flowers of the mustard seed—symbols of faith the size of a speck—grow from that same balm, linking generations of care to a deeper, unseen belief. Faith, like Tiger Balm, isn't always a walk in the park. Sometimes it’s an oily mess. Sometimes it burns.
This painting honors the inheritance of cultural memory—objects passed down, advice repeated, prayers whispered. The boy’s eyes remain closed. He is not yet seeing, but he is trusting. He begins with what he knows—Tiger Balm and the faith of a mustard seed.
It’s a quietly humorous, portrait of healing. Of how we try to mend ourselves with what we’ve been given. Of how sometimes the things we use to see clearly may sting first, but prepare us for vision in the long run.
