Abigail Chay: No Publicity Is Bad Publicity — Except Silence

In the 1990s, Singapore television was still learning how to recognise its own faces. Imported trainers, borrowed formats, and early experiments in English-language drama defined a generation of performers stepping into unfamiliar territory with little precedent — and even less protection. It was an era before algorithms, before curated personas, before performers could control their own narratives. You were written about, or you were not. You were cast, or you waited.

Abigail Chay was one of those performers.

Her journey into acting did not begin with ambition alone, but with access — access earned through persistence, timing, and an almost accidental courage. Trained under overseas coaches flown in to prepare Singapore’s first English dramas and sitcoms, Chay entered an industry still deciding what “local talent” should look like. She was not the obvious choice. In fact, she was initially not chosen at all.

When vacancies opened during evening drama training sessions, it was her mother — famously a McDonald’s “grandma” — who stepped forward and asked if her daughter could take the slot. The moment was overheard by trainers and approved by producers who recognised Chay’s enthusiasm from Gotcha. It was not a dramatic breakthrough. It was simply an opening — and Chay stepped into it.

Encouragement followed. Directors, trainers, and producers saw something in her that went beyond conventional appeal. When she was cast as Aunty Abigail in Under One Roof, she was told plainly: “You can do it. Use your own name. It will be good publicity.” The reassurance came not only in words, but in nods, smiles, and that unmistakable non-verbal signal performers recognise immediately — you’ve met the expectation.

Then came the press.

A 1995 article described her as having an "akward jawline" nand likened her posture to a “baby giraffe,” concluding that “no woman would do parts like that.” For many, such words would have ended a career before it properly began. For Chay, it clarified something essential. She learned early that visibility is a double-edged thing — but invisibility is worse.

Rather than retreat, she leaned in. The attention, however uncomfortable, led to work. Entertainment companies reached out. She was invited to do skits, stand-up comedy, host events, perform on stage, and appear in drama series and films. The industry responded not to perfection, but to presence.

Behind the scenes, the quiet constants mattered most. When interview calls came and she was not home, it was her mother who answered — who explained, who protected the space for work to continue. Success, in Chay’s story, was never a solo act.

Her career now stands as a reminder of a different era — one without metrics, without branding strategies, without the illusion of narrative control. Sometimes, the harshest descriptions became the very proof that you were seen. Abigail Chay’s story is not about triumph over criticism. It is about staying visible long enough for criticism to turn into work.

There may be bad publicity.But silence has always been the real enemy.

In today’s fast-moving media landscape, performers are often misunderstood not because they hide the truth, but because the truth is flattened. Comedy becomes “easy.” Laughter becomes “natural.” Years of craft are reduced to seconds of perceived effort. For Abigail Chay, this misunderstanding has followed her for decades.

“As a comedienne, people think I’m just pretending,” she once reflected. “Slapstick. Acting cute. Making things up.”

What remains unseen is the discipline behind the humour — the internal work required to make comedy real. Comedy, she insists, only works when it is honest. You don’t act funny. You be real, and the humour arrives on its own. This belief — that truth must precede laughter — has shaped not only her performances, but her resilience.

There was a time when honesty itself felt dangerous.

When Chay shared her life story publicly on a programme aptly titled Life Story, many believed it would be detrimental to her career — even to her existence in the entertainment industry. Vulnerability has never been a guaranteed currency in show business. Yet after the programme aired, a seasoned event coordinator said to her plainly, “Your rates are still the same.”

It was not a dramatic affirmation. It was something better — a quiet reassurance that truth had not diminished her worth.

That moment reframed how Chay understood success and failure. Outcomes, she realised, must be faced after every show, every reveal, every risk. What matters is not avoiding criticism, but developing the courage to receive it. “Be brave enough to face the music,” she says. “Even the negative feedback.”

Perhaps the clearest marker of her growth is how audiences now respond to her work.

“In Under One Roof, I cried — and the audience laughed,” she recalls. “Now, I laugh hysterically — and the audience cries.”

It is a line delivered lightly, with humour, but it reveals something profound. What once registered as caricature has matured into emotional precision. The laughter she evokes today carries weight. Audiences no longer laugh at the character; they recognise the character’s plight, their struggle, their humanity. Tissues replace punchlines. Silence follows laughter.

This is not a shift in genre. It is a shift in depth.

At this stage of life, growth does not mean chasing novelty. For Chay, it means doing something different within what she already knows — approaching familiar spaces with a changed centre. In 2012, her story was re-examined through theatre when a Hong Kong producer, a playwright, and a Singapore director staged the musical I Am Who I Am（天生不是女人）- a modest, deeply personal work drawn from her life. Once again, it affirmed a hard truth she had learned early: vulnerability does not end a career. Silence does.

Her philosophy today is disarmingly simple. Face the outcome. Hold on to joy. Remember happy — even ridiculous — moments. Don’t let unhappiness become your default setting. This is not naïve optimism. It is survival.

Flux Media’s role is not to extract confessions or provoke controversy. It is to ask the questions other platforms avoid — carefully, responsibly, and with context. To create space for artists like Abigail Chay to speak honestly, while ensuring their words are understood, not weaponised.

In an era where speed rewards simplification, her journey reminds us that comedy is not light because it lacks weight — it is light because it has learned how to carry it.

Abigail Chay did not become successful by avoiding misunderstanding. She endured it long enough for her work to outgrow it.

And that, perhaps, is the quiet triumph behind the laughter.

Embedding an old interview with Abigail Chay shot in 2012, in Hongkong.

— Flux Media Editorial