The year 2022 was an explosive year for Lin Ting-Syu and the group, Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi.  In the span of a year, they had presented three productions in southern and northern Taiwan, with The Golden Crow that Does Not Exist showcased in early April at the Kaohsiung Spring Arts Festival, which integrated the culture and rituals of Taiwan's Taoist Zengyi School with contemporary dance and sound art, presenting a spiritual world that's rich with Taoist cultural elements. Then by the end of the same month, Voyage through Mountains and Seas was presented as a part of the 14th Young Stars New Vision, which saw the spiritual world of folk beliefs explored by Lin in his past works transformed by the mountains and seas of Lanyu (Orchid Island), with an energy manifested. In November, Picking the Corpus was performed at the 2022 Taiwan Dance Platform organized by the National Kaohsiung Center for the Arts, which departed from the perspectives of the group’s long-term collaborators, dancers Chen Hsin-Yu and Wen Yun-Chu, to explore the life history of individuals that are intertwined with the development of the island.The explosive year was also fruitful. Two of these three productions, The Golden Crow that Does Not Exist and Voyage through Mountains and Seas, were nominated for the 21st Taishin Arts Award, and The Golden Crow that Does Not Exist advanced into the intensely competitive final round. Luck might have played a role in the heightened exposure and fruitful outcome, but it was certainly not a fluke. As shared by Lin, since renaming the Lin Ting-Syu Studio to Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi in 2022, he and the group members became quite busy pitching project proposals and undertaking projects. The tightly-scheduled performances and accolades received then prompted Lin to ponder on art, everyday living, and life.         During a visit to the Big Event Theater, a rehearsal space where the group is based in Kaohsiung, Lin was interviewed at the Dual mu Café on the theater's second floor. This article shares the transition Lin has gradually made with his creative practice and how he balances running a performance group with his personal life.    Big Event Theater in Kaohsiung (Photo: Fan Xiang -Jan)Leaving Yourself Behind but Growing Closer to Your Creative Journey  Voyage through Mountains and Seas marked a transition in Lin's focus on folk beliefs, but this observation is perhaps not entirely accurate. Thematically, Voyage through Mountains and Seas was the first work by Lin created out of the transition made from his three-year examination of folk beliefs between 2017 and 2019. The highly acclaimed Deluge (shortlisted for the 18th Taishin Arts Award), The Invincible Swiftness of the Golden Crow in 2019, and the also shortlisted The Golden Crow that Does Not Exist in 2022 were the productive outcomes generated from the energy accumulated from those three years of survey and research. However, in reviewing Lin's earlier works, we can see that he has always focused on humanity's state of existence and the spiritual world, and a visible body is where light can shine on the unseen. Voyage through Mountains and Seas can be considered a return to the roots of compassion.An artist's creative theme is the external manifestation of their expression, which is connected to the audience's initial perception of the artist's work, their knowledge of the artist, and how the artist is positioned. However, for some artists (Lin Ting-Syu included), the actual core of their creative practice lies in the propelling force that generates creative kinetic energy, and this force is about people, about life. As mentioned by Lin, after a particular curtain call with the dancers, he suddenly felt numbed towards applauses. This sense of impassiveness was not a loss of enthusiasm for theater, dance, or performance; rather, he realized that what was more important to him was the daily routine of rehearsing with the dancers and working with the team and the design group. For Lin, “it is the warmth of human relationships that drives the direction of my creative work.” Although this realization occurred at a particular moment, traces of it can be spotted throughout his creative journey. Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi, Voyage through Mountains and Seas (Photo: Wu Po-Yuan) One of the most touching moments in Voyage through Mountains and Seas was when the dancer Chen Hsin-Yu, surrounded by several cardboard boxes, reenacted a scene from when her mother passed away; wholeheartedly dedicated and exerting her whole might, it felt like the dancer's consciousness and soul were pouring out of her body. While working on this segment in the performance, Lin's creative direction gradually shifted. In the past, the focus of Lin's work was solely based on the spiritual world that he sought to explore, with him shaping and visualizing a worldview through a first-person perspective. Then, during rehearsals, it was through Lin's aesthetic perspective that bodies were adjusted, movements sculpted, and scenes illustrated. However, Lin's past approach hit a wall in this solo dance number on the story of Chen's mother. In the words of Lin, “[Chen Hsin-Yu's] section was a spiritual world that I couldn't interfere in; it's unshakable. I had to take several steps back to work with her on this solo dance number.” He then realized that he should listen to the dancers more and give general advice during rehearsals rather than provide specific instructions that are oriented around his own aesthetic preferences.Moreover, Lin's previous customary way of working was to survey and study temples alone. In recent years, with more subsidies made available and the prize money received for his Tashin Arts Award nominations, he has become more capable of conducting fieldwork with a team. Voyage through Mountains and Seas was created by spending time with his team members on Orchid Island. Through being on the island, the dancers benefited both physically and mentally by being out in nature, which Lin thought was quite moving and invaluable, and the experience was also quite personal. The movement development for the number with the three dancers, Hsieh Chih-Ying, Wen Yun-Chu, and Chao Yi-Ying, saw them moving their bodies like leaping waves and also incorporated a great deal of the dancers' personal physical and mental experiences from when they were out by the mountains and the seas. Lin's shift in his creative approach gradually started with these two numbers in Voyage through Mountains and Seas. For him, it was vital for a new creative practice to emerge.  Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi, Voyage through Mountains and Seas (Photo: Chen Chang-Chih)From the Spiritual World of Taoist Culture to the “Human” World With this shift in creative practice, Lin also began to show a shift in the creative subject matters that he works with. Picking the Corpus, created after Voyage through Mountains and Seas, is called “採身” in Chinese, which means to gather one's identity or body. As the name suggests, Lin joined the project's dancers in revisiting their childhood homes, where they used physical expressions to gather their past identities. The identity of Lin, the choreographer, wasn't what was gathered. The focus was on the identities of the two dancers, Chen Hsin-Yu and Wen Yun-Chu, whom Lin has collaborated with extensively. Born in Erlin Township of Changhua County, Chen's family owned a suitcase factory during a time when Taiwan saw an economic boom. With the decline of Taiwan's processing industry, their factory in Changhua eventually had to shut down. Following the creative development of Picking the Corpus, Chen recalled the factory of her childhood and the memories of the countryside that are a part of her. Wen Yun-Chu, a girl from a noble family of the indigenous Paiwan Valjulu Tribe who moved to the city in northern Taiwan in her youth with her father, has long felt that her roots are foreign and distant to her, but in the course of the creative development of Picking the Corpus, she was able to return to her unfamiliar tribal village in southern Taiwan's Pingtung to try to connect with her past and future.Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi, Picking the Corpus (Photo: Lin Ting-Syu) Although the two dancers have very different life journeys, they are both part of this island's destiny. From Voyage through Mountains and Seas to Picking the Corpus, we can see Lin's gradual shift from the spiritual world of Taoist culture toward more visual, tangible bodies and also closer to the invisible, intangible state of existence of one's heart. On the other hand, we also see the artist's move from a personal and religious family history to the intertwined destinies of the people on the island of Taiwan. This shift in approach and theme appeared “to be leaving the self behind, but in fact, it is about growing closer to yourself,” said Lin, pensively. Perhaps, this sense of self is not a closed and inward exploration of one's own life and the spiritual world, but rather, it is a self that is connected to the outside, where the internal and the external are interconnected and mutually refractive and reflective. New Work in Progress: ‘Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof’ Maybe it was a period of calm that followed the explosively intense and busy 2022, so the year 2023 appeared comparatively quieter for Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi in terms of showcasing their work; nevertheless, Lin and the team have remained active and kept working on their creative endeavors. Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof is the work they are currently developing. The work's Chinese title, “大吻琉璃,” refers to zhengwen (正吻) or dawen (大吻), which are mythical beast-shaped ornaments placed on the roofs of temples and appear to be biting onto the two ends of the roof ridge, and “琉璃” means colored glaze, referring to the glazed tiles seen on temples. This particular mythical beast is related to the element of water and is said to be one of the nine sons of the Dragon. It has a dragon head and the body of a fish and is a fierce biter and swallower. It's seen with water oozing from its mouth, which moistens its vocal cords. Since most of the ancient buildings were made of wood, placing this mythical beast on the buildings was believed to have the effect of protecting them from fire and evil spirits. Moreover, the roofs of temples are typically covered with glazed tiles. The title of this dance piece suggests Lin's focus is not only on the Taoist culture and the spiritual world but also extends to the sentient beings that are closely related to this culture, which in Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof are the workers responsible for laying the glazed tiles.  Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi, Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof (Photo: Lin Ting-Syu) In an image shared by Lin to explain this creative work, a worker is seen standing on the roof of a temple, with two pails in his hands. Lin then used a pen to point at the actual temple building and commented, “My previous focus would have been on this,” and he then shifted his pen to the glazed tile worker and said, “My focus is now here.” This reminded me of a past interview in which Lin vividly talked about the different postures of the gods of literature and martial arts seen in temples.[1]  Now, he has shifted his focus to the workers who are encumbered by the realities of life, who may be facing problems with their children and have other family issues, and who have to deal with work-related injuries and possibly even fatal accidents. Lin has always had close ties to temples. His uncle was a member of a tiling crew, and because of him, Lin was able to follow the crew to visit various temples. Unfortunately, his uncle passed away in July last year. Following a project undertaken by the crew, Lin visited the Fudingjin Baoan Temple in Kaohsiung in June of the same year, and in July, together with the sound designer, Hsu Yen-Ting, they visited the Dazhong Temple in Sicao, Tainan, where they made sound recordings; a trip to the Mazu Temple in Yizhu, Chiayi then followed. Just a month before our interview, Lin had followed the crew to Erlin Township in Changhua to carry out a construction project. In Lin's eyes, the workers live a nomadic life, bouncing from place to place, moving from one tiling project to the next. The cost of building a temple can range from tens of millions of New Taiwan Dollars to hundreds of millions. If the project owner is generous, the workers would be able to stay in hotels or guesthouses, but if the owner is financially constrained, or when the project's location is remote, and accommodation is not available, the workers would have to set up tents and spend the night inside the temple.Involving Dance in Labor Situations Lin's original intention for using dance to get involved in the work and everyday life of the tiling crew was “to bring dance into temples and to document with art to feel the blood and sweat of these grassroots workers and to use bodies to replicate the value of their labor.” On the one hand, through Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof, Lin's intention is to share the stories of the crew with the public, but on the other hand, what has been driving Lin in this direction is a connection that cannot yet be put into words. He senses that the tiling workers and modern dancers seem to share a certain similarity, and it's not about the physical conditions they endure, such as the environments that they work in, but has to do with an intangible dimension that is both physical and psychological. “They are both contributing a great deal of physical exertion; tiling workers are working on the rooftop of temples, and through performing, contemporary dancers are seeking to reach the peak of their career,” explained Lin. “But I also know that there's a great disparity between them, and perhaps it is this gap that drives me to want to further explore it using art,” he added. While following the construction crew on their temple projects, the “realness” of those workers was particularly memorable to Lin. “It is a realness that's open and exposed. It is raw and unpackaged.” For Lin, who has been paying attention to the physical and mental depletion of laborers since Voyage through Mountains and Seas, there is an inexplicable closeness that he holds deep inside. The struggles of survival and the realities of life, which the workers have to endure, are topics that come up repeatedly in Lin's conversations with his friends from the construction crew. As shared by Lin, “Someone on the tiling crew may have pulled his back in the morning, but you would still see him at the construction site in the afternoon. Or someone who had almost fallen on the job the other day and luckily escaped being injured or killed because he was able to grab onto the scaffolding would still show up on the rooftop of the temple the next day. They have to keep working to make ends meet for their families.” To carry on with life, they have to endure injuries and also put up with inhumane conditions at work. It is perhaps far-fetched to compare the working conditions of contemporary dancers in air-conditioned rooms with smooth mat floors with the highly exhaustive and dangerous conditions faced by the tiling workers. However, on the other hand, what's that sense of “peak” that contemporary dancers strive for when they also endure similar physically and mentally straining conditions when they work? What is the driving force behind them?Supported by the National Theater and Concert Hall, Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof completed its initial research and development and presented its preliminary progress internally in September 2023. It then received a commission for the 2024 NTCH IDEAS Lab, with performances scheduled for June 2024. However, Lin's imagination and vision for Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof are not confined to just theater and dance. He meekly revealed that in addition to the June theater performances, plans are being made to present Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof in a way that differs from the theater version. Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi, Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof (Photo: Lin Ting-Syu) Journey from Independent Artist to Running a Group As aforementioned, Lin Ting-Syu Studio was renamed Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi in early 2022, and Lin has gone from an independent artist to an art director leading his group to work and perform in various places. Anyone in the performing arts circle would know that becoming a group leader or art director does not make the work more “artistic” nor does it bump the work to a more “advanced” level; on the contrary, because of the pressure from running a group, the workload tends to grow heavier, and the group would become busier, but this doesn't mean that their income would also go up. The survival of a group tends to depend heavily on grants and performances held at venues; subsidies and grants are crucial for supporting the group members, and they need to put on a lot of performances to gain exposure so that more opportunities can follow. Unfortunately, an abundance of performance opportunities does not mean that the group can become completely self-sufficient, and more often than not, it can lead to a great deal of physical and mental exhaustion on its members. Like an overworked machine that can't afford to stop, this is a conundrum that those in the contemporary performing arts field are still struggling with. From 2020 to 2023, Autumn Cedar Sóo-Tsāi pitched and took on many projects. Many would probably say that it's good to be busy, but it also caused Lin great physical and mental exhaustion. What made him even more mentally drained was that despite the excessive amount of work done, he was still not in a position to pay the dancers reasonably. Lin shared with a sigh, “Although our group has received many opportunities to perform on many platforms and received a lot of subsidies and grants, the dancers are still underpaid, which is something that really saddens me.” He further asserted, “Even though I've been paying the dancers a relatively high fee for every single performance and rehearsal from 2022 until now, on average, the pay received by the dancers in this industry is still too low.” In recent years, facing this phenomenon at large, Lin has also thought about referencing the management approaches of other groups and marketing and brand-building tactics. However, through further reflection, he realized that this would go against his original intention of making art, and he has also seen many others in the same field, including his contemporaries and those before him, suffering from physical harm and mental exhaustion from overworking, even to the point of endangering their lives. He repeatedly asked himself if that was the life he wanted and reflected on his relationship with his art.Lin has been diligently working on creating dance for six years, a period that is neither too short nor too long. Lin reflectively sees that if he has been fortunate enough to be noticed by people and for others to look forward to seeing his work, it is not because of his group's good marketing or branding strategies, but rather because of his and his group members' dedication and the continual refinement they make toward their creative work. In light of this realization, he is now clear about what to do and that is “to make good art.” Under this premise, he has learned to pace how he works, which entails doing administrative work in the morning, and the afternoons are reserved for creative work and rehearsals. Weekends are for resting. He also doesn't force himself or the group to pitch or take on too many projects. There is a time for work, and there is also a time for rest. This is the principle he goes by right now to achieve a work-life balance. “In the past, I would say that creating dance was my life's mission, but I no longer say that now. However, for the remainder of my life, dance is something that I will always hold a fondness for,” Lin said with a smile.  “A fondness for” sounds quite lighthearted, but it reflects Lin's profound earnestness toward making art. In particular, from Voyage through Mountains and Seas, Picking the Corpus to Guardians on a Glazed Tile Roof, by shifting from a first-person to a second-person point of view, his creative subject has also shifted from the relatively intangible spiritual world to the living beings in this tangible sentient world. For Lin, art is now an important medium for him to reach out to others and try to empathize with them. To feel the warmth of others through art also enriches Lin, physically and mentally. This process of going back and forth, of seemingly moving away from oneself but actually getting closer to oneself, is an insight that Lin has now realized when it comes to art: “This sense of getting closer is actually not a pleasant feeling; it is really a bit cruel, but after observing and reflecting on it for a while, it’s also quite healing.” Lin, who was in a specialized art class in high school, showed a piece of artwork about the gods in his graduation exhibition, and upon completing his master's degree, he created a number of dance pieces related to the Taoist culture and the spiritual world. Just as people have started to associate his creative work with religion, he then pivoted to the world of sentient beings, telling the stories of indigenous identity and childhood factory of his fellow dancers and also of the tiling crew. However, from the creative insights shared by him on the transformation of his creative approach and this drive that propels him to get closer to others, we can see that it is not that Lin no longer cares about spiritual faith and belief, but rather, it has been internalized into his mindset and actions. Now, Lin continues to “use his body to document the paths he has traveled, to explore the universal spirit of various humanistic and cultural issues, and to use contemporary art to demonstrate the social value of dance.” Annotations[1]Fan, Shung-Jan.《乩身、亡者、法師，精與體的考察：林廷緒與他的舞蹈探索》 [Medium, the deceased, Taoist priest, an examination of spirit and body: Lin Ting-Syu and his exploration of dance] https://mag.ncafroc.org.tw/article_detail.html?id=297ef72270ca70160170e1407a750001*Translator: Hui-Fen Anna Liao

ForewordIn 2019, Ping-Jung Chen's The Rest was selected for the 12th Young Star New Vision in Performing Arts grant. The performance was supposed to premiere in 2020 in Taipei, followed by a tour in central and southern Taiwan. Unfortunately, the COVID-19 pandemic hit Taiwan, forcing the premiere to be presented as three exclusive performances at the Experimental Theater of the National Theater and Concert Hall (NTCH) in Taipei with video recordings by PTS Arts. Then in 2021, Ping-Jung Chen scheduled for the play to return at Wellspring Theater, but a sudden worsening of the pandemic put Taiwan under level-3 alert and Taipei under lockdown. The rerun plan was forced to move the performance online, The Rest Under the Pandemic. It wasn't until 2022, when the pandemic gradually eased, that the play finally made its successful return at Wellspring Theater. The new iteration integrated content from the Experimental Theater and online stagings, becoming a new version of The Rest.In the span of three years, The Rest experienced three major changes in time and space—an experience other theater productions are unlikely to have—and developed a unique production life cycle. This incredible journey must have brought considerable tumult to Ping-Jung's life and taught her a lot of lessons and insights, in turn affecting her creative attitude towards theater work. But when I (Shang-Ling Kuei) contacted Ping-Jung on behalf of the National Culture and Arts Foundation (NCAF) to talk about the content of this interview, Ping-Jung's first reaction was: "To be honest, I feel so empty, like I have nothing to say."This answer piqued my curiosity, and after a long phone call clarifying Pin-Jung's inner thoughts, I sat down with her at her studio in Dadaocheng, ready to explore her ideas about working on The Rest over these years, and the production's subsequent impact on her. The interview started with Ping-Jung's statement that she has "nothing to say".Wordless EmptinessA cup of freshly-brewed tea in her hands, Ping-Jung slowly opened up about how one of the reasons she felt she had "nothing to say" was that creators are usually interviewed because of an upcoming show, and the purpose of these interviews is very clear: to talk about the production. But after completing three versions of The Rest, she currently has no plans to reprise it. As the main creator behind the play, she worries that attempting to talk about the show under these circumstances will cause her to say things that stray too far from the content of the work. "I have always felt that, rather than being 'the' creator, serving as the director of a production feels more like being a direct audience, one who understands the work best. So, I can respond from an audience's perspective, what this work and the team may have experienced, but it's hard to say what kind of person I have become as a result."On the other hand, this "nothing-to-say-ness" is directly related to all the things Ping-Jung experienced during the three years of working on The Rest. After completing the Wellspring Theater version of The Rest with no incident, Ping-Jung felt a huge sense of "emptiness". This feeling of "emptiness" is akin to a child afraid of getting shots at clinics, who has waited in line until they are sitting in front the doctor, looking at the needle going into their skin. The needle only went in for a brief moment, and it was not painful at all, but this child has spent a much longer time resisting the idea of getting the shot, thereby undergoing much greater inner turmoil than the actual pain of the shot itself. The child goes from intense tension before the shot to relief after the shot in such a short period of time that they do not know how to describe their own feelings. Though there are many voices in their head, they are simply speechless. Ping-Jung said, "I can't define what happened (over these years), but at the same time, I feel safe because I completed these things. Everything that needed to be done was done." But once it's done, what next? Hidden behind this question is a deeper inquiry for her inner self that sucked Ping-Jung into a black hole of inner musings. Without a way to sort out the answer, the black hole remains in a state of chaos that she could only describe as “emptiness”.But when, through this interview, Ping-Jung paused this inquiry into the depth of her inner self and looked back on all the things she experienced and achieved over the past three years, the chaos brought about by that “emptiness” started to clear gradually as she recalled the growth of The Rest.The Twists and Turns of a Pilgrim's Journey1.    The Beginning of The RestThe creation of The Rest began in 2019. Based on how contemporary society is awash with waves of capitalism, the play established six characters representing people who are commonly found in all corners of Taiwan but are often forgotten, outlining the things they encounter as they try to find a job as well as their inner thoughts and emotions. The six characters are: an older middle-aged man who has trouble finding purpose in life after retirement, a Vietnamese migrant bride who works in a nail salon, a young man who has returned from studying abroad and wants to find a job in Taiwan, an office girl living a monotonous life, and a nightclub hostess past her prime. The play features diverse forms of performance that include drama, sound, objects, music, and dance.The Rest premiered at the Experimental Theater in 2020. Because a level-2 pandemic alert was in place, the production could not go on tour, and the audience could only view it through a 53-minute recorded version on PTS Arts. Afterwards, the production team prepared to re-stage the show at Wellspring Theater in 2021. Unfortunately, even the best laid plans go astray. The COVID-19 pandemic worsened until a level-3 alert was issued, all theaters were closed, and all performances had to be canceled or postponed.The Rest was performed at NTCH's Experimental Theater in 2020. (Photo courtesy of: Ping-Jung Chen)“It was a difficult and stressful time for everyone working in theater. We were all stuck at home without work, waiting to receive stimulus payments and for theaters to reopen, hoping for things to go ‘back to normal’. My mentality back then was that I had to fight. I was constantly thinking about how to break out of the situation. Surely we couldn’t just sit and wait for theaters to reopen?” Ping-Jung said, "I was deeply immersed in the play. When I couldn't sleep at night, I thought about how the characters in the play must also be suffering as the pandemic raged on. I didn't want to stop working on it. I constantly thought about how to break through the limitations of live theater. Since everyone was using virtual meetings to meet, I thought the format could reflect the reality of the moment." So, the production team began discussing how to create an online version of The Rest, marking the start of The Rest Under the Pandemic.2. Out the Theater, Go OnlineIn The Rest Under the Pandemic, Ping-Jung and the rest of the team wove reality and fiction together as they strove to explore the possibilities of theater performance through online communication software. The structure of the story is this: Guided by a flight attendant, the audience boards a flight with the destination of "back to normal". The seven-day flight takes the audience to seven different spaces (the actual living environments of the actors), giving the audience a look at what the people in these spaces are going through. After seven days, the flight lands in the ending of "back to normal". Each day's flight revealed a different location. For example, on the fourth day, the audience was divided into different meeting rooms to watch the actors performing inside. If they wished to switch rooms, the audience could simply press a button to raise their hand and a member of the crew would provide assistance. On the sixth day, all the actors acted out the story of The Rest online. On the seventh day, the show came to a "back to normal" ending. While the flight attendant addresses the audience, the actors seize their chance to run outdoors, set up cameras on the street, and dance in front of the cameras. In the end, with footage of the actors dancing on screen interspersed with pre-recorded footage of them actually dancing in Dadaocheng Square, the plane lands at its destination. The whole process is like riding a plane. The audience could make themselves a drink, get some snacks, or cuddle with their pets as they experienced this magical, two-and-a-half-hour flight. The Rest Under the Pandemic, 2021. (Photo courtesy of: Pin-Rong Chen)Unlike the first version of The Rest, the actors in The Rest Under the Pandemic play themselves—a group of actors who lost their jobs during the pandemic—instead of their characters in The Rest. Interestingly, it was established that the character of the student who studied abroad flew overseas to escape COVID-19, disappearing from the original cast of The Rest. Instead, the character of a director is added, played not by Ping-Jung but another actor. The director would occasionally make unreasonable demands of the actors, such as asking the Vietnamese migrant worker Chiu Hung to reach through the screen to do a manicure for nightclub hostess Kiki, highlighting the limitations of online performances in a humorous, absurd, and satirical way.Seven actors, seven locations, fourteen cameras, and fourteen microphones. The versatile online performance required tremendous expertise and all kinds of costs. One can only imagine the hard work that the production team must have put into the show. To record all these details, Ping-Jung built an additional set outside the official performance to record the entire performance process. In the end, the footage and other records of their work were edited into a documentary.After the team spent all that effort to complete The Rest Under the Pandemic, the pandemic gradually eased and the world truly went "back to normal". Ping-Jung suddenly realized that, from the audience's perspective, watching this performance seems no different from watching a movie on Netflix. Could the essence of "live performance" she cared so much about really be conveyed through video recordings? And how would the painstakingly-crafted The Rest Under the Pandemic be defined by the world after the pandemic subsides? Was it a work of theater or video art? Before the answers of these questions could be found, 2022 rolled around and the world continued to move on, returning to the way things were before the pandemic. In line with this trend, The Rest continued to walk ahead.3. Return to TheaterIn 2022, Pin-Rong returned to Wellspring Theater with The Rest. After the remake of The Rest Under the Pandemic, the Wellspring Theater version kept the flight attendant character. But unlike The Rest Under the Pandemic, in which she was the only character with a job, the universe of The Rest saw her as another one of "the rest", who was laid off after being left physically and mentally drained from flying long hours.In addition to character changes, this version included a new scene that wasn't in the original. In the scene, a piece of cloth is hung up as all the characters, under the direction of a character, grab an instrument to play, using all their strength to make sounds as if to tell the world "I am here". Regarding this new scene, Ping-Jung explained, "This scene can be summed up in one sentence: 'I can't feel the pain of this piano in front of me'. It means that if people want to live well, it is best not to have too much empathy, because if I have to empathize with other people's emotions and thoughts every day, I won't have time to deal with my own survival. I must objectify the person before me, alienate all their feelings, and expel them from myself in order to survive. This then becomes a situation in which everyone is making noise. The whole world is deafening and everyone longs for someone to listen. These people who are 'the rest', these misfits, will eventually be drowned in this noise. "The Rest performed at Wellspring Theater in 2022. (Photo courtesy of: Ping-Jung Chen)After two years, The Rest returned to the theater. Although venues reopened, the pandemic had yet to subside completely, and there was still the occasional news that a show had to be canceled because a crew member tested positive. At first, Ping-Jung found herself paralyzed by anxiety in this panic-filled atmosphere, worried that fate would throw another curve ball at The Rest and ruin her plans once more. But then, she suddenly realized that the pandemic seemed to be teaching her about the impermanence of life. After accepting that "everything happens for a reason", she gradually allowed herself to relax and accept all the possibilities of fate. With this shift in mindset, everything and everyone gradually fell into place. The Rest finally found light at the end of the COVID-19 tunnel, emerging from its cocoon as a butterfly at Wellspring Theater.After recalling the process of producing The Rest, Ping-Jung brought up something that happened while they worked on the show: "When I first started working on The Rest, I often passed by a building under construction near my home. The unfinished building still had exposed steel bars. I saw a guard sitting there with only a somber mosquito lamp beside him. During the run of The Rest Under the Pandemic, the interior and exterior of the building were completed. The brand-new facade indicated that it would become an office building. The guard was still there at the time. After completing the production of The Rest at Wellspring Theater, I passed the site again, but the guard was nowhere to be found. I knew that soon there would be a lot of well-dressed people coming and going for work. On a day just like any other, the guard was gone. Where did the guard go? He must have gone somewhere he needed to be, but no one remembers how he once looked after an entire building in the night, submerged by the monotony of life." To Ping-Jung, this small incident felt like the universe was speaking to her, enabling her to use art to reflect reality while also using reality to reflect upon her work. The whereabouts of the guard are unknown, but he is no doubt tumbling like the characters in The Rest, continuing to live his day-to-day life.Ping-Jung After the PilgrimageAfter the performance, Ping-Jung was finally able to stop and rest. It was then that the sense of "emptiness" buried deep within started seeping out. The tired ruminations after the performance dragged Ping-Jung into a swirl of inner musings, prompting her to think about how she changed with this production.1. "I'm more accepting of fate now"Ping-Jung said with a smile, "I used to be someone who, when told to accept fate, would snap back and say, 'I won't leave myself to the hands of fate'." But after the experience of The Rest, seeing how it was supposed to end at the Experimental Theater, only to develop into The Rest Under the Pandemic because of COVID-19, then integrated into the Wellspring Theater version with the original runtime of 53 minutes expanded to over 80 minutes and constant reorganizing and switching of characters, Ping-Jung said the production was like a biomimetic, organic structure, growing wherever needed, breaking away from the path the creator intended time and time again from the get-go. This shifted her mindset on the spectrum of "accepting fate": "I no longer think about what 'I' want to do. I am just the vessel of the production, but the production will find its own path. I am responsible for its final presentation, but there are too many fateful developments throughout the process that have nothing to do with me."The Rest performed at Wellspring Theater in 2022. (Photo courtesy of: Ping-Jung Chen)2. The Aftermath (Aftershock)The three-year journey of The Rest has also made Ping-Jung more aware of how she is very concerned about the "aftermath" of society. The Rest was already intended to discuss how people need to find self-worth in work and achievement under waves of capitalism. Like a twist of magical reality, this "aftermath" seeped into the real world when the COVID-19 pandemic hit. The characters and the actors playing them fell into the same predicament, and they all had to find ways to overcome the great changes brought about by the pandemic.In addition to the impact of capitalism and the pandemic, Ping-Jung also mentioned how the production was impacted by Walter Benjamin's essay on the "vanishing of the aura". After the Industrial Revolution in the 18th century, the concept of the production line spread to all levels of society, creating a large volume of reproductions, from canned food in supermarkets to the manpower required across different occupations in society. There is nothing and no one that cannot be replaced.Going back to the creative process of The Rest, the actors who played the roles were as afraid as the characters in the play that the pandemic would make the "liveness" of theater disappear, leading to the end of theater and turning them into "the rest" left behind by the times. When such a coincidence occurred, Ping-Jung realized clearly that her passion for art lies in exploring how people handle the impact of drastic societal changes. In an era when the aura is fading, what value of mankind is left? How do we resist, accept, or ponder such a fate?How do we approach art now?After finishing The Rest, Ping-Jung went on to produce more works, including The Paid Off—which was part of the 2021 Green Island Human Rights Art Festival; the 2022 production of the Taiwan International Festival of Arts (TIFA)'s Artificial Hells, for which she was the playwright; and the 2023 R&J and Others commissioned by the National Taichung Theater. Careful observation into the core ideas of these works will show that Ping-Jung is, step by step, establishing a perspective she excels at in the performing arts. When asked what gave her a clearer understanding of her own creative style, Ping-Jung said that the Young Star New Vision grant was a key factor.Winner of the 2019 12th Young Star New Vision in Performing Arts grant—Pin-Rong Chen. (Photo courtesy of: Ping-Jung Chen)The Impact of the Young Star New Vision GrantPing-Jung said, "There are all kinds of creators in this world, and each creator has a different path of growth. Some people may know what they want from the beginning, while others take time to explore, to slowly discover their possibilities through creative processes. I am very grateful that the entire process of the Young Star New Vision grant never set restrictions on creators. This process of allowing creators to experiment freely is quite important. I think that creators, at the start, are like random Pokémon, unsure what type they are, whether they are a Psyduck or Blastoise. It takes a long time, after one, two, or even three works, for them to gradually grasp their own creative qualities and understand which type they might belong to. I am lucky to have three runs of The Rest, a single work that allowed me to constantly explore what kind of creator I am."Another thing about the Young Star New Vision grant that Ping-Jung is grateful for is the feedback system they provide. The production unit will invite critics to watch the performance and write reviews. Although these reviews may not necessarily represent the thoughts of the general audience, they are an opportunity for the creator to examine the work from a different perspective and also help the creator to understand their own creative style.Also, something about the Young Star New Vision grant that made Ping-Jung grow a lot is the fact that the production must stand the test of the market. Back in school, direction and performance was all she needed to worry about, but on the platform provided by Young Star New Vision, these two things are only a part of the work. While producing content, she also needed to balance budgeting, marketing, and box office income.Regarding the budget, Ping-Jung reminisced about how budget was rarely a concern at her alma mater, Taipei National University of the Arts: "For a script with six characters, I might have hired twelve actors. At that time, we were all students, so we could run on passion alone. I'll owe them a favor today and pay them back by participating in their next production. Producing a play outside of school, it wasn't until I saw the actual budget form for the first time that I realized I had no idea how much things cost, that a production could easily cost hundreds of thousands. However, theater productions must rely on group effort to stand a chance, and the budget directly determines how far a work can go. Sometimes no one will buy a ticket even if you scrimp and save to put on a show. This is an industry with extremely low chances of breaking even, and even lower chances of making big money. As a result, most theater creators have to rely on the goodwill of the world to survive and keep creating. In addition to government grants, the 'goodwill' also includes the way industry players measure financial return, which is different from the general public's standards. If that's the case, would you keep at it? Yes? Well, that means being ready and having to fight for the goodwill of the world."Observations on the Creative EnvironmentThe things she learned about budgeting also allowed Ping-Jung to observe the characteristics of Taiwan's creative environment when it comes to the performing arts: "The characteristic of this island nation is that there are no limits and many possibilities. You can see a diverse variety of artistic creations, all blooming and vying for attention at the same time. On the flip side, this makes it hard to consolidate creative energy, and there are too many people for the amount of resources available. I recently read an article in which the writer stated that we have now entered the so-called 'amateur era'. Creators in the amateur era usually have a day job, some waitressing, some serving coffee, some working as teachers. But when creators have to worry about making a living, will they become artists with rich life experiences, or someone who sacrifices the quality of their work for the sake of daily necessities? The answer depends on the person."So, how should we deal with such an environment? Ping-Jung smiled and said, "It will be like the guard who disappeared after the financial building was completed. The guard went to his next stop, and the people who are supposed to go into the building will go in. I am like a small coin in this building, passing from one person's hand to another, seeing different life stories through their perspectives. In short, I will definitely find a way to keep rolling."After The Rest?When asked about her plans for future projects, Ping-Jung seemed at ease as she replied: "After finishing The Rest, I felt that this could be the end of my creative career. But when I returned to the theater to watch and direct plays, I felt that I still love this place. I now feel that, when it's time to create, the flow of life will naturally bring you to the surface, and now I am on the surface, telling others, 'Hey, I'm here'. As long as I continue to love theater, my life will take me back to this place again and again."Perhaps like how The Rest was born in the theater, forced out of the theater due to the pandemic, but returned to theater in the end, Ping-Jung's pilgrimage in theater will always take her back to her favorite place: a theater full of infinite possibilities.The Rest was performed at NTCH's Experimental Theater in 2020. (Photo courtesy of: Ping-JungChen)*Translator: Linguitronics

“The majority of the population in Alor Archipelago, Indonesia, make their living from the sea, and it includes two types of fishing: one is more about waiting, and the other tends to search and attack.”   When I first interviewed Wang Yeu-Kwn in 2020, he had just returned from his Indonesia trip funded by Cloud Gate Culture and Arts Foundation “Wanderer Project,” and the beginning quote was what he told me then. During the interview, Wang talked much about time, about waiting, about nature, and human-nature relations. Four years later, “relation” remains the main tone of his practice, while time still plays a major role when he deals with and reflects on his artistic creations. Wang loves fishing. If we try to compare his artistic creation to the types of fishing he mentioned before, he is probably the waiting type, I guess.Beings' International TourThe interview in 2020 was for his short piece Beings, one of the three pieces selected by NACF's Young Star New Vision project and presented under the same program title. The duet choreographed by Wang explores relationship as it features Wang and Lee Yin-Ying as performers. After its premiere, Beings received several awards and traveled to multiple cities around the world. It thus made us forget about the fact that the short piece created and presented during the pandemic, hence for an exclusive audience, has never been officially and publicly introduced to the Taiwanese audience yet.   However, the dance piece without a “decent” appearance in Taiwan has already given Wang numerous new and different experiences as it has also opened up exciting future projects. In 2021, the following year after Beings premiered at “Young Star New Vision,” its video recording was presented at Yokohama Dance Collection due to the pandemic situations and won the Jury Prize and Encouragement Prize, which made Wang the first Taiwanese choreographer to win two awards at Yokohama Dance Collection. Beings in Yokohama (photo credit: Yokohama Dance Collection; Photographer: Sugawara Kota）In 2022, through the recommendation of the independent curator Gwen Hsin-Yi Chang, Beings was presented at Spring Forward, a Europe-based cross-border dance performance network organized by Aerowaves and taking place in Greece that year. Later in the same year, it was invited to Tanzkongress in Germany as well. A large and diverse platform like Aerowaves opened up the opportunities for Wang to meet more people, followed by more invitations and its international tour: Germany and Japan in 2023 (at Staatstheater Darmstadt as part of the program “Fokus Taiwan”), followed by Spain, and Portugal in 2024.  At Tanzkongress, Beings was described by Marcus Hladek on Frankfurt Rundschau as “a duo characterized by artistic simplicity…It reveals a subtlety which did not harm the evocative and sensual nature of it, just as the dancers play with the rice paper by folding and unfolding it with a retrained metaphorical implication to maintain its pure beauty.“The first stop of Beings' international tour was Greece. Wang still remembered how he spent the night in his hotel room by the Aegean Sea: it was his first journey to faraway Europe, first time touring with his team and his work, first time to work remotely with his lighting designer Joanne Shyueand to work out all the technical demands with in-house technicians in Greece he had never met before, not to mention the pandemic situations. Slightly anxious and jetlagged, he woke up before dawn. “There was a small balcony of our hotel room, and I just sat there, looking up at the starry night. I heard the sound of the waves washing up on the beaches, as the sky gradually and slowly changed its hues. The Sun dyed the sky before it emerged from the horizon against a background of constantly changing colors. I sat there and told myself: how lucky you are! By dancing, you even get to see a beautiful scene like this?!” Touring with the work allowed Wang to witness an extraordinary scene at a particular moment, to meet particular people, and to have a particular experience. He thus felt particularly lucky about all these things, realizing that he now carried a greater responsibility and should work harder to deserve it. Greece at dawn (photographer: Wang Yeu-Kwn)Re-exploring the Meaning of Performance Wang's first international tour with his own work began with a lesson. At Tanzkongress in Germany, the venue for Beings was the space in front of an abandoned war-ruined church. Wang asked himself: if we are going to present our work in front of a church loaded with history, what is the best way to do it?  How should we deal with the people coming and going all the time? How should we move the work to an outdoor space? How can we find the best location with the best lighting and tree shadows at the hour of our performances?  What should we do with the paper on stage, as a major object in Beings, when the low humidity in Europe might have an unexpected effect on its quality?  Beings at Tanzkongress, Germany (Photo credit: Tanzkongress 2022; Photographer: Andreas Etter)Since it was presented outdoors, there were passersby attracted and stopped by it apart from the audience who intentionally came for the dance piece. After the performance, some scattered in groups and talked to each other.  Wang noticed an old lady standing aside and waiting quietly. When Wang and his team were left alone and began to pack up the stuffs, the old lady walked toward Wang and kept thanking him and his team for performing at this place because it meant so much to her.   Wang has kept the old lady's words of appreciation in mind, which changes the way he defines the creation or performance. He now sees the location of an outdoor performance, its adjacent buildings, people's relation with the place, its past stories and historical contexts, and all the variable factors of site-specific creations all important elements to link the performance and its audience.“Can we find a way for more people to see our works?  It does not have to be in a theatre, but maybe we can allow the work some flexibility, to have different shapes, so it can happen at different places and reach different people. At the same time, can our work have enough publicness so the audience can place themselves within it?“  He expects his future works to be flexible and movable – to have at least two versions, one for theatre and the other for non-theatre venues.     So what is such a “publicness” in Wang's mind? “When creating a work, I often begin with many questions in mind. It is the curiosity in creation motivates my creation, and the publicness I refer to is…there may be some people who share the same questions with me. There may be some people who have the same insecurity, the same sense of the unknown and the same curiosity, so it turns out that we are all the same. Perhaps at the certain moment of the work, I am also the same with the old lady.” “Asking questions in your artistic exploration may either lead you to the answers or to more questions, or for you to realize that everyone shares similar questions and there will be no answer – I guess that knowing it is simply enough.“Paper – the Most Important Dance Partner Following the challenge concerning the change of space, here comes another problem: how did he deal with the paper as its texture was changed and affected by the low humidity in Europe?  Xuan paper, the one and only object on stage, can be defined as the third dancer in the dance piece apart from the two human dancers. However, this “third dancer” in Europe became brittle and sharp, making it extremely difficult and dangerous to dance with.  Its stiffness made it easier to crack and its sharpness cut. Wang said jokingly: “it is a sudden realization that your dance partner has been changed to a totally different person!” The large sheet on stage is designed and made by the scenographer Chen Kuang-Lin, who mixed white glue and water to stick two thin pieces of xuan paper together, and assembled 12 pieces of doubled xuan paper of the same size to make a larger 4m x 4m one. During the abovementioned procedure, every step took time and they had to wait for it to be ready. Even the temperatures and humidity would more or less affect the making of the paper and the final work.  “It is a business on the mercies of the elements,” said Wang. When they arrived in Greece, the first stop of their international tour, there was no time for them to fix the paper so they could only perform with what it had become at that time. After the performance, they started to work on solutions with the technical director Lan Chin-Ting testing every possibility by spraying water on it to see how much water it needed, how to control the sprays, how early (before the performance) to spray it, and how to maintain its best condition during the performance, etc. Meanwhile, they also talked about the necessary compromise due to the condition of the paper to make sure that the dancers were safe on stage and everything was at its best.  During the tour, every time when they arrived at a new place, they needed to spread out the paper. Sometimes, a longer period of storage might change the glue's quality and cause some part of the paper to fall off, so it was necessary to go through the details and mend it.    As the paper's texture changed unexpectedly in Europe, the sound it created somehow became more fascinating.  There was not much music used in Beings, and most of the sound you heard during the dance piece came from this large sheet of paper. It thus became an interesting fact that the physical changes of the paper's quality due to the different weather condition led to a paradoxical beauty, where dancers danced with a difficult paper partner and beautiful paper sound.  Wang has admitted that the sheet of paper on stage is still less stable than it should be, but the instability is the most beautiful part. Every subtle change, such as the weight or angle, has its impact on the dance performance. When arriving at a new place, they will begin their “paper-tending ceremony” and fathom how they should build a relationship this time. During the performance, they experience “a less perfect but we-have-been-through-it-together journey” with the audience.    Until now, the team of Beings has continued collecting information about paper and conducting physical experiments on paper to search for the link between its variable factors and consequences. “Paper is living,” said Wang when he was going to tell me the story about paper. Although paper is generally seen as a non-living object, does their interaction not also define how one builds and explores a relationship?The “Relation” Trilogy“Relation” as a major theme throughout Wang's recent creations first appeared in Beings, followed by two more works expected to premiere in 2024 and 2025 respectively to form the “Relation” trilogy, which explores interpersonal relations, the relation between humans and the environment, and eventually the relation among all human beings.    Although Beings sets up the framework of the “Relation” trilogy, the idea for the second piece actually came before Beings.  Looking back on his Tame first presented at the 2019 Songyan New Points On Stage, Wang said: “after Tame I had been through a serious depression – it was the first time I really confronted my creation, my helplessness, and the fact that there were so many I wanted to do but so little I could do.” Receiving a funding from Cloud Gate Culture and Arts Foundation's “Wanderer Project” at that time, he soon departed for Indonesia two days after the performance of Tame.     “I wanted to look for a fish that weighs as much as me. There was a folklore in pongso no tao that every big fish has a fisher's name engraved on its back, so I wanted to look for it, to find out where my name was.”Impressed by the rich and profound Indonesia culture and tradition, Wang began to ask himself:  What is Taiwan? What is the island where I grew up? What do we represent?  What is the tradition of my body? He wondered, “do I lack confidence in Taiwan and my own body?” When he was in Indonesia, he contacted and visited Danang Pamungkas, his former colleague in Cloud Gate 2. He traveled to Surakarta City, Danang's hometown, and Danang's family showed him around the area. It was a trip without particular purposes except for visiting an old friend, but later in 2022 when Wang received an invitation from Taiwan Dance Platform, hosted by the National Kaohsiung Center for the Arts (also known as Weiwuying), he decided to ask Danang to join him in the creation A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________.“There was a moment in one of our performances, when we had a plastic cloth on stage, and we both should gather the cloth from the air and lay it flat. Seeing the cloth floating in the air for some time and finally descending, I suddenly had a feeling that Taiwan, a small island as it was, was pretty nice. There was probably no other island as small as Taiwan in the world that could accommodate so many different ethnic groups and religions, and celebrate gender equality. Things like this were shapeless. It was plastic and inclusive.” At that moment, Wang felt that the island had a shapeless shape and existed in its own way. Later, he discussed it with his dramaturg Wang Shih-Wei about how they could continue with the idea, which became what the second piece of the trilogy departed from.   With the support of the National Theater & Concert Hall and Weiwuying in co-production, A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________ is scheduled to premiere in the autumn of 2024.  Rehearsal of A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________ at Weiwuying (Photo credit: Shimmering Production; photographer: Chen Wei-Sheng)Wang told me frankly that the big fish he caught during his Wanderer Project did not weigh as much as him. “But in one of our rehearsals, I carried Danang and thought: maybe Danang was the fish I was looking for which weighed as much as me, and the creation process was a journey to find my name.” For him, A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________ was an enlargement of an intimate relationship. “If interpersonal relationship works this way, how about the relation between islands?” In his journey, sometimes loaded with a confusion of self-identity, Wang hoped to search for different possibilities together with the Indonesia dancer Danang who was different from Wang in every possible way. “Do we share similar difficulties or ongoing experiences, or the lack of confidence in our body, our ethnicity, and ourselves? Perhaps we are as different as how we are both the same.”Why are islands called “islands?”  How do resources and cultures flow between islands? How do islands connect with each other? A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________ is such a work about two dance artists from different islands exploring the abovementioned questions. Meanwhile, Wang shares his thought that the island has marks carved by nature or time, so is our body. “Perhaps everyone’s body is an island,” and he hoped to create mirrored metaphors between islands and bodies.    About People, with People The third piece of the trilogy can be traced back to the first Europe tour in 2022, again. There was a one-month gap between the performances in Greece and Germany, so Wang decided to go to Spain for a pilgrimage tour before Beings' next stop.  The famous Camino de Santiago in Spain contained several routes, and Wang chose the challenging “Camino del Norte” which ran through the coastal cliffs. Its rugged and steep mountainous terrains, climate changes, and much fewer supply stations made the pilgrimage extremely difficult for travelers. As for Wang, he carried his backpack and tent to take on the road without planning ahead.    The first stop was to get a Credential Del Peregrino (Pilgrim Passport), with which the pilgrims were allowed to stay in albergues (pilgrim hostels) and to have discount for hostels and restaurants. He still remembered a conversation with the staff member at the counter: “Where are you from?” “Taiwan.” “Is it China?” When Wang tried to explain it, a European replied in Spanish: “He is from Taiwan, not China.”  That moment was a realization to Wang that his journey had really begun.  During the month, Wang had been through sunny days and heavy rains. Sometimes he camped in the mountain, while sometimes he stayed in albergues. Walking with a heavy load of more than 10kg, Wang felt the physical and spiritual torture which surfaced with the question being asked everyday: how to give up? However, he did not give up but persisted. He even finished the route in 30 days, quicker than the average pilgrims for that carrying his own tent made it easier to find a spot to rest.In 2023, when Beings toured to Germany again, Wang visited the memorial site of Terezin Concentration Camp in Czech. The camp was used as a propaganda to “show” (a show indeed) the “healthy and joyful life” inside.  The memorial site of Terezin Concentration Camp in Czech (Photographer: Wang Yeu-Kwn)Standing there, Wang felt how the design of the buildings and its walls conveyed the suffocating stress: “If I had been here at that time, knowing that it was the last stop of my life, how scared I would have been?” He continued to walk and entered an underground passage. It was extremely narrow with some windows to the outside, but the windows were just small holes on the thick walls which separated the passage from the outside world, and there was water inside the walls. Then, he reached a different space guarded by barbed wires, and the route led him to a stairway. He walked up. There was a large wall full of bullet holes in front of him and a cross next to the wall. It was the final path taken by the prisoners before they were executed.   Wang thought to himself: “Why did people have the heart to treat othes like this?  What caused it to happen?  What was the purpose of such a cruelty?” In the first week of his pilgrimage trip, he also passed through the Basque Country in northern Spain and saw many flags and slogans along the road which demanded the Spanish government to recognize them as an independent nation. He had the similar feeling at that time: “I do not know how much time, effort, or blood it should take for a nation to prove that it is free and independent, how many people or things you own should be sacrificed to prove that you are free.” During these trips abroad, Wang gradually developed the many questions he wished to explore in the third piece of the trilogy – about people, about how people have become what they are throughout the long evolution journey, and about the unsolved puzzles between people. Why Do We Need Theatre?After the global outbreak of COVID-19, Wang began to feel dispirited and unsure about the purpose of theatre in our contemporary life. People in today's world could easily find what they wanted for entertainment or knowledge on all kinds of media and platforms, but it took much more effort, in every aspect, to go to the theatre. So why do we still need to go to the theatre? “If I cannot find the reason I agree, I do not know why I am still doing it.”    In the same trip he visited Czech, Wang also went to Vienna and watched a performance at Wiener Konzerthaus. He sat beside the wall: “the person who sat in front of me might have some mental illness, and his body would move with the dance, something like he would keep tiptoeing all the time. He knew every music piece very well, because his movement always happened before the music. He was a natural dancer. It was just so beautiful that he did not do anything but only enjoy the music.”“At that moment, I felt like I found the purpose of theatre in our contemporary life – we needed these experiences, physical experiences.” Just like the physical experiences in Terezin Concentration Camp, these are not things which could be felt via smartphone or computer. It is why people still want to dine in a restaurant or go to the night market. “I want to find such a connection for my future works,” said Wang.  Take Beings for example: the physical experiences contain how paper creates sounds on stage or the different paper quality when they perform in different places. Imperfection is a physical experience too, so are the sound of the drip of sweat on paper and how the sweat slowly spreads. “Those physical experiences are for the audience to freely choose and to settle down with.  It is what I am looking for.” It does not have to be a strong vibration. It can be subtle.  Wang hopes that he could find these physical experiences in a more sensitive and nuanced way.   Apart from theatre, Wang's Shimmering Production, co-founded with Lee Yin-Ying in 2019, has continued its “Hand in Hand, We Dance Project.” As the project title suggests, every time when they visit a different place for the purpose of artist residency or touring, they will organize workshops for non-professionals as long as they can, inviting ordinary people to co-create or to enjoy the fun of pure body-moving. The idea started with Wang and Lee's past experiences of artist residencies in different schools and cities when they were both dancers of Cloud Gate 2, where they got a chance to dance with non-professionals or for non-theatregoers. “Their feedback was straightforward, so I found the communication precious.” Wang and Lee thus began to wonder: apart from theatre, was there different ways to share their dance with more people.  “Hand in Hand, We Dance Project” by Shimmering Production (Photo credit: Hearhere World Music Festival; Photographer: Chiu Chia-Hua)Every sharing and experience are motivation for Wang to carry on. Despite the lack of immediate effect or contribution, seeing them dancing free like children and knowing that you may bring them something different can be the best reward to keep going. At the same time, it allows Wang to reexamine his profession as a dancer: “Dance can be such a happy thing, so I should cherish the time when I still can dance.” Waiting Is a Beautiful Thing After Beings in 2020, Wang began to develop A Quest for Relationship: Island of _________ in 2022, with its scheduled premiere in 2024, and according to his plan, Wang will work on the third piece of the trilogy in 2025. Meanwhile, Beings has toured to many different countries and Wang also have different ongoing creations and projects.  However, he confessed that as a slow creator, he was probably “ineffective” from a business perspective.  When creating Beings, Wang consulted a paper master about the use of paper, and the master told him: papermakers often said that paper was waiting for the right “heat,” and you needed to wait for the “heat” to be stabilized to use it. Sometimes it took years. Wang found it beautiful.  Waiting can be such a romantic, capricious, but beautiful thing.   No matter it was during the pilgrimage trip or wanderer project, in which Wang wished to catch a big fish that weighed as much as him, he thought about giving up and even had the exit plan ready. He told me: “If you need to give up, you have to give up flawlessly and accurately.” But if you really wanted him to give up, he would tell you “if you give up now, you lose it.” For him, he did not have the luxury to give up. The fact is, Wang has never planned to give up. During the journey of his artistic practice, he has always allowed the confusion, self-doubt, and all kinds of questions to happen, while he will try to solve one after another on the way. He goes with the flow of time and cherishes the state of life as given: creating slowly, you will find your own questions or the questions of the questions via the work; touring is the way to create many different experiences; and his dance projects offer the best opportunity not only to recharge himself but to know more people. There is a folklore in pongso no tao that every big fish has a fisher's name engraved on its back. Perhaps Wang Yeu-Kwn is still on the road in search of the big fish, but he is thriving during the journey, where he has solved riddle after riddle at a slow but steady pace to search for his own name.  *Translator: Siraya Pai

The Complicated Fixation with the Quest for the Father in Post-Martial Law Taiwanese NarrativeThe literary scene is becoming more and more complex in Taiwan with each passing day. It seems difficult to imagine that in 1987, when Martial Law was finally lifted, society in Taiwan would develop in the way that it has, moving farther and farther away from mainland China, in part due to the different political and social situations, but at the same time still feeling the effects of some age-old themes in Chinese cultural and literary history. Contemporary Taiwan has moved forward in unprecedented ways to work toward securing the rights of the LGBTQ community in ways that very few states in Asia have. Taiwan is setting the tone for tolerance of Gay Rights for the rest of Asia and for other places in the world. The contemporary author Chen Xue (陳雪) is one of the most vibrant and creative voices in the LGBTQ movement. Her work has been pathbreaking and has opened up a space in which others feel safe to speak. Her novel Fatherless City (無父之城, 2019) is a complicated, sophisticated, and fascinating intervention into the world in which conventional familial and kinship relationships can be reconsidered or, more precisely, reimagined. Her work also intersects with some themes, such as filial piety and the search for the father, that have existed in Chinese writing since at least the Ming dynasty and perhaps even longer.In this essay, I set out to place Chen Xue's novel in the larger context of Chinese/Sinophone narrative, illustrating how the search for the father and the anxiety over the absent father is a recurring theme in Chinese literature dating at least to the Ming dynasty. The intertextual links between Chen Xue's work and earlier works not only help us better understand her work, they also enable us to see some of the truly creative aspects of her own novel. Among the most important themes in Chinese literature, philosophy, and historical writing is that of filiality: the powerful connection between fathers and sons in Chinese society but also the governing discursive logic that legitimates the patriarchal social structure, networks of kinship, and a system of belief that privileges the bond between humans in the terrestrial world and ancestors in the celestial realm. The powerful historical context of filiality tends to haunt even the most radical works of fiction in the contemporary Sinosphere, both within mainland China and outside its borders. Also haunting this particular work, and distinguishing it from works from mainland China per se, is the legacy of the White Terror in Taiwan that raged from the late 1940s until the mid-1980s. The White Terror, extrajudicial executions and imprisonments, authoritarian rule, and the fear engendered by martial law together conspire to contaminate virtually all aspects of Taiwanese society and all relationships. Its effects can be seen in many literary works, such as those of Chen Yingzhen (陳映真) and others, and cinematic representations, such as those of Hou Hsiao-hsien (侯孝賢) and Yang Dechang (楊德昌). Fatherless City joins in this collective ritual remembering of the White Terror period and displays the way in which its tentacles dig into and latch themselves onto the consciousness of Taiwanese people even long after the lifting of Martial Law in 1987.In Fatherless City, as Carlos Rojas has summarized in the only English-language study of the novel that I know of, Wang Menglan, the female protagonist, seeks refuge from the stresses of urban Taipei and from her own anxious feelings stemming from writer's block. While there, she engages in several assignments wherein she essentially ghost-writes or attempts to ghost-write the stories of other people, a practice that proves liberating and enlightening for her. Among these narratives there is one that she creates for a man named Lin Yongfeng who would like an imagined narrative to be attached to the prison years his father endured during the White Terror. In the process of creating a fictional account of Lin's father's years of detention, Wang Menglan's feelings toward her own father and the consciousness of his suicide infiltrate her thoughts. She later discovers that the presumptions on which she based her fictional account of Lin's father's life were completely false, a point I will return to at the end of this essay. For now, it is important to note that in Chinese narrative there is no easy escape from the bonds of intergenerational relations, perhaps a universal fact but certainly one that is accentuated in Chinese and East Asian societies. Examining some of the other texts in which the search for the father dominate the narrative will help to contextualize Chen Xue's novel.  Fatherless City (無父之城) by Chen Xue.Late Imperial Narratives of Filial Quest and the Story of Wang YuanTales of filial exemplars populate traditional Chinese narrative of all eras in abundant numbers. What we do not see, according to Maria Franca Sibau, is instances of the filial quest (尋父故事,  also known as 萬里尋親): stories where a son scours the countryside for his father. This changes with two vernacular stories of Wang Yuan entitled "Fleeing from the Local Tyrant the Coward Runs Far Away, Through a Premonitory Dream the Filial Son Meets His Parent" (避豪惡懦夫遠竄, 感夢兆孝子逢親) and "Wang Benli Searches for His Father at the Far End of the Empire" (王本立天涯求父). The first appears in Exemplary Words for the World (型世言, published in 1645); the second is collected in Rocks Not Their Heads (石點頭, c. 1627). Although these two narratives of Wang Yuan's story share the basic plot and many of the details, crucially, the overall emphasis of each story is radically different from the other. There are several extraordinary features that the stories share. For example, Wang Yuan or Wang Benli, as he is familiarly known, drops everything including his own wife and child to go to the ends of the earth to find his father. He eventually finds his father, who it turns out is an irresponsible lout. The father abandoned his son. When Wang Yuan finds him, he is met with hostility and indifference from the father. The father refuses to return home with Wang Yuan. But the point is not that the father is a decent man, that there was some kind of misunderstanding, or that things can be patched together. The father will not acquiesce and follow the son home willingly. The point is that no matter how contemptible the father is, no matter how unworthy of love and respect he seems, the son is compelled to restore and maintain the relationship. The filial relationship is not transactional. It is not an earned right on the part of the father. It is implicitly as solid as adamantine. Sibau suggests that this peculiar level of obeisance to the father is not simply the necessary extension of Confucian values. It is particularly pronounced in works of the late imperial era. In the Exemplary Words for the World version, incredible detail is devoted to all the ways in which Wang Yuan methodically searches for the father and his determination to continue on his journey unabated until the father is found. The two stories make for fascinating yarns and detailed excursions through the human geography of late Imperial China. This elaborate description sets the stage for a modern work, Wang Wenxing's classic novel of the breakdown in filiality and the intergenerational bond, Family Catastrophe (家變, 1971).The Radical Critique of Filiality and the Redemptive ImpulseWang Wenxing's (王文興) novel Family Catastrophe (家變) has largely been read as an extension to the May Fourth critique of patriarchy, an evisceration of the poisoned father-son kinship relationship as it was depicted in the early 20th century. What is often overlooked, except in the article that I wrote, is that a significant amount of the narrative focuses on the search for the father after he has fled the home, a search that takes place in the narrative present. This narrative is organized from A to O. Like the Ming tale of Wang Yuan, there is an obsessive quality to the search for the father and a complete elision of all the conflicts and differences between father and son. Those intergenerational antagonisms that highlight the fiction of such May Fourth Era writers as Ba Jin (巴金) are simply all pushed aside in the enterprise to find the father and restore the family to its original and proper form.But this is only a portion of Family Catastrophe, and the most overlooked aspect of the novel at that. Interspersed in between the lettered sections is the narrative of the history of the father and son relationship beginning when the protagonist Fan Ye (范曄) is very young and just beginning to read. This narrative is organized by number, is narrated in the past tense, and charts the devolution of the relationship and disintegration of the family. Together, the two sections constitute competing narrative and moral tones, with one hostile and the other redemptive. When considered as part of a single overall novel, the conclusion the reader can draw is that there is a profound ambivalence with regard to filiality.The narrative structure of Family Catastrophe is like no other book: it is radical and calls into question the conventional structure of narrative itself. But if we search beneath the structural fact of the interspersed bifurcated narrative per se and ask the question of why would Wang Wenxing structure the narrative in this manner, the true import of the novel is unveiled to us: Wang wanted us to think of the two drives—the drive to oust the father, the conflict, the anti-filial passion on the one hand, and the redemptive urge, the compulsion to restore the family, the contrite, filial sentiment on the other—as being commingled. They are intertwined. They are two sides of the same coin. The novel is, in short, an internal contestation, a narrative at war with itself. Considered in this light, Family Catastrophe is not merely a novel that attacks the moral notion of filiality; it is a novel that equally valorizes filiality as an indispensable ethic, a constitutive element of the Chinese psyche itself. The two conflicting sentiments are enmeshed and not easily torn asunder. Thus, the upshot is that Wang Wenxing's novel illustrates that no matter how radical the critique of filiality is, there is no real getting rid of filiality. This point helps us make sense of Chen Xue's novel.Luo Yijun's Father-Son-Father QuandaryLuo Yijun's (駱以軍) novel Far Away (遠方) appears as though it could be a semi-autobiographical novel that depicts the first-person narrator as someone caught between the two conflicting poles of kinship obligation: on the one hand, being a filial son and, on the other hand, being a responsible parent and partner to his wife. The novel narrates a situation in which the narrator has just taken his wife, at a very advanced stage of pregnancy, and young son on a vacation to Hualian. He was not there very long when they received a call from his wife’s sister that his father, on a trip to mainland China, had had a stroke. The narrator and his mother had to drop everything and rush to Jiujiang (九江) in Mainland China to see after the father. Much of the frustration and conflict of the novel revolves around the corrupt bureaucracy in mainland China, both on the governmental level and in the hospital where his father was being treated. The main problem was that the government would not issue a travel permit that would enable the father to return to Taiwan. The experiences in the novel—dealing with the doctors and hospital bureaucrats, dealing with the government, thinking about his strained relationship with his father, and thinking about his own young family—cause the first-person narrator to contemplate his place in the world, the meaning of his life, and the necessary fulfillment of obligations that he constantly confronts. The novel depicts a modern situation that is quite plausible, but within the modern condition of two separate governments and political systems at two different stages of economic development, as well as the demands of modern economics that, for instance, foster a desire in many people to reduce the size of the family, to nuclearize, the novel provides a format in which the reader can revisit the classic theme of filiality.How does filiality work in the specific, material conditions of contemporary China and Taiwan, with many cultural differences between the two societies owing to totally separate historical trajectories over a seventy-year period? How does one deal with being caught between two very different generations—the older one represented by the father, who was still very strict, raised his son using traditional punitive methods, and was not a warm and loving father; the younger one represented by his pregnant wife and their toddler son? He has pressures from both ends. In a spiritual way, the novel could be related to Chen Xue's work. Although the father was physically present in the narrator's life while he was growing up, he was not emotionally available. In other words, it still was a bit like not having a father at all. At the same time, toward the end of the novel the narrator shutters to imagine what life would be like with his father gone, when, albeit at a later age, the narrator would "become an orphan." Another complicating factor of the impact of the sociopolitical situation on the narrator and his family is the fact that in mainland China he has a half-brother who was the offspring of his father and his first wife. This actually was a common phenomenon in Cold War era Taiwan, and it also was a factor in Wang Wenxing's novel. What does this mean for kinship? This is a complicating element of the story. Far Away (遠方) by Lou Yijun.The Fixation on Intergenerational Relations and the Redemptive UrgeUndoubtedly, in all societies intergenerational relations are important. Their centrality, socially speaking, is reflected in the literature of societies all over the world. However, in the Chinese society specifically and East Asian societies more generally, intergenerational relations are particularly important. The literary examples discussed in this brief essay represent a range of narratives that deal with the obsession over the father figure and the fear and anxiety over the loss of the father. Interestingly, each one of the novels discussed above is inflected with its own specific historical circumstances. These circumstances add to the tapestry of the description of human relationships. The historical circumstances are not totally determinative of the way in which these relationships are structured or the way they unfold; however, in every case the historical circumstances complicate these relationships.Returning to Chen Xue's unusual novel, we can see that the stress placed on the protagonist Wang Menglan due to the traumatic loss of her father has led to the development of several different narrative strands. Works like Wang Wenxing's innovative novel Family Catastrophe paved the way for further innovation exhibited in later novels such as Fatherless City. Wang Menglan, Chen Xue's fictional heroine, is herself a writer. Her initial impetus to move to the village of Haishan (海山鎮), where most of the action occurs, was to assist in the writing of the biography of an elderly artist. But the artist dies not long after her arrival, closing that chapter of the story. Coincidentally, a new opportunity arises as a local resident asks her to write the history of his father. As I said near the beginning of this essay, Chen Xue's fictional reconstruction of the biography of Lin Yongfeng's father, a political dissident, did not uncover the real reason for his imprisonment. Writing has a way both of revealing and concealing, frequently at the same time. What is narrative if not the assembly of a number of individual facts and incidents arranged in such a way as to tell a story. The way they are assembled and the fact that sometimes crucial details are left out or diminished while others are accentuated together contribute to the fashioning of the story, which can be contrary to the truth. In fact, the persuasiveness of the story often has more to do with its rhetorical quality than to its adherence to reality. In Chen Xue's book, the protagonist Wang Menglan begins to view herself and her own family differently while in the process of helping write the narratives of other people and their families. As this happens, she also regains her ability to write her own work. In her experiences in the seaside town of Haishan, Wang Menglan not only rewrites the story of Lin Yongfeng's father, she also helps solve the mystery of a young woman, a daughter, who has been murdered. These stories, plus the dismissed plan to write the artist's biography, are what eventually bring Wang Menglan back around to her own story and her own confrontation with the presence of her father in her consciousness. Like many Chinese narratives, no matter how radical the structure and how subversive the subject matter, in the end there is an attempt at redemption. As Carlos Rojas has emphasized, at the end of the novel tears come to the eyes of Wang Menglan, tears not of sadness but of cleansing and absolution. Wang Menglan leaves the reader at the conclusion of the novel with a feeling of redemption, that she has come to terms with the loss of her father and that she has learned to accept it. Chen Xue teaches us that narrative can be a means of confronting the terrible things in our lives, working through them, and developing the ability to accept them and move on.*About Christopher LupkeChristopher Lupke (Ph. D. Cornell University) is Professor of Chinese Cultural Studies at the University of Alberta. A scholar of modern and contemporary Chinese literature and cinema, his books include The Sinophone Cinema of Hou Hsiao-hsien: Culture, Style, Voice, and Motion and a translation of Ye Shitao's monumental work, A History of Taiwan Literature, which one the Aldo and Jeanne Scaglione Prize for the translation of a scholarly book from the Modern Language Association. Lupke’s current research project is a book-length study of the Confucian notion of “filiality” in contemporary Chinese and Sinophone fiction.

PrefaceTaiwan's identity crisis is nearly a cliché at this point—it polls itself on its national identity more than any other country in the world. The identity work of Taiwanese writers unpacks this cliché, showing how identity emerges at the seams and borders with the world outside. This can seen through the narration of their own personal histories and the lives of their characters. Taiwan's production of subjectivity has long been a co-production with international and transnational actors and spaces, and literature is a major mode of its narration. Thus it should come as little surprise that many of its most celebrated writers—both domestically, if national prizes are any indication, and, internationally, thanks to masterly translations—take especial concern with encounters of de- and re-bordering as a mode of being and becoming Taiwanese, whatever that becoming Taiwanese might mean. This essay discusses encounters with four such writers—Syaman Rapongan, Liao Hung-Chi, Kao Yi-feng, and Kaori Lai, based on personal interviews and readings of their award-winning works.Syaman Rapongan (夏曼·藍波安)Take Syaman Rapongan as a first case. Now by far Taiwan’s most recognizable ocean-facing indigenous writer, several of Syaman's more than fifteen books since the 1990s have been translated into Japanese, French, and soon English. Though Syaman's publications include a wide range of genres—from essays, mythological (oral) tales to short stories and novels—all his creative works are presented as expressions of indigenous Tao culture and their connections to a broader oceanic world. And yet, his work is rife with ambiguity and ambivalence about where he belongs—his oeuvre, like any cultural production of Taiwan, is always a work in progress, a work that expresses his own progress at a particular time and place. It is a corpus concerned with the place of the foreign in the fashioning of the self, or, as it were, the foreignness of the place of the self. Distinct from the other writers I will touch on in this brief essay, pivots on the proposition of a radical alterity of indigeneity.Like many other indigenous writers and activists in Taiwan, Syaman embarked on a circuitous path before finding his way back home. His romps through urban national and oceanic transnational spaces gave him the empirical and conceptual resources to narrate his (re)becoming a Tao man as a rite of homecoming. During his youth, Syaman studied in Taipei and worked as a manual labourer. Spending more than two decades on "mainland Taiwan", and later traveling much of the Austronesian Pacific beyond Taiwan, he eventually made up his mind to return to his home island and relearn, reinvent, and represent ancestral practices. His books recount this life and journey at sea and home, often staging his thresholds of becoming as repeated instances of an encounter with the transnational.The literature scholar Chiu Kuei-fen has concisely identified the core structure of Syaman's writing as one that "dramatizes the process of his journey home". And yet, as she insightfully argues, this is an unfinishable process—thresholds that can sometimes be crossed, but doors cannot be closed. Chiu strikes a Derridean note when she observes, "Paradoxically, it is the 'homing' movement in his writing that turns [Syaman] Rapongan into a figure of ambivalence and his writing a site of split identity positions. For, in spite of his self-positioning as a guardian and translator of his tribal culture, the pronounced thematic emphasis on his struggle to become a Tao man suggests that he is not yet a Tao man" (1082).In his writing and maybe even more in his verbal performance of self, as when we met in person in October 2023, Syaman strikes a pose of radical alterity and resistance. Da Hai Fu Meng (大海浮夢), his work supported by the National Culture and Arts Foundation, begins by refuting the geographical ideology imposed on him by his teachers, whose state-crafted exams would penalize students who didn't agree that the sun sets over the mountains, a geography foreign and baffling to Syaman and his fellow islanders from Pongso no Tao, also known as Orchid Island or Lanyu (蘭嶼). His bildungsroman, The Eyes of the Ocean (大海之眼Mata Nu Wawa), likewise begins by placing himself in opposition, this time not only to Han Chinese authorities and teachers, but Western Catholic priests, who he suggests are twinned, if different, forces of colonization. Da Hai Fu Meng (大海浮夢) and The Eyes of the Ocean (大海之眼Mata Nu Wawa) by Syaman Rapongan.In person, Syaman Rapongan emphasized this point by citing the title of a recent Taipei Fine Arts Museum exhibition co-curated by Bruno Latour: "We don't live on the same planet". He insisted that Tao, Taiwanese of whatever type, and anyone and everyone else, are not on the same worlds. For Syaman, Tao and Taiwanese are not even in the same sea, and the latter are a 'continental' people. As he writes at the end of The Eyes of the Ocean, "The island to the west [Taiwan] is too big, and is inhabited by a continental people who write continental tales. It turns out that our oceans are different. Our ocean, the one to the east, is free from "national boundaries," while the one to the west is fenced in." To further make the point beyond the human, Syaman Rapongan employs an oceanic epistemology—in which fish and trees are teachers—to assert a radically different ontology. It is perhaps telling that such a claim itself cites Euro-American scholarship, consonant with the 'ontological turn' within anthropology, which has been championed particularly by scholars of Amerindian indigeneity. Syaman expressed nothing but admiration for what he knows of the traditional knowledge of such indigenes, which he presumed dwarfs that of his or his people's knowledge. At the same time, as a writer who has crafted a unique persona through the crafting and promotion of so many books, Syaman has adopted a certain flexibility with his presentation of self as an insider or outsider. He told me how, when taking trips to China, he would simply stand and smile silently if he was introduced as a compatriot. When he toured northern Europe, he sometimes introduced himself as a Catholic in order to receive warmer welcomes, nevermind his own self-professed animism, and the lingering resentment against the condescending priests of his childhood that carries the narrative momentum of several his books.Syaman Rapongan does not consider his work to be "pure literature". He has called it oceanic literature, or Pacific literature, and finally in summary as at the end of The Eyes of the Ocean, 'colonial island ocean literature', because he will "think in Tao and translate into Chinese, and because my spirit, my flesh, and my knowledge are nurtured by the sea". But as he says in person, what it boils down to in the end is "Syaman Rapongan Literature". Yet, even this eponymous style may give way and be subsumed by a name change yet to come—following Tao tradition, he will likely change his legal name from Syaman to Syapen (Grandfather, of whatever the child is named) in the near future when his son and daughter-in-law give him a grandchild. As a joking aside, I asked him if this means the National Museum of Taiwan Literature, with whom I'm collaborating to commission the publication of his work in translation [the above translated quotes of The Eyes of the Ocean are courtesy of Darryl Sterk], will need to produce a new contract and design a different book cover for the upcoming release of Mata Nu Wawa. So as not to unsettle his international market, he just twinkled his eyes and said we could simply mention his newer name in a footnote, if need be.Syaman's academic training was constituted as an encounter with the foreign: He studied French Literature at Tamkang University and anthropology at National Tsinghua University. In his telling, undertaking the French literature major was not a carefully considered decision. Rather, it was no more consciously chosen than the number on a lottery ticket—the major and the university were easier to test into than many others. Yet, early through the baosong (保送) system, in which indigenous Taiwanese could be exempted from national testing requirements, he had rejected an opportunity to study at National Taiwan Normal University or Kaohsiung Normal University, reasoning that these were ideological indoctrination centers that would force him to be guai (乖) and docile and destroy his spirit. Had he accepted these offers, he would never have become a writer, nor fashioned the extraordinary world he now lives in (when we met for dinner in the fall of 2023, he was in transit in Taipei, negotiating rights for film adaptations of his books, preparing to deliver a keynote for an international conference at Arizona State University, and contemplating an upcoming appearance with a leading Taiwanese politician). All of these achievements came through daily writing practice and recognition and financial support from Taiwan government agencies and private foundations (themselves driven by their own internal dynamics of identity and alterity, which Syaman both troubles and exploits). This success was subtended by deep engagements with the Austronesian world that later led to his acclaim. Indeed, it took a trip to the Pacific Island of Rarotonga for him to see a map that centered the Pacific and finally made him feel at home in the sea that he says is his true country, as he relates at the end of The Eyes of the Ocean. In this sense, a stable sense of self and its physical home could only be forged through a foray into the foreign.Liao Hung-chi (廖鴻基)Let's turn now to Liao Hung-chi. Once a fisherman, Liao also found his home in the sea, yet he is a very different sort of oceanic writer than Syaman Rapongan, and, perhaps owing to his Hoklo ancestry, one far less concerned with cultural alterity. Hailing from Hualien, where he briefly dabbled in local politics, Liao is extraordinarily prolific, having published more than 25 single-authored works since the late 1990s. Most of them are collections of essays which document his journeys on the ocean or at shores. From his early celebrated work, Beggars of the Sea (討海人, 1996) the first of his highly- regarded "The Oceanic Quartet海洋四部曲", to his most recent novel The Last Hunter of The Sea (最後的海上獵人). Complementing his identity as an oceanic writer, Liao is also an experienced whale tracker and a key figure who has raised awareness about challenges to the well-being of marine ecosystems. For decades, he has documented a variety of cetacean species on Taiwan's Pacific coast, having organised the Taiwan Cetacean Survey Group in 1996. In 1998, he founded the Kuroshio Ocean Education Foundation (黑潮基金會) and the Hualien Formosa Association (花蓮福爾摩沙協會) in 2020. He also collaborated with filmmakers and photographers to produce an eco-documentary, Whale Island (男人與他的海) in 2020. His advocacy is exemplary and propels his personal project beyond words and into action. The Last Hunter of The Sea (最後的海上獵人) by Liao Hung-chi. Rooted in his hometown of Hualien, Liao has spent little time abroad, apart from taking a few trips to Tonga and Hawaii and other ocean-based destinations to share his work. While the ocean, for some writers, may seem foreign, for Liao it is more home than the terrestrial world. And yet, his brief experiences living and traveling overseas have brought him closer to this liquid sense of home. Decades ago, Liao worked in the shrimp industry in Gilimanuk, Indonesia, whose crystal-clear waters gave him hope for the eventual ecological recovery of Taiwan. Going to Tonga and seeing how locals there managed touristic encounters with dolphins likewise led him to relax his earlier fears that similar such interactions would necessarily be destructive to Taiwanese cetaceans. Going to highly-urbanized Singapore, where he gave talks at schools of all levels, made him understand that an island drastically smaller than Taiwan could be even more socially cut off from its oceanic surrounds. That said, Liao's oceanic orbit is largely a Taiwanese one—if he has any hopes for foreign readership of his works in translation, it's that they appreciate that Taiwan has a "world-class sea" and that they can come here and experience it.Kao Yi-feng (高翊峰)Kao Yi-feng cuts a very different character than Liao. For Kao, "the foreign" has informed the literary production, in as much as it consolidated his sense of Taiwaneseness and his commitment to write a microcosmic story of Taiwan's transformations into his work. For Kao, a sense of the foreign was most acutely felt when he lived in China, which years studying under Taiwan's Chinese nationalist educational regime had led him to believe was the cultural origin of Taiwan. Yet growing up as a Hakka in Miaoli County, and not learning Mandarin until enrolling in grade school, he already had a sense of cultural diversity and boundaries even within the boundaries of Taiwan, troubling received notions of national homogeneity or purity.The only significant time spent abroad by Kao Yi-feng was in Beijing, where he served as editor-in-chief of Maxim Magazine, having been hired by its parent company, a Hong Kong-based media conglomerate. It was, he told me, a sense of being foreign there, of being an expat in what he'd been taught was his cultural homeland, that accentuated his Taiwanese identity and committed him to imbue it into his speculative fiction. Bubble War (泡沫戰爭), published in 2014, tells of youth overthrowing the adults in a residential community following their mismanagement of its basic needs. The book contains obvious nods to classics like the work of JG Ballard and William Golding's Lord of the Flies—in fact, a protagonist is named after a transliterated version of Golding (Gaoding). Yet, Kao's interprets his own novel as being deeply rooted in Taiwan's successive waves of political reform, which were led by youth, the achievements of which he only began to truly appreciate after living in Beijing. Bubble War (泡沫戰爭) by Kao Yi-feng.Bubble War went to press at the same time as university students occupied the Legislative Yuan in what soon became known as the Sunflower Movement, a protest against a trade bill with China that many feared would erode Taiwan’s autonomy. (Confession: I joined this movement too, initially as a curious graduate student researching relations between China and Taiwan, and later wrote about it for a variety of venues). For Kao, as well as for the author of the introduction to Bubble War, National Chengchi University Taiwan literature Professor Chen Fang-ming, it looked as if the novel had somehow prophesied the political moment, even if it had been composed several years prior. Whether or not Kao saw the future is beside the point—what is clear enough is that, at least for him in retrospect, it was his time abroad in China that propelled him not so much to anticipate or allegorize a later Taiwanese national eruption against domestic collusion with the regime in Beijing, but to valorize the spirit of revolution he so admired in Taiwanese youth. Kaori Lai (賴香吟)Finally, of the four authors surveyed here, Kaori Lai has spent the most time abroad. This makes the historical depth and description of her award-winning trilogy of novellas, Portraits in White, which illuminates everyday life during Taiwan’s White Terror period, all the more remarkable in its quotidian detail. In fact, Lai precisely attributes her attention to such details—and the unremarkable, or rather, universal aspects of everyday experience, to her time abroad. Studying for a PhD in Japan, she encountered Japanese scholars who presented a much more realistic portrait of Taiwanese history and of China than what she had learned in the so-called "Free China" of the ROC on Taiwan. Portraits in White by Kaori Lai.Two of the three main characters in Portraits in White come into their Taiwanese-ness through encounters with the foreign other. For teacher Ching-chih, it is coming across the Bible, the peculiar Western and Chinese amalgam that is Sun Yat-Sen's Three Principles of the People, and Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. For the singer and translator from Bangka, Casey, freedom is felt as she walks the Paris streets festooned with communist imagery, and the sentiment spreads and multiplies when she hears that Tokyo university has likewise been taken over by protestors. As Lai observed in our interview, "People's Taiwanese consciousness was raised overseas." This was true to some extent for Lai, who, while aware of Taiwan's distinction from China despite her martial law-era schooling, began thinking about Taiwan's place in East Asia in earnest during her studies in Japan. She later returned to Taiwan to work briefly in cultural agencies such as the National Museum of Taiwanese Literature. Such a path has been common enough for many Taiwanese intellectuals, but what sets Lai apart from most local writers—with the curious counter-example of Lung Ying-tai, who also spent significant time in Germany—is how her time in Europe further shaped her perception of Taiwan. Living in Berlin for seven years, and interacting with East Germans and other Europeans who had lived under ostensibly socialist or communist regimes, she began to see how much of the paranoia and authoritarianism of life under KMT dictatorship—which mendaciously presented itself as "Free China" operating ideologically and administratively in line with Western democratic practice—actually had more in common with life behind the Iron Curtain. Still, after all these years, Lai expresses little interest in recapitulating the heartache and pathos of Taiwan's tragedies, even as such tragic histories serve as the backdrop for the goings-on of her books. The final novella of Portraits in White ends with two elderly Taiwanese, a long-exiled male political activist and a woman contemplating a long-overdue visit home, saying goodbye in Germany by sharing a European-style hug. This brief gesture of intimacy would be unlikely enough in Taiwan, where their age and gender and marital status would at most allow them to share a spot of tea, but the scene is set in Europe—a site of displacement and reinvention. Here, their shared yet isolated Taiwaneseness, and all the years that went into its cultivation are allowed to seep and stew and settle and conclude in an embrace. What a fine way to end a book, and as fitting a point as any to end an essay about the role of the other in the production of the self.*About Ian RowenIan Rowen (伊恩) is associate professor in the Department of Taiwan Culture, Languages, and Literature at National Taiwan Normal University. Trained as a geographer, he has published original research about social movements, tourism, geopolitics, and literature in East Asia. He is the author of One China, Many Taiwans: The Geopolitics of Cross-Strait Tourism (Cornell University Press, 2023) the editor of Transitions in Taiwan: Stories of the White Terror (Cambria Press, 2021), lead translator of Tibetan Environmentalists in China: The King of Dzi (Lexington Press, 2016), and co-editor (with Ti-han Chang and Darryl Sterk) of A Taiwanese Eco-literature Reader (forthcoming with Columbia University Press).

PlaceLi Zishu's (黎紫書) novel Land of Mundanity (流俗地, 麥田出版/Rye Field Publishing Co., 2020) begins with a tantalizing mystery: a character named Dahui (大輝), long presumed dead, shows up on a main thoroughfare of a town called Xidu (錫都, Tin Capital). After reading this novel's very short opening paragraph about a "dead" character's strange reappearance in broad daylight, questions quickly arise in readers' minds. Who is this man? Is he the same person as the one thought dead? What did he do, and where has he been? Why has he returned?Contrary to what might be expected, the next paragraph does not elaborate Dahui's backstory or the circumstances surrounding his arrival. Instead, it launches into a detailed description of "Tin Capital" itself. The street on which Dahui returns leads to a part of the city that features some of its most remarkable features, namely, limestone hills and precipitous cliffs, which house historic cave temples: Sam Poh Tong Temple (三寶洞), Nam Thean Tong Temple (南天洞), Ling Sen Kuan Yin Tong (仙岩觀音洞). It seems Dahui's appearance, strange and intriguing though it may be, is in fact a red herring, its significance diminished amid rich descriptions of the dramatic landscape. What these opening paragraphs efficiently make apparent is that the more important character here is the city of Xidu itself; the reference to tin, coupled with the novel's early thick descriptions of cave temples, certainly bring to mind Li Zishu's hometown of Ipoh. Ipoh is the capital of the state of Perak, which stretches between Selangor and Penang on peninsular Malaysia's west coast and is situated at the heart of the Kinta Valley. Long revered for its limestone cliffs and extraordinary cave temples, it also became one of the richest tin mining regions in the world. Ipoh's modern development originates in the late nineteenth-century Kinta Tin Rush, which first attracted a wave of immigration from China's southern provinces and then the British colonizers. As tin mining spurred the development of infrastructure, Ipoh grew into one of the largest cities in the Federated Malay states. Modern Ipoh consists roughly of two districts, separated by the Kinta River: Old Town, known for government buildings and impressive colonial architecture, and New Town, the development of which was started in 1905 by a Hakka miner and entrepreneur named Yau Tet Shin (姚德勝, 1859-1913).Much of the literary pleasure I initially derived from Land of Mundanity stemmed from the fact that its myriad "real-life" references allowed me to experience Ipoh and absorb its history and culture as an "armchair" or virtual tourist. Not long after the cave temples, for example, we encounter Hugh Low Street (修羅街)—now known as Jalan Sultan Iskandar—one of the oldest streets in Ipoh named after Sir Hugh Low (1824-1905), the third British Resident of Perak (1877-1889)１. Later, we come across "Concubine Lane" (二奶巷), reputedly purchased by Yau Tet Shin for his multiple wives, Ipoh's own "Salted Fish Lane"(鹹魚街), and signature drink, "white coffee" (白咖啡). Some of these Ipoh landmarks and cultural features I recognized from my own travels; others I enjoyed learning about from an array of travel bloggers and Youtubers (two examples: Concubine Lane video; and Ipoh Old Town walking tour, narrated in Mandarin). I took similar pleasure reading Li Zishu's first novel Age of Farewell, (告別的年代, 聯經出版/Linking Publishing Co., 2010)２, which was also set in a fictional town called Xibu (錫埠), but which, again, frequently referred to distinctive Ipoh landmarks like the Night Light Cup (夜光杯, the  fountain at the Sultan Yussuf roundabout, for pictures and more information, do your own Google search or visit this site in particular: https://traveltrain.blogspot.com/2016/08/blog-post_84.html). Still, the insistence in the Land of Mundanity on the alternative name of Xidu continually reminds readers that we are exploring a world that may be strongly informed by Li Zishu's hometown of Ipoh yet remains a fabrication. Xidu is not a reflection of Ipoh, it is a refraction, having been altered by its course through Li Zishu's literary imagination onto the page. The more time I spend in Li Zishu's literary worlds, the greater my interest in how she approaches and thinks about the construction of place in her writing. I was fortunate to be granted an interview with Li Zishu while drafting this essay (generously facilitated by NCAF)3 and among my first questions was about her decision to use the name "Xidu" for Ipoh in her novels: why not just identify her settings as "Ipoh"? Her response shed light on why her narratives take pains to integrate more clearly identifiable landmarks and well-known historical features with invented names, why they strive to situate readers in a place that is simultaneously recognizable as Ipoh and yet not able to be reduced to Ipoh as an actual place. On one hand, being able to draw upon her knowledge of and experience in Ipoh is essential to her craft and feeling self-assured in her writing: "Because I feel that the details required by novels, those background details, are so numerous, I feel I want a place I am personally familiar with, so that when I start to write I have relatively more certainty, otherwise I'm the kind of person who will feel very lacking in confidence".4 Yet this same familiarity presents a challenge as well, because "there is also the problem that I am too familiar with the place of Ipoh. I don't want to be writing a 'documentary' when I write about Ipoh, [or] for the writing to be only in order to document [the city], I am not writing to document it". The fabricated names become a way for her to remind herself of her freedom to be creative, to create her own literary version of Ipoh rather than simply recreate the city she knows so well: "While writing, I constantly talk to and remind myself that 'this is a novel, is fiction, perhaps there is fabrication, you can make things up, you can absolutely make things up, even considering the place you are writing about comes from this place. It is not that this place may not be made up'". As we continue to talk, it becomes clear that, for Li Zishu, Ipoh is just a jumping-off point for a larger ambition: "But although my novel takes Ipoh as its background, in the end what I want to write about is Malaysian Chinese  society … in most of the novel the Chinese society is based in Ipoh, but it reflects the history and situation of the whole of Malaysian Chinese society".This takes us to an even more important and distinctive location in the novel: Upstairs Tower (樓上樓), a twenty-story public housing development near the Kinta River in a corner of Old Town that was once the tallest building in Xidu, hence the name Upstairs Tower (34). Before delving deeper into this location's special qualities and significance, let's first talk about how the novel leads us there; for this we must return to the novel's human characters and underlying structure. The person who first registers the "strange return of a dead man," mentioned at the start of this essay, turns out to be a blind woman named Yinxia (銀霞), who works as a dispatcher for Xidu Wireless Taxi (錫都無線德士); she fields a request for a taxi from a man whose voice and unique accent when speaking Cantonese she immediately recognizes as that of Dahui, who disappeared roughly ten years prior, having been driven from his home after an incident of domestic violence. And while Dahui's situation may continue to pique readers' interest, we have now become acquainted with the character who is the heart and soul of the novel: Yinxia. Yinxia is able to so quickly identify the owner of the voice on the phone in part because of her acute hearing and memory, but also because she knows the voice so well; Dahui is the older brother of one of her best friends growing up in the public housing development known as Upstairs Tower.Thus does a deceptively straightforward set-up of Yinxia fielding a taxi request from a long-disappeared, presumed dead, notorious former neighbor result in readers being guided through the lives of the diverse community of ordinary, working-class Malaysians who call Upstairs Tower their home. Though ultimately Yinxia is the novel's main character, both she and Dahui can be seen as complementary nodes in a social network that grows from Upstairs Tower, the members of which we get to know through their connections with Yinxia and presumed interest in Dahui's fate. True, by the time of the novel's present most of the characters have moved on from Upstairs Tower, having improved their economic circumstances and climbed up a rung or two on the economic ladder. But we are granted access to this community largely through Yinxia's memories of having grown up in Upstairs Tower, which have been triggered by her recognition of Dahui's voice. First, we meet Xihui (細輝), Dahui's younger brother and one of Yinxia's best friends growing up: he is the first person Yinxia calls upon suspecting that it is Dahui who has suddenly returned, and she reaches him while he and his wife are working at the convenience store he owns. As the novel proceeds, Yinxia's recollections of childhood lead readers to become acquainted with Xihui and a host of other fascinating characters and their life-stories. For example, we learn about Dahui's father, nicknamed Entsai (奀仔), a truck driver whose death—his truck went off the side of a cliff while he was driving through the Cameron Highlands (金馬崙) on a rainy night—suddenly turned Dahui, still a teenager at the time, into the head of the family; and Dahui's paternal aunt, Lianzhu (蓮珠姑姑), who comes to the city from a fishing village and ends up as the mistress (or concubine) to a wealthy politician. We also come to know Yinxia's other best childhood friend: a Malaysian Indian boy named Lazu (拉祖), whose father owns a barbershop on the first floor of Upstairs Tower, with whom she and Xihui play chess and other games, and who instructs her in the beliefs related to the Hindu god Ganesha/Ganesh (迦尼薩); Lazu grows up to be a lawyer, following in the footsteps of his idol, Karpal Singh (卡巴星), a famous Malaysian politician and lawyer dubbed "the Tiger of Jelutong" (日落洞之虎) for his fierceness and willingness to take on controversial cases and oppositional stances over the course of his career. I also found myself captivated by the life-story of a woman known as Mapiao Sao (馬票嫂, Horse-racing Lottery Sister), idolized by Yinxia for her mastery of the mammoth Tua Pek Kong's Thousand Pictorial Dictionary (大伯公千字圖) and her ability to befriend everyone in Upstairs Tower; having escaped hunger and poverty in her first marriage only to then have to contend with disdain and abuse from her husband's family, Mapiao Sao manages to eventually find stability and happiness in her second marriage to an aging triad member who proves fiercely loyal to her. This is just a sample; by the novel's end, readers have encountered a vast array of intriguing, richly drawn characters representing all walks of working-class life in Malaysia as well as myriad facets of the human experience.As Li Zishu observed, upon being asked about her decision to use locations like the Mayflower Hotel in Age of Farewell and Upstairs Tower in Land of Mundanity, "Many Malaysian Chinese authors, like those Malaysian Chinese authors based in Taiwan, when they are writing a Malaysian background, they all like and are accustomed to writing about tropical rainforests and rubber forests, these types of places" (16:14-16:27). For Li Zishu, this can create the impression in the minds of non-Malaysian readers that, in Malaysia, "everything is forest, rainforest, or kampung (a rural village in Malay) countryside" (16:30-16:41). It also falls outside her own experiences living in Malaysia: "I myself did not grow up in those kinds of places, actually I have never been to the rainforest", and while she has some familiarity with rubber forests on her mother's side, she herself grew up in Ipoh's urban environment (16:41-17:04). Li Zishu also explained that she was working as a journalist while writing Age of Farewell, and that her portrayal of the Mayflower Hotel, its residents and environment, captured her feelings toward Ipoh at that time, its continued existence amid declining fortunes: "My sense of a place like Ipoh is actually closely connected to my description of the Mayflower Hotel: it is on the wane and has been abandoned, but it continues to eke out an existence. Many of the people who come to the hotel are down on their luck and live there in their declining years, and I also think that this environment was like the feeling I got from Ipoh at that time." As a reader, I found myself equally moved by the Mayflower Hotel and Upstairs Tower, and how both locations focus attention on—thereby assigning value to—the lives of people grappling with economic and other forms of marginalization. But I have also been struck by how the Upstairs Tower location in Land of Mundanity facilitates an exploration not just of economic hardship, but also of community formation and coming of age within Malaysia's profoundly multicultural society. Here let me return to Li Zishu's illuminating reflections on her decision to center her novel around this sort of public housing complex:While writing Land of Mundanity, I wanted to write Ipoh. I knew that what I wanted to write was not just Ipoh, what I wanted to write was Malaysian Chinese society as a whole. So I thought if I want to write about this society, I wanted to find a concentrated place that could present the atmosphere and feeling of this society. So, I thought of this Upstairs Tower, this public housing complex, where people from the major ethnic groups (in Malaysia, i.e., Malays, Chinese, and Indian) all live together. But they have been forced [to live there], they have no choice, because it is only (because of) poverty that they live in a place like Upstairs Tower, and no one has a choice but to live in that kind of place, moreover, every major ethnicity, every cultural element is there …. (And also) because the place where I went to school when I was young was very close to this kind of public housing complex, Kinta Heights, it was very close, I frequently had the chance to see it and run around there … as a result it made a very deep impression on me, and I am very familiar with it. So I thought, eh, I could compress all of Malaysian society into this public housing complex and write about it from there.MemoryAs important as place is for Land of Mundanity, equally important is memory and the temporal elasticity that goes with it; I have long been interested in the use of memory in Li Zishu's fiction, for example, in early stories like "State Capital Chronicles" (州府紀略) "Night Journey" (夜行) and "Mountain Plague" (山瘟) (discussed in Chapter 7 of my book, Sinophone Malaysian Literature: Not Made in China [Cambria Press, 2013]). While the contours of the distinct community evoked in Land of Mundanity come, narrowly, from Upstairs Tower, and Xidu, more broadly, its substance manifests in characters' memories, and via the "memory organ" itself. By facilitating rapid trips back and forth through time, particular memories create intimacy between readers and characters and provide insights into characters' personalities and lives. The novel's opening chapter trains its readers to grow comfortable with temporal shifts spurred by the act of remembering. Above I talked about how the peculiarity of Dahui's supposed return fades into the background of the detailed descriptions of the location from which he calls the taxi company. Closely following this are equally detailed descriptions of the timing of his return: in September, coinciding with the Hungry Ghost Festival (中元節) and at the beginning of a month that feels terribly long because of its unusually high number of public holidays, starting with National Independence/Merdeka Day (國家獨立日) on August 31, followed by Eid al-Adha (哈芝節), and then "Malaysia Day" (馬來西亞日). It is during this five-day public holiday that Yinxia recognizes the voice and unique accent of the person who has called in requesting a taxi—and is subsequently transported by that voice back in time to her childhood and to where she grew up, Upstairs Tower. When Yinxia clarifies that the caller wishes a taxi to take him to "Old Town" (舊街場), he replies in Cantonese in such a way that makes Jie (街) sound like Ji (雞), triggering Yinxia's memory of Dahui's distinctive accent: how she and Xihui would make fun of Dahui behind his back, especially when Xihui was upset after having been punished by Dahui, who had to take on the father's role after their father's death. Thus has the narrative meticulously established both the geographical and temporal setting while simultaneously making clear that Dahui is important less for his own sake than for the community he came from. Readers also finish the opening chapter having been trained to expect rapid shifts back and forth in time as the narrative presents its characters, fills in the substance of their personalities and memories, and characterizes its community as a whole. And while the novel's closing chapter takes as its backdrop the momentous 2018 national election, which ended over sixty years of Barisan Nasional rule and brought down the government of Najib Razak, it yet maintains the strict focus on the ordinary, yet rich and full lives of Yinxia and the working-class community of which she is a part.PerceptionAnother of my longstanding interests in Li Zishu's fiction is her tendency to construct her evocations of Malaysian communities around powerful female characters, and Land of Mundanity is no exception. I've already touched upon the structural importance of the Yinxia character for introducing readers to her community, but what about her blindness? What does it mean that our means of entry into the setting and community of Land of Mundanity is from the perspective and through the memories of a taxi dispatcher who happens to have been born without sight—and yet possesses an extraordinary knowledge of the city? When I asked Li Zishu about this character, I was interested to learn, first of all, that the character is rooted in Li Zishu's experience of daily life: returning to Ipoh for visits while living abroad, she did not have her own means of transportation so became accustomed to calling for taxis. After a while she realized she was always hearing the same woman's voice when she called, and "After I had called for a car many times, she became very familiar with my voice, as soon as she heard my voice she knew my address and what I wanted … it was as if there was a strange connection there". These ordinary, mundane encounters then sparked Li Zishu's literary imagination, causing her to wonder about the woman herself—"I started having many fantasies, thinking about this woman, how she made a living, what her job was like" —and her relations with the taxi drivers—"I couldn't help asking those taxi drivers about this character, this woman-on-the-wire, what is she like, how do you normally communicate, have you seen her face? Chatting with them like this". Li Zishu was also struck by the woman's impressive knowledge of the city: "The extent of her familiarity with the city was such that, even if it was a very small place, [she would say] 'how about you go to that 7-Eleven to wait,' it was as if she knew all the landmarks of that place that she had probably never been to [herself]". Eventually she began to realize the value such a character would have for writing about the city: "To take this city, Ipoh, as a background, I think this character would be highly effective, she could really express my intentions".I was also struck by Li Zishu's comments on the broader effect or value of a blind character like Yinxia who cannot see the differences in people that can seem to perplex—or distract—those of us with sight:This character of blind woman in reality truly cannot see this city. She truly cannot see all the people, cannot see difference, cannot see east-south-west-north, cannot see the self-proclaimed differences of people like skin color or religion or these things, she cannot see these things, all that which most befuddle us: the various prejudices of people—these have no effect on her because she does not see, she has no visual perception, her way of judging the world, her way of identifying people, are perhaps different from those of us who can see.Above I mentioned the pleasure I derived from how the novel escorts me through an entrancing fictional version of Ipoh, and then guides me to the even more captivating location of Upstairs Tower, its vibrant community, and the life-stories of its members. It would be very remiss of me not to stress as well how much I enjoyed experiencing these places and people in the company of Yinxia, and I am confident I am not alone in this. So much can be said about Yinxia as a character, and her embodiment of qualities such as strength, kindness, and resolve—particularly in the face of challenges that, as we learn over the course of Land of Mundanity, extend well beyond having been born blind into a hard-working, but still impoverished, family. I do not want to tell other readers how to feel about Yinxia, or how to think or feel about any other character or aspect of the novel, for that matter. I just want to close this essay with a note of gratitude: I feel fortunate to have spent time exploring the streets and people of Xidu, and the community of Upstairs Tower, in the company of Yinxia and her cohort. They have broadened my horizons and enriched my world immeasurably, and I am all the better for it.NOTE[1] Lau Sook Mei, & Law Siak Hong (2010). From Hugh Low to Sultan Iskandar. PHS blog. https://perakheritage.wordpress.com/2010/10/04/from-hugh-low-to-sultan-iskandar/[2] Available in English translation as The Age of Goodbyes, translated by YZ Chin (Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2022).[3] The interview is conducted in Chinese, the English text is translated by the author. For the original Chinese transcription, please see the Chinese translation of this essay：https://archive.ncafroc.org.tw/novel/paper/4028b7828fc95ede0190c8ce5ef87d21.[4] This quote and those that follow are from a personal interview with Li Zishu conducted on Zoom on Aug 1, 2023 MYT (Malaysia time zone) and have been lightly edited for clarity and as part of being integrated into this opinion piece.*About Alison GroppeAlison Groppe is an Associate Professor of Chinese in the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures in the School of Global Studies and Languages at the University of Oregon, where she teaches courses in modern Chinese and Taiwanese literature and film. She specializes in literary and cinematic representations of identity, Sinophone Malaysian and Singaporean literature and film, world literature, and is currently working on a book manuscript about Sinophone Malaysian women writers, including Li Zishu, and literary infrastructure. 

In The Tree Remembers, a documentary on Malaysia's May 13 race riots in 1969, the director Lau Kek-Huat references the proverb, “What the axe forgets, the trees remember.” He uses those words to imply that even though the government has banned the discussion of this violent and racially discriminatory incident, the memories and experiences of what happened continue to remain in those who were involved. Subsequently, the documentary serves as a way to explore and validate history.  In facing the different histories of contemporary times, “to record” has become one of the most fundamental but also most radical functions of documentary film. The act of recording and documenting suggests that memories are preserved so that they may be passed on. In contrast to the “big histories/grand narratives” of nations or masses, documentary films often depart from individual perspectives to tell overlooked but extremely important little histories.Leading renowned Chilean documentary film director, Patricio Guzmán, has made many films on Chile's complex historical and social issues through the perspective of the people. He once said, “A country without documentary films is like a family without a photo album.” And he also pointed out in one of his films, “Those who don't remember don't exist anywhere.”Perhaps, we can also say that history comes from being documented. See You White House, a film that took director Lee Chien-Cheng years to complete, is about the secrets behind a white building that was constructed in the 1960s in Shuilin, a rural township in Yunlin County, Taiwan. With interviews conducted with Taiwanese people who were employed by the United States military to work in this building that's dubbed the “White House” and by combing through the history, the film tells a widely forgotten story from the period when Taiwan received aid from the U.S. Documentaries often play a critical role in turning points in history.Filmmaker Kevin H.J. Lee, known for his investigative reporting work, has personal experiences with how the Chinese communist government limits freedom of expression in Hong Kong and Taiwan. The Chinese title of his film, Self-Censorship is “并：控制,” which reverses the character “共” (gong, this character can be used to mean “together; with,” and it is also the first character of “共産,” or communism) to  turn it into “并” (bing, which can mean “to merge; to annex”). The film uses a meticulous step-by-step approach to review and investigate several incidents in Taiwan and Hong Kong (including Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement) and the structural causes behind them, analyzing the reasons for the loss of freedom of speech and press, as well as the potential political threats to the societies of Taiwan and Hong Kong. Three years after the release of this film told through first-person narration, the documentary now feels like a testimonial prophecy that foretells the political changes in Taiwan and Hong Kong. Our Youth in Taiwan directed by Fu Yue follows a star of the Taiwanese student movement protesting against the Chinese regime and a widely-known Chinese student who loves Taiwan. The filmmaker also puts herself in the film to create a three-way dialogue with them. After the Sunflower Student Movement in 2014, they've been through nearly reaching the apex of success to gradually falling into the valley of disappointment, and their once-idealistic dreams have since become bewildered. On the other hand, The Edge of Night by Chiang Wei-Hua started documenting young people with demands on society during Taiwan's Wild Strawberries Movement, and it leads to the year 2014, when young people are seen coming out of the occupied Legislative Yuan, and on the sixth night of the Sunflower Movement, they climbed over fences into the Executive Yuan with thousands of people, attempting to heighten the intensity of the resistance, but all that was waiting for them were police batons, shields, and water cannons, making it a story of young people's journey through failures, decisions, and the affirmation of their identity.When the Dawn Comes directed by Zhang Hong-Jie focuses on Taiwanese gay rights activist, Chi Chia-Wei, and uses a biographical approach to follow this first openly gay man in Taiwan’s unyielding challenge against social values. Following Taiwan's legalization of same-sex marriage in 2017, the film’s title also shows that it has been a long, hard journey of perseverance. Documented, so we won't forget, should not forget, will not forget, and must not forget. To document is a literal practice of refusal to forget. *Translator: Hui-Fen Anna Liao

As the house light dims and curtain rises, have you ever noticed in the dark auditorium that someone next to you sneak out a pen and pieces of paper to take fast notes at any given moment which allows a brief distraction from the stage? Or it could be the zealous gaze in the darkness, which is beyond pure appreciation, to absorb the transient scenes in front of the eyes. Although what happens in theatre stays in the theatre, one still keeps the experience safe and sound in the mind and wait until later to reexamine its essence.    They are critics, the dream stealers in theatre. In their race against time, they closely follow the work with an ambitious attempt, if not impossible at all, to pursue the objective significance of the subjective perception. From the perspective of artmaking, critics’ insight is always the hindsight, but they are the pioneers in history swinging between the artwork and its wider cultural context for that criticism is a mixture of sense and sensibility. Even though the making of a critic and their professional function in the industry is still under debate, no one can deny the fact that critics are indispensable in theatre, since “a performance receives no criticism will eventually disappear,” says Chan Hui-ling.1 Supporting independent critics with the greatest resources in Taiwan, the NCAF Grant for Performing Arts Critics encourages critics to voice their observation and publish their critiques on the official website of “Reviewing Performing Arts Taiwan.” Since the grant program initiated in 2014, it has nurtured a long list of professional critics.  Its first years saw a majority of theatre critics, with a few with a specialization on either dance or traditional theatre.2 Both Lin Nai-Wen (2014) and Yeh Ken-Chuan (2014) wrote about theatre and dance as they particularly focused on the development and history of theatre in Taiwan. Lin often gave a vivid description to contextualize adaptations, body, and space in her critiques, while Yeh adopted a clear and well-structured analytical perspective as a conscious dialogue with creators. As a producer and programmer dedicated to the little theatre movement　in Taiwan, Wu Sifong (2014) showed concern for the little theatre, people’s theatre and social issues in his critical writing, revealing criticism as an approach of self-reflection. Huang Pei-Wei (2014) anchored her critiques and writing to the art industry and its publicness, while she later became an active member of IATC Taiwan to focus on the critical practice of public governance. Coming from a dramaturgical background, Wu Cheng-han (2014, 2015, and 2016) turned his attention to the contemporary adaptation, translation, or rewriting of classical works and interdisciplinary creations.Traditional theatre critic Wu Yue-Lin (2014, 2015, and 2016) reveals in his project closure report that his initial purpose of review-writing came from his master’s thesis on Contemporary Legend Theatre, and it gradually extended to the contemporary practices of traditional theatre, with modern-theatre concepts as a comparison in terms of border-crossing.3 Wu’s critiques bridged the legacy of classical Chinese literature studies and contemporary practices of traditional theatre performances, through which he pointed up the problematiques in the making. Later, the border-crossing attempts of traditional theatre had become the main concern of many critics of a background in traditional theatre, including Lin Li-hsiung (2016 and 2017), Lin Hui-Chen (2019 and 2020), Su Heng-I (2021), etc., who had different styles and emphases but followed the same thread. Among them, the Tainan-based Lin Hui-Chen showed a diverse coverage to include a large number of traditional theatre productions taking place in central and southern Taiwan.   With a musical as well as a theatrical training, Siraya Pai4 (2014, 2015 and 2016) based her project on musical theatre in its broadest definition, while her writing of an honest and explanative nature not only touched upon the use of music in theatre but also covered modernized traditional theatre and interdisciplinary works. As a freelance translator, she also wrote about related topics such as “Surtitles in Theatre – An awkward but Necessary Eye-catcher?” Tsai Meng-Kai (2019) was another critic focusing on border-crossing performances between music and theatre, while he took a departure from traditional music and adopted a bright and smooth writing style to illustrate the creative approaches and cultural context of the theatricalization of traditional music.  Fan Xiang-Jun (2014, 2015 and 2016) states in her project closure report about the lack of dance criticism in Taiwan, and her 2015 project thus attempted to establish a critical narrative on the bodily practice of Taiwanese dance via a series of “finding-the-body” critiques. Other dance critics include Wu Meng-Hsuan (2015) who analyzed contemporary choreographic works as social practices, Cheng Yi-Fang (2019) who tried to place the discussed dance pieces within the dance history and a wider cultural context, and Chien Lin-Yi (2021) who showed concern for the continuity of the dance history with revolutions between generations as its entry point.  Chang I-wen (2016 and 2017)’s project centered on the experimental dance performances taking place in contemporary art venues with an attempt to offer a dance criticism based on interdisciplinary art theories; as for Lo Chien (2018 and 2019) of a background in contemporary visual-art theory studies, she anchored her observations on the spectatorial relationship to discuss the interrelation between dance/theatre performances and the use of video and space. Carrying out her project with an impressive dedication and effort, Lo published 25 critiques within one project year between 2018 and 2019, which topped all grant-program critics in number.  Hsieh Chwen-Ching (2019) also adopted contemporary art theories and aesthetic perspective to reexamine dance and theatre works, while she was quick to adapt during the pandemic by writing about online performances such as “A Relationship of Delivery – on Surprise! Delivery” and “A Full Recycle – the Online Museum Trash Time.” The performance’s relation to its space was a much-discussed topic in many theatre critics’ projects, including Chen Yuan-Tang (2015 and 2016) who observed how the “character” of the venue, mostly theatres in central and southern Taiwan, affected the creative works, or Liu Chun-Liang (2016 and 2017) and Yang Li-Jung (2017) with a focus on non-conventional performance spaces to examine how the creative and production process responded to the venue. Meanwhile, Yang Zhi-Xiang (2020) and Yang Mei-ying (2019) turned their attention to creation-in-residence and theatre/art festivals taking place outside Taipei, the capital of Taiwan.  The beginning years of grant program saw a lack of music critics in comparison to dance, theatre, or traditional theatre, until 2017 when Liu Ma-Li (2017 and 2021), Yen Tsai-Teng (2019, 2020, and 2021), and Hsu Yun-Feng (2021) joined with their concentration on classical music. Among them, Yen tried to establish a new and different critical approach to music reviews by integrating a perspective of his background in philosophical theories. Other music critics such as Feng Hsiang-Yu (2017), Liu Shi-Ta (2018) and Lin Che-Yu (2020) also explored the diversity beyond the conventional classical music criticism.  There were critics targeting specific topics and particular kind of works. Hsieh Hung-Wen (2015 and 2016) showed concern for children’s theatre and aesthetic education.  Huang Shin-Yi (2017 and 2018) and Jian Wei-Chiau based their critical writing on the left-wing narrative to follow and touch upon the development of the political situations, community theatre and applied theatre in Taiwan. Lin Yu-Shih (2014) and Lu Hong-Wun (2017) centered their projects on Taiwan’s indigenous dance and theatre, while Hsi Ching-Yi (2020 and 2021) broadened her focus on the indigenous song-and-dance performances taking place in Eastern Taiwan (Hualien and Taitung) to include art festivals, music festivals, performance art and gender issues.  Meanwhile, we also see critics exploring and experimenting different approaches of criticism: Chang Tun-Chih (2017 and 2018) in his project “WTPN (Why This Play Now)” adopted the practice of dramaturgy to discuss the performance and text; Chen Tai-Yueh (2016) explored a participatory criticism approach; Tu Hsiu-Chuan (2018) in her “The Trauma Carrier: On the Intersubjectivity between Performance and Audience” centered on trauma to reverse the subject-object relationship between performance and critique; Zhang You-sheng (2020) proposed “Learning to Write: Starting from the Basic Principle of Criticism” to reveal a desired return to the essence.     NOTES[1] See the transcription of the second talk at the 2019 Inharmonious Talk Series “A Look back on History and the Presence of Critics”（https://pareviews.ncafroc.org.tw/comments/32ec734a-52f3-4179-b533-4146e7c675c6）[2] The number of music critics has increased since 2017, and it is not limited to classical music but also includes jazz or pop music. [3] See Wu Yue-ling, Project Closure Report “The NCAF Grant for Performing Arts Critics -- Border．CrossingⅢ: The Infinite Borders/Limitations and Finite Crossing/Revieing,” the NCAF Online Grant Portfolio Archive (https://archive.ncafroc.org.tw/result?id=2c96c00fa99d42e6a069ef09f0544016)[4] Editor's note：Siraya Pai is also the translator of this article. *Translator: Siraya Pai

What is faith? How closely can place, people, and religion be interconnected? In Cultural Anthropology[1], Conrad Phillip Kottak states that religion transcends experience and cannot be explained in ordinary words, and can only be accepted on a foundation of faith. These beliefs are based on the supernatural. Gods, ghosts, souls, and the like exist outside our material world, and people believe in their intangible powers. In Faith and Culture[2], Yih-Yuan Li writes that some people think gods and spirits are loving, while others think they are terrifying and unreliable. He looked at the differences in people's attitudes toward faith from a psychological perspective and found that religious beliefs have to do with people's education and experiences. He also explains how religious beliefs deeply influence human social systems.Kuan-Hsiang Liu combined his own experience with the stories of Hindu deity Shiva, using the various personalities and aspects of Shiva to present a period of his life. In mythology, Shiva mostly appears as male, but it is also said that his gender is fluid due to his manifold aspects. The project's resulting piece, SH0VA, was performed by three dancers. Looking back on it, the display of biologically-male and -female bodies reflected Shiva's enigmatic and undetermined appearance, thick-bodied and slender, bald and long-haired, and so forth. In addition to external images, the performance is more than a one-sided narrative presentation—it also includes Kuan-Hsiang Liu's narration and incomprehensible yells interspersed with contemporary music, creating a sense of intrigue between fiction and reality.What happens if, in addition to a symbolic existence, gods actually enter one's physical body? Che-Li Lin applied for a publishing grant in the Literature category for her book Spirit Medium (附神). The book mainly tells the story of her father who has the special gifts needed to be a jitong (乩童; Chinese folk spirit medium). She writes her perspective of different moments of her father's experience as a jitong and how she witnessed different facets of life through these experiences. In an exclusive interview by Yun-Yan Wang, Che-Li Lin said: "When he is mortal, my father helps people just like when he is possessed by a god. The only difference is, when he is possessed by a god, people will try to thank the god, perhaps by burning more paper money, bringing offerings to pray with, or donating money to the gods on their birthdays. When he is mortal, however, the people he helps seem to take him for granted, and things sometimes even devolve into conflicts and discord over whether he actually helped or not." [3] The novel describes changes undergone by the jitong himself and the surrounding environment.Elvis A-Liang Lu's A Holy Family also recounts the coexistence of humans and gods. The original plan was to record his brother, who can be possessed, but after focusing on his family, it turned into a documentary about "home". This film presents the twisted-yet-closely-intertwined fates of different members of the family while adding feedback from believers, telling the story of everything that happened in this family regarding faith from a sympathetic yet cruel perspective.In his exclusive interview with BIOS Monthly, Elvis A-Liang Lu said, "... every night, people would gather at the altar on the top floor of my home to ask questions. Groups of adults gathered around my brother to pray for good health and prosperous careers. He had witnessed miracles, but more often than not, it was just a bunch of gamblers who wanted to him to predict lottery numbers or interpret their divinatory poems." [4] His brother's psychic ability and his father's habits gave Elvis A-Liang Lu a different outlook on family and religion. In Place[5], Tim Cresswell believes that the private space of "home" contains a series of memories and conceptions of its own, and that from this space, we begin to develop a better understanding of other external spaces. However, "home" is not always an ideal space, and can sometimes be stifling. Nonetheless, the experience of existing in a place remains a way for us to understand the world.What happens when the public still believes that faith and people are inseparable, and that people can be liberated by faith? Che-Li Lin and Elvis A-Liang Lu show us the stories of their families from their own perspective, even raising questions about gods and spirits. Their works give us a better understanding of the more unknown aspects of traditional faith, and provide reflections on something people usually find solace in. As Feng-Yi Chu stated in an article describing the outcomes of his project titled "The Endless Pursuit of Local Traditions to Universal Spirituality: the Significance of Religion and Mysticism in the Development of Taiwan's Contemporary Art", which explores mysticism's place in Taiwan's contemporary art: "... In everyday life, we always practice poem divination to ask about the 'future'... why do people always ask gods about the future, but not the past?" [6] Regardless of restrictions such as race and religion, questioning these habits of ordinary people is also a re-examination of faith. When something becomes a habit, we don't question its significance, but once someone challenges our assumptions, it becomes an interesting debate.Religious belief has real attachments in different aspects, but is it worth becoming the only source of spiritual sustenance? Or is it just a big gamble? Whether you are a believer or not, I would like to close this article by wishing all readers good health and happiness. Notes[1]     Kottak, Conrad Phillip (2014). Cultural Anthropology: Appreciating Cultural Diversity (Hsu, Yu-Tsun, Trans.). Taipei Chuliu Books.[2]     Li, Yih-Yuan (2010). Faith and Culture. Airiti Press.[3]     Wang, Yun-Yan. "As the daughter of a spirit medium, she wants to 'change her father's fortune' through writing—Exclusive interview with Che-Li Lin, Spirit Medium: My Father Who Lends His Body to the God." OKAPI Reading Life Journal. URL: https://okapi.books.com.tw/article/14888[4]     Bios Monthly. "Gambler Father, Religious Mother, Psychic Brother, and I, the Director—Exclusive interview with Elvis A-Liang Lu, A Holy Family". Bios Monthly. URL: https://www.biosmonthly.com/article/11158[5]     Cresswell, Tim (2006). Place: A Short Introduction (Wang, Chih-Hong & Hsu, Tai-Ling, Trans.). New Taipei City: Socio Publishing.[6]     Chu, Feng-Yi. "Technical Questions about the Apparition of Ghosts and Gods in Taiwanese Contemporary Art". Islands. URL: https://www.heath.tw/nml-article/concerning-technologies-of-reappearing-mystical-experience-in-taiwanese-contemporary-art/*Translator: Linguitronics

A lot of Western music was introduced to China in the early 20th century, after which the concept and self-identity of Guoyue (國樂; literally "national music") gradually took shape. Additionally, the May Fourth Movement was in full swing at the time, and many intellectuals like Xiao Youmei and Liu Tianhua began advocating for a reform of traditional music, introducing Western composition techniques and orchestration, which drove the modernization of traditional Chinese music in the form of Guoyue. Some of the achievements from that time have now developed into Chinese orchestras and Guoyue educational programs found across Taiwan, becoming the most widely known form of modernized traditional Chinese music.However, modernized traditional Chinese music takes more than one form. The original definition of the term Guoyue actually included a wide range of traditional music genres, including opera, folk songs, and sizhu (絲竹; literally "silk and bamboo", traditional string and wind ensembles) music. Thanks to the efforts of different musicians, composers, and creators, these other types of traditional/Chinese music have also evolved into different modern forms that deserve attention. This article will approach this issue from three aspects, namely: (1) avant-garde experiments in traditional instrumental music, (2) cross-genre and interdisciplinary creation, and (3) international exchanges, to demonstrate the diverse perspectives of modern Guoyue in Taiwan.The first aspect I'd like to discuss is the integration of avant-garde and experimental music and Chinese instruments to create or perform new works. Performers play a central role in this genre. They commission various works from composers and assemble them into one or more concerts, presenting them as a music show. Zheng (箏; Chinese plucked zither) musician Jing-Mu Kuo held a series of recitals titled "Zheng: New Horizon" in recent years (2017, 2019, and 2020), inviting over a dozen composers (including himself) to create a total of fifteen new zheng compositions. In a milestone moment of contemporary zheng music, these compositions were subsequently compiled and published as Zheng: New Horizon—Collection of Contemporary Zheng Music.In addition to instrumental solos, many performers also form chamber music ensembles, creating a new ensemble format that differs from traditional sizhu music. 3PEOPLEMUSIC is an ensemble composed of Jing-Mu Kuo on the zheng, I-Tung Pan on the zhongruan (中阮; Chinese plucked string instrument), and Chung Jen on the dizi (笛子; transverse bamboo flute) and xiao (簫; vertical bamboo flute). They have attracted much attention recently and were invited to hold concerts like 3x3 Project, Misreading, and Catalysis: Fusion of Senses at the National Theater and Concert Hall. These concerts featured dizi and zheng played with bows, with sounds occasionally produced using objects in the environment, mesmerizing and startling listeners. PIPA-ensemble, on the other hand, embraces both old and new styles. Their concerts Lead, Nong, and Folk Song, combined ancient traditional music, contemporary classics, and newly-commissioned compositions, a marriage of traditional music and forward-thinking ideas. They also recently held a series of lectures and concerts called "Pipa Small Muscle Group" to give the audience a closer view of contemporary pipa (琵琶; Chinese lute) perspectives.The second aspect I'd like to talk about is the sparks created when artists cross over into different music genres and performing art forms. An example of genre crossover is C-Camerata Taipei, an ensemble that plays a mix of Chinese and Western music, founded by Chao-Ming Tung, Yin Chiang, and Hui-Kuan Lin. Their repertoire is a mix of Western classical and Eastern traditional pieces, and they actively commission new compositions to promote in-depth discourse and exploration regarding Chinese and Western music. For example, Chih-Liang Lin's Parallelism is one of the commissioned compositions. Inspired by physical movements involved in instrument playing, the composer observed the similarities and differences in hand movements used to play the zheng, pipa, percussions, and the cello to construct a dual combination of visual and audio experiences. Embodying both classic and novel ideas, the concert DongXi-DongXi: Exploration between the West and the East featured renowned pieces by Western avant-garde composers Luciano Berio and John Cage, as well as the world premiere of two compositions by Chao-Ming Tung and Klaus Ager, President of the European Composers' Forum, respectively.As for interdisciplinary collaboration, some think of it in terms of "addition"—adding elements of other performing arts into concerts to create a sort of musical theater. Others dive deeper into self-analysis and reconstruction, creating more organic integrations with other art forms. For instance, Gu-Fang Contemporary Art of Zheng and Goodoo Puppet Troupe teamed up to create Bloom of Zai Tun, a zheng music theater show with a vivid storyline that combines puppetry and iconic zheng music. XinXin Nanguan Ensemble's Contemporary Nanguan Land Project II—Encountering Childhood in Lize and Nanguan & A Cappella are performances created by integrating shadow puppetry and a cappella singing, respectively, injecting new energy into Nanguan (南管; a style of Chinese classical music from the southern Chinese province of Fujian) music through profound crossover exchanges and solid field research. In Eat Dirt, performed by Bare Feet Dance Theatre, music creator Tzi-Mei Li fully dismantles Beiguan (北管; a type of traditional music, melody and theatrical performance dating to the Qing dynasty) music, composing pieces through repeated deconstruction, reorganization, and transformation. The music, together with the fluid movements of the dancers, reshapes people's experience of the land.It is also worth noting that a lot of organizations, both in contemporary Guoyue and inter-disciplinary arts, have devoted efforts to cultivate young composers' ability to compose Guoyue music. TimeArt Studio's Forgotten Voices workshop invited young composers from China, South Korea, Taiwan, and the U.S. to revisit their own cultural traditions, find inspiration for contemporary composition, and co-create with performers to develop ideas into complete musical works. Little Giant Chinese Chamber Orchestra's Cross-Culture Chamber Music Creative Workshop invited well-known Taiwanese and foreign composers such as Hwang-Long Pan, Shih-Hui Chen, Ching-Wen Chao, and Kurt Stallmann as lecturers to teach students how to compose music for traditional Chinese instruments and enhance their interdisciplinary creativity.The last aspect I wish to tackle in this article is the presentation of Guoyue on the international stage. This usually manifests as individuals or groups being invited to perform at music festivals or attend research and creative events organized by prominent music institutions. The former allows performers to express their own voices more freely and completely, while the latter incorporates different views, forming transnational cultural conversations. There are many instances of these two types of international exchanges. Here are a few interesting examples:Sheng (笙; Chinese free reed wind instrument) player Li-Chin Li has been very active in the European music scene in recent years. In 2022, she became the guest musician of the French contemporary orchestra Ensemble Linea and performed with the orchestra at the Ruhrtriennale music festival in Germany. She also participated in Tout Pour la Musique Contemporaine's research project SHENG! 2018-2023, in which she made demonstrations of improvisation, premiered new works, and assisted in IRCAM's acoustic research to enhance the visibility of the sheng in the West. Dizi and xiao player Hsiao-Feng Lin explores the traditional and avant-garde, national and world music, blurring the boundaries between different types of music and expanding the scope of traditional music. He participated in the Kuala Lumpur Experimental Film, Video & Music Festival (KLEX) with pianist Shih-Yang Lee and visual artist Yun-Yen Chuang, where they had in-depth exchanges with local artists and students and did improvised performances together. After returning to Taiwan, they held the Pearls of the Southern Island, Gazing at the Moment concert to share their experiences and insights from the festival with melophiles. In this example, Guoyue and experimental art blended seamlessly, showing its most grassroots side.Whether central or peripheral, avant-garde experimental or popular, genre-exclusive or crossover art, domestic or international, regardless of whether the artists mentioned above incorporate Guoyue or traditional music into their self-identity, they are all unsatisfied with the status quo and strive to break through the framework of the genre, delighted to explore boundaries. Such diverse musical practices infinitely expand the future possibilities of Guoyue.*Translator: Linguitronics

Since the pandemic began, masks seem to have become people’s second layer of skin, and some may even feel strange when breathing in unfiltered air when they take off their masks. Alain Corbin, a prominent figure in the history of sensibilities, mentioned in The Foul and the Fragrant that when sanitation began to improve in France by the late 18th century, people’s perceptions and interpretations of scents and smells also started to change, and different scents and smells also began to hold various social implications. Our senses are how we learn about the world, and from wearing an alluring perfume, impressing on the skin a meaningful tattoo, or exploring tantalizing foods, humans conjure up an image of the world through the various gestures and actions we take.  Writings about scents and smells are peculiarly rare, and this is perhaps due to the unique challenges that come with describing them. Taiwanese writer, Lin Wei-Chen, published her second collection of prose at the end of 2022, and in this book titled Lemon Age (青檸色時代), the smell of mixed spices on a Thai restaurant server is described as “being covered in dazzling jewels from head to toe”; and the nonstop sneezes caused by allergy during the change of season are interpreted as prophetic for being the first to sense the changes in the environment. Captivating words are used to depict the moments when various senses, memories, and fantasies manifest themselves.Compared to scents and smells, writings about sound are more ubiquitous, as suggested by the different onomatopoeia words available, such as “gurgling river,” “chirping birds,” or “rustling leaves.” Sound seems to have formed a unique class of its own in the realm of words. Fushan & Taipingshan by French sound artist, Yannick Dauby, presents a sound narrative comprised of sounds collected throughout many years from the mountains and forests in northeastern Taiwan and also interviews with people who are familiar with the local ecosystem. The medley of sounds from that particular space-time are gathered into this collaborative work co-published with Atelier Hui-Kan, and it brings nature and life’s vitality into our ears.Some critiques have linked Cézanne’s influence on the development of Modern Art to his change in vision. In the present day, the human race’s dependence or trust on the sense of sight seems to have amplified. Chen Kuan-Yu, a critic who has focused extensively on visual images, is the author behind a project that examines the research and writings of photography criticism, with Chen re-critiquing and writing about other critical essays on photography, which he refers to as “dialogical art criticism.” The project covers various styles of photography, including war photography, street photography, animal photography, and ruins photography, and using a variety of perspectives to discuss and analyze photography, the project puts this art form that relies solely on visual experiences back under the spotlight of art criticism.  Each Modern Gallery has also long been dedicated to the research, exhibition, and promotion of photography. The gallery presented a solo exhibition of the prominent photographer, Ishiuchi Miyako, last year (2022). Born in post-war Japan, Ishiuchi Miyako’s photography focuses on the human body, documenting marks on people’s skin caused by time or war (wrinkles and scars) or remnants of things that were once attached to someone’s skin (lipsticks and clothes). The tactile sensations triggered by the sense of sight and the accompanying emotions and pain that envelop one’s body re-elucidate that photography is an art of space and time.People’s sense of taste is pervaded by socialization, as we choose to gather over meals for celebrations and make food offerings to show faith and devotion. In the exhibition, DisOrder Exhibition／in Order, the curator Hsu Fong-Ray ingeniously transformed the Hong-gah Museum and a store of the Order System Furniture Company, two completely different spaces, into the exhibition’s sites. Included in the exhibition were the lemon liquor made by Huang Po-Chih for his project, Five Hundred Lemon Trees, and other artworks, such as Snail Dishes Interview Program: Highway No. 9. by Chang En-Man. With people’s taste buds at the center of focus, audience members were invited to savor the stories of different food cultures. As we now see pandemic-related restrictions lifting and mask mandates being eased, have the human senses and perceptions remained the same as before the pandemic? Complex external stimuli allow for life’s features and substance to accrue, and if we are sensitive and attentive enough, each sensory encounter may become the next novel phenomenon. *Translator: Hui-Fen Anna Liao

In the beginning of 2022, I received a message from the National Culture and Arts Foundation (NCAF) inviting me, along with other professionals, as observers on their grant project, the Creative Documentary Film Project, and asking us to write down our observations on each case as assigned from a different and non-institutionalized perspective reflecting on the artists and the ecosystem they inhabit. The invitation was certainly a rare and interesting opportunity for a writer like me, not only with an academic training in anthropology but a lasting curiosity about the production of documentary and filmmaking. Since long time ago, my work had been mostly about selecting films for festivals or writing film reviews, while the intersection between filmmakers and me only took place in the final stage of its production process or after its completion when the films were ready to be submitted to festivals. Consequently, I was less familiar with all the possible difficulties in its making. The mission to write about it thus becomes a precious practice which does not expect an one-sided analysis and observation but encourages a dialogue between the observers and documentary makers.  I was paired up with Fan WU, a documentary maker around my age. We had met before, and the first time was in a documentary workshop organized by Taiwan Women’s Film Association, where we were in different groups and working on different documentary subjects, so we did not have a chance to know each other more. After that, we took on different journeys in life and career – Wu went to Europe to study documentary making while I joined the teams of Taiwan International Documentary Festival and Taipei Film Festival as a film selector and critic. Although we both remained in the film circles, but certainly in different positions and indifferent stages of filmmaking. When Wu finished her studies and returned to Taiwan, I was about to move to Holland, and our paths crossed again in some casual occasion with our common friends. We had a brief conversation, asking about what happened in life and about the future plans which were still in a vague shape.  After that, I knew her mostly through her work, such as how she founded Svemirko Film with her graduate school friends, produced the documentary Last Days at Sea (2021) which I liked very much, wrote a solid article “Walking with the Unknown – A Realization on the Road from a Muggle in the Documentary World” for the NCAF Online Magazine, and many more. When she was not making documentaries, she was still doing documentary-related job, and her concerns extended to include how we could improve the environment for documentary making. Perhaps it was her sociologist background which had broadened her vision to investigate the whole production ecosystem, while her experience in Europe had given her access to introducing international resources to Taiwanese documentary making.  The fact is: most of the Taiwanese documentary makers are the lone warrior in their own battlefield, taking on multiple roles from production to public screening without the necessary teamwork especially in its breeding stage, the most crucial among all. Their sources of funds are often limited, mainly from the government support, and strictly regulated to avoid the overlap between the Ministry of Culture, the NCAF, Taiwan Creative Content Agency (TAICCA) and Taiwan Public Television Service Foundation (PTS Foundation) in one single project — not to mention these four major institutions in terms of the government financial support have their respective rules. In an immature industry in lack of investment or sponsorship from the private sectors (or they may have a specific interest when it comes to investing a documentary), independent documentary makers are not left with many choices when looking for sufficient resources and support domestically. What matters the most is the lack of experience sharing – on the one hand, there are not enough platforms of openness, transparency and stability for documentary makers to exchange their ideas; on the other hand, the TV and filmmaking industry in today’s Taiwan pressures the documentary makers to learn to survive before really thinking about how to find a balance between the commissioned commercial documentary projects and their own creations. None of it is easy.  XiXi, the documentary feature project in production, is such an adventure of the director WU, starting from her experience as a Taiwanese documentary maker to challenge the limitations of the domestic documentary production system, to extend the international documentary-making network and to connect with the resources of the global documentary scenes. My observations, meanwhile, started when WU finished most of the shooting and focused on her another trip to France in the summer of 2022 for some pick-ups, and the article was completed when she was still editing the documentary.    The main subject in the documentary is an improvisation artist from China, the free and untamed XiXi, who travels from one European city to another like a nomad, performing improvisationally in the streets. The documentary continues to depict how she deals with a failed transnational marriage, the loss of visitation rights, her immigrant status and many other real-life problems, while it also touches upon the unsolved family issue with her mom and its lingering impact on her relationship with her daughter Nina like a Karma passed down. As the director as well as a friend being part of XiXi’s life journey, WU saw XiXi, a female artist from the same generation, as her “window to freedom” – it was in 2018, when WU finished her studies and returned to Taiwan, trying to set free from the conflict between her real life and the dream in art/filmmaking. XiXi had a soul of an artist living fully in the moment with total abandon, which was something WU had been longing for but did not have the courage to follow.   However, when WU started the documentary project and used it as an “excuse” to pursue a life of freedom in France, she found XiXi suffocated by the bitter reality.  XiXi is a documentary on the Chinese improvisation artist XiXi and how her untamed artistic soul has a clash with the social reality. (Courtesy of Fan WU) From the first draft we have of XiXi, we not only see the story of the nomad artist but also how WU, another artist with the same defiance and abandon running in her blood, tries to find an answer. In her eyes, XiXi is the embodiment of both her dream and fear, but just like that the Moon has two sides, and its light and dark sides coexist to manifest each other. Through her documentary project, WU seems to join in the journey of XiXi to search for the answers for all the troubles in life.  Since 2018, WU has presented her documentary project XiXi to different international film festival pitch events, forums and workshops to physically experience and experiment how an independent documentary maker can find a way to deal with the limitations in practice. She finds the strength from the global documentary-making communities as she finds her own voice, making it clear that the act of documentary making may create a space to more extensively connect the individuals scattered around the world.  Fortunately, WU has relatively more experience in international pitch events and workshops with her XiXi than most of the Taiwanese documentaries, including Docs Port Incheon Asian Documentary Project Market in Korea, Doc Edge Kolkata in India,  the workshop AsiaDoc with an emphasis on documentary script-writing, the incubative CIRCLE Women Doc Accelerator for female documentary makers, DOK Leipzig Co-pro Market in Germany for co-production, DOCS-IN-PROGRESS (Cannes Doc) in France, the art-in-residence workshop at Yamagata Documentary Dojo in Japan, and Rotterdam Lab in the Netherlands again in early 2023. Other pitch events in Taiwan include Taipei Film Academy–Filmmakers Workshop organized by Taipei Film Commission where she attended as a film producer and the editing workshop under the NCAF’s Documentary Partnership Project where she participated as the director of XiXi. Fan WU in the editing workshop under the NCAF’s Documentary Partnership Project. For WU, all these domestic or international pitch events and workshops provided different kinds of support to the production of XiXi in their respective ways. The exchange with the professionals in the industry brought new and exciting ideas to the content, contributed to the establishment of a functional work model and network, optimized the résumé of the project to make it more attractive, as it might also lead to the practical financial support. It is how you find resources and discover different possibilities for your project.  However, it does not mean that if you attend more international pitch events, you will get better reward. Quite on the contrary, it can be very time-consuming as it requires a lot of preparation from submitting your application to really attending it, and you often receive a huge amount of unfiltered advice about your project. If you fail to find a balance between external opinions and internal needs, you may easily suffer a blow to your confidence and get confused about which direction you should be going. Therefore, the documentary makers need to figure out what they really need in each stage and which pitch events or workshops provide it, asking questions about the mentor list (what network can you develop from it?), format (does it have a more intensive or looser schedule? Who are the other participants you expect to see in the same event?), and its role in the industry (what it emphasizes? Is it about script-writing, pitch and development, editing, post-production, or market fit?), which can help you to make a useful decision to select the right events.  Up till 2019, WU had accumulated a significant amount of footage for XiXi, including the video diary made by XiXi of her relationship with the daughter taken since 2011 apart from the shots of XiXi by WU. At that point, she had already made the decision to turn XiXi’s story into a documentary feature and brought the project to several international pitch events, but it was a battle “out of her league,” said WU, for that she was not sure about the best way of its storytelling. Therefore, AsiaDoc Creative Documentary Storytelling Workshop could be what she needed, as it certainly did. At AsiaDoc, WU went through the process of organization and composition together with the guest mentors from teasing out the materials she had, developing a timeline, and to constructing a possible storyline built on the materials. The footage for XiXi includes the video diary made by XiXi since 2011 of her relationship with the daughter Nina and their growth. (Courtesy of Fan WU)     Her experience at AsiaDoc greatly inspired her to reidentify her position in the film, such as the relation between the camera and the subject, between the documentary and its director, or her relationship with XiXi. In the initial stage of her shooting, she refused to be filmed and took on the role as an objective outsider instead to document XiXi’s life, but the mentors at AsiaDoc asked the crucial question concerning the problematiques of her work: “why do you always put XiXi and her daugher on the frontier (of shooting) whereas you cowardly hide behind a camera? You do have your questions in mind and try to investigate by making a documentary, right?” In documentary making, the camera is not only the “fly on the wall” while the director has to futher think about their relatioship with the story and subject (person), asking questions such as “why they story needs me to tell it.” From this perspective, documentary indeed requires a dramaturgical training and thinking. After AsiaDoc, WU began to conceive several scenes and invited XiXi to join in the process together, where their interaction in front of the camera was filmed. She also tried to script her first-person narration as a voice-over of the video. In spite of her lack of courage/intention to make such atemtps before, they did work very well when she gave it a try as if finding the missing piece to make the documentary more alive. Stepping out of the comfort zone was not as difficult as she had expected – with a smile on her face, WU shared with us this recent realization and her newfound courage which she had gradually learned in pitch events and workshops. From a director hiding behind the camera, she now also becomes the subject in front of it. XiXi is not just about XiXi’s story, but a journey of both WU and XiXi to explore the meaning of life and to make inquiries.  From the first draft we have of XiXi, the documentary is not just about the story of XiXi but how WU, another artist of an untamed spirit, makes inquiries. (Courtesy of Fan WU) International pitch events and workshops are not only the places to creatively inspire documentary makers and to give advice on developing a production model, they are also the impotant means to look for possible international collaboration and financial support. Apart from prive investment and sponsorship, the sources of funds for documentary making in Taiwan mainly comes from the four major public institutions — the Ministry of Culture, the NCAF, TAICCA, and PTS Foundation – with strict regulations that there cannot be an overlap to fund the same project, while each institution has its own rules and the amount of money is never enough. Reasonably, WU has her eye on international funds to make her XiXi happen.  The problem is, being a Taiwanese usually means that you will not have many opportunities to apply for the funding and grants in Europe (see “Walking with the Unknown – A Realization on the Road from a Muggle in the Documentary World” by WU), while being an emerging director without a convincing résumé also makes it more difficult, if not impossible, to directly jump into the market and seek investors. If you are thinking about international co-production, you should make sure that a certain percentage of your funding comes from domestic resources, otherwise you may get yourself into trouble with the negotiation with international producers who usually have deeper pockets. The political situation of Taiwan is another issue since some countries and regions do not include Taiwanese artists in their “co-production treaty” concerning the collaboration between local and international artists. With the Filipino producer joining in the co-production of XiXi, WU was looking for another producer from Europe to make its financial structure more stable. Despite her effort from 2019 to 2021, French producers seemed to show little interest in her story taking place in France, while many other European producers backed out after learning the fact that several major film funds in continental Europe (such as IDFA Bertha Fund, Hubert Bals Fund and World Cinema Fund) were not applicable to Taiwanese directors. Eventually, it was a Korean producer whom WU had met at Docs Port Incheon completing the team and stabilizing the financial structure. As a result, XiXi would have its post-production in Korea, and team welcomed the film composer and colourist recommended by the Korean producer. By doing so, WU also expanded her collaboration network to work with different people.   The Importance of Documentary-Making CommunityLooking back on the international pitch events and workshops WU has participated in with her project XiXi, WU does not only have practical reward in production but also in the establishment of artist communities. Her experience in CIRCLE Women Doc Accelerator in 2020, a newly formed workshop centering on the training and development of female documentary makers, proves the significance of having fellow artists as companions with mutual support. Documentary making is a long and lonely journey, while most of the documentary makers fight alone in the battlefield built on their materials, gradually and unavoidably struggling with confusion and self-questioning, not to mention the possible blind spots in one’s thinking. It is the advantage of communities, like a safety valve to function and to get the artists out of the crisis when needed. CIRCLE Women Doc Accelerator divides its courses into three stages, in which you can share your project with mentors and colleagues (fellow artists in the same annually-held workshop) throughout the year and mutually push the discussion on each project forward.   In documentary making, the camera is not just the “fly on the wall,” while the director has to further think about their relationship with the story and subject (person), asking questions such as “why they story needs me to tell it.” (Courtesy of Fan WU) The experience in Yamagata Documentary Dojo also provided WU a safe and undisturbed environment for documentary making. Although it switched to online activity in 2022 due to the pandemic, the organizer’s careful arrangement still provided a positive space for WU to receive useful feedbacks for editing, where she was at. The guest mentors at Yamagata Documentary Dojo mostly had a background in editing, so they could effectively help the production team to deal with their materials and gave practical advice on the content. The composition (both the members and mentors) and atmosphere of the workshop were also key factors to create a positive environment, as it avoided a teacher-student hierarchy and tried to encourage all kinds of dialogue between different production teams, rather than close-door group discussion or mass lecturing. Yamagata Documentary Dojo develops a delicate small-scale community and offers a safe and open space for all participants to exchange ideas.  In 2021, WU was selected by the NCAF in its Documentary Partnership Project, where she worked with the assigned editor Lei Chen Ching, having her project to be “taken care of” and her messy ideas put in order. The purpose of the partnership project was to provide an environment for documentary makers to return to the essentials, which were the materials, footage, subject (person) and story, rather than being disturbed by the marketing concerns, which should have come much later. Meanwhile, her experience in DOCS-IN-PROGRESS in 2021 was a different example. It did not really bring inspiration for the content but increased the visibility of XiXi in the market since the project was selected in Marché du film de Cannes.  Director Fan WU attending the online discussion of the NCAF’s Documentary Partnership Project.Film Proposal Writing Has Its Unique Universal FormatWU has once mentioned that “film proposal writing has a unique universal format in the industry.” With all these international pitch events and workshops she has attended with her project XiXi, and the numerous funds and grants she has applied for, she laughed and said that she did not even remember how many proposals she had to write. For WU, proposal writing is a useful process to restructure your thoughts and work. On the one hand, she really depends on writing to develop her cinematic language; on the other hand, proposal writing demands a kind of structure that can facilitate the creative process to prioritize the materials and to give a functional narrative in documentary making. If the documentary makers can give their project a clear outline, and to help others to better imagine “something” which is still in its incubation stage, they will have more chances to target the specific support they need when they pitch. It is like a preproduction on paper before the creative idea is made into a movie.   Such a strategy, admittedly, is the result of today’s TV and film production mechanism, but if the artists need its resources, it is necessary to learn the mindset of the industry, to know how it operates, and to speak its language. XiXi is in the editing stage now, which started in the spring of 2022 as WU and the Columbian editor Anna, her graduate school friend, worked remotely. WU first selected the most important materials based on her judgment, translated the subtitles, and sent the footage to Anna for editing, followed by their daily update and discussion via emails. Usually, since they were in different time zones, WU would send the notes to Anna and receive her reply on the next day. Their remote collaboration had continued in this way for a while, until last summer when WU took a trip to France for more footage of XiXi and soon went to Columbia to work with Anna closely. At that time, the Sundance Institute Documentary Fund came in as an immediate help which they urgently needed it for the editing of XiXi. Speaking of which, WU recommends “Sundance Documentary Fund Proposal Checklist” to any documentary maker troubled by how to write a good proposal, where they can find all the information a proposal requires, concerning the sections it should include, as well as the detailed description and the appropriate length of each section. The structure it suggests is a great help to documentary makers to continuously polish their project.   The following year is a crucial one to XiXi.  WU plans to attend a couple of rough-cut workshops which may help her to bring the cinema language closer to her ideal, as a preparation for the post-production stage. If everything goes well, she will submit XiXi to international film festivals next year. As she spoke about the long journey she had with XiXi, WU admitted that she would not have made it by herself if without the support of her team. To have a documentary community is very important, especially when documentary makers usually work by themselves, so she hopes that the case of  XiXi can offer her fellow Taiwanese artists a different strategy to make it work, with a confidence that a non-issue-oriented project like the one she has, which touches upon very personal experiences and thus risks of being rejected by the mainstream, still has the possibility to grow and develop. This is what the story of WU and XiXi tries to explore and make us to see – can we have such an unrestrained freedom and courage to live as we are and create as we live in spite of the unescapable social reality? The project of XiXi, tenacious as it is, claims a collective effort to open up a space for arts and its multiple different faces. *Translator: Siraya Pai