The current Thailand Biennale made extensive use of abandoned buildings and renovation sites, commissioning a wealth of new works. I found myself drawn to the question of how these spaces were ‘cared for’ by the curators. Ideally, this manifests as a profound resonance between the artist’s inspiration and the site’s history, or perhaps through dedicated field research, both guided by the curator’s careful arrangement. This was a triumph in the last Biennale in Chiang Rai, but in Phuket, the connection felt thinner; many sites appeared as nothing more than empty shells for display. Of course, curatorial reality is full of practical constraints. In Phuket, the progress of commissioning artists did not align with the timeline for securing venues, implying that commissioned artists likely had no opportunity to engage with their specific exhibition sites before their works were produced. Furthermore, the scope of their research was not strictly anchored to their assigned locations, as artists were free to explore themes across the wider Phuket region. Coupled with the lack of a strong local art scene, it was hard to find artists with deep roots, and international guests often lacked the time to truly sink into the locale.

Walking in one of the venues, the Yi Teng Complex, a former slaughterhouse turned abandoned market where once a refuge for the homeless and now a canvas for graffiti, I noticed a red brick wall where one window was roughly boarded up while the other acted as a natural lightbox for conservation photography. The collision — the raw street art versus the attempt to construct a white cube by sealing off the building’s original breath — caught my attention. Between the unwashed graffiti, the cage-like fixtures, and the flooded basement filled with trash and fish, I felt the presence of ‘ghosts’: the echoes of a life that was, and still is, unfolding in these ruins.

I began to wonder: what if we let the ghosts of these ruins tell the story? It would be fascinating to hear these specters comment on how the Biennale has occupied their spaces.

At DC Phuket Town, a traditional shophouse, Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook’s sculptures on the ground floor feel warm and lived-in. Upon entering the old house, the coolness offered by the courtyard stood in contrast to the shimmering heat rising from the streets, instantly evoking memories of summer afternoons in the Taiwanese countryside, an intimacy and nostalgia of visiting my grandparents’ home. These sculptures originated from the dogs Rasdjarmrearnsook lived with in her later years; she once noted that retreating from human society to live among animals allowed her to become more truly herself. Rather than a mere reproduction of companions, the work radiates an aura of home that fills the surroundings. Elevated on furniture supported in mid-air, the dog sculptures cradle memories and the past with a delicate lightness, blending seamlessly into the cozy environment of the shophouse.

But as one moves to the second floor, Wilawan Wiangthong’s stark, cyber-themed works on labor fill the space with a jarring palette. The piece explores the struggles of female migrant workers within Phuket’s tourism industry, adopting the visual language of video games, high-tech armor, and science fiction. To me, a far more suitable venue for this work would have been the Imperial 2 Hotel, another Biennale site addressing similar themes through its related history. This sense of dissonance suggests that this commissioned art was not truly in sync with its surroundings — a gap that the ancient spirits of the house might find impossible to bridge.

Turning back to the Yi Teng Complex, I found three ghosts wandering through the abandoned market. The specters of longing come from the merchants who once anticipated the market’s renovation. Even after it closed, their commercial desire never departed; the cafes and small shops nearby still manifest the restless agitation of these longing ghosts. The spirits of vitality reside in the graffiti, stickers, and symbols that claimed forbidden surfaces to breathe life into the silence. This spirit of self-assertion has never been absent and will continue into the future. The drifting shadows follow those who move between dwellings. Every stop is merely temporary. Even with nowhere to roost, these shadows hold onto memories of the places where they once rested.

Pratchaya Phinthong presents ‘water~copy ~air~streak,’ a multi-media installation combining video, sound, field research, and ecological intervention at the Yi Teng Complex. The site is filled with the simulated calls of swiftlets and an array of wooden joists installed to encourage these birds to nest and inhabit the space in the future. Furthermore, drawing on recent marine biology research, the artist transmits underwater recordings of healthy coral ecosystems to a decaying reef off the coast of Phuket to accelerate its regeneration. In the exhibition space, underwater footage of this scientific research is projected against the backdrop of the market’s trash-accumulated stagnant water, creating a dialogue with the derelict building’s own aquatic ecology.

At first glance, this exploration of “non-human economies and the politics of cohabitation” (as described in the Biennale guide) might seem disconnected from the abandoned market. However, I believe the three spectral forces present at the site find a resonance within this artwork. The choice of swiftlets — a bird whose nests hold economic value — directly echoes the local, unceasing longing for commercial revival. The spontaneous migration and habitation of the swiftlets imprint their presence upon the environment in their own way. The movement of birds through the city mirrors the trajectory of those groups of people perpetually existing in a state of uncertainty within urban civilization. This same desire for survival, the momentum of imprinting oneself, and the constant flux of migration happened in the coral reef regeneration. Seen through the eyes of these ghosts, ‘water~copy ~air~streak’ becomes a fitting annotation of local history and lived experience. While it cannot fully capture every facet of the site’s hauntings, perhaps these ghosts are willing to quietly observe how the space that once belonged to them is now, through contemporary art, inhabited.

When an artwork promises to sense the insensible, it engages in a profound semantic struggle. Dark matter haunts the universe through its refusal to appear, a ghost in physics detectable only by its gravitational footprint yet silent to the visible spectrum. My approach to Su Wen-Chi 蘇文琪 and YILAB’s Sensing Dark Matter 暗宇之感 was therefore charged with a specific anticipation. I did not expect a literal scientific visualization, nor did I await a mystical seance. Rather, I anticipated a rupture , a disconnection from mundane sensory reality that would prepare me to explore a new regime of perception. Yet, as I emerged from the experience — a duality of dance video and VR journey — I was left suspended in a lingering ambiguity. Had I truly developed a new cognitive framework for the cosmos, or had I merely traversed a constructed, aesthetically pleasing void? The answer, I realized, lay not in the artists’ intentional cues, but in an inadvertent choreography of my own body, triggered by the very absence of sensation.

The inquiry begins with the dance video, situated within the stark, subterranean Stawell Underground Physics Laboratory in Australia. We witness dancer Tien Hsiao-Tzu 田孝慈, clad in Klein Blue, navigating a high-tech cavern of aggressive whiteness. She moves amidst a constellation of scientific apparatuses. As the camera captures her tactile interactions with the walls, meters, and conduits, I was instinctively anchored in a terrestrial experience. I projected my own memories of lab rooms — or cinematic depictions of laboratories familiar to a general audience — onto the video, grounding the perception in the tangible machinery rather than the cosmic unknown.

This reliance on environmental feedback is not merely a viewer’s projection but a stated methodology. In interviews regarding this work[1], Su Wen-Chi described the team’s process as an improvisational exploration of the cave’s humidity, temperature, and acoustics. Team member Hsieh Wen-Yi 謝文毅 used 3D scanners to reconstruct the tunnels and lab spaces, while Wu Ping-Sheng 吳秉聖 captured the shape of the sound fields. Dancer Tien Hsiao-Tzu similarly noted that the rock walls, high-ceilinged space, and atmospheric shifts triggered her intuitive response. This approach extends into the work’s second component, the VR, which Su describes as a technological reconstruction allowing the audience to “enter” the cave and the colossal detector. Consequently, as we fly through the chandelier-like structure of the recreated detector in VR, we gain a deeper understanding of the facility, yet dark matter remains hidden in an inaccessible elsewhere. Narrative and visual cues highlight site attributes like humidity and infrastructure. However, these are man-made or geological conditions, not emanations of dark matter. Thus, the work appears to be capturing the features of the laboratory, rather than an encounter with dark matter itself.

To navigate this skepticism, I turn to the theoretical framework of Karen Barad’s Agential Realism[2]. Challenging the classical view of measurement as recording pre-existing facts, Barad draws on quantum mechanics[3] to argue that reality emerges only at the moment of an “agential cut.[4]” Before this cut, there are no fixed boundaries — not even between the measurer and the measured; it is only after the agential cut that a specific reality is determined. Measurement is therefore not an idle recording of independent facts but an active participation in their generation. Viewing the work through this lens, the dancer needs not compete with scientific indexicality[5] because her dance, as a unique agential cut, is the measurement event itself. The question shifts from “Is there a direct link to the object?” to “What is the specificity of this agential cut?” Even if Tien’s somatic feedback is triggered by the laboratory’s humidity and the hum of machinery, these are the particular facts around this specific agential cut. Her body — flesh, sweat, and proprioception — entangled with these conditioning elements, collapses the possibilities of the dark matter into a singular, determinate measurement.

However, a sharp dissonance arises when the potential richness of this dance was translated into the visual representation. Whether in the video’s post-production or the subsequent VR experience, the visual language retreats into swarms of drifting white light points. Here lies the work’s most significant aesthetic limitation. Rendering the unknown into particles activates the audience’s pre-existing cognitive anchors from basic physics education that we see the world as composed of electrons, protons, photons, etc. While dark matter research indeed leans toward particle physics, this artistic choice semantically narrows the subject. It reduces the profound mystery of dark matter into a generic variable, a vacant signifier, or a placeholder. These particles become empty containers: they signify science in a general sense but fail to carry the specific weight, tension, and entanglement of the dancer’s unique labor in the underground lab. The visual cleanliness of the VR particles sanitizes the messy reality of the agential cut I had just theoretically validated. I found myself recognizing the image of physics, but not acquiring a new imagination for the dark matter itself.

This visual flattening brings me to the core of the medium: Virtual Reality. My expectation for VR in this context was rooted in its potential as a somatic bridge. Since I cannot physically inhabit the dancer’s body or visit the Australian underground, I expected VR — functioning as a trans-corporeal medium — to manipulate my senses to approximate the tension, gravity, and resistance Tien experienced. I expected the technology to translate the fleshiness of the dancer into a tangible sensation for the seated viewer. Intuitively, VR appears to deprive the user of somatic grounding, operating primarily through the visual. However, it is here, in the gap between the dominance of the visual and the absence of physical feedback, that I identified a distinct phenomenon, one that likely exists independently of the work’s narrative intent. In fact, I argue that this very characteristic of VR holds the potential to become the medium-specific quality essential for exploring dark matter.

Scientific literature on “pseudo-haptics” offers a lens to understand this quality. Samad et al. (2019) demonstrated that discrepancies between virtual lift height and physical movement directly alter perceived weight, revealing that the human brain estimates an object’s weight by roughly 82% proprioceptive input and 18% visual cues during lifting tasks[6]. While this ratio varies by task[7], VR fundamentally exploits it.

Given the impossibility of fully inhabiting another’s body, I propose a shift in perspective. Rather than framing VR as sensory deprivation, I suggest it functions as a mechanism that amplifies visual cues to recalibrate experience. For instance, think about how visual manipulation alone can induce the visceral distress of a mobility-impaired person who falls. Furthermore, I argue that this forfeiture of proprioception can be utilized to choreograph the audience, prompting them to actively enact a physical response to compensate for the missing somatic input.

I experienced this compelled self-choreography during a specific sequence in the VR journey. As the swarms of drifting white light points coalesced into long, streaming trajectories, forming a massive, swirling vortex that rushed toward me, my body reacted, following a naturalistic, gravitational logic. Though seated in a stationary chair, I felt an undeniable urge to tilt. Heels dragged on the floor to generate sensory friction. Body twisted to align with the visual flow. Muscles tensed against a phantom force — a reaction, in reality, to the actual gravitational pull induced by my own leaning. That was a “star-flight” experience transcended the visuality of the dots. The VR system did not provide the physical inputs of motion, yet upon receiving the visual flow, I found myself needing to perform the missing physics. This is what I identify as a choreography from absence. The VR medium conditioned my environment to force a somatic response.

This brings me to a final reflection on Sensing Dark Matter. On one hand, the visual choice of white dots remained tethered to the generic, failing to offer a new lexicon for the unknown. On the other hand, my experience of the VR revealed a structural resonance that perhaps exceeds the work’s conscious design. Dark matter is defined by its absence from our sensory spectrum; it pervades the universe, yet we only know it through its gravitational effects. In the VR chair, with my heels dragging against the floor to resist a phantom current, I was enacting a parallel existence and reacting to a force that was physically absent, mediated by a technology that relies on sensory gaps to function. I sensed something, not because the artwork made it visible, but because the void of the medium, or the conditioned conditions, activated my body to fill the gap. This medium specificity of VR — utilizing the absence of somatic input to provoke active engagement and a unique form of self-choreography — precisely mirrors how dark matter, despite its imperceptibility, elicited a response from the dancer in the deep underground. The structural nature of the VR echoes the very essence of dark matter.

[1] Tsai, S. (2025, July 31). 地底一公里，一趟重建感官的探險之旅. 臺北藝術節. https://tpac.org.taipei/festival-taipei/2025/posts/470 (Accessed December 12, 2025)

[2] Barad, K. (2007). Meeting the universe halfway: Quantum physics and the entanglement of matter and meaning. Duke University Press.

[3] This refers to the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, where an object exists in a superposition of all possible states until measured by an observer or instrument. This interaction forces the object to “collapse” into a determinate state.

[4] An agential cut is a boundary-making practice that enacts a resolution of inherent ontological indeterminacy within a phenomenon, delineating “object” from “measuring agency” to make objectivity possible. (Barad, 2007, p. 175)

[5] Scientific authority often rests on what Bruno Latour calls a ‘chain of reference’ or Peirce’s concept of indexicality — the assumption that an instrument provides an objective, causal trace of the phenomenon. In this view, a sensor reading is a ‘fact,’ while a dancer’s movement is merely an ‘interpretation.’

[6] Samad, M., Gatti, E., Hermes, A., Benko, H., & Parise, C. (2019, May). Pseudo-haptic weight: Changing the perceived weight of virtual objects by manipulating control-display ratio. In Proceedings of the 2019 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems (pp. 1–13).

[7] Similarly, Bergström et al. (2019) influenced size estimation by adjusting the grasping aperture, while Bouzbib et al. (2023) manipulated the degree of visual compression to alter the perception of stiffness.

On an early summer evening, the basement of the café felt a bit stuffy upon arrival. The two artists had already started the talk,

Hsiao: “At that time, I went to the Nanjing Space of King Car Cultural & Art Center (金車文藝中心臺北南京館) to see your solo exhibition. You used a lot of acrylic for the display. How did it help with the presentation of your work, or what was its role as an intermediary? I was a bit curious to see how others did it.

The exhibition Hsiao Yu-Chieh referred to was Fu Sheng-Ya’s solo exhibition, “The Temporality of Attachment (漬的時態)” in 2024, where she used transparent acrylic to support common household folded garbage bags, and often used acrylic sheets to suspend works on the wall or place them at a height, allowing viewers to directly observe various effects of paper.

Fu: “First, its transparency doesn’t steal the paper’s presence. Next, some works are color-separated and printed on different papers, but the colors are only visible when they are stacked together. Acrylic makes them fit more closely while still retaining the paper’s properties.”

In the same year, Hsiao Yu-Chieh also exhibited her solo exhibition, “There’s Nothing Abstract About That (傾身觀看),” at Chengde Space of King Car Cultural & Art Center (金車文藝中心臺北承德館). In “Untitled (2024),” folded Xuan paper (宣紙) of varying thickness and width was stacked on a transparent acrylic sheet coated with pigment, creating an anger-sensitive halo effect due to the warm transparency of the Xuan paper.

Hsiao: “My idea of using acrylic is somewhat similar to yours; I also use transparent or translucent mediums to highlight certain characteristics. But for me, the interaction between acrylic and paper is different from yours. I care about how the characteristics of paper are emphasized, so acrylic in my work is more like an auxiliary to present different aspects of paper.”

Fu: “[Indeed,] Acrylic can maintain a certain lightness, or gently support something in suspension, which is why I use it a lot. But I actually still treat acrylic more as a way to highlight the paper material itself.”

Now looking at both artists’ works again, I find that acrylic is visually almost non-existent, leaving only a certain “scent”. It actually still comes back to paper as a material, which was the reason for the two artists to be invited for this conversation. Fu Sheng-Ya does not reject so-called stains, or the marks left by human touch on paper, which signify relationships. On the other hand, for Hsiao Yu-Chieh, it’s more detached; she uses spray cans or other methods to reduce human brushstrokes.

Fu: “Most of my works indeed contain a private story, or hide something. Like thermochromic ink, it takes a few seconds of touching for it to change color. The time delay from touch to viewing, I think, is also a very important process. As you touch it, you’ll feel that it seems to start with an event that an object generates warmth by you.”

Hsiao: “Sheng-Ya’s works retain more traces of human events than mine; our creative concepts are fundamentally different.”

The ice in the coffee crackled due to the room temperature.

Hsiao: “I care about purely expressing the material, so I try to minimize human traces, which to me is simpler. I try to maintain a certain distance from my own work, to be able to evaluate and examine it in a relatively objective way.“

“Reducing human traces is largely because I want to keep it in a gray area. Some people say my work is Eastern because of the paper and ink, while others consider it Western due to its form. Walking the line between both genres, I hope to resists easy definition of my works; that state is what I find most comfortable.”

Fu: “I can imagine the feeling of Yu-Chieh’s using ink spray compared to drawing directly by hand. My works are more about a scene or an event, a photograph, then undergoing another layer of transformation.”

“Does it have anything to do with your printmaking experience?” I couldn’t help but interrupt and ask her. Fu Sheng-Ya is very willing to leave her own texture within the work.

Fu: “Yes, for example, the text fragments on the paper in my work is actually legal documents from a family inheritance lawsuit. Breaking up the text and reforming it into the paper carries imagery or experience, like in handwriting or letters.”

“In ‘Paper Folding of Home,’ the laser-engraved shrimp shells patterns and garbage outlines, I actually use the image of leftover from family meals to discuss a certain sense of domesticity. It might look soft and cute at first glance, but the underlying meaning is certain fragmented experiences.”

The café owner came downstairs for a quick check and then went back up. The air conditioning had made the room much cooler, but the conversation became more lively. I was curious about Fu Sheng-Ya’s mention of transforming life experiences, because in her artworks, there is no direct correspondence between life experiences and materials. For example, with the family folded garbage bags, one would instinctively associate them with calendar paper, advertising paper, or newspapers commonly used by Taiwanese in households, but the paper chosen by Fu Sheng-Ya does not deliberately link to that scene.

Fu: “I usually buy paper at a paper-making studio on Songjiang Road.”

Speaking of the purchase of materials and the characteristics of various paper products from different manufactors, the two artists launched into an enthusiastic sharing of experiences. After a while, Fu Sheng-Ya continued,

Fu: “One of their papers incorporates a slight amount of plastic, making its texture slightly tougher. Some of my spatial installations use this paper, so they are not affected by weather changes and environmental factors.”

“Or the ink I print needs light to develop color. When printed on very thin paper and stacked together, when exposed to light, you’ll see a slightly gray shape inside, carrying the implication of impending damage, or only visible at specific angles. This is a manipulation I like to play within my work.”

“I hope the material is not easily directly identifiable. For example, in ‘Folded_Storage,’ toilet paper is folded and stacked into a column. The audience won’t identify it as toilet paper at first glance, but through the edges of the material during viewing, they will realize what it is, and then approach that familiar life experience, form, and its era.”

Hsiao: “I think visual artists share this characteristic: they don’t want their ideas and expressions to be seen too directly. For me, if I want to purely understand the material, maximization of the artist’s detachment is relatively effective, otherwise it will affect the view.”

“Sheng-Ya deals with many experiences originating from life, but I don’t want my own life story to be overly prominent in the visual presentation of my work. Generally, the story in my work is not easy to be discovered, but many people still want to ask, to understanding my works through stories.”

At this point in the interview, I gradually discovered that even though the two artists’ approaches to paper were different, their attitudes were remarkably similar. Fu Sheng-Ya and Hsiao Yu-Chieh both hope that the audience will generate feelings when facing the paper first, and then proceed to understand their work. Paper is always the foremost element.

Fu Sheng-Ya mentioned that although there are events in her works, they are always suppressed to be extremely faint during presentation, becoming some indiscernible traces within. During our conversation, she shared many choices regarding materials and techniques, but I recalled her exhibition statement, which heavily described the sub-theme of life experiences. “After the audience reading it, it was like, ‘Oh, so this exhibition is discussing these stories,’ and then all your craftsmanship and material concerns disappeared,” I raised this question.

Fu: “I might prefer to discuss material, or wait for audiences to respond my artwork, the details of techniques, and why these approaches occur.”

“[for example] Special inks like thermochromic and photosensitive inks can only be seen at specific distances, light, and temperatures, and there will be differences when installed indoors or outdoors. My recent works all start from material characteristics, thinking about how to create specific viewings. I think this is my trajectory this year. Others usually talk less about this material part when viewing my works.”

Bystanders in the coffee shop looked at us with curious eyes. At that time, we were discussing how audiences tend to view Hsiao Yu-Chieh’s works from the perspective of formal aesthetics and spirituality.

Hsiao: “Everyone talks about spirituality, but how to express it, or where does spirituality come from? For me, perhaps it still needs to rely on actual behavior and direct touch through physical objects to feel. Especially touch, if you don’t touch it, it’s relatively difficult to feel what’s happening around you.”

In fact, many interactions between paper and ink occur during Hsiao Yu-Chieh’s creative process. For example, Xuan paper is used as the base, covered with another sheet of paper, and after ink spraying, the top paper is removed, leaving straight edges on the Xuan paper.

She will carefully keep those removed, ink-stained waste papers that do not belong to the current work, but will become materials again in the future.

Hsiao: “I focus on material expression. Although these waste papers initially serve as auxiliary roles, their essence is still Xuan paper after being used, so I keep them. Or, if paper fibers got wet, they cannot be folded flat and will have a curved thickness. People might consider this a defect, not stable enough, but for me, how to use this characteristic is a very important thing.”

“I feel that papers in my hands create with me, and what happens in between, let’s call them side quests, actually develops into their future appearance.”

(All images in this article are provided by the artists.)

If you have graph paper at hand, or imagine one, pick up a pen and draw a casual arc, preferably with some width. Some squares are filled by the brush, while others are only partially covered with color. Do the half-filled squares count as colored or uncolored? The blocks on graph paper, like the pixel array of a screen, can hardly fully capture the free, real brushstrokes. Especially lines with uneven ink, and the fractured texture caused by friction and scratching, the uniform squares on screen struggle to interpret intermittent brushwork.

The “Snake” series draws inspiration from early handheld “Snake” games, where Yu Chih-Han realized how the snake’s flexible body was constrained by digital blocks. The biological form and smooth movement were limited by the aesthetic symbol of “stuttering,” transforming the long snake into a straight bar, advancing with jerky steps (Figure 2).

Using masking tape to mark out grid territories, Yu Chih-Han thickly applied acrylic paint within the squares. The thick application of paint creates a sense of weight, generating kinetic energy in the color blocks; the almost overflowing surface of the paint, like the rim of a cup filled with liquid, seems on the verge of spilling. The artist utilizes acrylic to unleash the potential of painter's brushwork, yet the desire for fluidity is confined within defined squares. From a distance, Yu Chih-Han’s paintings appear as neat as a digital screen, but up close, one feels the impactful force between the color blocks. At first glance, Yu Chih-Han’s painting method mimics a screen composed of clusters of minimal light points, the smallest unit forming the image, but in deed each tiny color block on the canvas still retains the life of brushstrokes.

Beyond the physical properties of paint, the vitality of the painting also comes from the arrangement and composition of the color blocks. “Pixel.02” (Figure 3) features brightly colored squares that simulate the luminous pixels on a screen, with its green, red, and yellow blocks neatly arranged into a regular grid. If we pretend that there are dashed lines marking the boundaries of these colored squares. The black squares Yu Chih-Han places in the image awkwardly traverse these boundary lines. Sometimes the exact center of a black square overlaps with the intersection of dashed lines, while at other times, one side of a black square adheres tightly to a dashed line. Digital screens lack the ability to render these black blocks because they cannot be fully contained within the grid, just as graph paper cannot precisely capture our casually drawn colored strokes.

The black squares in “Level.01” (Figure 4) provide a contrasting function; these black blocks are neatly arranged, helping the viewer visually define the grid boundaries. What breaks this boundary are elongated cross-grid color blocks, gradient color blocks that a single pixel cannot render, and diagonally perspectival rhomboid stripes. “Round 3” (Figure 5) subverts screen through interfaces with differing textures: the neat planar surface created by a brush and the wrinkled skin printed by a roller, along with varying paint thicknesses, challenge the uniform, fully illuminated surface of a digital screen. Sometimes, outlines appear within the color blocks, such as the head of a boxer, with areas above and below the lines filled with different colors, also exceeding the expressive capability of a single pixel.

The digital color blocks remind me of artist Justin Armstrong from the Savannah College of Art and Design, who is deeply influenced by the visual style of 90s Game Boys, CRT screens, and Pokémon holographic cards. He uses tape to mask off neat strip patterns, applies acrylic paint, and upon removing the tape, reveals the covered holographic vinyl — a plastic that shimmers with different hues depending on the viewing angle (Figure 6). Justin Armstrong mixes the texture of acrylic with the luster of holographic vinyl to create a sensory experience of simultaneously viewing a Polaroid photo and a glitching screen. This “digital screen/painting” comparative action is precisely what Yu Chih-Han’s work explores: the contrasting relationship between paint texture and digital imagery.

Furthermore, both artists’ works require the audience to be present. Justin Armstrong emphasizes the necessity of on-site viewing since screens cannot convey the dynamic light and shadow shifts of holographic vinyl on site. Similarly, the sensory experience in Yu Chih-Han’s work is not easily transferred by a screen; you must be present to appreciate the artist’s intention in manipulating the paint, the thickness and stillness of the painting, and how the visual experience of a digital screen is solidified into a material entity.

Although both artists share similar visual approaches, I want to specifically point out that Yu Chih-Han does not merely recreate the painting plane to explore the contrast between paint and screen; the bodily sensations generated during the creative process also reproduce the non-visual differences between digital screen and painting.

Yu Chih-Han first uses digital software to create compositional drafts, defining the elements and grid arrangement of the image. After grasping the general layout, she applies masking tape according to the planned grid and fills the corresponding squares with acrylic paint. Here, two aspects can be identified: first, the temporality of image generation, and second, the fluidity of the smallest unit.

Digital screens have a refresh rate, which is the number of frames they can display per second. Contemporary technology achieves at least 60Hz, meaning one frame can be displayed every sixtieth of a second. Consider how much time it takes for an artist to paint a small square on a canvas with a brush, and how long it takes to complete the entire painting. This illustrates the temporal difference in image generation between painting and digital screens. We are accustomed to viewing artworks on screens, where paintings constantly appear and disappear with a swipe of a finger. Digital screens not only replace the physical texture of paint but also make people forget the bodily movements required during the painting process and the changes in every moment of the artist’s movement.

Continuing to the second point, the fluidity of the smallest unit, let’s narrow our gaze from the entire painting to a single square on the canvas. Drawing a square by hand is far more complex than a single pixel on a screen receiving a signal and emitting a pre-set spectrum of colored light. For a square, decisions about hue, brushing, and the force applied are all related to the artist’s state at that moment. In the “Punch Out!!” series, because the boxer’s silhouette crosses different squares, a single square must accommodate different color blocks and patch corresponding outlines based on neighboring images. Taking “Round 6” (Figure 7) as an example, the boxer’s shoelace appears in a single square. The artist cannot simply flat-fill a complete color like a screen pixel but must decide how to paint the shoelace. Here, Yu Chih-Han chooses to pixelate the shoelace again, maintaining consistency in the painting’s style. In addition, the outline of the boxer’s elbow crosses four squares, which is also a complex pattern that a single screen pixel cannot handle, requiring consideration of the logic of elbow shape, and how it connects to the neighbor squares. The artist must actively interpreting the painting within the hypothetical smallest unit of the image, unlike passive and uniform pixels on a screen.

“Hyperbolic Time Chamber: Yu Chih-Han’s Solo Exhibition” carries a strong digital nostalgia, pulling the audience back into the digital world of the 90s. Game scenes constructed from high-saturation color blocks and humorous boxer poses immediately capture the viewer’s attention. What I appreciate even more is the artist’s extremely subtle planar experimentation, underlying the strong game style and pixel aesthetic. The kinetic energy generated by the layered acrylic resists the constraints of pixel squares. Misplaced, gradient, and obliquely projected color blocks break the limitations of screen rendering. The bodily actions during the creative process imply a refresh rate different between a painting surface and a digital screen. The painter’s choices push against the restrictive framework of single pixels. Visual differences, physicality, sense of time, and the presence of the painter — Yu Chih-Han’s work offers us a new perspective on digital screens, orchestrating multiple concepts to approach.

Hung Kuang-Chi (洪廣冀), the curator and a professor from the Department of Geography, National Taiwan University, centered the exhibition around Chen Cheng-po’s paintings. The artworks were displayed alongside collections of National Taiwan Museum, echoing three geographical features that meet in Taiwan: the Tropic of Cancer, the monsoon, and the Kuroshio Current. His curatorial approach highlights how Chen Cheng-po’s works reflected the nature of Taiwan in his era.

“Rediscovering Taiwan” marks several “firsts” in the history of Chen Cheng-po retrospectives. The exhibition uniquely focuses on the natural clues within Chen Cheng-po’s paintings, interpreting elements within his paintings through the lens of natural science, instead of a common art historical perspective or focusing on the painter’s life experiences and significant historical moments, like the tragedy he endured during the February 28th Incident. The exhibition traces and reconstructs the landscapes in his sketching, and explores how these scenes were shaped by the three powerful geographical forces in Taiwan.

Secondly, the exhibition notably departs from previous Chen Cheng-po retrospectives by combining gallery-style display with natural specimens and explanatory panels common in science museum. Over the years, Chen Cheng-po Cultural Foundation has consistently introduced new exhibition formats. They’ve transformed his paintings into immersive panoramic animated rooms, converted them into animated drawings, and even specially incorporated X-ray scanning technology. However, these diverse exhibitions always centered on Chen Cheng-po’s paintings. “Rediscovering Taiwan,” on the other hand, includes natural specimens that are external to the paintings. Its presentation also moves beyond that of a typical art museum or cultural center, leaning more towards a museum and learning journey approach.

Finally, a less obvious but truly significant shift lies in its research methodology. Piecing clues together like a naturalist, the exhibition treats the artworks as research materials. It utilizes various natural specimens, samples, and climate theories to reconstruct the nature of Taiwan as Chen Cheng-po saw them. Although the research leads to a discourse on Taiwan’s geographical characteristics, the resulting geographical knowledge remains intimately connected to the painter’s works and his life experiences. The exhibition does not solely focus on individual artworks. Instead, it uses the paintings as a starting point for exploring the geography of Taiwan, without detaching them from Chen Cheng-po’s original inspirations.

I encourage readers to visit the exhibition’s online virtual space to fully immerse yourself in the experience. As you enter the exhibition, to your left, the first section features a red backdrop displaying Chen Cheng-po’s paintings. Your attention will be drawn to a green workbench in the center of the area, set up like a naturalist’s workspace with notes, maps, specimens, research texts, and sketches related to the scenes in Chen Cheng-po’s artworks. Without direct explanation from the curator, visitors are intuitively ready to approach the exhibition with a research-oriented mindset.

This red-backdrop space was divided into three major zones, corresponding to the Tropic of Cancer, the Monsoon, and the Kuroshio Current. Each zone features Chen Cheng-po’s paintings relevant to each geographical force. The introductory texts on the walls in these zones differ from typical retrospectives that focus on the artist or the artworks; instead, they focus on introducing these nature forces in Taiwan. It encourages viewers to re-examine Chen Cheng-po’s paintings through the lens of these natural characteristics. To complement the naturalist mindset established in the first room, the other two exhibition rooms showcase natural science collections related to these themes, accompanied by explanatory texts, guiding visitors to understand Taiwan’s geography through Chen Cheng-po’s artwork, allowing them to rediscover Taiwan as seen through his eyes.

“Rediscovering Taiwan” answered a long-standing question for me: if a curator’s job involves researching a specific theme and selecting artworks that resonate with it, how can they put together an exhibition when the issues they care about aren’t a focus in the art world, a situation that results in a lack of relevant artworks? In other words, is a curator’s productivity limited by what the art world pays attention to?

To avoid this dilemma, curators have to expand their view beyond the art world. Especially when major curatorial programs in Taiwan often come from art departments, and curator training is usually rooted in art history, with analyses primarily focused on art exhibitions. “Rediscovering Taiwan” offers a great example of how interdisciplinary knowledge and objects can support curators to realize their concept. For curators to access interdisciplinary resources, they need to cultivate an awareness and a network of other fields; this gives curators better opportunities to connect with people outside the art world, what issues they care about, their resources, and motivations.

However, simply knowing what’s happening outside the art world is not enough. Curators also need the flexibility to move between different fields. Professor Hung, Kuang-Chi, the curator of this exhibition, has a long history of writing introductions for books on natural ecology, environment, and biographies. He noted:

“I’ve always written introductions ‘for the author.’ Unlike academic papers or reviews that often ‘showcase how much knowledge one possesses,’ the goal of an introduction is to express what the author wants to convey.”

This philosophy is evident in the exhibition’s on-site descriptive texts and the accompanying guide, showing that “Rediscovering Taiwan” doesn’t focus on a single curatorial statement or the curator’s own ideas. Instead, the exhibition expresses the artist himself and the natural science related to his works. Visitors leave the exhibition with a better understanding of Chen Cheng-po as an artist, and gain a deeper connection to Taiwan’s geographical environment.

In Hung’s introduction to the book Face Á Gaïa, for another instance, he used Albrecht Dürer’s print “Melencolia I” as a starting point. Hung analyzed elements within the print to explore the historical context of its era. From that historical background of that print, he then traced back to the dawn of the Anthropocene, tying it back to the book. This skill in writing and interpretating is precisely why “Rediscovering Taiwan” succeeded so well in connecting Chen Cheng-po’s paintings to the natural science aspect of Taiwan.

“Rediscovering Taiwan: Chen Cheng-po’s 130th Birthday Anniversary Exhibition” marks a curatorial breakthrough. It diverges from traditional retrospectives, reinterpreting Chen Cheng-po’s art through natural science. It blends painting displays of art museums with specimens in a nature science museum, setting a new precedent for Chen Cheng-po exhibitions. It offers a unique visitor experience, fostering a mutual understanding of Taiwan’s geography and Chen’s artwork. This model encourages curators to move beyond the art world, embracing interdisciplinary methods to enrich their discourse and inspire flexible, collaborative knowledge production.

(2024.Jan.5)

繁體中文版點此

Current awareness of the white cube has led to various attempts to open itself up. The concept of off-site art has also been discussed, ranging from simply relocating artworks from museums to more complex discussions of how off-site art engages with the site itself. However, a review of outdoor art events in 2023 reveals that the idea of the white cube is still haunting curatorial practices. This article will analyse Nuit Blanche Taipei 2023 and Taiwan Lantern Festival in Taipei 2023 as case studies and propose a ‘sandbox’ framework as a way to remind curators of the challenges they may face when moving from galleries to large outdoor sites. This framework can also help curators in refining their curatorial mindset and methodology.

'If you wake me up, I’ll tell you a dream I just had.,' is a performance piece by Taiwanese artist Lai Shu-chin (賴舒勤). Lai lay on a bed sleeping in the centre of a lovely room, filled with ordinary objects, such as furniture, clothing, and food. Audience was invited to walk in and wake her up. Back to 2018, The stage was located in Pon Ding (朋丁), a bookstore and art space. Pon Ding has a similar conventional white cube style, with a clean and uncluttered cement-walled room as the space and background for Lai’s neat and clean scene (Figure 1). However, this white cube exhibiting approach turned into a disaster five years later. During the night in Nuit Blanche Taipei 2023, in addition to Lai’s own performances (which was great because her work can be shine even in bad weather), the stage of the performance was set up at the Lake Tswei Park (國父紀念館翠湖), allowing the public to actually lie down in the scene to experience the atmosphere of the work. Unfortunately, since the surrounding dirty environment and unpredictable weather conditions of outdoor activities were not anticipated, the entire work was in a terrible state (Figure 1). The difference between the two scenarios shows the practical difficulty that curators may encounter when they step out of the gallery. There has been much discussion about opening the white cube, but not many conceptual frameworks or metaphors that can help curators identify curating conditions and differences outside of the white cube.

Sandbox and its Metaphor

In a playground, a sandbox is a place filled with sand for children to play. They can dig, make buildings, and practice their imaginations within it. In game theory, especially for computer games, a sandbox refers to a type of game that players are welcome to exploring and experimenting on their own interest, such as making their own decision on where the next place they head for or what choice do they take when facing a dilemma, instead of being confined in a fixed narrative and pre-determined dénouements. Three perspectives are derived from the metaphor of sandbox: outdoor environment and its effect on curation and artworks, difference between audience in outdoor events and indoor galleries, and impacts from different scales of different venues.

1. Outdoor Environment and its Effect on Curation and Artworks

The metaphor of child’s sandbox first highlights the most obvious distinction between outdoor art events and white cubes: the outdoor environment is more dynamic and challenging than galleries. This is not only in terms of physical factors such as cleanliness or dirtiness, but also in terms of the mindset and methods adopted by curators in handling their art objects. Taking the stage discussed above in Figure 1 as an example, when the curators moved the stage from the white cube to the outdoors, they must had considered the differences between indoor and outdoor spaces. The strategy taken by the curators were to lay down waterproof tarps to isolate the dirt on the park floor, and to build a canopy to protect the scene from potential damage from rain. This presents the conventional white cube’s view of artworks: delicate, in need of protection, and should be isolated from other things. Even though the venue was moved outdoors, it still presented an attitude of rejecting the outside world.

Another example is the artist Néle Azevedo’s Minimum Monument (Figure 2), consisting of thousands of small ice sculptures of people which are placed in public spaces by participation of the public and allowed to deform and melt into puddles. As the main event of Nuit Blanche Taipei 2023, the Taipei City Government clearly wanted to present the best possible effect. And this so-called best effect, in the minds of the organizers, was the image of the white cube: beautiful, orderly, and intact (which is clearly ironic in the case of the ice people). Throughout the entire process of public participation, the host was repeatedly reminding everyone to place the works neatly, to be careful not to kick the works, and to leave as soon as possible after they were finished. The location of Minimum Monument was also chosen on the steps of the Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall, where it could be sheltered from the rain by the roof.

Nick Tsai (蔡瑋德)’s artwork, 'Plant Sonification: Electronic Organism on/off'(Figure 3), is an art installation that generates audio by sampling biological signals from plants. Plant Sonification was not only protected by a canopy, but its sampled signals came from plants brought to the site, not from the existing vegetation at Lake Tswei Park. Both the design and exhibition methods of Plant Sonification met the expectations of a white cube model.

In contrast, the execution approach of the Taiwan Lantern Festival in Taipei 2023 aligned more with a sandbox metaphor. Not only did the organizers clearly understand that the light installations needed to operate continuously for several days and withstand weather impacts, but the commissioned artists also designed and produced their light installations with reference to the on-site environment. Feng Cheng Tsung (范承宗)’s “Sailing Castle Ren’ai” (Figure 4) features a structure capable of enduring wind and sun, and its aesthetics also reflect the Bauhaus architectural style of the nearby community, naturally integrating with the surrounding environment.

2. Difference Between Audience in Outdoor Events and Indoor Galleries

The second perspective of sandbox is how curators take care of their audience since the audience in a white cube and in a sandbox is very distinct. In child’s sandbox, toys are usually shovels, buckets, and castle molds, because they come to the sandbox to play with sand. If the sandbox were replaced with a pool, the toys in it would be rubber ducks, water guns, and wind-up boats. To meet the expectations of visitors, curators need to prepare different exhibits. Although curators in both sandboxes and white cubes would consider the expectations of visitors, in white cubes, curators often face art enthusiasts or learners who are ready to absorb information. On the other hand, the audience encountered in the sandbox environment covers a wider range of groups.

‘Lessons from the Playground’ is a work created by Bridge Hole, a group of architects and artists who are interested in contemporary art and urban intervention. The work translates the daily lives of residents around the Lake Tswei Park into colored visual pieces. They observed the clothing style and colors of the residents and what they do on a regular basis when they come to the park. This statistical data is then converted into a series of colored or gray scale inflatable bands, which are used to represent the lifestyles of the residents in a visible way (Figures 5).

As discussed in the first perspective of sandbox above, this work does take into account the integration of the work with the surrounding environment. However, its presentation does not consider the differences between white cube and sandbox settings. It includes explanatory text and statistical data on site to supplement the meaning of the visual effects of its inflatable bands (Figure 5). This practice of providing information in an educational way is precisely conventional in white cubes. The premise for this type of exhibiting method to be effective is that the audience expects to spend time reading and absorbing information, and that there is a comfortable environment for the audience to stop and read. These two prerequisites are easily realized in white cubes, but they are likely to fail in sandboxes. Nuit Blanche Taipei 2023 was held at night, and it rained heavily that day. The lighting and muddy conditions were not favourable for audience to read the explanatory boards. Additionally, Nuit Blanche Taipei 2023 is a public event held in Taipei City and the visitors may not be art lovers. They may not read the work’s explanation in detail even if the weather is clear.

Comparatively, the Taiwan Lantern Festival, which is also held at night, tends to prioritize audience atmosphere and to create poetic spaces for interpretation. Artist Chung Chiung-yi (鍾瓊儀)’s work ‘Everyday Actions’ (Figure 6), set in a hair salon — a place where people adorn themselves — showcases the chaotic backside of embroidery on storefront windows, hinting an inner world beneath a beautiful exterior. The transparent window connects the salon’s interior and exterior, while light installations on the window draw passersby. This juxtaposition of a ‘window typically meant to display beauty’ with the ‘chaos on the reverse side of an embroidery’ encourages viewers to contemplate the artist’s intent, even if they don’t fully grasp the concept at first.

Having been held for nearly 30 years, curators of the lantern festival have a keen understanding of audience expectations and have even experimented with projects designed to appeal to public interest. For instance, in a recent edition, a sub-project involved local shops and artists to set up light installations in alleys, infusing the festival with contemporary art expressions and seamlessly integrating it into the urban landscape.

3. Impacts From Different Scales Of Different Venues

The aforementioned collaboration between local shops and artists at the Taiwan Lantern Festival, which transformed city streets into a space inviting participant exploration, introduces the third perspective of the sandbox metaphor. As mentioned at the beginning of this article, in game theory, a sandbox refers to a game genre without a specific narrative development or fixed ending. Players are free to go anywhere, so the game must fill its world with interesting and appealing elements to keep players constantly engaged in exploration. However, the white cube approach often provides a coherent background narrative that runs through all exhibited works, guiding viewers to follow pre-arranged clues. This method of providing a cohesive narrative within a white cube can easily fail in a sandbox environment.

The first reason is venue limitations. Audiences in a white cube are easily guided by the architectural structure, progressing according to the curator’s narrative sequence. But in outdoor venues, audiences have more freedom of movement and can even leave the exhibition space at any time. The second reason is exhibit density. In a white cube, the blank areas without exhibited works are relatively compact, and the time and distance required for audiences to move between artworks are smaller. Outdoors, the spaces between artworks are relatively larger, and the movement demands the audience’s energy and patience. The third reason is the audience’s expectation for the spatial structure. Audiences are familiar with the typical structure of galleries or museums and the layout of each floor of the building, which helps them follow the curator’s spatial arrangements. In a sandbox setting, curators redesign outdoor venues, altering the original specific functions of each location. Connections between exhibition sites are also not intuitive, requiring additional guidance for audiences to orient themselves. Large blank areas can also introduce unexpected elements like passersby, traffic, or other activities as interference. Relatively speaking, curators in a white cube space don’t need to worry about these issues.

Taking Tokyo Disneyland’s layout as an example (Figure 7), dots in the figure indicate main attractions, and different colors represent areas with different themes. The transitional spaces between major attractions are filled with shops and restaurants matching the area’s theme, or arranged with staff dressed as animated characters (polygons with numbers in the figure) interacting with visitors . This strategy keeps visitors engaged throughout their movement between areas, creating a continuous atmosphere of fun and excitement.

The Taiwan Lantern Festival employs a similar strategy for creating atmosphere. Lantern festivals are typically held in open spaces, allowing visitors to see most of the light installations from anywhere. In areas where visibility is obstructed, like alleys and streets, light installations are integrated with local shops or community spaces, such as parks and street corners. This ensures visitors constantly encounter artworks as they stroll through the city, generating continuous surprises and extending the festive ambiance.

In contrast, Nuit Blanche Taipei lacks this engaging experiences between its main areas (Figure 8). The activities marked by red boxes in the figure are indoors and unnoticeable to outdoor audiences passing by. Areas marked with a green background are mostly obscured by trees, while white areas are ordinary buildings not part of the event. This makes it difficult for Nuit Blanche visitors to orient themselves within the expansive venue, often feeling lost and fatigued while moving. The numerous blank spaces also prevent them from maintaining engagement.

Regarding the thirteen art installations exhibited in the Lake Tswei Park, the curatorial statement for “Lake Art Safari” mentioned:

[…] 13 groups of artists settled in this heart (Lake Tswei Park), under the theme of “Unpurchasable, Exchange for It,” exploring what people truly long to know through various installations and performances. […] Inviting everyone to a lake roaming project, to find opportunities for interaction and dialogue within it. The heart is a flat lake, quiet and vast; when you actively glide across its surface, you have the chance to encounter everything you’ve never seen before. (Translated by author)

The key terms in the statement are explore, search, wander, vast, and opportunities for encounter. The curators were clearly aware of the vastness of the space and the many empty areas between the artworks. Their strategy was to let the audience explore on their own, hoping that viewers would encounter the artworks by chance and engage in dialogue. The digital guidebook followed the curators’ intention by not marking the precise location or name of any art installation (only two days before the event did the official website upload a precise map labelling the location of each artwork). This strategy of wandering and exploration can be effective in a white cube setting because galleries or museums have relatively smaller spaces, fewer empty areas, and audiences are familiar with the flat structure of art venues. However, the same exhibiting strategy in a vast and empty sandbox turned into a disaster of getting lost.

This article proposes a curatorial framework using the sandbox metaphor to address the challenges and opportunities curators might face when shifting from a traditional white cube in gallery or museum settings to outdoor art events. These include the integration of artworks with the environment, attitudes towards art preservation, engaging non-art enthusiasts in the audience, the impact of outdoor venue scale, uncontrollable environmental factors, and handling blank spaces that require special attention in vast areas. While the curatorial framework of sandbox metaphor may not apply to all outdoor art exhibitions, given the far greater variability of outdoor venues compared to galleries or museums, it offers curators a an effective and helpful thinking tool.

English version link

踏入C-lab Art Space III，如同展覽名稱《鬼魂與深藍海》給人的印象，空間靜謐冷冽，昏暗裡錯落幾盞聚光燈，彷彿身在幽暗深海只有少數星芒。以海上絲路為路徑，循著19世紀華人苦力從中國南方一路抵達非洲模里西斯的勞動貿易路線，藝術家致穎(Musquiqui Chihying)帶領觀眾重新探索當代這片非亞海域(Afrasian Sea)隱藏的另一次帝國控制網路。鬼魂，展覽名稱裡另一個關鍵字，代表在全球化過程中扮演重要角色卻經常受忽視的華人苦力，也指向中國智慧城市計劃佈置在這片海域裡的數據網路，其中流通著不為人知的監控資訊。

位於二樓的影像作品〈鏈結〉運用劇場式的燈光音效，配合三頻道於左、中、右設置的六角螢幕，敘說藝術家致穎在模里西斯探索發掘的經濟和歷史故事。〈鏈結〉是本次展覽最重要的一個作品，以記錄片風格呈現對華人苦力及智慧城市計劃相關的考察，揉合科幻風格與客家戲曲的舞蹈，藉以傳達在模里西斯交會的科技與傳統兩線敘事，撐起整檔展覽所要敘說的主題。

十九世紀的模里西斯是華人苦力前往西方殖民地第一個停靠站，也是西方殖民版圖的最前緣。藝術家致穎走訪當地的苦力博物館和訪談在地華人後裔，建立當年華人苦力的形象和歷史。〈鏈結〉接著將田野工作的鏡頭轉向探討當代中國智慧城市計畫欲在模里西斯建造一個由CCTV閉路監視器全面監控的「安全城市」，描繪出另一次帝國版圖拓展的前緣活動。19世紀英國第一次將攝影運用殖民控制上，在模里西斯大規模替華人苦力拍照存檔，取代原本不可靠的文字外貌記錄。在此〈鏈結〉巧妙地將英國的帝國控制，連結到當代中國同樣以最先進的資訊科技，意圖在模里西斯佈署另一種殖民控制。〈鏈結〉呈現兩件案例佐證無論是過去或當代的帝國控制都充滿著錯誤。過去英國用攝影技術掌握華人苦力的個人資料，但僅止用於控制勞工，勞動契約的內容從來沒有真正實踐在這些戶籍照片對應的個體身上，最終苦力的命運並沒有比過往奴隸更好。另一方面，模里西斯這樣的觀光小島真的需要當代智慧城市的全面監控方案嗎？更何況模里西斯的犯罪率實際上非常低，治安在非洲國家中名列前茅。智慧城市全面監控創造的個資價值可能才是帝國陰魂不散作祟的原因。

雖然〈鏈結〉給出令人信服的論述，讓人感受到帝國亡魂仍在非亞海域遊蕩。然而模里西斯現今的政治和經濟現況，以及針對該國智慧城市計劃的新聞評論卻指出不一樣的方向。首先觀光業做為模里西斯主要產業之一，引進智慧城市監控系統以維護治安品質並非完全錯誤的決定。模里西斯政府也積極參與引進智慧城市監控系統以維護公共安全和旅遊安全的決策過程，這顯示模里西斯的「安全城市」理念並非完全僅由中國單方面倡導。其次談到網路安全，非洲聯盟55個成員國裡已有15個國家批准(ratification)《非洲聯盟網路安全和個人資料保護公約》，模里西斯便是其中之一。¹根據Index of Economic Freedom，模里西斯被評論為：

A sound and transparent legal framework strongly upholds the rule of law, and the country’s efficient regulatory environment and open-market policies encourage broad-based and diversified economic development.²
健全透明的法律框架堅定維護法治，該國效率良好的管制環境和開放市場政策促進廣泛和多元化的經濟發展。

模里西斯的政府廉潔度(Government Integrity)評分為52.3分，其司法效率(Judicial Effectiveness)得分高達81.2分，兩項分數均高於世界平均水平。這些針對模里西斯的評價和描述，勾勒出一個具有能動性、自主、擁有決策效力的國家，和過往19世紀的中國苦力僅能受人擺佈的形象完全不同。

在《鬼魂與深藍海》中觀眾無法看見模里西斯具有能動性的這一面。展覽將現代模里西斯與過去受殖民、被動的模里西斯形象連結起來，強化帝國幽靈仍在的論述形構(discursive formation)。由於觀眾並非都有時間精力進一步研究，在研究型展覽中往往成為溫順的學習者，也難以意識到模里西斯本身在展覽中處於屈從位置。

〈鈔票〉這件三屏幕錄像作品裡，紀錄藝術家與當地一所華人學校校長針對模里西斯紙幣的討論。不同紙幣上都印有模里西斯一位知名人物，其中唯一的華裔名人朱梅麟爵士(Sir Moilin Jean Ah-Chuen)出現在面額最低的紙幣上，暗示著一種無形的種族不平等。藝術家問道：「你一生中是否曾感覺到作為華人因而受到歧視？」校長堅決地回答沒有。儘管校長的回應與〈鈔票〉欲探討的種族不平等主題相悖，對談並沒有繼續深入探討這句回應。

除了文獻和影像紀錄擁有和觀眾直接溝通的影響力，作品的佈置策略也會塑造觀眾的思考。〈智慧城〉在燈箱桌上展示與智慧城市計劃相關的各種影像，並將五枚紀念幣放置在支架上，供觀眾用放大鏡仔細觀察。這些紀念幣由藝術家所製作，硬幣上的圖案為加入智慧城市計劃的每座非亞海域城市，包括模里西斯。紀念幣「具有深刻的象徵意義，回顧中國發行的國家紀念幣歷史，它們既是主權的表達，也是意識形態的建構」（王襦萱，2024）。³ 又一次，這是對帝國鬼魂死灰復燃的回應。

〈智慧城〉以博物館展品的方式佈置影像和硬幣，暗示所呈現知識具有客觀性。如同Gillian Rose在 Visual Methodologies (2001)一書中的討論，倫敦街區地圖以一種客觀測定的手法，標示東倫敦貧困人口的居住區，「似乎將東區赤裸地暴露在科學的目光下，這種目光穿透了其他人所描述的最黑暗的隱秘處。」⁴於是人們便能夠藉由地圖科學地理解東倫敦。〈智慧城〉透過將建築專案的影像放置在類似培養皿的容器裡，置於用作觀察生物樣品的燈箱上，暗示了對現實世界進行的科學取樣。取樣行為本身就暗示著「真理」或現實世界的存在。放大鏡作為審視證據的象徵符碼，進一步強調〈智慧城〉所表達的現實可信度，因為能夠承受仔細審查的對象讓人們對其真實性更有信心。

在《鬼魂與深藍海》中，藝術家致穎透過影像和裝置藝術交織敘事，誘出潛藏在非亞海底裡，帝國鬼魂的殘餘。藝術家細緻的田野調查為本次展覽奠定堅實基礎，每件作品都與整體主題緊密相連。田野調查的結果無庸置疑十分具有意義，但藝術家採取的美學表達賦予本次展覽令人信服的力量。《鬼魂與深藍海》激發我的好奇心，促使我去尋找相關資料。這些額外的資料來源呈現了與展覽觀點不同的敘事。雖然這些額外資料並沒有削弱本次展覽欲討論的潛在帝國控制，但額外資訊帶來的另一種敘事能讓模里西斯的能動性被看見，進而開啟另一場討論。

溫順觀眾和積極觀眾面對展覽呈現的論述採取不同行動，反映Gillian Rose所說：

(the credibility of the exhibition) depends on the visitor’s prior faith in the accuracy of the anthropological knowledge used to make the display.⁴
展覽可信度取決於觀眾對用來製作展覽的人類學知識的準確性，有多少預設信心。

然而並非要質疑本次展覽的可信度，而是要指出對觀眾而言，更可能形成有效的知識發展路徑，即是在接收展覽提出的一套論點的同時，積極與展覽觀點展開對話，甚至衝突。儘管如此，《鬼魂與深藍海》確實呈現了一次有意義的探索和田野調查，揭示隱藏在海面下的帝國敘事。

[1] https://au.int/en/treaties/african-union-convention-cyber-security-and-personal-data-protection

[2] https://www.heritage.org/index/pages/country-pages/mauritius

[3] 王襦萱. Wang, Ru-Xuan. (2024, May 3). 全球視野下舉步維艱的鬼魂強權迫使移轉的生存技術：致穎個展「鬼魂與深藍海」. Struggling Spectres Under Global Gaze and Transferring Survival Techniques Forced by Power — Musquiqui Chihying’s Solo Exhibition ‘Ghost in the Sea.’ Art Emperor. https://artemperor.tw/focus/5985

[4] Rose, G. (2001). Visual Methodologies: An Introduction to the Interpretation of Visual Materials. SAGE Publications.

走在2024年亞洲藝術雙年展一樓的開放展區，耳邊傳來陌生的語言，聲嘶力竭重複禱唸同一句語彙。布里亞特出生現居荷蘭的藝術家Natalia Papaeva，在錄像作品〈圓舞曲 Yokhor〉[1]中流淚哭喊，用盡所有力量重複著即將面臨滅絕的布里亞特語。布里亞特共和國在俄羅斯七十年左右的統治中，幾乎喪失自己的語言和文化。

我吟唱著布里亞特傳統歌謠中的二句歌詞：「在軟如毛氈的泥土上，讓我們圍成一圈，一起舞蹈」。這也是整首歌曲中我僅記得的二句。[2]

語言是特定人群存在的痕跡。波蘭奧斯威辛納粹集中營有一整列石碑，以當時集中營囚犯使用的23種不同語言刻下相同的悼詞。導覽人員指著拉迪諾語(Ladino)的石碑，「奧斯威辛集中營裡所有講這種語言的囚犯，全都死了。」語言學家認為，拉迪諾語在歐洲復甦的可能性極低[3]。

聯合國教科文組織將拉迪諾語列為脆弱等級的瀕危語言[4]。臺灣有15種原住民語言被列入瀕危，超過半數為接近滅絕。2017年列入國家語言的客家話，離開桃竹苗、六堆、花東等主要使用區域，客家族群也持續面臨單向涵化的過程，例如在雙北都市區域的隱性客家人多數都有閩南化的跡象。日本籍藝術家丹羽良德(Yoshinori, Niwa)的單頻道錄像作品〈請偶遇的臺灣人宣告，若他們死亡，臺灣即不復存在〉[5]在台中街頭邀請路人面對著鏡頭說出：「如果我死了，臺灣也會消失。」此作品的前一個版本製作於2014年太陽花學運之後，丹羽良德就當時的社會氛圍提問：國家、文化、政治、宗教由個體組成，如果他們都死了還有什麼構成臺灣呢？慶幸這件作品經歷十年後仍然可以再現。錄像中有的路人嚴肅、有人熱情，有人覺得參與藝術行動十分好玩，有人面帶遲疑。丹羽良德的邀請行動隱含政治與生存張力，每一張陌生臉孔復誦一個如果沒有他們認知就不復存在的名詞，雖然他們對著鏡頭講著我能理解的語言，但耳中卻不停迴響著Papaeva絕望陌生的布里亞特語吟唱，也許有一天關於這片土地的歷史都只能存在於佚失的語言裡。

帝國殖民霸權也轉往更幽微的海域，蟄伏在虛擬世界裡。亞美尼亞籍藝術家Mashinka Firunts Hakopian，關注AI及訓練資料庫呈現的偽中立性，其研究議題包含女性主義機器人[6]、先民智慧[7]如何干預現有的社會技術系統、離散性的世界建構方法[8]等。AI偽中立性指的是一般人普遍誤認AI所建構和提供的知識具有客觀且近於全知的視角，Hakopian提出「view from nowhere」一詞，指稱這類將AI視為客觀、無偏見實體的謬誤。本次展出單頻道錄像作品〈凝望杯中之人 / Բաժակ Նայող〉即是在回應nowhere源於無處、不來自任何地方的假設。此藝術計劃以西南亞及北非社群實踐咖啡渣占卜的知識、口述歷史訪談及非西方語言文本做為AI的訓練資料庫，修正當今AI演算法背後存在的資料偏差和傾向西方中心的知識結構，並嘗試轉化AI的訓練方法，使其根基於社群的地方與身體經驗。回應本次雙年展的策展主題，屏息潛入深海需要足夠的肺活量，微小的社群智慧嘗試顛覆巨量可資本化的主流知識必然會遭遇困境，隨之要如何調整AI的技術結構，好讓AI能夠有效容納邊緣的知識體系。這種資訊深海的窒息感也出現在宋禮煥（송예환Yehwan, Song）的作品〈(誰的)全球(有多)資訊網〉中，其英文標題’(Whose) World (How) Wide Web’玩弄全球資訊網的英文名稱World Wide Web，直指全球一詞的荒謬性，如同人們指出主要戰場發生在歐洲的世界大戰(World War I、World War II)是誰的世界大戰。

〈圓舞曲 Yokhor〉令人心痛的呼喊提醒著語言文化消亡的不可逆。〈請偶遇的臺灣人宣告，若他們死亡，臺灣即不復存在〉促使觀眾思考當個體聲音缺席，同時也將失去一座島嶼。〈凝望杯中之人〉實踐經常遭受邊緣化的敘事，挑戰〈(誰的)全球(有多)資訊網〉所戳破的主流觀點，打破預設的普世性。屏住呼吸不僅是對生理的挑戰，也是對心理的壓迫。屏息使人精神緊繃專注，打開感官回應外在可能的暴力，潛藏的帝國殖民再臨。

[1] 錄像連結：https://nataliapapaeva.com/Yokhor-2018（藝術家官網）。

[2] 2024亞洲藝術雙年展導覽手冊。

[3] Asikowska-Schnass, M. (2023). Ladino: Judeo-Spanish Language and Culture in Europe. European Parliamentary Research Service.

[4] 脆弱(vulnerable)指的是在特定場合以外（通常是家裡），極少被該群體的兒童使用。

[5] 錄像連結：https://yoshinoriniwa.com/works/83（藝術家官網）

[6] 針對女性主義機器人有興趣的讀者，不妨思考1964年由MIT Joseph Weizenbaum 設計史上第一隻聊天機器人ELIZA的名字由來：引用蕭伯納劇作〈賣花女〉主人翁，一名說話帶鄉音的賣花女性Eliza，接受身為語言學教授的男性指導，好讓Eliza能夠變成行為舉止符合上流階級禮儀的淑女；亦可思考電影和文學中，甚至日常生活裡如Siri、人工智能客服等AI應用，常以女性聲音或形象包裝服務提供者的現象。

[7] Hakopian特別關注西南亞及北非(Southwest Asian and North African, SWANA)社群世代傳承的集體智慧。

[8] diasporic worldmaking，跨越地理和文化邊界，由內部知識和外部適應交互變化所形成的世界觀。

(2024.12.12)

(Nov 2023完稿、Dec 2024編修)

當代藝術界對白盒子(White Cube)的侷限性已有深刻認識，且積極探索更開放的展覽形式；Off-Site藝術的概念亦有所討論，從單純的移地展覽到更複雜的場域特定藝術，展現多樣的可能性。然而回顧2023年的戶外藝術活動發現白盒子模式的影響仍然存在。本文以2023年台北白晝之夜和台灣燈會《光源台北》為例，探討藝術展覽移至戶外時可能面臨的獨特挑戰，並提出以沙盒(Sand Box)為隱喻的策展框架，協助策展人調整其策展思維和實踐方法。

賴舒勤的表演作品〈如果你叫醒我，我會告訴你一個剛剛的夢。〉，藝術家躺在溫馨的房間中央，四周擺放著日常物件，觀眾受邀走進房間輕聲喚醒她互動。2018年的表演位於複合式藝文空間朋丁，具有典型的白盒子風格，乾淨整潔的水泥牆空間為本作品提供理想的展示環境（圖1左、中）。這樣的白盒子模式在2023年台北白晝之夜卻成了一場災難。當晚作品移至國父紀念館的翠湖公園，除了賴舒勤的演出，也讓觀眾有機會實際躺臥在作品場景裡，沉浸在作品營造的氛圍。雖然藝術家表演涉及觀眾互動的藝術途徑並不會受到壞天氣影響，可惜的是，由於未充分考慮戶外環境的複雜和不可預測，提供觀眾沉浸的場景效果大打折扣（圖1右）。兩者的落差呈現策展人走出白盒子空間時可能面臨的實務困境。

在公園裡沙盒指的是裝滿沙子供兒童玩耍的設施。小朋友可以在裡面挖掘、蓋建築物，發揮他們的想像力。在電腦遊戲理論中，沙盒是一種遊戲類型，玩家可以自由探索和實驗，根據自己的興趣決定下一個要前往的地方，或在面對困境時做出選擇，而不是被限制在固定的敘事和預定的結局中。從沙盒的隱喻分別延伸出三個策展觀點：戶外環境對策展和作品的影響、戶外活動和室內觀眾的差異、場地不同規模的影響。

戶外環境對策展和作品的影響

髒兮兮的沙盒首先突顯戶外藝術活動與白盒子之間最明顯的區別：戶外環境比美術館更具動態性的挑戰。這不僅於物理因素，例如清潔程度或天氣好壞，也在於策展方安置作品的心態和方法。以圖1討論的舞台佈置為例，策展方將舞台從白盒子移到戶外時即有考慮室外空間的差異，其採取的措施為鋪設防水帆布以隔離公園草地的沙土，搭建棚子避免場景遭受雨水損壞。這暴露了白盒子模式對藝術作品的心態：脆弱、需要保護、最好與其他事物隔離。即使場地移到戶外，作品的展示方法仍然維持拒絕外界的態度。

藝術家Néle Azevedo在〈最小的紀念碑－小冰人藝術行動〉製作了數千個小冰雕人形（圖2右），由參與民眾放置在公共空間裡，允許小冰人自然融化。〈最小的紀念碑〉作為白晝之夜的主活動，台北市政府顯然希望達成最好的效果。而所謂的最佳效果，在主辦單位心中即是白盒子的形象：美麗、有序、完整，儘管小冰人終將融化，而顯得諷刺。主辦單位在公眾參與過程中不斷提醒民眾整齊排放小冰人，不要踢到作品，放置完成後盡速離開，放置地點則限制在國父紀念館的入口階梯上，因為那裡可以受到建築物屋簷遮雨的保護（圖2左）。

蔡瑋德的作品〈植作發聲：電子有機體〉（圖3）是一組採樣植栽的生物訊號而產生音頻的藝術裝置。〈植作發聲〉不僅受到棚子保護，其採樣訊號來自另外帶至現場的植栽，並非來自翠湖公園現地的植物。作品的設計和展示方法都符合白盒子模式的期望。相較之下，2023台灣燈會《光源台北》的執行方法更符合沙盒的隱喻，不僅策展方清楚知道燈光裝置要能連續運作數天且能抵禦天氣影響，受委託的藝術家亦參考現地環境設計製作燈光裝置。范承宗的作品〈仁愛帆城〉（圖4）擁有能承受風吹日曬的結構，其設計美學也反映附近社區的包浩斯建築風格，自然承接周邊環境。

戶外活動和室內觀眾的差異

沙盒隱喻的第二個觀點為策展方如何照顧戶外和白盒子的觀眾差異。公園沙盒裡通常準備鏟子、水桶和城堡模具；如果改成戲水池，池中的玩具就會是橡皮小鴨和水槍。策展人在白盒子中通常面對的是準備吸收知識的藝術愛好者或學習者，然而在沙盒裡遇到的觀眾卻涵蓋更廣泛的不同客群。

橋洞本次展出〈風雨操場〉，事前觀察翠湖公園周邊居民的衣著風格和顏色，以及定期造訪公園時從事的活動。這些統計數據轉換成一系列不同色彩或灰階的充氣條帶，以彩色符碼可視化居民的生活樣態，並以現場設置的解說文本和統計數據補充作品含義（圖5）。作品的呈現方式沒有考慮到白盒子和沙盒觀眾的差別，這種提供書面資訊的展示手法是白盒子的慣例，其有效的先決條件為觀眾願意花時間吸收，且預期有舒適的環境供觀眾駐足。時間和舒適環境在白盒子中很容易實現，但在沙盒環境中卻很可能失敗。白晝之夜除了在夜間舉行，當晚大雨滂沱，照明和泥濘都不利於觀眾停留。此外白晝之夜為台北市盛大舉辦的公共活動，到場觀眾包含非藝術嗜好者，即使當晚天氣晴朗，這類觀眾也可能不會詳細閱讀。

同樣在夜晚舉行的台灣燈會則採取不同策略，注重觀眾的氛圍體驗，呈現可供解讀的詩意空間。鍾瓊儀的作品〈日常動作〉以人們梳妝自我的髮廊為背景，在對外落地窗面展示刺繡背面縫線（圖6），暗示美麗表面背後的內在面貌。透明的落地窗連通髮廊內外空間，應當是對外展示美好一面的窗景襯著刺繡的反面，觀眾不須閱讀作品概念，也會由光影的吸引而觀察到作品欲呈現的內外反轉，猜測藝術家如此展示的意圖。台灣燈會也嘗試進行大眾感興趣的實驗，例如2023台灣燈會的〈藝術入店〉計劃，引薦當地商店和藝術家合作，在巷道散佈各項光影裝置，使燈會展現更當代的藝術表達，自然融入城市景觀。

場地不同規模的影響

前述台灣燈會安排當地商店和藝術家合作，將城市街道變成一座吸引參與者探索的空間，這項做法引出沙盒隱喻的第三個觀點。如本文開頭提到，在遊戲理論裡沙盒指的是沒有特定敘事發展或固定結局的遊戲類型，玩家可以自由前往任何地方，因此遊戲必須用有趣、吸引人的事物填滿遊戲裡的世界，好讓玩家始終保持探索的新鮮感。然而白盒子模式的策展方法係提供一組貫穿所有展出作品的背景敘事，引導觀眾遵循預先佈置的線索前進。這種在白盒子內提供連貫敘事的方法很容易在沙盒環境裡失敗。

第一個原因是場地有限性，白盒子裡的觀眾很容易被建築結構引導，按照策展方想要的敘事順序前進，但觀眾在戶外場地有更多的行動自由，甚至能隨時離開展覽空間。第二個原因是展品密度，白盒子裡沒有展出作品的空白區域相對緊湊，觀眾在作品之間切換所耗費的時間和距離較小；在戶外，作品之間的空間相對較大，移動過程會造成觀眾精力和耐心上的挑戰。第三個原因是觀眾對場地結構的預期程度，觀眾熟悉典型畫廊或美術館的結構以及可能的空間佈局方法，這有助於觀眾遵循策展方的空間安排。在沙盒裡，策展方重新設計戶外場所，使每個地點原先的特定功能產生變化。作品展示地點之間的連接也不直覺，觀眾需要額外的指引來定位自己。戶外廣大的空白區域也會出現無法預期的事物，例如路人、交通、其他活動等干擾。相對而言，白盒子空間的策展人不需要擔心這些問題。

以東京迪士尼樂園的佈局為例（圖7），圖中標示的圓點代表主要設施，不同的顏色代表不同的主題區域。主要設施之間的移動空間填滿與該區域主題相符的商店和餐廳，或安排扮裝成動畫角色的工作人員與遊客互動（圖中標有數字的多邊形），保持遊客在區域之間的移動過程能維持參與體驗，創造了一種持續的樂趣和興奮的氣氛。台灣燈會也有類似的氛圍營造策略。燈會通常在開放空間舉辦，遊客從場地的任何地方都能遠遠看見多數的光影裝置；在能見度受到遮蔽的區域，例如巷弄街道，則將光影裝置與當地的商店或社區空間（公園和街角）整合，使遊客在城市漫步時不停遇到藝術作品，創造持續驚喜，延長整個節日氛圍。相比之下，白晝之夜在主要區域之間缺乏有趣的體驗（圖8）。圖中紅框標示的活動位於室內，戶外觀眾經過時無法察覺，綠底標示的區域則大多被樹木遮擋，而白底區域為普通建築，不屬於活動一部分。這使得白晝之夜的觀眾很難在廣大的場地中定位自己，他們經常在移動時感到迷失和疲憊，也因為大量出現的空白區域而無法維持參與樂趣。

對於在翠湖公園展出的十三件裝置藝術，〈買不到藝術公園－遊湖計畫〉的策展論述提到：

[…] 13組藝術家進駐這顆心臟（翠湖），以「買不到、來交換」為名，透過各種裝置作品與演出，探究人們心中真正渴望知曉的事物。[…] 邀請眾人來場遊湖計畫，在其中找到互動與對話的機會。心是一池平坦的湖水，安靜而廣闊，當你主動滑開水面，就有機會遇到前所未見的一切。

論述的關鍵詞是探索、尋找、漫遊、廣闊、相遇的契機。策展方清楚意識到空間廣袤和作品之間的許多空白區域，其策略是讓觀眾自行探索，期望觀眾偶遇作品展開對話。電子版導覽手冊依循策展方的意圖不標示任何裝置藝術的精確位置或名稱（活動開始前兩天，官網方才上傳附有作品名稱的精確地圖）。這樣漫遊探索的體驗策略在白盒子中能產生效果，因為畫廊或美術館的空間相對較小、空白區域較少，而且觀眾熟悉藝術場館的平面結構。同樣的體驗策略在廣大而空曠的沙盒裡卻成了一場迷失的災難。

總結

本文提出一個以沙盒為隱喻的策展框架，以解決傳統白盒子模式策展人從畫廊或美術館環境轉移到戶外藝術活動時可能面臨的挑戰和機遇，包括藝術品與環境的整合、對藝術品的保護態度、非藝術愛好者的觀眾群體、戶外場地的規模影響、不可控制的環境因素、廣大場地造成需要特別處理的空白區域。沙盒隱喻的策展框架不一定適用所有戶外的藝術展演活動，因為戶外場地的多變性遠比畫廊或美術館複雜，然而沙盒隱喻仍為策展人提供一項具潛力的思考工具。

[1] 關於white cube的概念，可參考張芳薇 (2014)，第76頁的介紹。

張芳薇 (2014) 。空間演繹及其回返：初探臺北雙年展展示策略。現代美術學報，28 2014.11[民103.11] ， 71–103。

[2]關於Off-Site的概念，可參考呂佩怡 (2011)，第12頁的探討。

呂佩怡 (2011) 。「Off-Site 藝術」初探。現代美術學報，22 2011.11[民100.11] ， 9–35。

有時候身上莫名其妙出現瘀青，卻完全不記得受傷的經過，於是開始回想自己的行蹤，試圖尋找在哪裡曾撞傷自己。這樣透過物理證據重建過去事件和記憶的行動過程，即是藝術家楊佳馨在個展《印物累季》探討的主題[1]。身為攝影師，楊佳馨擅長運用視覺影像作為敘事媒介。但其企圖不止於攝影，也納入混合媒材，諸如家庭對話的聲音記錄、日記照片、行車記錄器影片、醫療記錄，構建一幅以碎片化感官記憶組成的織錦。自2019年開始的一系列創作，《印物累季》引領觀眾進入藝術家童年時期的疾病和數年前車禍的私人經驗。

物證或痕跡通常被認為足以代表事件本身，例如醫療紀錄等同於詳述疾病的始末，行車記錄器影片則被當作車禍的現場目擊。然而對藝術家而言，童年疾病的經歷隨著成長而逐漸淡忘，而車禍發生當下失去意識也使得記憶不曾存在，這些物證因而難以連結到藝術家真實的體感，無法驗證事件的真偽。因此《印物累季》處理這些物證的方式並非作為證據直接展現，而是搭建一場啟動詮釋行動的空間，展演藝術家詮釋這些紀錄的過程，呈現藝術家本身對這些歷史事件的獨特回應。〈08773545 II -2001〉（名稱來自病患編號和紀錄年份）展示一面由醫療紀錄組成的牆面，藝術家複製自己的兒時醫療紀錄，將兩份相同的紀錄相疊，重複以白色壓克力顏料塗抹疊在上方的文件，直到紀錄紙某些部分被磨損得半透明，顯露底下的醫療文本和資訊。透過重複刷塗的動作，楊佳馨再現了當他閱讀這些陌生醫療紀錄時，心裡所經歷的重重阻礙，以及記憶隱微再現的感受。藝術家對每份醫療紀錄進行相同的處理，然後將這些處理過的紀錄固定在牆上，創造了一個類似紀念碑的裝置。紀念碑具有詮釋歷史的力量，製造了一個關於事件的單一真相，等待著被理解。面對這個紀念碑，藝術家並沒有試圖提出另一套敘事，而是留下解構的痕跡作為對紀錄存在的回應。每一次刷塗壓克力顏料的動作，都是藝術家試圖理解和解構自己疾病歷史的嘗試。

德里達的解構理論可以這樣理解：當解構性閱讀產生新的意義時，這些意義就失去了對解構本身的重要性（楊大春, 1999）[2]。換句話說，創造的行為標誌著解構的結束。醫療紀錄所建構的真相不再是最重要的焦點，藝術家從閱讀自己的醫療紀錄中得出的結論也不一定相關，重要的是閱讀、配置、重組、解釋、對話、解構物證與藝術家自身記憶的過程。楊佳馨將這樣的解構行為具現化為一面醫療紀念碑，邀請觀眾不僅閱讀紀錄，也思考藝術家重複刷塗行為的意義。

作品〈So What〉是一本非傳統裝幀方式的攝影書，以觀眾自主的探索強調重建經驗的過程。楊佳馨利用因為車禍而損壞的手機拍攝了模糊的照片。他將照片重新排列成一個新的敘事模式，打亂了每張照片的前後文、意義和時間性。除了傳統的水平翻頁方向外，這本書包含可以向上、向下甚至雙向翻動的頁面。創作理念指出這本書並非試圖模仿生命的浮動本質，而是旨在引導觀眾通過翻閱書籍的觸覺體驗，喚起操縱生命記憶的感覺，促使觀眾反思自己對生命的體驗。[4]〈So What〉將「解構過程」轉化為一種有形的翻頁動作，呼應了〈08773545 II -2001〉重複刷塗醫療紀錄的藝術行動。

楊佳馨以自己的疾病為創作起點，引發觀眾將他與芙烈達·卡蘿(Frida Kahlo)相比較[3]。芙烈達·卡蘿的作品探討生命、痛苦和疾病的深刻意義，源於藝術家對自己生命記憶的反思。另一個藝術與疾病的著名例子是草間彌生(Kusama Yayoi)的圓點圖案，來自他自身擁有的神經性視覺障礙，使他所看到的世界覆蓋了一層圓點網格。這兩位藝術家的主觀經驗在他們的作品中扮演著重要角色，儘管觀眾對於其作品可以有各種不同的詮釋，觀眾卻很難將他們獨特的主觀經驗納入自己對藝術作品的解讀。相比而言，童年疾病和車禍兩者造成的記憶缺失，消解了楊佳馨詮釋自身生命事件的權威位置，同時也為他的作品帶來了一份民主特質，這種特質在這類以生命經驗所驅動的藝術作品並不常見。楊佳馨在《印物累季》的藝術家講座中提到，當他看著這些紀錄時感到陌生和矛盾。儘管他知道這些物證紀錄著他的生命事件，但它們似乎遙遠而生疏。

展出的物證包含他與家人討論童年疾病和車禍的錄音，楊佳馨的母親講述了他不記得的所有事件經過，但這些事件確實被他的父母見證；另一個影像作品〈Gash〉經由楊佳馨重新編輯，呈現行車紀錄器從車禍發生那一刻開始的畫面、事故現場被警方隔離的過程、他的朋友前往現場取車的經過。透過向觀眾展示過去的證據，楊佳馨帶領觀眾踏上他的生命旅程，他也在重新審視自己的經歷。由於事發經過的記憶喪失，楊佳馨在這些第三人稱敘事的物證中被抹去了對事件的主觀參與，這種缺席使藝術家與觀眾處於平等的位置。由於感官記憶與客觀紀錄之間的矛盾，藝術家與觀眾一樣無法驗證物證所描述的事實。由於這種民主式的詮釋性質，楊佳馨打破了以個人生命經驗驅動的藝術所造成的詮釋限制。觀眾不只是試圖理解藝術家的生命經驗，或只是跟隨藝術家提供的敘事，而是與藝術家一起體驗重建經驗的過程。

《印物累季》打破了以生命經驗驅動藝術作品的常見手，將個人疾病和意外的經歷轉化為對記憶和個人自我本質的一場民主探索。雖然他的生活經驗是創作的起點，但作品最終拆解了任何單一的真相或權威性的歷史敘事，邀請觀眾進行個人意義的建構行動。楊佳馨以他個人的生命故事作為此次展覽解構的焦點，並展示了一種意料之外的詮釋方式。

[1]楊佳馨.《印物累季》創作個展.1839當代藝廊. https://www.1839cg.com/archives/7844

[2] 楊大春. (1999). 德希達. 生智文化. http://www.ycrc.com.tw/shengchih/D2001.html

[3] 林寧兒. (2024, April 15). 展覽回顧. https://www.facebook.com/michelle.lin.104/posts/pfbid02uH8jXTFT8ZF2PXigaWZoPcxWkkEF9mt2Jnhn5HWyQ37ySsJjiMR8xA2iEMAHRsq2l

[4] 楊佳馨. (2023, July 24). CHIA SHIN YANG 楊佳馨 Artists Book《So What》. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ls7gaeXm5nE