Interview by: Li-Li Lien, Chairperson and Associate Professor, Department of Communication Arts, Wenzao Ursuline University of Languages
Transcript by: Tsen-Yu Liu
 
──Chen Yun, let's start with your creative work. Can you share what you’re working on? These works must demand a significant investment of your energy and emotions. Do you have plans for your next exhibition or project?
 
This year, I’ve been focusing on resting and earning money. Most of my living and material expenses come from my part-time job income. The last piece I created was at the end of 2022. After completing it, I took a break and jotted down ideas for a few series I’d like to work on in the future. During this time, I’ve also started learning new things, like taking pottery lessons at a studio near my home earlier this year.
 
The space where I live is quite limited, so I can’t create too many works at once; otherwise, I wouldn’t have room to store them. Whenever I work on something, I often think, “Where will I put this when it’s finished?” or “I shouldn’t make something too large.” Other than that, there aren’t many things that bother me.
 
──Let’s talk about your background. Was your early creative journey influenced by your father, Mu Can, a renowned artist from southern Taiwan and founder of a gallery? Did your father help you develop a closer affinity with art at a young age?
 
From what I remember, my father spent many years working as a teacher. He taught art at school and also ran adult sketching and children’s art classes at home. What stood out to me was that he never intentionally or proactively taught me any techniques, like sketching, nor did he ever ask if I wanted him to teach me art. Even when it came to my art classes at school, he rarely got involved. My father once said that if I was genuinely interested in art or wanted to paint, I could sit in on his classes, but he wouldn’t teach me the way he taught his other students. Unless I showed real interest or had specific questions, he wouldn’t offer much guidance. Instead, he suggested that if I truly developed a passion for art, I could pursue learning it on my own when I grow up.
 
He had his own views, believing that such things didn’t need to be taught. Even now, he still feels that art is not something that should be taught deliberately. At least with children, my father preferred to guide them through other means, hoping they would develop their creativity freely. When children visited our house, he would usually start by telling them stories and playing with them before introducing them to drawing the objects around the house. He had many antiques, and he would encourage the children to observe and draw these items or certain corners of the house, even drawing him. He chose not to teach them how to draw specific objects or impose any method of their artistic expression.
 
The only time I can remember my father asking me to draw was this childhood incident. Back then, I would wake up crying almost every night from nightmares. To calm me down, my father would carry me around the house. Our home was filled with his collections, like Buddha statues and other antiques, and he would say, "Since you can’t fall sleep, why don’t you draw the things in our house?" That was the only time I recall him encouraging me to draw.

──So, did you not particularly enjoy drawing?
 
When I was young, I enjoyed drawing comics, especially manga for teenage girls. I wasn’t too interested in my father’s art; he probably didn’t understand much about my manga either, but he didn’t reject it. He himself collected many old comics, like those by Zheng Wen and Old Master Q. He would quietly show me works by Taiwanese comic artists that he thought were good, as if hinting, "These are better" (laughs).
 
Back then, when there were no computers or smartphones, I would draw when I was bored. Besides reading manga, I would occasionally draw things around the house. I was also curious about sketching and oil painting books at home. Occasionally, I would watch my father work on his pieces. He would often seriously ask for my brother's and my opinions, and he genuinely valued them. I started creating my own works around elementary school, but unless my father specifically kept them, I would usually finish something and then throw it away. It wasn’t until middle school that I realized these things should be kept, because many of them had disappeared.
 
──Many people came to know about you at the 2013 Kaohsiung Awards. Could you share why you decided to sign up for that competition and your connection to art before winning the award?
 
The motivation behind my 2013 piece "Long Time No See" was admittedly quite shallow. At that time, I chose not to continue my education, but my then partner’s family cared much about academic achievements. I was only 22 and thought, "Why do I have to know what to do with my life?" On the other hand, I still wanted to prove that I had something meaningful to pursue, which led me to enter the competition—even though, honestly, I had no clear idea of what I was doing at the time.
 
During that period, I was feeling very low, so I decided to write down the things that were bothering me. But I didn’t want others to find out that I was writing about myself, so the contents in the glass houses for the Kaohsiung Awards—aside from a few pieces related to my own emotions—were mostly about things that had deeply impacted me or left a strong impression from my childhood. After writing it all down, I found that I felt much better inside, as if I had found an outlet to express myself.

──About the format of that artwork, you used elements like dolls and houses. What was the significance behind those choices?
 
Growing up, I spent a lot of time staying alone at home, which was filled with many old objects. In my bedroom, the wall directly in front of where I slept was covered with African masks my father had collected. I remember having a dream as a child where a spirit in the form of a middle-aged man asked me, "Can I stay at your house for one night?" I said yes, and then He casually found a container in our home. He thanked me for that, and then I woke up. Ever since then, I’ve believed that every container or vessel in our home holds a spirit inside.
 
To avoid revealing that I was writing about myself, I deliberately created difficult-to-read names for the artworks, which covered names of people and their ages, occupations, causes of death, and the objects they were tied to. Those objects were actually items my father had collected. Even though I didn’t want others to find out I was writing about myself, I still wanted the work to have some personal association—after all, these were my things. That’s why all the characters shared my same family name "Chen," and their first names shared the same pronunciation of mine but were written with unusual characters. For example, when I was a kid, I had thick eyebrows and was teased by my classmates. So once I took my father’s razor and tried to shave off a bit of my eyebrow, but ended up slicing off a chunk of skin. It hurt so much that it left a lasting impression on me. So I created a character named “Eyebrow Chen.” However, I used unusual and hard-to-pronounce characters for the homophone of “Eyebrow.” Just looking at the content and names in my work, I can usually recall the age and time period when the event happened, and the related “death cause.” For instance, “Eyebrow Chen” probably died from a wound infection after shaving his eyebrow, but his spirit remains tied to an object in our old house.
 
Back when I was still living in my old house, I was free to rummage through materials, but I couldn’t find anything suitable to represent the protagonists of these stories. I didn’t want to just grab a random doll—that didn’t feel meaningful either. Then, one day, I went to buy ghost money and saw these plastic figurines of “Golden Boy and Jade Girl” in the shop. The owner explained that they serve as servants in paper houses for the deceased. To me, They, the revered plastic figurines, serve departed loved ones on behalf of the living, acting as “substitutes” or even as guardian spirits. This role perfectly aligned with the message I wanted to convey and the feeling I sought. These figurines could stand in for me to tell these stories. In a way, it was like hoping They could bear the burdens of pain in my place. So, I ended up buying a whole bunch of them.
 
After identifying a character to represent myself, I wondered how to more fully convey what I wanted to say. Using a regular frame felt meaningless, and picking just any box didn’t seem right either. Eventually, while shopping at IKEA, I came across a mini glass greenhouse on display, and it immediately caught my attention. It was actually a container for plants, but in that moment, I thought, "This is it!" Many stories and objects in my artworks were related to my home, and the greenhouse had the shape of a house. I also felt the greenhouse carried a connotation of "overprotection," which resonated with me. I wanted to use the glass house to safeguard the contents I wrote about—my inner world. It all felt so perfect that I decided to use it. As for the floating display style, I wanted it to feel light, like a soul drifting, so I suspended it with ropes to create that effect.

──The format of your work, including the elements you choose and your use of installations, seems to reflect the features of your artworks and your personal style. For instance, your materials and concepts often relate to themes of death. Was this intentional or coincidental?
 
I didn’t intentionally plan for it but for some reason it turned out this way. I was going to record matters that left a deep impression on me. There were those minor events that felt so painful at the time—so much so that I’d think, “I just want to die and be done with it.” But I never actually hurt myself because I was afraid of the pain.
 
The materials I used back then were things I found at home. Looking back, I realize a lot of them were probably part of my father’s collection, which often had death-related implications. These included antiques or items once used by people who had passed away, like old clothes, vintage photos, or statues of deities. There was a mix of auspicious and inauspicious items, and they likely influenced me in subtle ways. On top of that, I’ve been curious about topics related to religion and death since I was a child.
 
──Coincidentally, your work  “Long Time No See”  is being re-exhibited in the South Plus: Constructing Historical Pluralism Ⅲ at the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts. Looking at the same piece of work, do you have different views comparing now and before?
 
Whenever I exhibit that piece, the way it’s displayed is almost never the same—I always try to create something slightly different based on the exhibition. Part of the reason is that I feel the piece has been shown quite a few times already, and if the presentation stays the same, even I would feel lazy and embarrassed. So, I adjust it according to the exhibition space and theme. Of course, I’m also thrilled when I have larger spaces to work with, as it allows me to explore different approaches and expressions with the same piece. For instance, during Ghosts and Hells: The underworld in Asian art at the Tainan Art Museum, I custom-made three tall wooden houses. It was really exciting to have the chance to experiment with something like that. This year, I asked the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts to help me create acrylic glass panels so I could write about some recent, deeply memorable experiences. I even built a tent I’ve been using at home for a long time into the installation.

──Speaking of these works, for instance, what you just mentioned go beyond the visual and enter the realm of the unknown. Do you worry that the audience's interpretation might differ from your own imagination?
 
To be honest, some promotional materials on the internet are written without even interviewing me, directly stating that my work is about death. But that’s not how I see it... I don’t mind at all now, because my work has always been about personal or private matters. Whether people understand the events I’m referencing doesn’t seem to matter much to me. If someone truly likes my work and has questions or wants to chat, I’m more than happy to engage. After all, everyone will have their own interpretations and feelings when they view something, and that’s perfectly fine.
 
──This also touches on a unique aspect of your practice—your combination of installations with text-based art. It seems that visual installations alone cannot fully convey the meanings in your creations. While much of your work feels like personal expression, how do you feel about the challenge of international audiences potentially not understanding the textual elements in your work?
 
It might be due to my personality. I’m not used to sharing my unhappy thoughts with friends. Also, what I write tends to be scattered, incomplete mutterings and petty frustrations. So, it’s actually hard for others to fully understand the events I’m alluding to.
 
It’s fine if they understand or if they don’t. As I mentioned earlier, even viewers who understand Chinese characters don’t necessarily grasp the full meaning. It doesn’t really matter if foreigners cannot understand it. I believe that sometimes, just by looking at the overall presentation, the emotional impact will be felt by those it resonates with. Of course, if we later feel deeply attached to a piece, we can look up the text online to discover its deeper meanings, which can add an extra layer of emotional understanding.

──I remember one of your pieces where you spent a long time filling an entire wall with words. Can you talk about your thoughts behind that work?
 
That was a fun experience. For the 2018 Taiwan Biennial—Wild Rhizome, there was a large, custom-made house—very long and over seven-meter tall. Looking back now, I still really hope I brought back the house, especially since I spent a whole week creating the text. Given how expansive the space was, I felt like the words would be swallowed by the vastness of the room. Another reason was that I had always wanted to try making something that big.
 
Since there was the large house, I only selected a few pieces of work and focused on writing. What was interesting was that when I was writing, I didn’t know what kind of magical atmosphere or aura had formed in that space, but many people would come in front of my work and express their own thoughts or feelings. While I was up on the ladder writing, I kept thinking, "Don’t they notice that I’m here?" It was quite amusing.
 
──Do you remember what you wrote at that time?
 
I don’t really remember—it was probably about whatever was bothering me at the time. Sometimes, I’d even feel like, “I’m so tired, how much longer do I have to keep writing?” Each day’s writing was different, just little complaints reflecting how I felt in the moment. I usually remembered the first sentence, but after that, I’d completely forget what I wrote. Once I let it all out, it was gone from my mind. However, after finishing, I’d always keep a small fragment as a memento. For larger works like this, I’d also ask the museum to let me film the deinstallation process. I think documentation is also very important.
 
I don’t know if any viewers seriously took the time to read it. The funny thing is, I’m actually quite impatient myself—if it were me, I wouldn’t spend time reading that many words either, unless it was by an artist I was really interested in. Otherwise, I’d probably just skim the first few lines. So, when I was writing, I actually felt pretty at ease about it (laughs).

──In your previous solo exhibition The Days We Care Nothing, your style felt different from your earlier works. What were your thoughts during the creation process?
 
Recently, I’ve been focusing more on creating works related to beds, blankets, and pillows. I’m someone who really loves to sleep and spend time at home. A lot of my thoughts and worries happen while I’m in bed. During that time, I was simply writing things like self-doubts, and then another voice would appear, saying, "It’s okay, you’re already doing great." It’s as if these objects—like the beds, blankets, and pillows—serve as vessels that carry emotions and feelings, giving me a sense of security when I am wrapped up in them.

──As an artist, do you prefer to be recognized as an installation artist? What are your thoughts about artistic creation?
 
I should say, now if it’s just two-dimensional, I feel it’s not enough because there’s so much I want to express. For me, it no longer suffices to conveys the symbols that are in my heart and mind.
 
For me, art is a very pure form of self-expression. I create something because I’m feeling a certain way today, and I want to express myself and complete the work. I don’t do it to be remembered, so it’s not driven by market, nor is it simply for the sake of making something.
 
I believe that creating something with a defined form and technique is not that difficult. Creating a piece that deeply resonates within oneself is what truly matters.