A Memorandum for the Next Island Narrative

2023/02/15 Views：214

By｜Chung Chih Chung

In the past recent years, Taiwan’s cultural community has endeavored to outline Taiwan’s imagination of subjectivity through symbols such as the ocean and the island.

In 2016, the “Taiwan Art Biennial” at the National Taiwan Museum of Fine Arts integrated contemporary French author Michel Houellebecq’s utopian writing in The Possibility of an Island (La Possibilité d'une île) with the realities and aspirations of Taiwan’s history, society, and environment.

By early 2020, the closing of borders due to the sudden onslaught of the global pandemic led to an unexpected rise in domestic travel, either within Taiwan or offshore islands such as Penghu, Kinmen, Matsu, the Green Island, and Orchid Island. At the same time, the 2021 “Pan-Austro-Nesian Arts Festival” continued with the director of the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts’s longtime focus on contemporary Austronesian art and extended the meaning of “pan” to encompass broader intercultural contexts.

National design events were held in the New Bay Area of the harbor city during the second half of 2022. The overlying themes of Creative Expo Taiwan’s “Resonance Island” and Taiwan Design Expo’s main display space “Design Zone” not only intuitively responded to the imagery of this southern harbor city desperate for renewal but also allowed viewers to see how, through the repeated deliberation and discourse during the identifying process of Taiwan’s subjectivity, the ocean-enveloped “island” has gradually become welcoming, open, and inclusive toward ethnicities, shaping empathic symbols that have reached maximal consensus amid the international status quo.

In recent years, I have attempted to construct my own work method and aesthetic system through my life experiences, and the process has included the propositions of islands, oceans, harbors, and ships. Through intimate personal experiences and fate, and as the topic became a mainstream subject matter, the island that once sheltered private sentiments has matured into a concept that is simultaneously familiar and strange.

Therefore, in the name of the island, below are three memorandums of my personal practices, documented for my future self and every islander who is continuing to search for their own names amid the noise of this world.

Photopgraphed in Penghu County, Baisha Township, Shumei village. While the author investigated the matrilineal family origin in Gangzi village, he met Dr. Wu (The character in the photo) at Meeks Animal Hospital and also Mr. Cheng who is his neighbor. They went on the coversation of oral histories about Vietnamese refugee camps and ancestors crossing the sea.

Ⅰ.Memorandum: Part One

In 2015, on the eve of graduating from graduate school, through the recommendation of friends working in ecology, I participated in the “Bazhao Artist in Residency Project” on the island of Wang’an, Penghu, for the first time. As an artist, I stepped out of the university setting of urban Taipei, which had become my comfort zone, and relocated to an ancient house in Huazhai that had been devastated by Typhoon Soudelor. Due to a flood in the residence, my working tools were damaged, and my computer was unresponsive for days. In the old house with no internet connection and 3G reception due to geographical hindrances, I unloaded painting materials and techniques as well as know-how on repairing and preserving cultural relics that I learned at art school, re-learning ways to settle down amid turmoil in this oldest settlement in Taiwan where the Han people had arrived across the sea. Perhaps the steep learning curve became embedded in my mind, prompting me to become close friends with the local culture and history professionals and other creatives in Penghu. I returned to Chrysanthemum Isle year after year, sporadically touring the main settlements on the island under the guidance of my friends, which allowed me to discover accumulations, residues, or fragmented memories of Taiwan that were left behind on the offshore island.

Fabricating Mandarin Duck is a project that catalyzed my five years on the island of Wang’an. In 1944, Haza Yoshiaki, a member of the Japanese Empire’s Shinyo naval suicide squad, arrived in Wang’an, Penghu, when tension rose during the late stages of the Pacific War. However, before he could gloriously sacrifice for his nation, Japan was met with a humiliating defeat, and the 20-year-old returned to Kyushu, Japan, amid a sense of void and anxiety. Half a century later, in 1989, in his old age, Haza published his memoir The Red Remaining in Winter and fiction work Strait under Fire ; he even revisited the island, gazing once again at the long-ruined tunnels of the south and the ethnic abyss that seemed to devour the entire generation of the people of the Japanese Emperor. In the end, through documentaries, the former member of the suicide squad gifted his memoir to the “Huazhai Cultural Preservation Association,” resembling the fragmented pieces of coral that cover gravesites across the island.

Some stories are lost in the sea breeze. Like many people from Taiwan who travel to Penghu on a root-seeking mission, when I traced the history of how the family on my mother’s side crossed the ocean and the immigration routes of Penghu people in modern Kaohsiung, I discovered the oral history of the Vietnamese Jiangmei Village refugee camp, as well as a piece of history: there was once a traveler, whose last name was Chen, who returned to Chrysanthemum Isle attempting to search for his family roots but to no avail because his family’s origin name (tang hao) was different from “Ying Chuan (穎川).” Afterward, the incident became known by locals, and his travels proceeded to Fujian, China, where he finally discovered his answer. After on-site investigation, it was revealed that the settlement that once existed had long vanished; waiting at the end of this root-searching journey was nothing more than desolation.

The Gaillardia pulchella abounds the islands of Penghu due to its ability to withstand drought and the cold; its robustness has also made it the County Flower of Penghu, despite the often-forgotten fact that the Gaillardia pulchella is an invasive species from the Americas. Since the afforestation in 1992 and with the recovery project, artificially-cultivated Araucaria cunninghamii has become the primary vegetation that makes up the greenery of Penghu, changing the barren scene resulting from wind erosion on the flat, layered basalt that the Han people saw when they arrived via sea over 400 years ago; this also kindled the hope for life and livability, the hope for a “new world” in the hearts of the “wandering bachelors” who had sailed into the unknown and survived immense hardships.

And so, the sea breeze sent us on our way and welcomed us at the same time.

Photographed at the "Kaohsiung Port Sixth Container Center" on Nanxing Road, Xiaogang District, Kaohsiung City, Brother Moon (character in the photo), a former resident of Red Hair Port and now living in Daelim Po, explains that this location was the former Shrimp Street before the village moved out.

Ⅱ.Memorandum: Part Two

The focus on the settlement development of Taiwan island, the increasingly dense network of paved roads on the western shore, the “main island-offshore island” setting and unbalanced industrial development, as well as the “Martial Law on the Sea” policy that is yet to be lifted amid the history of geological relations, are all reflected in Taiwan’s status as the “main island” and the sense of unfamiliarity toward the offshore islands, as well as the remoteness of the waterfront. Juxtaposed across the steep sceneries of the island are geographical manifestations of the estrangement; the alluvial begins in the sunset scenes of Chihkan in Anping, Tainan, to the old Banyan trees on Heping Street in Toucheng, Yilan; the harbor was never a place to settle down, but a metaphor for illusion and mirage.

Hence, when the open waters were construed as resources and channels as seaside settlements expanded toward the islands, the shores of the 20^th-century modernization of Kaohsiung, for instance, were once hidden amid the blurry shorelines behind the tall wall of restriction, almost becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy along with the military stationed harbor under the Nationalist Government’s Martial Law: our blurry understandings of the waterfront and the frontiers of the island indirectly refracted the borders of the nation and the ambiguity of cultural subjectivity.

Thus, the harbor city at the south of the island becomes an illusion, projecting northward a mythology submerged deep in ethnicity, colonialism, and authority from the south of the Tropic of Cancer, a mythology of advancing into abundance from the frontiers. However, the glory proved glaring, with disagreement, a sense of loss, and prices to be paid hidden in mirages where light cannot reach, until the colorless and odorless vapor of anger leaks outward, waiting to be ignited by a single spark. In 2018, after a three-month art residency at the Pier-2 Art Center, I decided to return to this harbor city filled with the intense disturbances of immigration and heavy industry that at the same time is welcoming reactions similar to the rust belt of US’s Great Lakes district, which further leads to the reality of shifts in the political landscape and a society excessively divided by Populism.

The PORT OF FATA MORGANA art project, which spanned three years, centered around memory, self-identification, and dialogue, as well as the hope that bound together a harbor city’s separations and encounters. The project began with my research on the history of the development of Kaohsiung harbor in the warehouse area. Culture, history, and art became a catalyst and medium, allowing the immigration society, which was like a piece of floating wood, rootless and amnesic, to position and narrate themselves through the guidance of artistic roles and amid the dynamic reconstruction and narration of historical memory. The Port of Kaohsiung (Taiwan International Ports Corporation), Hongmaogang Baoan Temple, and an extremely ordinary stem family all competed with the wilting of time while waiting silently for its dilution and fermentation. The reopened discussions were always anxious and intense, whether in the temple procession, amid the vapors and second-hand smoke of hand-rolled cigarettes in temples or old offices, or in the conversations in homes. I mentioned to the leader of the previous Hongmaogang Self Help Association’s “Ship-Bombing and Harbour-Sealings” project that I am the descendent of staff of the Taiwan International Ports Corporation Port of Kaohsiung, which at the time represented the state apparatus; an entire generation of people, who have either been struck with aphasia or chosen to remain silent, retracing, reminiscing or unloading versions of themselves that they have not been able to become.

At the south of the Taiwan island once existed a bustling, world-class harbor city. In truth, the glamourous Kaohsiung never existed in real life, merely in the hearts of citizens in sheer perfection, pieced together by the visions and dreams for this imperfect land they have landed on. Once, the people blessed by the lagoon and sea believed that the perfect harbor city existed in the future; in the end, they realized “perfection” merely existed in the past. However, when the illusion and mirage disperse, people who came together by chance would finally see the land beneath their feet and muster up the courage to call it home.

Photographed at Banli Beach, Banli Village, Beiganxiang, Lianjiang County, Matsu, during the Hanguang 37 exercise of the Republic of China, which was postponed to mid-September due to the COVID-19 epidemic.

Ⅲ.Memorandum: Part Three

The island is located on the border of its surroundings, with complexities in ecology, culture, and governance, which adds to its quality of being on the loose, fluid, hybrid frontier. These qualities are also manifested in the ambiguity of how its citizens view Taiwan’s international image, as well as the anxiety toward the threat from the historical view of Nationalism coming from the other end of the ocean.

“Taiwan, Penghu, Kinmen, Matsu” has been viewed as the political reality that is the “Republic of China (Taiwan).” However, at the same time, the sequence of “Taiwan, Penghu, Kinmen, Matsu” also blatantly shows the status of “Taiwan” in the “Republic of China (R.O.C.)” and its geographical and psychological implications. One of the most profound realizations that I had during my recent years in the offshore islands is to gaze right into myself as a “mainlander” and its hints of accompanying irony and blind spots: Taiwan, the heir to mainstream Chinese culture, gazing afar to the offshore islands, just as Mainland China, which sees itself as the legitimate heir to Chinese culture, looking afar to the island in the southeast that is Taiwan.

Under the guidance of Chiu Yun, who was a local guide and a member of the “Matsu Youth Development Association” during my two-month residency on the island of Beigan in Matsu in the autumn of 2021, I was able to re-envision the wavering borders under the Chinese Civil War and the extended, ongoing dream that the Kuomintang left to the frontlines of Kinmen and Matsu when Kuomintang retreated to Taiwan and how they called it “war.”

The series of rugged, barren islands were mercilessly incorporated from the ancient strait networks at Minjiang Kou and Huangqi Peninsula. At a certain time in the past, the two counties Lianjiang and Luoyuan were “enclave and exclave” covered by sea fog, like a silent fleet. The four counties and fives islands of Penghu were reduced to Lianjiang County under the peculiar administrative deployment, the dim-lit tunnels gouged through the archaic granite, the defensive vegetation becoming natural camouflage, the sea-dependent fishermen restricted from going out to sea, and curfews and codes becoming dialects and customs in “White History (how the locals of Matsu refer to the history of White Terror).” To this day, war seems to have not yet happened on the western front of R.O.C., but nor has it ended. The dredging boats obscurely eat away at the ecology of the islands trapped in the economic sea area of Taiwan and China, while the artificial lights at night become signals of war during annual fishing seasons.

A silent, full moon shone over the islands of Matsu as it remained alert on the peaceful night of the Mid-Autumn Festival. To this day, locals remain unsure whether family gatherings would prompt the fisherman from the other shore to stop their harassment, but I was inspired to stand on the pitch-black beach, imagining a world that is wider and deeper. In this world, there would be no “China and Taiwan,” no wars, no nations, no roots; when there’s a full moon, we would cross the trusted line with the sea breeze, coming together with the tide despite being separated because of the island. In the end, my residency work Darling collected slogans scattered across Beigan, and greetings to family and friends afar were made as acrostics. The work attempts to shed light on the absurdity of psychological warfare through broadcasts, the diaspora of the islanders of Matsu, and the minds and thoughts that were forcedly coded and decoded amid battlefield affairs.

To this day, efforts to define the self-identity for the named archipelago are in full swing under the endeavors of the youths of Matsu, reimagining a “Matsu community” in the remote, isolated frontlines that is not dependent on the Republic of China or Taiwan, one that may even be embedded in the broader global context of the Cold War. At the 2022 Creative Expo Taiwan, Tsai Pei-Yuan, the director of Dongyin’s “Salty Island Studio” in Matsu, volunteered and presented a proposal to organize the “Matsu Pavilion,” one of the annual pavilions of the event. Titled “Brewing Islands with Fog,” Tsai managed to put the resources from the islands of Matsu into motion with an efficiency similar to military drills and organized an island bar immersive theatre. Outside the historical framework of the modern military, Matsu, this once-aphasic northern border of the nation reinterpreted its cultural charm through wine culture, sea fog, and tunnels, showcasing the forward-looking visions, new layers, and textures of Taiwan’s offshore islands. My work Darling was fortunately also invited to be displayed in the oppressive and dim tunnel spaces, echoing the fog of the unknown that ensued, just as the curatorial team endeavored to forge a winding but open path and to discover a methodology that is progressive while managing to bridge the fractured coastlines of Taiwan and Matsu.

For years, Matsu has not enjoyed the geological advantages and tourism of Penghu, but its diligence and assiduousness, and endeavors in community development and cultural practices even surpass that of Kinmen, fermenting into a distinctive “Matsu spirit.” At the end of 2022, with the international disarray and gloom of war that accompanied the pandemic, as the global Cold War took form, and as awareness of national security rose, the rugged outlines of the community seemed like a blind spot, a fog on the map of the sea, reminding us of the unexplored motion of “us,” which perhaps offers a possibility for the archipelago.

At the end of 2017, inspired by my travels in the Arctic Ocean, the theme centering around islands and oceans became gradually clear. Also, perhaps due to a lack of the legacy of cultural memory and a love for the ocean deep-seated in my genes, I learned to gaze at the fracture between myself, the ocean, and the island, attempting to find a methodology amid a love mixed with fear.

With the fluctuations of the sea level, the island reveals to us wider and more romantic associations of geography: each island is a mountain peak peeking out of sea level, but the people reaching the summits will ultimately be forgotten in time. As I leave behind these memorandums, I am in the Netherlands, a large nation below sea level that is in need of constructing embankments to prevent engulfment.

The relationship between the land beneath our feet and the sea is repeatedly outlined by the island and will probably continue until each islander becomes the island in their minds. I write this in the hopes that we will become a sea of islands, a more inclusive, decentralized and connected archipelago.

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