Rebuliding history

Liao Wu-chih (廖武治) isn't prepared to take any risks with the more than 200-year-old Bao-an Temple (保安宮) under his charge in Taipei's western district. Letting the city or central governments have any control over a massive restoration project would, in his opinion, invite ineptitude and disaster. "The more they do," he says, "the worse it gets."

Turning his back on government subsidies -- and the interference he claims does more harm than good -- Liao has followed his own vision of how to bring the temple into the 21st century, while preserving its history.

A PERSONAL VISION

Sitting in his office, he expresses a spirit of intimate concern for the temple. The difficulties he faces are enormous, not least because there is no clear agreement as to how Taiwan's numerous architectural monuments should be dealt with. Even at the level of basic principles and laws relating to heritage preservation, "there is too much room for interpretation," says Fu Chao-ching (傅朝卿), a professor of architecture at National Cheng Kung University.

So Liao is left with little choice but to go with his own ideas, treading new ground, drawing praise and criticism each step of the way. Hanging above his desk is state-of-the-art dual-directional lighting imported from Australia, illuminating not only his desk, but also the lofty tie beams and ridgepole above. On the floor are tiles of dusty orange that are now to be found only in the oldest temples. This combination is nothing particularly innovative in itself. But what is surprising about the Bao-an Temple restoration project is the thoroughness and sensitivity with which this delicate process is being carried out.

Four years into the restoration, the front hall (三川殿) is nearing completion and various less visible infrastructure, such as underground drainage and wiring, is already installed. Despite the fresh paint and new carvings, the bright colors and sharper lines do not jar with the atmosphere of antiquity. For anyone who has visited less thoughtfully "restored" buildings around Taiwan, the achievement is quite striking. Liao attributes this to the unique organizational model the temple uses, which is rooted in the traditions of Chinese architecture and a belief that their ancestors had strong reasons for the way they did things.

OLD WAYS AND NEW

Pointing at the tiles on the floor of his office, Liao says he rejected the use of terrazzo paving, a material made of stone chips and cement, which has been very popular in temple restoration because of its hardness. "They don't understand the basic principles of the materials used [in traditional Chinese architecture]," he says. "These old bricks and tiles serve an important function in regulating the microclimate of the building. Terrazzo does not breathe the way traditional tiles do, so it locks moisture beneath the surface. Of course, you will get problems when moisture builds up."

The question of materials is a fraught one, not least because of the question of cost. Handmade tiles are expensive to make and to lay, and for those working on a budget they could be a luxury that temples in danger of falling down might well do without.

But Liao is quick to emphasize that "we are not stick-in-the-mud traditionalists" and in, some instances, he has drawn criticism for his methods. In 1996 he brought in an Australian team to study the problem of moisture in the preservation of temple murals. He pointed out at the time that if steps were not taken to prevent moisture-related damage, no amount of restoration or repainting would do any good.