Five decades after Chen Su-ho (陳樹火) founded one of the first factories specializing in handmade paper in Puli (埔里), Nantou County, his daughter has returned with an exhibition that gives the traditional craft a modern twist.
When Rita LiChen (陳瑞惠) was growing up, Puli was home to roughly 60 factories where paper was made by hand. Now only six remain. Watching the factories disappear - many moved to China - inspired her father to open a museum to preserve the memory of this chapter in Taiwan's cultural history.
LiChen's father died in a plane crash in 1990, but his dream lives on in the Suho Memorial Paper Museum (樹火紀念紙博物館) in Taipei. The museum is currently hosting its largest collaboration to date at the National Taiwan Craft Research Institute (國立台灣工藝研究所) in Nantou's Caotun Township (草屯). Zhi-Dao: Environment, Tranquility, Reverence (紙道:境,靜,敬) runs through April 27 and showcases the work of nine Taiwanese and international artists chosen by LiChen, who heads the Suho museum.
PHOTO: COURTESY OF TA YANG
"With this show, I wanted to destroy the entire concept of what 'paper' is," LiChen says. "Only by destroying this concept can artists find new ways to express themselves."
"Some people might think our work is too high-brow or think they can't understand it," she adds. "But I don't worry about that. If it's good, they'll naturally come to appreciate it."
Instead of selecting works by the best paper-makers and craftsmen in the field, Zhi-Dao presents a broad group of pieces ranging from paper-based lampshades and jewelry to contemporary art installations like Zeng Pei-ling's (曾沛玲) Tibetan Bhuddism-influenced wall hangings.
PHOTO: COURTESY OF TA YANG
Out of all the artists whose work is on display, Li Chao-cang (李朝倉) seems most set on pushing the boundaries of what "paper" is. Li has wrapped the entrance of the hall in a stretched white polyester tunnel that viewers have to duck through to access his main piece, a crude assemblage of reeds and other materials gathered from Nantou's flora and tied together to resemble the bamboo scaffolding commonly seen at construction sites.
Japanese artist Kobayashi Junko's Bamboo Forest, a giant 50m-by-3m sheet of paper that required the strength of 15 workers to lift and install, encircles the hall's second floor and dominates the exhibit. The paper's dyed vertical stripes gradually shift in hue as the viewer follows the piece around the room, suggesting the changing seasons. Delicate white paper slippers by Zhou Meng-ye (周孟曄) lie scattered in front of the piece. With a reflective score written for the show by Belgian composer Pierre Hujoel, the space exudes an air of serenity that makes viewers want to slip off their shoes and forget the winter cold and bustle of the holiday season.
A visit to the hall's fourth floor - not a part of the Zhi-Dao exhibit - gives visitors an idea of how irreverent LiChen's transformation of the conservative, craft-oriented institute was. Stone teapots carefully hewn to look like old wood, intricately carved bamboo frogs, wicker insects and lacquerware are displayed in glass cases, often with price tags next to them. Not quite the stuff of a modern art gallery.
PHOTO: COURTESY OF TA YANG
Plans for the exhibit met with opposition from staff at the cultural hall, though not from its director. Since the show runs through the Lunar New Year - a time to celebrate beginnings - some said Li's white tunnel wasn't appropriate because the color is traditionally associated with funerals and death. Three large white banners that were to be hung outside the hall advertising the show had to be redesigned, but Li's tunnel stayed.
LiChen has spent 13 years running the Suho Museum, which opened in 1995 after years of planning by her and her siblings. The museum is part of the Suho Memorial Paper Culture Foundation (樹火紀念紙文化基金會), founded after they lost both their parents in a plane crash. Eighteen years after the tragedy, Zhi-Dao is not only a remembrance of things past, but also a challenge to move forward.
PHOTO: BLAKE CARTER, TAIPEI TIMES
In late October of 1873 the government of Japan decided against sending a military expedition to Korea to force that nation to open trade relations. Across the government supporters of the expedition resigned immediately. The spectacle of revolt by disaffected samurai began to loom over Japanese politics. In January of 1874 disaffected samurai attacked a senior minister in Tokyo. A month later, a group of pro-Korea expedition and anti-foreign elements from Saga prefecture in Kyushu revolted, driven in part by high food prices stemming from poor harvests. Their leader, according to Edward Drea’s classic Japan’s Imperial Army, was a samurai
The following three paragraphs are just some of what the local Chinese-language press is reporting on breathlessly and following every twist and turn with the eagerness of a soap opera fan. For many English-language readers, it probably comes across as incomprehensibly opaque, so bear with me briefly dear reader: To the surprise of many, former pop singer and Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) ex-lawmaker Yu Tien (余天) of the Taiwan Normal Country Promotion Association (TNCPA) at the last minute dropped out of the running for committee chair of the DPP’s New Taipei City chapter, paving the way for DPP legislator Su
Located down a sideroad in old Wanhua District (萬華區), Waley Art (水谷藝術) has an established reputation for curating some of the more provocative indie art exhibitions in Taipei. And this month is no exception. Beyond the innocuous facade of a shophouse, the full three stories of the gallery space (including the basement) have been taken over by photographs, installation videos and abstract images courtesy of two creatives who hail from the opposite ends of the earth, Taiwan’s Hsu Yi-ting (許懿婷) and Germany’s Benjamin Janzen. “In 2019, I had an art residency in Europe,” Hsu says. “I met Benjamin in the lobby
It’s hard to know where to begin with Mark Tovell’s Taiwan: Roads Above the Clouds. Having published a travelogue myself, as well as having contributed to several guidebooks, at first glance Tovell’s book appears to inhabit a middle ground — the kind of hard-to-sell nowheresville publishers detest. Leaf through the pages and you’ll find them suffuse with the purple prose best associated with travel literature: “When the sun is low on a warm, clear morning, and with the heat already rising, we stand at the riverside bike path leading south from Sanxia’s old cobble streets.” Hardly the stuff of your