# Artist Statement 藝術家前言

Language Options / 語言選擇:
👉 [English](#EN) 👉 [中文](#中文)

## EN

This exhibition features two works:  _Writing the Time Lag_  and  _#Ghostkeepers_. In the early days of making  _Writing the Time Lag_, I listened to a lecture by Taiwanese novelist Wuhe. He said:

I see my literary peers living amidst the rush of competitions, alluring awards, and bewitching opportunities to display themselves. Meanwhile, I find myself petrified when I look externally, unable to develop my own language. Therefore, I made a significant decision for myself: to return to Tamsui \[a district in New Taipei City\] and seclude myself for ten years. Creation should be joyful. During this time, I conducted field research in my own way. I believe that only through grounded practice can an external theme or idea enter my internal world and mature into my unique language. Creation would then flow naturally, and no longer be a torment or pain.

I remember these words moved me to tears back in 2014 in Chicago, as I envied such a painful yet luxurious resolve. Writing the Time Lag is an experimental documentary I began filming after Taiwan’s 2014 Sunflower Movement. I took a leave of absence from art school, worked in Taiwanese political parties and Washington D.C., explored various political spheres. I carried this belief of total artistic immersion and ventured into different fields and environments. Till now it is the tenth year of this luxurious practice. 

Before  _Writing the Time Lag_, my previous work was a short film called  _Waves_  (2011). During its filming, I experienced a series of sexism and violence within the film industry so severe that, despite just starting to win some film awards, I had already lost my immunity to survive in the industry.  _Writing the Time Lag_  began with the intention of documenting the changes in Taiwanese national identity after Taiwan's Sunflower movement, yet I naturally gravitated towards stories of sexual discrimination and violence in the protests. Using a participatory video approach, I interviewed many Taiwanese indigenous queer individuals and women. For Writing the Time Lag, I declared to my friends and myself: “It must be filmed with an all-female crew.”

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The exhibition opens with images and notes accumulated over the past 10 years — fragments of lives that have intersected with my fieldwork. Among these is my record of a senior Indigenous activist who, after visiting numerous Indigenous communities in Taiwan and hearing countless stories of oppression, and perhaps overwhelmed by vicarious trauma – prepared to harm himself in front of the Presidential Office on the last night of the movement. It seemed the only way to manifest the Indigenous communal rage and burden he carried.
There is also footage of Kating Hongay, the grandmother performing a purification ritual at the beginning of the film. She passed away seven days after our interview. In addition to myself, everyone who has participated in this work has stored a piece of their soul, their will, in the memory cards. These past lives exist in the digital realm, first captured in memory cards, then reanimated again as photons that beam into and are absorbed by viewers' retinas through this optical encounter. Just like how social media as well becomes our digital cemetery after death—we live again in the digital world.
These stories propelled me to create  _#Ghostkeepers_. When creators and researchers from various places write social media posts representing souls who have experienced political violence, "resurrecting" them in the digital world—how do these traumas born from passion get heard within the vast historical context and geopolitical landscape? How do historical injustice and intergenerational trauma get inherited and healed in the digital age?

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The era has its own will. People dedicate themselves to the glory of their time and resonate with collective grief, but what we need is not the bigger picture—it's time. I once decided to re-edit Writing the Time Lag every few years, resulting in versions from 2016, 2019, and 2021. This format allows me to stand in the present, look back, and reflect on the changes in Taiwan's political narrative and my own positionality every two years. But recently, I realized my behavior was saying: "I hope my future can go back, I hope my future can come back, back to before the sexual violence happened." We empathize and bear vicarious trauma together, yet in these substitute wounds, we hide and forget ourselves.
In recent years, during Taiwan's #MeToo movement, I finally exposed the decade-old experiences from the making of Waves. Even more, as a witness for another sexual harassment case, I saw another side of one of the interviewees from Time Lag. Perhaps with these accumulated experiences, my body has begun to suffer from ailments these past two years, and I can no longer hold these memories tightly, or bear and confront as before.

Perhaps this exhibition attempts to offer the wonky time after a dream—creating reminds me of Urashima Taro, who traversed to the alternative realm of the Dragon Palace. He brings back a forbidden treasure box to the human world and opens it out of temptation. The box reveals that he was gone for at least 100 years and restores his true age as an old man. Like Taro, who covered his face upon confronting this time lag, I also find myself covering my face when memories are projected from the forbidden box. It's not just the shyness of being with the audience in the same time and place, but also the fear of dialectical change in this "present" that is the future.

As creators, like many journalists and humanities scholars who must witness and narrate suffering, we attempt to approach experience, yet can only speak unauthentically. Or perhaps, atop these layered identity struggles that mingle with the chaos of our own pain, we are simply dancing, singing—even when our shouts are out of sync.

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## 中文
這次的展覽，包含《#迎靈者（2018 - ）》及《時差書寫 (2014-)》兩件作品。其中，《時差書寫》是我從 2014 年台灣太陽花運動後開始拍攝的實驗紀錄片，過程中訪問了多名原住民運動的酷兒與女性。然而，我在過程裡經常感到很難說話 — 這種失語感，在 2023 #MeToo 運動時又經歷一遍：從彼時至今，無論是倖存者、目擊者，還是事件關係人，一旦吹哨，還是極有可能被現有的結構 —— 例如殖民威權、社會歧視、司法流程 —— 所攻擊、操縱，並被進一步邊緣化。在拍攝《時差書寫》之前，我還有一部作品叫做《海浪》。我在拍攝這部短片時遭遇性暴力，嚴重到，儘管我當時才剛拿到一些電影獎項，但我已經喪失了在電影圈存活的免疫力。直到籌備《時差書寫》時，我說：「這部片一定要由全女性的劇組拍攝。」-- 然後，這部原意於紀錄台灣 318 後的原住民運動概況的紀錄片，卻在創作過程中，不自覺地被運動裡性別歧視及暴力的故事吸引。

多年來，我的作品幾乎都是參與式計畫，並在網上開源創作過程與資源。對我而言，這樣的形式，可以讓難以發聲的人不再噤聲。當受訪者、倖存者、觀眾⋯ 一同參與創作，他們不再是被動的資訊接收者，而是藉由這些媒介，回到自身需求與觀點上說話，去平衡創作者與受訪者之間既有的權力結構。而開源創作資源更是因為，我的靈感並不只來自我自己，更來自我每個接觸的人、更早以前的靈魂、集體意識及彼此交織時的脈絡。

然而，攝影機終究會被架起、展間會被呈現，那一刻，我依然背叛了：我已經帶著此時此刻的個人傷痛，暴露給更多未來可能批判他們的人。「說話」本身就面臨巨大的風險與承擔的勇氣，我只能確保自己力求失真。

另一方面是，我總是外人。無論在原住民運動與性暴力兩相衝擊的板塊中，承受過何種創傷，我總覺得我不適合說話。當時，不只是我、還有好多身邊的人，都不小心陷入了一種危險的、彷彿有震央的「苦痛資格論」，沒有人可以說話，除了最完美受害的人、回家的人、純正的人、震央中最痛的人。有時，明明很痛，但還是不適合說話，身為非原住民、身為「定居殖民者」的後裔，這些痛與目睹，只應該是一種沈默的基本贖罪。然而，在這個過程之中，我學會的，或許是放棄，我學會放棄像首尾接龍般去排一條苦痛階級的隊，當最苦痛的人不說話，誰都不准說話。我也學著放棄殖民視野裡，缺乏內涵的「身份分類法」，正是依靠這樣的分類與貼標實施壓迫、形塑身份標準，而抹去了每個人身上永遠到達不了完美的複雜。我學著勇敢去說話，畢竟還是要有人說，說一件事裡我所看見的。當最痛的人沒有說話，我允許自己說話，說出不道地的真實。

《時差書寫》與《#迎靈者》裡的人類學者、紀錄片工作者、小說家、記者、歷史學者⋯ 繼接著這些承受政治暴力苦痛的人說話，同時，又大膽的宣示自己的存在：「為什麼要說出這些人的故事？又為什麼選擇用這些方法接近故事？」「到底，說出故事的同時，映照出了自己的什麼？」。

《時差書寫》是一部每兩年剪接一次的電影，它有 2016 （20分鐘）、2019 （50 分鐘）、2021 （70 分鐘）版本 --- 我對許多人說，這個形式是像是我站在此時此刻，並每兩年一次回看、反思台灣政治熱情、政治敘事上的變化。然而，作為一個葬送我電影夢後的第一部片子，我細想這行為，是在說，我希望，我的未來可以回去、我的未來可以回去，回去那個性暴力之前。

在製作《時差書寫》時，某位原運長輩在運動隊伍繞行全台灣部落的最後一天，或許因為聽到太多各個部落受到壓迫的故事因此有替代性創傷，那晚他做了在總統府前自我傷害的準備，好像只有這個方法才能夠顯現出對於一切的怒恨與承擔。也或者另一次是當我遇到 Kating Hongay 阿嬤的時候，他在訪問中表達自己的遺憾後七天就過世了，我覺得他的一片靈魂與意志也被儲存到我的記憶卡裡面。就像是我們每天使用的 FB 當我們死後也會成為我們的數位墳墓一般，Kating Hongay 阿嬤也再次存活在數位世界裡。

時代有其意志。為時代打扮、被時代打扮的人們為時代的輝煌奉獻，為集體的悲傷共鳴，但我們需要的顧全的不是大局，我們需要的是時間。我們同理、我們一起承受替代性創傷，我們卻在這些替代的傷痛中，隱藏與忘記自己。在共創夢幻顯赫與悲壯高潮下，剩下的是個人創傷的凝結、癱瘓的夢魘。因此這個展覽，這些參與式創作，我試圖給的是一個夢後的時間，把無法接近，但試圖接近的力量，分享給大家。記起自己並不容易，我希望今天做這個展覽、在寫這個藝術聲明的時候，提醒自己、提醒觀眾這件事。

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