“Fiber Three” shows an intellectualization that breaks through the trends of atomization and subjunctivization in the aforementioned phenomena and utilizes the woven networks as a metaphor for the “knowledge” of art, as well as the world and the “recognition” of existence.

Indeed, you might say that the curator has constructed this show as a (definitely European-style) theater through which to criticise the contemporary through the old, reality through imagination, the local through the alien. Because, ultimately, what’s going on right now is so hard to grasp in and of itself. In this formula, the title “I Imagine Angels” comes with a subtext: ‘I can’t believe the reality’.

It wouldn’t matter if you had heard of the Gazimestan speech or its political significance. You might certainly recall the huge backdrop containing the insignia and dating the beginning and end of the battle of Kosovo, as well as this large-scale acrylic framed photograph suspended on the wall of the museum.

The radical semiotics of the object contrived by the advent of modernity and technological optimism is fleeting and brittle. Cumulating a plenitude of displays that have endured the dispute between the world of aesthetics and commodity/material objects, the exhibition tugs the once quiet setting and elicits our perception of the ecology of “objects” hidden in art.

That flawless world is dead, and has left no bones. Nothing but burnt stumps, drifting surfaces, formless fight, and the blue water of a tiny well, guarded by my silent Friend.

In the name of “civilization and modernity,” these different forms of violence destroyed the region’s former way of life. An insightful quote by Ba Ren sums up the situation of the plantation: “The great farm developed as a result of the combination of the capital of Westerners, the land of Indonesians and the labor of the Chinese.”

It also suggests that you can never escape the feeling that international politics have a role to play in the underlying framework of the show.

May the revolution end soon and may the victory return to the people.

Food can bring satiation, joy, and the gratification of generosity and hospitality, but when the many layers of the surface are peeled away, we are forced to reflect on the “common sense” of ordinary life, and dig out the roots of the pain that others or we collectively experience. 

The artists’ focus on the very substance brings an awareness to the body that history is not usually aware of, through senses that elude and erode “common sense.”

Jonnie To’s films, on the other hand, address something that reaches deeper than perceptible phenomena—the tension between the aforementioned ideologies and certain preconceived beliefs. Perhaps such a tension is the true core of the “Hong Kong perspective”—it encompasses an alternative understanding of fate and acknowledgement of esoteric knowledge, and even praises of the spirit of Xia.

It is late April in Shanghai; any “normalcy” has spiraled into abstraction, owing to its protracted absence from life’s routines. My daily existence consists of humdrum cycles of hunger, sleep, and em…

When we see the history of film through the figure of the bianshi, the influence of vernacular drama (kabuki, glove puppetry, and pansori) is always immanent, that the birth of film is not simply a rupture with the legacy of the theater. In this vein, we can use Chen Chieh-jen’s idea of yaoyan film to ex-scribe a birthdate for yaoyan-style film. The year is 1926, in the moment in which Taiwan’s bianshi started to create countless anti-colonial film memories for audiences.

On the ocean that is memory

However, the law of loss and gain is never consistent when put against a timeline. Cognitive dissonance seems to be the only constant in time.

When the calibrated verbal expressions still assume their roles as the predominant majority to reinforce themselves, how shall we interpret the sense of touching and its absence?

Therefore, it is not a question of whether it is a good match, but the proportion of proximity and pace which gives relationships the character of complexity.

The details of life are the only thing left to say.

We don’t force ourselves to produce or obey.

“I know the secret of steamed rolls,” the letter read.