When you are in the ocean, the narrative context of the distant continents no longer matters.
Drawing on the adolescent adventure novel “Treasure Island” and its unspoken implications, the exhibition points to the ineffable realities of the present — reflecting both the continuity of personal life and homeland.
The plot of “Treasure Island”, which echoed in the cartoon world of my childhood, serves a metaphor for the world we live in today. Taiwan’s position in East Asia and its incongruous entanglement with great powers’ ideologies hides the core conflict: class struggle. Taiwan has long been struggling to find its own identity under the pressure of narrative frameworks imposed by distant continents, which leads to incessant class struggle. What we often mistake as a battle for political identity is, at its core, a struggle shaped by these deeper divisions.
On the small boat to Treasure Island, the two parties never discuss how to divide their gains, nor do they openly state the purpose of their adventure. A precarious pseudo-agreement on a system of distribution never achieved true balance. The conflict between civilization and savagery probably stem from one side’s control over the narrative of what they consider as justice.
The paintings feature drifting boats — sometimes sailing, sometimes lost and awaiting direction, stranded ashore, seeking guidance from the blind, or even stacked with another vessel. Who truly dictates their direction? The lost wait for an explanation. The act of navigating, when seen from another perspective, becomes an act of control. In some scenes, faint undercurrents of mutual coercion emerge among figures: this could manifest as politics, as therapy, as a ritual salute or a search for meaning — or as a figure of authority angrily declaring the war she desires.
The exhibition has another narrative structure that centers around the idea of the forest (as stated in the Q&A, “walk into the forest”). This symbolizes the primal, wild order. Only by leaving the city (civilization) and entering the jungle can one cultivate his own way of seeing — shedding the discourse system transmitted from West to East and finally seeing one’s self. Otherwise, beyond self-denial, it is nearly impossible to explain the psychological conundrum behind the Global South’s struggle to autonomously transmit its culture to the world’s center (the West), as contemporary art itself is the West’s vehicle for conveying their linguistic and political orders.
Only by stepping into the jungle can one’s true self be rediscovered. When you are in the city (amid the packaged discourse of civilizational order), everything seems important — more important than yourself — so important that nothing else matters.
The last section of the exhibition puts on display the indulgence in modern life and civilization.
On the longest wall, we see subjects such as fine wine, smartphones, riding boots, fruit platters, a drinking man, an American wife?
Some works exist outside the main narrative, such as “The Painter and the End”, “Away from the Iceberg, the Night, and the Mobile Phone”, among others. The three-dimensional pieces aren’t constructed according to traditional sculptural practices, nor do they merely recreate the themes in the paintings. Instead, they resemble brushstrokes converging in physical space — less like standalone sculptures and more like an extension of my painting practice into the physical reality.
A civilization expands by exporting discourses — correctly responding to its requests cannot reverse its flow. Only by serving as a distant illustration of empire does one gain meaning in its role.
Treasure Island is the story of pirates.
The treasure never truly existed. All there ever was are the endless waves crashing against the hull and the act of sailing itself. In the ocean of creativity, I am a surfer, and I do not believe in the idea of a center.
Tang Jo-Hung from Top floor in Xindian
As for the narrative of Treasure Island, it emerged only during the final stage of preparing the exhibition — merely as a discourse. It is just a play on words, not to be taken too seriously. The gravity of history can be as light as a feather, floating and echoing in uninhabited scenes.