一個值得為它拚搏的小世界：關於2023台北雙年展的影像札記

那個十一月要數的東西真不少。數著裝置要用的燈，數著回函卡，數著離台灣選舉還有幾周，數著自十月七號至今已過了幾天，數著在加薩死亡的總人數。老是徹夜在Zoom上與異地的朋友開會討論事情，讓我漸漸落入一種日常：起床後開始滑IG，查看巴勒斯坦的最新動態，然後帶著僵硬的脖子，卡卡的下巴，溢著眼水的雙瞳，搭捷運到台北市立美術館。

來台北之前，我在阿布達比住了五年。在那裡，巴勒斯坦是個俯拾即是的存在──或繡在枕頭套上，或烤成傍晚食用的庫納法（kunafa，譯註：流傳於中東與地中海東部的甜點）。我的中文老師告訴我，在地理上與文化上，阿布達比對台灣來說，都是位於地球另一端的存在，至於巴勒斯坦的存在，則是徹底的遙不可及。我把朋友給的那罐來自那布盧斯（Nablus）的札塔（zaatar，譯註：中東綜合香料）放在廚房流理台上一個醒目的位置──姑且以它祝禱，祈求讓我的信念更加堅定，便可使距離消弭。此時此刻尤其需要。

點開抖音，看到數十萬示威民眾在倫敦塔橋或雅加達的自由廣場呼籲停火的影片，關掉抖音，回到我在台北祥和無擾的一天──這其中有某種程度的錯亂感。身處這個城市的從容安逸與迷人魅力裡，經常讓我忘記台灣也有被入侵的焦慮，直到我在捷運站附近看到「防空避難處所」的標誌，才會猛然想起。再加上波多黎各缺乏主權是我與生俱來懷有的一種糾結，因此在多重的地域、渴望、現實的轉換間，我的身體和注意力偶會故障失靈。

2023台北雙年展的策展人團隊周安曼、穆柏安（Brian Kuan Wood），和莉姆．夏迪德（Reem Shadid）談到展覽主題「小世界」時表示：「（它）代表希望、承諾，同時也暗藏某種程度的懼怕、不安。」這個反思後疫情時代現實狀態的小世界，體現出連結倍增與分裂加劇的矛盾。在社會動盪、失去、生產模式的轉變未見停歇之際，本屆雙年展的五十八位本地與國際參展藝術家們，試圖摸索出孤立和（相互）依賴、焦慮與暫息、親密與尺度的輪廓。

我為2023台北雙年展效力，而它也在我身上起了作用。它要我將步調設定調成慢速；就像祖父和他的朋友之間那種「順道經過就來打個招呼」的關係（李永財，2014）。我很慶幸，在此歷史上的暗黑時刻，內藏乾坤的小世界總能容納同我休戚與共的種種關係；總能當我的軀體處於前所未有的脆弱時接住它；並為那些同樣在各個地理環境、政治磨難、勇於夢想一個更公平正義的未來之間跌跌撞撞的人們，編造出一個載體。

在這篇攝影札記裡，藉著我用底片拍攝的照片，將與2023台北雙年展同時發生的多重政治現實拉出一個脈絡，不單如此，也為此展透過當代藝術創造出連結與團結的空間時所凝煉出的親密時刻，構建出一個語境。換句話說，這些照片說著一則則「值得拚搏的『小世界』」的故事（Ocula）。

關係是連結與分裂的基本單位。2023台北雙年展採取一種既堅實又饒富趣味的方式處理關係這個概念，從以歐宗翰的《無題（奧塔維亞與隕石1）》（Untitled (Octavia with Meteor 1)）牽引出與宇宙的關係，乃至從阿迪亞．諾瓦立（Aditya Novali）的《亞洲（虛構）房地產計畫》（Asian (Un)Real Estate Project）中看到與建成環境的關係。更廣義的來說，台北雙年展也是處於一種較嚴肅的關係類型──台灣的外交關係──所涉及的風險之中。

1971年十月，台灣仍處於國民黨主政下的台灣省警備總司令部所頒布的戒嚴令所管制，此時聯合國大會表決並通過了第2758號決議。決議內容表明，中華人民共和國為在聯合國組織內，中國席位的唯一合法代表，意即要將中華民國（台灣）驅逐出去（聯合國大會，1971年）。自此之後，台灣便從未具有聯合國會員資格，它的國家主權地位也一直處於一種風雨飄搖的狀態。由於中國視台灣為其領土的一部分，無權與其他國家建立國與國之間的關係，因此台灣目前僅與十二個國家有正式的外交關係──原本有十三個，但諾魯（Nauru）於2024年1月24日宣布與台斷交（AP News）。由此可知，台灣用各種靈活的手段斡旋出與全世界的「正式」關係這一議題，是相當值得關注的。

台灣在全球民族國家網絡中的詭譎地位，固化了台北雙年展作為一個助長國際關係的載體的重要性，卻也帶出一些特定問題：這樣的處境會為多元複雜、不斷變化的台灣形塑出什麼樣的文化知識（cultural knowledge），在這過程裡誰的利益會受到維護，以及現今國族認同被賦予的意義和價值又會是什麼？對2023台北雙年展來說，這個謎團被放在類似帶有主權性的模糊狀態中尋找方向，其中隱伏著更大的利害關係──不管是從台灣本地，或從全球佈局的大環境來說。自新冠疫情爆發之後，世界目睹了2022年的（俄羅斯）入侵烏克蘭，2023年爆發且至今持續在巴勒斯坦發生的攻佔行動與種族滅絕，以及北京當局為了武統台灣而於近期頻頻施壓（Al Jazeera, 2024）。台灣在2024年舉行的總統大選，被稱為亞洲最重要的一場選舉，因為它關係到日益緊繃的兩岸關係的可預見未來，而由於這樣的關鍵時刻就發生在2023台北雙年展的展覽期間，這個「小世界」正好藉由其中來自全球當代社會的藝術家們針對這些議題的探索，啟發台灣對於自身的政治發展歷程、現狀、未來的覺醒。

思索著這些利害關係的同時，有個實質的問題格外引起我的好奇：參與2023台北雙年展的各路人馬，是如何經歷這段創造關係、探索民族性的過程，特別是台灣本地及境外的團結這一面向上。

當2023台北雙年展的佈展工作全數告一段落時，我問策展人莉姆．夏迪德有什麼我幫得上忙，好稍微舒緩籌備周末開幕活動快炸鍋的壓力。她便指派我去當薩米亞的助手。

集動態抽象畫家、計算員、學者、巴勒斯坦行動主義者等多重角色於一身的八十七歲薩米亞．哈拉比（Samia Halaby），親臨台北參加雙年展開幕周末的活動。對我這樣一位年輕的社區規劃及文化領域工作者來說，知道將與她「共度周末」時，內心澎湃的情緒根本按捺不住。薩米亞的動態繪畫作品拉起了2023台北雙年展的經緯線。這些作品分置於展區的三個樓層，每個樓層裡有時還可見到好幾幅，彷彿是為我們確認生命跡象而設的脈搏測量站。她長期維持和其他藝術家及樂手用畫作搭配現場演奏的聲音來做即興表演的習慣，觀者在台北雙年展裡聽到的，是這些演出的聲音紀錄。

我在飯店大廳等她，準備接她前往即將和朱利安．亞伯拉罕（「多加」）合作發表的即興演出會場。儘管有滿腦子的問題想請教她，但我還是緊張得幾乎說不出話來。她出現了，身穿一件色彩繽紛的毛衣，紫色長褲，還帶上一只黑色行李箱。我一個箭步衝上前去，要幫她拉行李箱。她用獨特的堅定口吻說：「小心點，這很珍貴。」我問她裡面裝了什麼，心裡猜想至少有好幾件東西吧。她笑著說，只有她那台名叫「Amiga」──西班牙文的（女性）朋友──的電腦。

在計程車上，她問我是從哪裡來。我說我本籍波多黎各，但流散異鄉在美墨邊境長大。她嘆了口氣說：「很可惜，波多黎各還沒有脫離美國的管轄，」接著開始憶述某次她和抵制美國海軍在波國外島別克斯島（Vieques）上進行武器測試的波多黎各異議分子們一起組織行動的往事。能見到一位曾經在你出生之前就為你的存在奮鬥過的人，心中的悸動讓人難以言喻。隨後我表達了對巴勒斯坦現狀的不捨與聲援，此時她提醒我，這一切都是環環相扣的，雖然這樣說會讓人痛心。波多黎各和巴勒斯坦，在她早年倡導擺脫殖民統治爭取民族自決時期和現在，都受到美國勢力的牽制，因為如此，我們的祖國從這股勢力解脫的命運是密不可分的。

當我們抵達台北市立美術館時，我將她的行李箱提到門口，而不是用拉的。這是我能向她表示敬意最隱微的方式，在她為我做了這麼多之後。那，何不也是珍貴。

我打開薩米亞的行李箱，看到她那被包覆在兩層泡棉底下的Amiga筆電，靜靜躺在一「窩」黑色電線的中央──她稱這些黑色電線為「麵條」。筆電本身是灰色的，厚度約五公分，鍵盤很有份量。

1985年，芳齡五十的薩米亞買了一台Commodore Amiga 1000桌機，並且著手自學程式語言Amiga BASIC和C，接著一步一腳印地敲出她自己設計的程式，來執行動態繪畫的創作。薩米亞告訴我，隨著科技硬體的日新月異，她的程式也因此被「困」在電腦裡了──儘管她已百般嘗試要把它存出來。我再回頭想想，便能理解她要我小心對待她的行李箱時，何以口氣有點強硬。很明顯的，她與這部電腦相愛相隨了大半輩子的同時，也欣然接受了「短命」的電腦與程式總是會不斷被更新。

演出正式開始前，薩米亞發表了一段致詞：「如果我不去提到在加薩正在且將會死亡的生命，我會覺得自己在以沉默犯罪。我是1936年出生於耶路撒冷。那時候，以色列還不存在。在過去七十五年間，他們佔領了我們的國家，假裝我們的文化是他們的，假裝法拉費豆餅（falafel，譯註：油炸鷹嘴豆餅，又稱中東蔬菜球）是以色列的料理。而且現在，他們宣稱什麼都是他們的。所以，我希望獻出我的付出與努力，來向加薩人民致意。承蒙多加暖心的同意，我們演出的內容將會包括一首『從河流到大海，巴勒斯坦終會自由』的曲目。」　

現場響起一片掌聲，接著，薩米亞便開始表演，她將滑鼠在Windows的藍天白雲舊版桌布上移動，並點開一個檔案名為「動態繪畫」的程式。此時多加先做出了一些雨聲，並用打擊樂器做出像心跳般的聲音，薩米亞則同步「畫」出像雨一般的條紋、馬賽克般的色彩，一種有如雨刷在擋風玻璃上刮水的動作。而我的工作是要發揮抽象式的想像，將我們原本就有同感的想法藉由視覺語彙與薩米亞交流──這似乎讓我原本卡卡的脖子，慢慢鬆了。

鐘聲和湍急的流水聲夾雜著反覆誦念的句子，從喇叭流淌而出：
「從河流到大海，巴勒斯坦終會自由！」
「沒有正義，就沒有和平！沒有正義，就沒有和平！」

我突然意會到，這幾句話我早已銘記於心，但那也只是在十月七日之後透過小小的手機內建喇叭裡聽到。在現場人群的身上，我看到一件印著「sonic liberation」^[1]（聲音解放）的上衣，我很清楚，那幾個字精準捕捉了我的感受。集體聆聽的磅礡氣場，喇叭震出的強大音浪，讓我擺脫了那種透過手機企圖取得和巴勒斯坦的連結卻備感孤獨的糾結。2023台北雙年展以聆聽與想像，創造出這些釋放能量的空間，這番努力正視了科技在國家暴力與流離失所中的存在感，以及它對團結與聚集可能發揮的作用。

在2023台北雙年展的展場裡，我也感受到自己釋放這種壓抑焦慮感的權利是被接受的。不得不承認，我偶爾會躲在賈桂琳．きよみ．寇克（Jacqueline Kiyomi Gork）的作品《不完全是（管他何種新音調》（Not Exactly (Whatever the New Key Is)）裡，黑漆漆的展間，充氣結構築起的迷宮在一吐一納間，莫名地卸下我攬在胸口的重量。當我走入楊季涓《你的淚痕是我未來的眼淚》中垂掛著的陶藝雕塑品，感覺自己彷彿身在一個嬰兒小床裡，如同搖籃曲般的聲音裝置， 撫去我們的政治情勢加諸於身的種種壓力。當有各種利害得失需要考量時，我會藉由這樣的空間讓我更貼近自己與我的族類。

在與錄像藝術家鮑藹倫及策展人周安曼的對談裡，薩米亞所說的一句話，精闢地勾勒出2023台北雙年展中的這個現象：「最好的藝術都是在劇烈的變革中發生，而且運用的是當時的技術。」

想像未來是青春的標配，那是一種出於本能的好奇，想知道我們將在怎麼樣的狀態下走過前方的日子──這個想法經常在我的思緒裡縈繞。帶著對巴勒斯坦和台灣的共同問題，一群朋友和我向薩米亞請益，為我們這個面臨多重全球苦難的世代指點迷津。

她想都不用想，就噴出一長串必讀書單，並強調我們必須保持政治分析的敏銳度。提到她親身經歷過的一些國際主義運動的小故事時──全都是在我們出生之前──她輕巧地說：「地圖劃破的地方，就會有故事穿過。」在充滿正能量的薩米亞眼中，我們的故事，我們的真理，一定會浮出表面，即便天好像要塌下來了。她要我們不能忘記，有一股超越一切的力量將我們牢牢繫在一起；無論大地──及大地上的萬物──如何被劃界、被占領、被主張，這股力量都能穿透。薩米亞似乎點出某種要去養成這種力量的責任，要將這份責任像個符咒般緊緊握在胸前。

離去前，她交代了最後一件事：「你們這個世代需要做的，是要忘記國族主義……我們應該跨越國界去建立友誼，去付諸行動。」

台北雙年展開幕那個周末之後幾天，在駐台北以色列經濟文化辦事處前有一場抗議行動，台灣本地和來自香港、馬來西亞、聖克里斯多福島、印尼等國的年輕人帶著一個共同的訴求齊聚於此：（以哈雙方）立即停火。

用心製作的標語和旗幟，上面寫著各國語言，現場的演說搭配著即時口譯。我們在這些事務的處理方式裡，看到的是全球合作的實踐──刻意將集體解放置於國族主義之上，以此作為個人福祉的關鍵。在許多層面上，這場小規模的示威行動，是在台灣以巴勒斯坦為名發起的抵禦行動變得更有能見度、更公開的一個轉折點。

僅僅四天之後，北市最大公園──大安森林公園的周邊，集聚了台北和平集會的群眾，參與人次約五百人，是有史以來最大規模的聲援巴勒斯坦行動。

安吉拉．戴維斯（Angela Davis）將巴勒斯坦形容為世界的道德試金石；是在為階級、移民、種族、性別、性取向、或國族的而拚搏的眾多問題中的關鍵紐帶。因此，那場集會堪稱一場懷著共同信念的各方族群的團圓大會，吸引了移工社團、龐克團體、本地的清真寺、大學生、獨立刊物創作者、DJ、版畫創作者等。從IG和Line帳號，到旗幟與貼紙，一整天下來，大家的資源很自然地相互串流。

人群裡，中文、台語、阿拉伯語、英語、印尼語、北印度語此起彼落，可謂一扇聲音之窗，飄揚著台灣在亞洲地區觸角廣佈的關係與相依性。唯一蓋過各種聲音的，是群眾呼喊的口號──就是我手機裡的那句，多加與薩米亞的即興表演裡吟唱的那句。這次，擴音的效果來自眾人齊聲的吶喊，而不是喇叭。在台灣的這一刻，巴勒斯坦和我的距離，更近了。圍繞著主權的全球運動潮流切身到彷彿觸手可及。

2024台灣總統大選的前兩晚，民進黨在位於台北市的總統府前舉辦最後一場造勢大會。轉角遇見與會群眾，讓我想起轉入台北雙年展的第一個展間，看到台灣攝影記者許村旭用綠色展牆呈現的照片，映現出台灣於1988年至1998年從戒嚴到民主的那段轉變。

他的《當我們同在一起系列》鋪陳出脈絡的同時，也給予慰藉：從歷史的角度讓我們謹記台灣的民主是以熱血爭取來的，也因知曉台北街頭早已見過創造無法預知的來的關鍵事件而帶來慰藉。當我們在這一夜與「生存時刻」直球對決，許村旭，一如薩米亞，也創造出歷史疆域，引導我們如何臆測台灣與全世界的政治未來可能的樣貌。

然後我們又來到「數」的時刻。這次，一票接著一票，累計出一個未知且持續建構中的將來。

冥冥之中，自有天意吧。不僅是身在台灣，更是身在全世界都在等著它的決定，它的共識，它的夢想這個當下的台灣，有種冥冥之中的意義。

2023台北雙年展的發生恰逢其時──它正好切在我們與這個地方（台灣）及它所牽動的種種奮鬥與努力的關係被附加了不同重要性的時機點上。我何其有幸，不僅取得前排搖滾區的席位，而且與許多人一樣感受到2023台北雙年展經驗為我們帶來的轉變，準備好迎向這一刻。

參考文獻

• Al Jazeera, “World reacts to Taiwan election as China says reunification ‘inevitable.’” 13 Jan. 2024.
• Bailey, Stephanie. “Taipei Biennial Celebrates a World Worth Fighting For.” Ocula Magazine, 10 Jan. 2024.
• 李永財，「雙年展求索」，《現代美術》，2014年9月26日。
• “China Formally Restores Diplomatic Relations with Nauru after Pacific Island Nation Cut Taiwan Ties,” Associated Press, 24 Jan. 2024.
• Lee, Yimou, et al. “From Subway Stations to Shopping Malls, Taiwan Prepares Its Air-Raid Shelters.” Reuters, 2 Aug. 2022.
• 聯合國大會，「恢復中華人民共和國在聯合國組織中的合法權利」。1971年10月25日，A/RES/2758(XXVI)。

Introduction

There was a great deal of counting in November. Counting lights for installation, RSVPs, weeks until Taiwan’s election, days since October 7th, sums of lives lost in Gaza. After long nights on Zoom organizing with friends afar, I had fallen into a routine of waking up, scrolling through Instagram for Palestine updates, then boarding the MRT to the Taipei Fine Arts Museum with a stiff neck, a locked jaw, and watery eyes.

I moved to Taipei after five years based in Abu Dhabi, where Palestine is never more than a whisper away—embroidered in pillowcases and baked into evening kunafa. My Mandarin teacher would tell me that Abu Dhabi feels a world away from Taiwan, and Palestine even further—both geographically and culturally. I keep my friend’s jar of zaatar from Nablus visible on my kitchen counter—a prayer of sorts that if I believe hard enough it will erase the distance, particularly now.

There is a certain delirium I feel when I open TikTok and watch millions of people protest for a ceasefire on the London bridge or in Jakarta’s Freedom Square, but log off to a quiet day in Taipei. In the city's ease and charm, I often forget that Taiwan, too, has its anxieties about invasion, until I am reminded by something like an “Air Raid Shelter” sign near an MRT station. Compounded with my inherited struggle with Puerto Rico’s lack of sovereignty, my body and attention is glitching between plural geographies, yearnings, and realities.

Taipei Biennial 13 is themed “Small World”, which curators Freya Chou, Brian Kuan Wood, and Reem Shadid describe as “both a promise and a threat”. The small world, a reflection on the post-pandemic reality, is a paradox of increased connection and division. In the heat of social unrest, loss, and shifting modes of production, the Biennial’s 58 local and international artists explore the contours of isolation and (inter)dependencies, anxiety and respite, intimacy and scale.

Working for Taipei Biennial 13 has also allowed it to work on me. It demands of me a slower form of my time; the type of ‘stop by and say hello’ relationship my grandfather practices with his friends (Lee, 2014). In a dark moment in history, I feel fortunate that the small world has been vast enough to hold my relations and solidarities; to receive my body in its unprecedented vulnerability; to weave a vessel for those also tumbling between geographies, political struggles, and the audacity to dream of a more just future.

In this photo essay, I will use my film photography to not only contextualize the political realities happening alongside Taipei Biennial 13, but also the intimate moments when the Biennial creates room for connection and solidarity through contemporary art. In other words, these photos tell the stories of a “'small world' worth fighting for” (Ocula).

On Relations: Taipei Biennial, Taiwan’s Sovereignty Question, and What’s At Stake

As the base unit for our connections and divisions, the idea of relations is one that Taipei Biennial 13 plays with in a robust way, from relations to the universe with Arthur Ou’s Untitled (Octavia with Meteor 1) to the built environment with Aditya Novali’s Asian (Un)Real Estate Project. In a broader sense, the Taipei Biennial is also situated within the stakes of a more stately genre of relations: Taiwan’s diplomatic relations.

In October of 1971, while Taiwan was still controlled under martial law by the Republic of China Armed Forces of the Kuomintang (KMT), the UN General Assembly adopted Resolution 2758. This resolution states that the People's Republic of China is the only legitimate Chinese seat at the UN, meaning the Republic of China (Taiwan) is “expell[ed]” (UN General Assembly, 1971). Since then, Taiwan has not had UN membership, situating it in a precarious status of national sovereignty. As China views Taiwan as part of its territory with no right to state-to-state ties, Taiwan presently has formal diplomatic relations with only 12 countries—formerly 13, until Nauru severed relations in January of 2024 (AP News). By extension, the question of Taiwan’s “informal” relations with the wider world—in the many creative ways they can be brokered—is quite noteworthy.

Taiwan’s queerness in the international nation-state network informs the significance of the Taipei Biennial as a vehicle to foster international ties. However, it also begs the questions of what cultural knowledge is exhibited about a layered, everchanging Taiwan, whose interests are being represented in that process, and what meanings and values are assigned to national identity these days anyway. For Taipei Biennial 13, this puzzle is shrouded in higher stakes both in Taiwan, and in the constellation of global contexts navigating the limbo of sovereign-ish-ness. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, the world has witnessed the invasion of Ukraine in 2022, the ongoing occupation and genocide in Palestine in 2023, and now, increased military pressure from Beijing about “reunification” with Taiwan (Al Jazeera). Taiwan’s 2024 presidential election has recently been referred to as one of Asia’s most important, as it informs the near future of Cross-Strait relations (Al Jazeera). With this moment occurring at the halfway point of Taipei Biennial 13, the small world offers a grounds to circulate Taiwan’s reckoning with its political history, present, and future within such questions pondered on by artists in global contemporary society.

With these stakes in mind, I was left curious about the practical question of how the communities engaging in Taipei Biennial 13 undergo this process of creating relations and navigating nationalisms, especially with an eye toward solidarity within and beyond Taiwan.

Solidarity in Practice: Lessons on Abstraction and Sonic Liberation

When the Taipei Biennial 13 installation week was said and done, I asked curator Reem Shadid what I could do to alleviate some of the opening weekend frenzy. She asked me to be and do whatever Samia needs.

87-year-old legendary kinetic abstract painter, computer, scholar, and Palestinian activist Samia Halaby joined us in Taipei for the opening weekend. As a young community organizer and culture worker, I did not know how to contain myself when I learned we would be spending the weekend together. Samia’s kinetic paintings are a throughline in Taipei Biennial 13. They are installed on all three floors of the exhibition, sometimes multiple per floor—as if to check our pulse and make sure we are still present. She has a tradition of jamming with artists and musicians to perform paintings with live sound, which we hear as recordings in the Biennial.

In preparation for her upcoming jam with Julian Abraham ‘Togar’, I waited for her in the hotel lobby, nervous and somehow speechless, despite the dozens of questions I hoped to ask her. She emerged with a colorful sweater, purple pants, and a small black suitcase. When I sprung up to help her roll the suitcase, she said, in her uniquely decisive voice, “Careful. It’s precious.” I asked her what was inside, assuming it must be at least a few things. She laughed and said, it is just her computer, named “Amiga”—’friend’ (feminine) in Spanish.

In the taxi, she inquired about where I was from, and I explained I’m a diasporic Puerto Rican who grew up in the U.S.-Mexico borderlands. She sighed, “it’s a shame that Puerto Rico isn’t independent from the U.S. yet,” and went on to recount her time working with Puerto Rican activists who resisted the U.S. Navy testing of weapons on the outer island of Vieques. There is something breathtaking about meeting someone who fought for you before you existed. When I offered her my condolences and solidarity with Palestine, she reminded me that while it hurts, it is all connected—and there is joy for both of us to have while resurrecting a better future. Puerto Rico and Palestine, both in her earlier days advocating for self-determination from colonization and now, are constrained by U.S. power, and because of that our liberation from it is intertwined.

When we arrived at the museum, I chose to carry her suitcase to the door instead of rolling it. The least I could do is give reverence to her in a tiny way, after she has done so for me. This, too, is precious.

When the Taipei Biennial 13 installation week was said and done, I asked curator Reem Shadid what I could do to alleviate some of the opening weekend frenzy. She asked me to be and do whatever Samia needs. 87-year-old legendary kinetic abstract painter, computer, scholar, and Palestinian activist Samia Halaby joined us in Taipei for the opening weekend. As a young community organizer and culture worker, I did not know how to contain myself when I learned we would be spending the weekend together. Samia’s kinetic paintings are a throughline in Taipei Biennial 13. They are installed on all three floors of the exhibition, sometimes multiple per floor—as if to check our pulse and make sure we are still present. She has a tradition of jamming with artists and musicians to perform paintings with live sound, which we hear as recordings in the Biennial. In preparation for her upcoming jam with Julian Abraham ‘Togar’, I waited for her in the hotel lobby, nervous and somehow speechless, despite the dozens of questions I hoped to ask her. She emerged with a colorful sweater, purple pants, and a small black suitcase. When I sprung up to help her roll the suitcase, she said, in her uniquely decisive voice, “Careful. It’s precious.” I asked her what was inside, assuming it must be at least a few things. She laughed and said, it is just her computer, named “Amiga”—’friend’ (feminine) in Spanish. In the taxi, she inquired about where I was from, and I explained I’m a diasporic Puerto Rican who grew up in the U.S.-Mexico borderlands. She sighed, “it’s a shame that Puerto Rico isn’t independent from the U.S. yet,” and went on to recount her time working with Puerto Rican activists who resisted the U.S. Navy testing of weapons on the outer island of Vieques. There is something breathtaking about meeting someone who fought for you before you existed. When I offered her my condolences and solidarity with Palestine, she reminded me that while it hurts, it is all connected—and there is joy for both of us to have while resurrecting a better future. Puerto Rico and Palestine, both in her earlier days advocating for self-determination from colonization and now, are constrained by U.S. power, and because of that our liberation from it is intertwined.

When we arrived at the museum, I chose to carry her suitcase to the door instead of rolling it. The least I could do is give reverence to her in a tiny way, after she has done so for me. This, too, is precious.

Before the performance, she made a dedication: “For me, it feels like a crime of silence if I don’t mention all those who are dying and will die in غزة (Gaza). I was born in Jerusalem in 1936. There was no Israel then. Over the past 75 years they have taken over our country. They pretend our culture is theirs. They pretend falafel is Israeli. And now, they are claiming it’s all theirs. So, in honor of the people of غزة, I would like dedicate my efforts. With the beautiful permission of Togar, we are going to include a piece here that will be singing ‘from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free’.”

After the eruption of applause, Samia started the performance by moving her mouse across the dated Windows cloudy sky wallpaper to a program called “Kinetic Painting”. As Togar initiated sounds of rain and heart-beat like percussion, Samia painted rain-like stripes, mosaics of color, a windshield-wiper type motion to clear the slate. The knots in my neck seemed to loosen when I was tasked to imagine with abstraction; to communicate with Samia through visual language in tandem with the ideas we already resonated on over lunches and cab rides.

The chants cascade from the speakers among the sounds of bells, and rushing water:

“From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free!”
“No justice, no peace! No justice, no peace!”

It dawned on me that while I knew these chants by heart, I had only heard them in the confines of my phone speaker since October 7th. I saw a “sonic liberation” shirt in the crowd, and realized those words perfectly captured what I felt. The boldness of collective listening and the unmistakably high volume of the speaker offered a freedom from the isolation I felt in my attempts to connect to Palestine through my phone. In creating these spaces for release through listening and imagining, Taipei Biennial 13 acknowledges both technology’s presence in state violence and displacement, as well as its possibilities for solidarity and gathering.

In the Biennial’s installations, I also felt my right to release this pent up anxiety affirmed. I’ll admit, I occasionally hide in Jacqueline Kiyomi Gork's Not Exactly (Whatever the New Key Is), a dark room with an inflatable maze that breathes, and somehow offloads the weight I carry in my chest. When I visit Yang Chi-Chuan’s sustained ceramic sculptures in Your Tears Remind Me to Cry, I feel as though I am in a crib, soothed from the pressures of our political conditions by the sound installation, much like a lullaby. When so much is at stake, I am brought closer to myself and my communities through spaces like these.

In Samia’s conversation with video artist Ellen Pau and curator Freya Chou, a comment she made framed this phenomenon in the Biennial with brevity: “The best art happens in revolution, using the technology of its time.”

Movement in the Streets of Taipei

I linger often on that inherent tie between youth, and imagining what is next—the natural curiosity about what conditions we want to spend the balance of our lives in. With shared questions about Palestine and Taiwan, a group of friends and I asked Samia what advice she had for our generation in navigating plural global struggles.

Off the top of her head, Samia spewed a host of literature we should read, stressing that we must always sharpen our political analysis. In her stories from the internationalist movements she witnessed, all well before we were born, she said in passing, “what the map cuts up, the story cuts across”. Samia carries a certain optimism that our stories, our truth, will always bubble to the surface, even when it feels like the sky is falling. She reminded us that there is a connective force among us that is bigger; one that pierces through the ways land—and everything on it—is bordered, territorialized, and claimed. Samia seemed to point to a certain responsibility to nurture that force, to hold it to our chests like a talisman.

Before leaving, she said one last thing: “What your generation needs to do is forget nationalism…we should be making friendships across borders, be activists across borders.”

In the days following the Taipei Biennial opening weekend, there was a demonstration in front of the Israeli Economic and Cultural Office in Taipei. Youth from Taiwan, Hong Kong, Malaysia, St. Kitts, Indonesia, and beyond gathered with a shared demand: ceasefire now.

Signs and banners were carefully crafted in multiple languages, speeches were translated. Within these choices, we see a praxis for global collaboration—an intentional substituting of nationalism for collective liberation as the key to our individual wellbeing. In many ways, this small demonstration marked a turning point in the transition to a more visible, public resistance for Palestine in Taiwan.

Just four days later, the Taipei Peace Rally (台北和平集會) filled the perimeter of Da’an Forest Park, the largest park in the city. About 500 people gathered, marking the largest demonstration for Palestine in Taiwan to date.

Angela Davis describes Palestine as a moral litmus test for the world; a nexus in the questions of struggle around class, migration, race, gender, sexuality, or nationality. It followed that the rally was a reunion of sorts of many communities under a shared principle. The rally drew migrant workers associations, punk groups, the local mosque, college students, zine artists, DJs, printmakers. Throughout the day, there was a natural circulation of people's resources, from Instagram and Line accounts to flags and stickers.

In the crowd, the sounds of Mandarin, Taiwanese, Arabic, English, Bahasa, and Hindi rang about, a sonic window into Taiwan’s broader relations and interdependencies in Asia. The only thing louder was the chants—the same ones from my phone, from Togar and Samia’s jam. This time, they were magnified by collective voices, not speakers. In this moment, Palestine felt closer to me than it ever had in Taiwan. The flow of global movements around sovereignty felt close enough to touch.

Two nights before Taiwan’s 2024 presidential election, the Democratic Progressive Party had their last major rally in front of the Presidential Office Building in Taipei. Turning the corner to see the crowd reminded me of turning into the first gallery of the Biennial, where Taiwanese photojournalist Hsu Tsun-Hsu’s green wall of photos reflect Taiwan’s transition from martial law to democracy from 1988 to 1998.

The More We Get Together offers both context and comfort: a historical reminder that Taiwan’s democracy was passionately fought for, and a comfort in knowing that Taipei’s streets have already seen pivotal events creating unpredictable futures. While we looked an existential moment in the eyes on this night, Hsu Tsun-Hsu, much like Samia Halaby, created historical terrain to guide how we speculate what becomes of our political futures—in Taiwan and beyond.

And here we are, counting again. This time, ballot by ballot, tallying a future unknown and under construction.

There is something in the water. There is something not just to being in Taiwan, but being in Taiwan right now—on days when the world waits for its decisions, understandings, and dreams.

The 13th Taipei Biennial is right on time—pinched in a moment when our relations to this place, and the wider constellation of struggles it is interlaced with, are weighted differently. I am lucky not only to have a front row seat, but to be one of many transformed by Taipei Biennial 13 in preparation for this moment.

Sources

• Al Jazeera. “World reacts to Taiwan election as China says reunification ‘inevitable.’” 13 Jan. 2024.
• Bailey, Stephanie. “Taipei Biennial Celebrates a World Worth Fighting For.” Ocula Magazine, 10 Jan. 2024.
• Lee, Weng Choy. “Biennial Demand.” MODERN ART, 26 Sept. 2014. “China Formally Restores Diplomatic Relations with Nauru after Pacific Island Nation Cut Taiwan Ties.” Associated Press, 24 Jan. 2024.
• Lee, Yimou, et al.  Reuters, 2 Aug. 2022.
• UN General Assembly, Restoration of the lawful rights of the People's Republic of China in the United Nations. 25 October 1971, A/RES/2758(XXVI).