Writer: Dr Vivian Ting

Old Building M: “Houses live and die...”

I have no clue since when we are called ‘monuments’ – a cold title that suspends all life below our colours and textures. I feel uneasy whenever I think of the word and the estrangement it brings. But when you see the YMCA at Bridges Street and Loke Yew Hall at The University of Hong Kong show off its iconic influence over the city’s nostalgia, you can see that old buildings think differently. Some of them might enjoy being surrounded by crowds of youngsters and having their pictures taken, but personally, I’d rather not be turned into a backdrop.

Am I being too rigid, trying to resist the trend?

Buildings usually outlive humans. Our structures evolve with time in response to the human desire for stability, comfort and style, supporting changes in life. We are built, renovated, demolished and expanded as new families are generated. We collapse, shatter and perish while humans wage wars, battle epidemics and political upheavals. We support the living spaces of individuals and groups and every of our components are meant for protect our residents. The walls, lookouts and gates bar thieves. Our tiled rooftops bring ventilation for summers and winters. The columns that support our structures are decorated with drawings and messages of morality, giving hope for a prosperous future, while protecting the pillars from unwanted pests. It is our destiny to share ups and downs with human allies and we are receptive to any changes brought upon us.

Well, now what? In the course of modern development, preserving history and culture is irresistible. The laws for preserving monuments unveil the values of old buildings and enable the public to explore the glories of old buildings, be they hidden or not. What’s so bad about them?

It’s of course good to let people know about the past. We are frail to the point that we actually have no clue to the ‘values’ that can keep us treasured. But I guess what we are proud of ourselves is not barely the functionality of our components or the beauty of our designs, it’s how the space shapes meaning of home, helps build the foundation of a family’s career, and links communities with deities.

Do you know how many tales a courtyard of an old building keeps all through the years? All of the stories – new, old, ordinary or magical – are passed down from one generation to another. We witness how stories grannies told about family history have turned into family doctrine guiding generations after. Some stories of the youthful longing for chivalry have turned into real actions to counter injustices. And some stories about fairies falling in love have encouraged young girls to be brilliant wives capable of raising children and culinary arts. The common tales told in the courtyard were often materialised as couplets, furniture and interior decorations. The ordinary experiences across generations, filled with hope, disappointment, persistence and compromise and bring new stories to the old buildings. I have no clue if the tales belong to only one family or a bigger community, but I am sure memories are everywhere in old buildings.

I often ponder the lines of the British poet T.S. Eliot:

“Houses live and die:
there is a time for building

And a time for living and for generation

And a time for the wind to
break the loosened pane

And to shake the wainscot
where the field-mouse trots

And to shake the tattered arras
woven with a silent motto.”

(The Four Quarters: East Coker by T.S. Eliot)

The words of the couplet have faded; wooden pillars have vanished and furniture smashed as I grow old, all that remains are the sketchy contours of the once-detailed tales. Longing for the interests from youngsters and restorations by art and technology, we hope to reclaim the fading memories – they say that it’s all we can cling to when we share our glories with others even when we are vacant. Well, I hope they are right.

(Note: The author invited M, the spokesperson for the HK Old Building Alliance to a telephone interview on 17 August 2016. The old building (a.k.a. M) refused to uncover his identity and insisted on the full transcript of the interview if it were published.)

Sam Tung Uk: “Only the feelings in the heart are not as they were before...”

I have been fascinated by the smoothing sound of trickling and flowing water. It is the sound of life and also the sound of simple life that seems lasting forever. Curiously, water flows and people come and go, and my aged ears can only hear the noisy traffic. When musicians Steve Hui and Lee Man-sang fitted the famous verses from Song Dynasty into a Southern Melody, I knew that this is the music of flowing water. It invites people to join the artists from the past and the present to ponder upon the transient nature of our lives:

“The sun dwindles in the west - when will it
start to grow?

Nothing can restore the blossom once it
falls in snow.

Yet almost, I recognise each incoming
swallow.”

(Washing Creek Sands, Translated by Alan Ayling and Duncan Mackintosh)

The extravagant yet serene vocals convey deeper emotions that bring the audience back to their home in the past, showcasing the beautiful and the ruined. Artist Jaffa Lam goes further by setting up a light installation at different corners of the house. The past and present overlap; and the reality flickers and flashes with illusion, making way for nostalgia. With the dose of ‘flashback medication’, precious memories surge and invite us to revisit the relationship between old houses and the tenants. What will become of us and how should we unveil our personal experiences?

During the period of Hungwu during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1398), the ancestors of Chan migrated from Yoning, Fujian to Lungchuan Province, Bolou County and Loufang County in Canton, and then further to the Old House Area (presently Tai Wo Hau). From year 51 during Qianlong’s period (1786), Chan Kin-sheung (1761-1840), a leader of the clan had acquired this piece of land from the Sun family in Xinchuan and was settled here ever since. With their ancestral blessing, each generation had lived a life of prosperity: the piece of land was well sheltered from natural hazards, and the people had an unlimited supply of resources from mother nature – clean water, abundant firewood, and Chinese herbs. The stream that flowed from Hong Kong to Zhujiang was not only abundant with fish but the beautiful and constant flow of water symbolised the endless flow of money into our family. With the traditional belief of ‘returning to the roots’, the family lineage extended as the individuals were biologically connected with each other. This explains how my family grew from 3 houses to a clan of more than 30. I can still remember the lanterns that were lit in the Assembly Hall whenever a baby boy was born. The lights celebrated and symbolised the new extension to the family, and renewed our memories of family heritage. The light installation displayed by Jaffa subtly refers to the tradition, yet declares independence and the new generation’s confidence with their distinct style. How will we build on our predecessors and forge the future during times of uncertainty?

I clearly remember the scent of the orchids outside our study room. Lord Hing Chiu (1815-1875) had attended to the plants every day in memory of his late father, Lord Yip Lan (1787-1822). I recall the generosity of Lord Xiuzhang (1858-1927), who, despite reveling often with his friends, still attended to the sick and helped pay the medical bills of his fellow townsmen even when he had little money. The courageous Lord Wing On spoke up for justice and won much enthusiastic appreciation. During the Sino-Japanese War, he led a strike with the oil depot workers and refused to trade oil with the Japanese in 1938. I sheltered many such characters over the years – some strong, some with great achievements, and some enjoying the ordinary life. They all remained strong even when life was tough and rough. You could hear the elderly giggling, children reading, wives whispering, and the animals frolicking as all lived harmoniously. My design, however, duly reflected the traditional order and always showed respect for seniority. The projector displays familiar bits and pieces of the past on the bare white wall. After the people and objects (like me) have come and gone, what is left for the next generation? Would they be interested in our old stories?

The world is changing – skyscrapers, highways, railways, and vehicles have long replaced forests, farmlands, and sea waves. When poets of the past described the transient nature of being, it only strengthens my deep attachment to the past and longing for old friends, objects, and stories. But I still believe I am lucky to have an artist picking up the fragments of my memory with new materials and advanced technology. Thus, the couplets in the grand hall:

“It’s difficult to build and sustain.
When you understand the difficulty
ahead it becomes easy.
Strong men show their will at hard times.

It’s delightful to farm and read.
When you treasure happiness you
come to be jolly. Gentlemen put their
efforts into work they enjoy.”

I cannot clearly remember who left these words for later generations. But I remember that Master Chan once said, “Even when the times are tough and family members live apart, they must keep in mind the lessons for ‘difficulty’ and ‘happiness’.” While the former encourages us to persist through the hard times, the latter reminds us to treasure the joys in the world and be calm despite the ups and downs. Jaffa engraved the couplets, now vanished, onto transparent plastic boards to contrast the visible with the invisible, and unveil the conflict between memory and loss. I cannot recall exact memories of the past, though the indispensable hope and persistence, and attitudes about difficulty and happiness may be able to bridge the gap between the past and present. As I murmur the couplets to myself, I can see again the vibrant sea waves. Are they the glittering stars of old memories or the sparks of lives interconnecting?

(Note: Details about past events from Shi Bi Tong Genealogy of Chan Family, edited by Chan Wing-on.)

Kom Tong Hall: “How do contemporaries portray the qualities of great men?”

Sir Kom Tong was a fanatic of the Cantonese opera. He enjoyed staging shows at his home and acting for charitable causes. Living with him, I was also attracted to the art, particularly how it highlighted the ups and downs of the times, and the personalities and fates of characters through gestures and song. The all-black outfits worn by the Great Conqueror reflected his despair about his era; the burgundy clothes of Li Xiangjun symbolised the bloodshed from the ruin of the country. The vivid colours spoke of the times in spectacular, but unpretentious ways.

I cannot always see real-life drama with the same clarity. I know the main character in the ‘story’ – that he always seized the opportunity to publicise his political agendas when offered a chance to soothe the public. The Qing government surrendered the country in humiliation, and a republican government was the only way out. His ideas, though rather vague for most, won support from many, thanks to the prevailing resentment towards the arrogance of colonial rule. Even the servants of Sir Kom Tong were spirited away for his talks and privately discussed about the country’s future. Some despised this man for being a cheater, a triad leader, an unprofessional doctor; while others commended him for being a revolutionary, a nationalist and convener for westernisation. I don’t really know if he played these roles and how he might be judged, but he certainly used many names – Dr Sun Yat-sen was a popular one. His name not only earned him fame, but many controversial comments as well.

Dr Sun Yat-sen’s biography is sprinkled with thrilling elements that could obscure the audience’s perception of him and the era he built. In examining the 1911 Revolution and how it has been interpreted, artist Wilson Shieh refers to the personal experiences of Dr Sun, showcasing a colourful dream for a new era. The artwork has seven screens for the modernist society and westernised ideology. The series vividly portrays modernity brought about by vigorous cultural exchanges and displays of contemporary daily life, charting the progress of modernisation by showing how important men witness the changes. Each screen is in contrast to the interior design of the house – new perspectives of modern interpretations, placed together to reflect memories of architectural styles that were once groundbreaking. The artwork and the design of the house work together in a search for the past, reconstructing the colour tones, shapes and textures, and the intellectual vision of modernisation.

Wilson replicates the splendid and extravagant strokes of Canton enamel in his piece declaring the energy that Cantonese had in welcoming the new era. The audience can see rouge red matching with sharp green, and purple contrasting the bright yellow, and the vivid depiction of butterflies and the phoenix. By the end of Kangxi’s period (late 17th century),Guangzhou grew into a Chinese port that was attracting international trade; porcelain painted in Canton enamel soon had an international standing. Porcelain from the famous Jingdezhen was transported to Guangzhou, for the craftsmen to draw pictures of the ‘oriental style’ for foreigners. Signature Chinese elements like flower blossoms, dragons, and phoenixes were presented in a western style of painting and design. The semi-Chinese, semi-western art revealed the cultural exchanges – foreign traders and missionaries introduced novel styles, techniques, and concepts, inevitably bringing changes to the routine Chinese lifestyle. How can we appreciate the extravagance of Canton enamel? How did Dr Sun’s revolutionary ideas address the contrast between Chinese and Western; old schools of thought and the new; the traditional and the contemporary? In an era when new concepts influenced traditional society and old systems seemed to be unfit, the questions are even more crucial.

The key question of the Chinese scholars was: What actually is Western theory and practice? How does it influence the modernisation of a country? These were also the questions shared by many Asian intellectuals during the late 19th century. In Japan, for example, with the implementation of the Meiji Restoration in the 1860s, a new constitution, representative government, modernised industrial facilities, and free education were sweeping changes. The idea of ‘acquiring knowledge from the world’ prevailed. How did people in the Meiji period perceive modernisation? With reference to the traditional Japanese ukiyo-e, Wilson illustrated the prosperity of Japan’s new era using bright, contrasting colours. Ambitious entrepreneurs invested new capital and technology into their business venture; ronins had no choice but to accept the Sword Abolishment Edict. Women were striving to learn western etiquette and the peasants surrendered their land, while wandering in the metropolis where new buildings blended with the old society. The people were searching for new positions in the new world. Embedded in the new order was an ultimate desire for new knowledge. Important western titles like On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, Social Contract Theory by Jean Jacques Rousseau, and The Spirit of the Laws by Baron de Montesquieu were being translated into Japanese. Book on Foreign Affairs by Watanabe Kazan (1793-1841), Reflection on Elections by Nakae Chomin (1847-1901), Japanese Culture and World Strategies by Okakura Tenshin (1863-1913), and Night Talks on Laws by Hozumi Nobushige (1855-1926) all demonstrated the ideological awakening of Japanese scholars at the time. Deeply influenced by the ideological turn, Dr Sun began his revolutionary campaign to ‘Revive Chinese Culture, Save China’ with a ‘western’ outlook. In Yokohama, he cut off his braid and changed to a Western suit. For decades afterwards, tens of thousands of Chinese students furthered their studies in Japan – contemplating on the way forward for China, after referring to the modernisation process in Japan.

Provinces aptly declared independence from the Qing government after the Wuchang Uprising in October 1911. On New Year’s Day, 1912, the Chinese Republican Government was formally established and Dr Sun was declared the Provisional President. The new representative government; however, had been under constant challenges ever since. With Yuan Shikai usurping the parliament’s authority, the government and soon the country was divided and practically defunct. Incessant fighting among warlords was devastating China. With personal portrayals of the social elites – Kang Youwei, Liang Qichao, Hu Shih, Lu Xun, and Gao Jianfu, the artist invites audiences to reflect on their lifelong efforts to either modernise China or preserve its traditions in the age of adversity. In considering the colourful past, how can we reconcile the conflict between modernity and tradition, and comprehend its relationship with the future development of country and culture?

Dr Sun regretfully pointed out the shortcoming of the revolution – that neither ideas nor cultures radical enough were formulated in response to the modern world. Well, do such change-driving ideas and ideology exist? Chinese historian Chen Yinke once commented,
“Truth cannot be advocated and academic study cannot be furthered without free thinking and independent spirit.” Thinker Fukuzawa Yukichi once mentioned that the development of civilisation does not lie in industrial facilities and education systems but in independent thinking and individual will. While political upheavals bring colour to an era, the ideas put forward by the two great men are like lighthouses – though far like Polaris, offering directions for future development.

Wong Uk: “It still remains, even after the shades and colours have faded...”

Why have my memories of family, companions, and surroundings slipped away, even though I have lived for so long? Is it because the act of forgetting is like the disappearance of the ashes of memories? As hotels and private residential blocks settle around the city, with railways linking together each and every part, I was excluded from the prosperous world. I have turned out to become an old vacant house disconnected from the new life everyone else is enjoying. On dull days, my devoted caretaker Auntie Ho, a team of serious civil servants, and those who might be curious enough to have accidentally come inside for a glimpse, are with me.

In the middle of one of the typical afternoon breezes, a young chap with round spectacles, a big tote bag, video camera and notebook strolled around casually. He was neither friend of the serious civil servants nor a curious explorer eager to take pictures with me for Facebook. He wandered around until his steps filled every single corner of me; he appreciated the potted plants and the tiles on the walls, and then called for Auntie Ho like a friendly neighbour.

The young fellow has dropped by to share bits and pieces of his life, no matter what the weather was like. He brought with him loads of historical information, video clips of interviews and photos of old stuff. Yet, I had little to share with him, despite my effort to gather together the broken pieces of my memories, to show him something, anything of value. My amnesia seems to have worsened, turning me into just a decorative house in a theme park, though my background was clearly written on an information panel:

“Yuen Chau Kok – excellent geographical location made it a prominent trading area for merchants in Canton and Kowloon in the 19th century. Wong Uk Village nearby also prospered with traders and visitors flooding in.”

I know not how these cold facts are related to my companions, nor what has come from past prosperity. Why does past goodness disappear?

“Wong Uk. Do you still remember Tide Cove, the fish ponds and farmlands? When New Town development commenced in Sha Tin 30 years ago, my family and I moved into a public housing estate from the partitioned flat and we became your neighbour. You stay and witness what we lost, gained, preserved and got rid of. I don't fancy grieving for no reason. Do you mind playing this game of search with me to explore the links between city dwellers and objects invisible to many, and question how we decide when we face changes?”

Butterflies danced in my heart as I felt more devoted to the young fellow. I watched him smile and searched for a connection between people and objects. I pondered about the idea of transformation and preservation.

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Lam Tung-pang. I have been one of your fellow neighbourhoods for more than 30 years. As an artist, I like observing the world. For me, bringing people and objects together at different times and space so we can live through art and generate new concepts, perspectives, and journeys. I have no idea about what the future will bring but I believe that searches bring discoveries, which can then outline the landscape and give meaning to what we had not known before. Shall we try?”

As one who forgets much, I don't think I can make out anything with certainty. Does anyone care? In the evening, Lam and I sat together staring into the silent dark sky, watching the petals fall and listening to birds humming. The dark blue faded bit by bit, giving way to slivers on sunlight at dawn. Lam watched the changing blueness, “Villagers in Sha Tin once supported themselves with the centuries old craft of indigo dyeing. The wrightia laevis were planted all along Kwun Yam Shan Village and Kong Pui Village, where the people could crush the plants to make excellent dyes. The colours resembled the night sky and eventually were known as the famous ‘Sha Tin Blue’. Over time, however, the villagers quit making the indigo dyes and the trees slowly disappeared. When the dyeing process had come to its end, ‘Sha Tin Blue’ was only a legend remembered by the elderly. The deep blue colour could only be imagined by looking at the starlit sky at night. Why did the people give up on dye making? Was it because it was too difficult or too expensive, or because it was without a future?”

Lam’s questions lingered at dawn. I don't have any answer for him. Frankly, I cannot remember anyone mentioning this beautiful ‘Sha Tin Blue’ to me. Losses bring grief, yet I doubt if the hopelessness could have altered our decisions for the future.

Lam once brought along a photograph of his ancestral house in Quanzhou. The photo showed daily life – catching up with modern times, the old house was furnished with a refrigerator and electric lights invaded the hand-crafted wooden beams and cables that dangled around the sculptured pillars. The traditional house and the modern electrical fixtures illustrated the mismatch and were indicative of the old house’s inability to support the family. Maybe I should feel lucky since my family moved out early to a modern flat. Yet, I still miss them and I wonder if they miss me sometimes? Do they miss the past we enjoyed together?

“Wong Uk, have you ever wondered about the origin of ideas like family, ancestral houses, and monuments? When we treasure the beauty of the past and cry for our loss of memory, are we being obsessed with the loss or do we dread the uncertainty of the present? Would the sadness induced by a loss ultimately drive us to ask: Is there anything that cannot be lost?”

What cannot be lost? For me, it’s memory – one’s origin, identity, and connections with others that are accumulated to form the experience we need for the difficulties in life. My greatest fear is when the slippage of memory does not lead to future development, but it is only a collective and conscious neurological disorder.

“If death is final, can we do something for the lost chapters?” Lam posed a direct question one day. “I started collecting old furniture again recently. Look how delicate this beautifully crafted desk with 10 drawers is! I have always wanted it but it didn’t come to me until its owner gave it up for safety’s sake after having a baby (grins). I will turn it into a storage unit for collecting old stories of Sha Tin, just partitioning them and decorating them with little goodies would do. And here comes this rosewood side table that belonged to a travelling Korean family. As they moved to the boat, this piece came at the right time for my renewal on parts and designs. Do you see how it looked originally? Antiques with new parts and structures can have their lives extended in extraordinary ways, showing how the life of an object constantly evolves. We do the same in responding to changes in time. When faced with an inevitable change, we can still find a way out, by extending the lives of those we treasure, even when they are objects. Why shouldn’t we try to fill the emptiness caused by loss?”

There is no beginning to the past and no ending for the future. We cannot free ourselves from the beginning or ending, loss or preservation, and how can we choose what to keep or give away? How should I interact with others to rebuild my significance in time?

“Wong Uk, you did a great job inspiring us with ideas and fueling our imagination about time and events from past to the present. In return, I create a unique beauty in you with old items and stories, with the hope of triggering reflections about our decision to change in the city. You experienced a lot with us, leaving us with memories for generations to come. With these, we can reconstruct our own memories about our unique experiences in life, and write our own history.”

The colour of nightfall seems to remain constant. A fragment of lyrics from a song Auntie Ho played long ago comes to mind:

“I have no clue if my love for blue is inborn or habitual. When experience in this vibrant world dismisses in seconds like fireworks do, it still remains, even after the shades and colours have faded...”

Does anything in the world stay forever? Is it art or a monument? Perhaps we should stay brave and calm even though we sometimes fail in our never-ending search.

Law Uk: “Up a spacious sky above my head...”

I don't know why my world was suspended among the greenery hundreds of years ago. Situated at the front of Mount Wind Gate (now Mount Collinson), I had a full view of the lime kilns scattered among the farms and I could listen to the sea breezes humming their rhymes with each tide. The rhythms perfectly echoed the routines back then. Together with Shing Uk, Lam Uk, Luk Uk, and Sai Tsuen, we at the Hakka villages once housed more than 200 in our tightly packed rooms. When the wives gathered firewood and the herdsmen were calling at their cattle every morning, I thought everything would remain unchanged for season after season, amid the joys and sorrows of every family. Just as I thought the fruity scent of papaya, guava, and banana would always linger, the corrugated houses and factories began settling in Chai Wan. Then the reclamations and the MTR appeared. I could see bits of myself falling when the Japanese attacked. Although I pondered my own death, ultimately, I survived, standing alone at the corner of the fully developed area. I was declared as a historical building, while my neighbours silently vanished.

I have very little to say to the rapidly changing world. What’s the point in talking about what has already faded? Yet I remember that little girls once lived here – are they all right? Were they able to adapt to the world and make a good living? You may have noticed my plain and dull look. With minimal furniture to support the most basic needs in life, the poor people would sometimes sing:

“Farmers are penniless – empty rice baskets make the mice move, worn out clothes make bachelors. We can only lead an impoverished life, day in day out.”

Artist Fiona Wong was keen to tell some old stories with me. Today, nobody really understands such misery. You know, the Hakka never blamed anything for the hard times but just hummed folk songs to forget the sorrow. I don’t really miss the poor and miserable past, and the tales I now tell of the Hakka poor are neither agitating nor pitiful, but they are simply about the trivial matters of their lives. Every young lad contemplated making a living overseas, but those who left rarely managed to return. Some died before arrival and others were unable to support themselves, earning meager wages in low jobs. Some simply preferred to wander without trying to return. Those who were committed to give their families a better life at home, they had to save every penny for decades.

Women were left to take care of their families when the men were working abroad. In the neighbourhood, Auntie Shun attended to fathers and mothers-in-law, children, livestock, and household chores. The chores were never-ending, working like 20 hours a day: preparing breakfast, selling harvest at markets, farming the land, cleaning the cows, feeding the livestock, gathering firewood uphill and preparing dinner. Although fully engaged, Auntie Shun managed to squeeze in time for the little joys: pickling vegetables, picking herbs for traditional cakes, making wines for the elderly in winter and preparing herbal jelly to kill the heat in summer. All hard work seemed worthwhile, however, when she saw how much her family appreciated it. Fiona has retold the story of a typical Hakka woman with contemporary ceramic vessels in this tiny storeroom. These contemporary vessels are shaped differently, but they all look like the Hakka women who sweat and toil and never yield to adversity. The earthenware is literal embodiment of the hardworking, devoted housewives and I recall the lyrics that Auntie Shun had always hummed, “A spacious sky above my head, we should just let go of our sadness!” Do memories of the past blow away like the smoke from the stove?

In the past, when young brother and Little Moon met, they sang folk songs together. Their eyes would meet with the beautiful lyrics that lingered in the mountains. The couple married for a happy life, only to realise that they were forced apart as life went on. When the husband was working overseas to support his family back home, the wife shouldered up to the responsibilities. She fed piggy with drops of milk made from milk powder, stitched and sewed clothes and mended shoes for the family. Fiona has replicated their attires, in porcelain and set up porcelain screens to collect the stories of Hakka women. The porcelain not only shows the delicate texture of intimate items, but also unveils the people’s hopes and disappointments. The light from the porcelain lamp flickers on the creases on the clothes, suggesting reunions and departures, the ups and downs in destiny, and the toughness and loyalty despite the struggles in life.

“Did two of them lead a better life afterwards?” Fiona asked, sitting on my grain yard. Well, it’s good just to have made it through. Although Auntie Shun did not meet her husband again, her children all had a good life. Sadly, they did not really get along with their ill-tempered and frugal mother and married one after the other. Auntie Shun was left alone in the house and passed away after suffering from a bad back and having a critical fall. Little Moon’s husband returned after 30 years only to realise that their love had faded. Still, she managed the home as always, and let her husband go on his own. She would sometimes start chanting, while sitting in front of me at sunset until coming to the end of the verse. Fiona insisted, “You should protect these stories just as you did with the Hakka women. These lively stories filled your life and would help you to nurture more meaningful exchanges with others! Let’s gather to tell more stories in the pavilion of the Hakka hat! What do you think?”

When I see the pavilion installed in my grain yard, I hear the folk songs sung by Auntie Shun and Little Moon. I always think about what these women and how they shaped the past. They may seem stubborn and rude, but you can still see traces of the tenderness on their faces, veiled under their hats. Although I hold their stories in my mind, I have no idea of how to share them with others. Who else could be interested in such simple and old tales?

Writer’s Biography

Dr Vivian Ting
Vivian graduated from The Chinese University of Hong Kong and obtained her PhD in Museum Studies in the UK. She worked at the Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery, the Museum of East Asian Art in Bath, and the Plymouth City Museum. Prior to her current post, she taught museum studies and art curatorship at the Academy of Visual Arts of Hong Kong Baptist University. She has involved in many contemporary curatorial projects and her research focuses on how people engage in art activities in the wider context of cultural consumption.