「T Here

明淨而寬敞的家裡,置放了素白與木色的傢俱,推門看見草地,四圍飄蕩著夕陽的淺橙色,你以為溫暖的家,甚麼都不缺。缺人。

女兒出生以後,我常常想著死亡,死後無法帶去的紙紥品,造型竟是金光閃閃的貨物。生前的樓房已成炒賣品,而死後,慾望還未安息嗎?

我便去拍攝紙紥品。發現台灣一間紙房子,樣樣俱存,彷彿燒成灰,彼處便有人搬進去,過與我們無異的生活,一切如常。而窗外透來的光,如果是一種包圍,如果不是夕陽,而是靜放空殻的木色,你推窗,發現死亡可觸;你俯望,紙房子裡重疊著你安睡、你梳洗、你在客廳慢慢喝完一杯水。日常之冷,暖,生,死。此處,彼處,您在哪裡。

「在你熟知的我的哀傷中,我憶及了你。」

你便看見了夢,或你早在夢裡。


"T Here"

White furniture of a wood-like quality is carefully placed in a clean spacious house. The scene is complemented by an extended view of a lawn just through the door while the sky outside bathes in an orange pastel of a setting sun. This is your home sweet home. It has everything. Everything but people.  Ever since my daughter was born, I have been forever musing about death. Why are paper offerings, things we can’t bring with us to death, crafted to signify anything and everything we consider shiny and golden? Housing has already become a speculative market for the living, yet why do our desires still refuse to cease in the afterlife?

So I began taking pictures of paper offerings. In Taiwan, I came upon a paper house. It had everything a person would need, as if burning it to ashes would allow the dead to move in and have a life just like ours, as if death had never happened. What exits from the windows is not light but the ambiance; it’s not the setting sun but the emptiness of wooden colours. You push the window open and feel death under your fingertips. You peek inside the paper house and see images of yourself overlapping one another – you sleep, you wash, you dress, and you slowly drink a glass of water in the living room. It’s all part of your daily life – cold and warm, life and death. Are you here or there? Where are you exactly?

 “I remembered you in that sadness of mine that you know.”

You then witness a dream, or you might already be in one.