A while back, Fanfan and I went to an exhibit at the Taipei County Yingge Ceramics Museum called Play-Light Box. Fanfan had to write an article on it (it's in the most recent issue of La Vie), so I tagged along for the ride. While not the most fascinating exhibit I've gotten into for free during my tenure as the boyfriend of an art student, there was on thing that struck me. It was a big panel that read:

For a long time Taiwan's society has been filled with insecurity and unrest, and this is due to her special situation as a nation, formed over a long period of time through her relationship with the Chinese mainland. The uncertainty of the future has weakened the operation of local perseverance. Here all the things needing the accumulation of time and group cooperation seem unable to withstand the test of human selfishness. A thin, superficial, short-sighted style, one made not for time but for fast consumption and the satisfaction of material demand, builds the phenomena common to Taiwan's environment today.

And the Yingge Ceramics Museum -- it is a cultural edifice necessarily immersed in the complex linkages of "culture." Within the construction and deconstruction of culture, what kind of attitude should the architect adopt before he can appropriately accept or reject one's own "culture"? This is something he must confront with sincerity.

I've been running over this in my head for quite some time. I've already addressed before Taiwan's seeming deficiency of architectural style, and it's effect on the people living therein. Aside from the temples and, of course, Taipei 101, there is nothing remarkable about the buildings in Taiwan. By that, I mean, if you get lost (which I do quite often) you can't tell where you are because all of the buildings look the same. They are all made of the same materials:


The ceramic tile: I'd say that this is by far the most oft-used material, covering the exteriors of most of the buildings here. They look like little bathroom tiles that you would see in a locker room shower and they range in color from off-white to a sort-of light brown.






Corrugated Metal: Though the ceramic tiles cover the buildings, there is, more often than not, some part of any building made up of the flimsy looking rippled metal. Quite often, a building will have what looks like a little shack built on the top out of this stuff. Every building in my neighborhood has one. The colors, again, range from drab white or tan to drab green.





Plain old concrete: In a lot of areas, buildings were just tossed up with plain old concrete. My neighborhood is like that. All of the buildings are made of concrete and bricks. No insulation, no color. Just gray.









Steel: You'd be hard-pressed to find a residence in Taiwan that doesn't have a big steel door at the entrance or, even moreso, have all of it's windows covered by what looks like a giant birdcage. Concerning the former, this door often resembles a steel garage door with a smaller door-door on the side. I've heard several times that foreigners can't find the entrance to a place because they only see the garage. As for the latter, it is so prevalent that I would go so far as to say it's universal, but I couldn't really tell you why. Sure, maybe they're worried about someone trying to break in, but even on the fourth and fifth floors?


Aside from the similarity in materials, there is also a complete lack of style. The setting sun in Taiwan highlights the sillhouette of a sky-line that is nothing but straight-edges and right angles. Most buildings look like boxes.

When I first got here, I was shocked by this Taiwanese truism. I couldn't reconcile myself with the fact that this was the place I had been reading about. This was an Asian tiger, yet it looked like pictures I had seen in National Geographic of places like Cambodia. I realized soon after, though, that I just plain didn't understand. I had had the impression that this place was actually poorer than I thought, but I didn't understand that, in Taiwan, riches bought you a better interior, not a better all-around. I realized this the first time I walked with Fanfan through the "rich area" of Taipei. I wouldn't have known it if she hadn't told me. All of the buildings were the same as anywhere else we had been, the only difference I remarked was that the cars on the street parked in front of the buidlings were brand new BMWs or Jaguars.

This, I have learned is what happens when a country is for so long a "country," or, in Taiwan's case, a temporary refuge that would provide shelter before a return "home." These buildings were thrown up to accomidate the hordes coming from China, only to last long enough until they went back. At some point along the way, though, the shelter became home.

I've heard that there have been movements made by the government to tear down these old buildings, to make way for a sort of "New Tokyo," but I'd imagine an undertaking like that would be difficult and time-consuming in a place with the second highest population density in the world.