he/him
Tung-lin Tsai
HOW TO FOLD A PAPER AIRPLANE
On August 2, 2022, Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Taiwan triggered an immediate response from China—trade restrictions were imposed, military exercises escalated, and the long-standing tensions in the Taiwan Strait once again surfaced on the global stage. At the time, I was in San Francisco, watching these developments unfold through the media. The images of Chinese fighter jets and naval formations conveyed a sense of impending war, even though no war had begun. The conflict that had always been an invisible undercurrent in my life was suddenly brought on the table.
Despite growing tensions and increased Chinese military activity in Taiwan’s Air Defense Identification Zone (ADIZ), when I returned home in 2024, daily life on this island continued as usual. The crisis I had witnessed through the media felt far removed from the normal rhythms of Taiwan’s streets. Taiwan embodied this duality—crisis and normalcy coexisting. In a recurring dream, a giant red paper airplane drifts across a table. It is absurd yet persistent, weightless yet charged with meaning. This dream became the metaphor for my work. The photographs from How to Fold a Paper Airplane do not carry the burden of Taiwan’s unresolved history, nor do they attempt to define the complexities of cross-strait relations. Instead, they hold the weight of unbearable lightness itself as they unfold the absurdity of the current situation. Reality then resembles a paper airplane beyond our complete control. Yet perhaps we can still fold it—and let it fly.
殲16 (Shenyang J-16), 2024.
Photograph, 20 × 24 in.
太陽花 (sunflower), 2024.
Photograph, 20 × 24 in.
地基主 (Landlord Deity), 2024.
Photograph, 20 × 24 in.
紅白塑膠袋 (red white plastic bag), 2024.
Photograph, 20 × 24 in.
YYYY–MM–DD, 2024.
Photograph, 24 × 36 in.