浮線日誌 How to draw a line across the sea?

一.

I.

How long must one dwell in a place before calling it “home”? Having lived on Peng Chau for eight and a half years, I cannot recall when I first came to regard it as such. Its rhythm, distances, scents, and sounds gradually became utterly natural. Amidst upheaval, many things I never imagined would change have crumbled away—like the concept of “home”.

Peng Chau, too, will not remain a “home” forever. So, these eight and a half years on the island—were they merely a phase, or perhaps an exceptionally lengthy residency programme?

Upon completing each residency, I force myself to leave behind some creative work connected to that place. So what should remain from this eight-and-a-half-year residency? Should I one day cease living on Peng Chau, what traces would the island retain? What would I cherish most?

II.

The ferry ride underpins much of Peng Chau’s beauty—the people, the things, the routines we’ve grown accustomed to. That sense of fulfilment from boarding the ferry during my first few months on Peng Chau remains palpable even after a few days’ absence.

The ferry shuttling between Peng Chau and Central carves a cross-section of Hong Kong seldom glimpsed on ordinary days. Like aeroplanes, ferries separate departure points from destinations, with an intermediate space that seems detached from both.

The ferry is a transition between two times, two rhythms, two lives; travelling by boat is a pause, a breath, a buffer. It is a space, an experience. The mostly punctual ferries establish a strict, steady rhythm for Peng Chau life.

Islands and vessels, both named and nameless, drift slowly past through the elongated windows like frames of film, unfurling like a scroll. Whether this counts as rapt attention or absent-mindedness, this scroll painting truly never grows tiresome.

III.

For this exhibition, I compelled myself on each ferry crossing to refrain from working on my computer, reading, or closing my eyes in meditation. Instead, I focused solely on experiencing every moment of the journey, discovering something new on each voyage—perhaps another form of contemplation?

IV.

The ‘outcome’ of this extended residency programme clings to the ticket office of Peng Chau Cinema, a historic building. The theatre has avoided cosmetic revitalisation and conservation, preserving its traces of the past. Now, it is forging new connections under a new identity.

The work must coexist with these traces of past and present—parasitic, grafted, or permeating.

V.

For now, I have no intention of leaving Peng Chau—this protracted residency continues.

Perhaps this exhibition is an exercise in rediscovering one’s ‘pure intent’. Beyond the initial curiosity of moving to Peng Chau and taking the ferry, it is also about the joy and innocence of creation.

It may also be an exercise in compelling myself to contemplate ‘parting’. After all, everything has its end, and there are always moments beyond one’s imagination.

Perhaps this applies not only to Peng Chau, but to all ‘homes’—all places connected are to me.