Vanessa Chen | 陳詠昕
Vanessa Chen 陳詠昕 is a curator/artist born and raised in Taipei. She graduated with an MFA in Social Practice and is currently based in Washington, D.C.
With a background in languages and an interest in linguistics, Vanessa uses sociolinguistic concepts to create exhibitions about ordinary people’s life experiences that are subtle and often obscured or not told. Her past curatorial work includes What Is Your Name?, which looks at how a name shapes a person’s identity, Silently, I am still here, which explores how silence acts as a form of presence, Hear The People Sing!, which was an outdoor pop-up show that supported China’s “A4 Movement” in 2022, and Until The Sun Rises, which thoroughly explained Taiwan’s colonial history and its status quo. As a multimedia artist, she is passionate about making interventions in public spaces. By creating public installations, Vanessa aims to foster discussions and create spaces for community engagement.
Outside of art, Vanessa is a human rights advocate and a multilingual translator for refugees, asylum seekers, victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse, and many more who are experiencing crises.
“Let the unheard be heard; let the unseen be seen” is the core of her life practice.
Growing up, I have almost never spoken to my A-ma (“grandma” in Taiwanese) because of the language barrier between us. She speaks Taiwanese and I speak Mandarin. We were never able to communicate with each other, and for the longest time, I even thought she didn’t like me. However, as I learned more and more about the language policy under the KMT’s martial law, I began to see the urgency of retrieving my “mother tongue” and the need to connect with my grandmother.
A-ma, sorry I don’t speak your language is an attempt to mend the broken relationship between my grandmother and me through language. In March 2023, I reached out to her for the first time in my lifetime. I sent her a message and she immediately read my text. Nevertheless, she never replied.
I felt slightly embarrassed, thinking she probably didn’t care. A week later, I got a voice message from her. She responded to my Mandarin message in Taiwanese, but in the background, I could hear my aunt’s voice teaching her how to record a voice message and giving her hints on how to say a Mandarin word. I realized that the week-long wait was my grandmother waiting for my aunt to visit so my aunt could teach her how to reply to my message.
“Yung-Hsin, when are you coming back? A-ma is now retired (aunt’s voice in the background teaching her how to say “retired” in Mandarin) and am staying at home every day. Come visit me when you’re back.” It took me a while to translate what she said. A-ma, sorry I talk with you in the colonizer’s language. Sorry I don’t speak your language.
Towards the end of World War II, in 1943, the Republic of China (中華民國), the United States, and the United Kingdom jointly published the Cairo Declaration (開羅宣言), which demanded that Japan surrender unconditionally and give up Taiwan and its surrounding islands. With Chiang Kai-shek's (蔣中正) presence as the representative of the Republic of China, they added that these lands must be “restored” to the Republic of China, to which the lands never belonged.
However, the Cairo Declaration was only a communique and did not have any binding commitment, so it had been subject to much controversy. Interestingly, the Treaty of San Francisco (舊金山和約), which Japan signed with the Allied Powers in 1951 after its formal defeat in World War II, did have formal legal effect, and only mentioned that
Japan renounced its sovereignty over the territory of Taiwan and Penghu1 without stating to whom the sovereignty over Taiwan would be transferred.
Despite this, the Republic of China, founded by the KMT (國民黨), insisted on acquiring ownership of Taiwan through the Cairo Declaration and has since existed on the island. The Republic of China is now the last official name of Taiwan.
When will Taiwan get to determine its own sovereignty?
Artist Statement
My artistic creations reflect my ambivalent self-identity. As a “nationless” Taiwanese and a foreigner striving in the United States, concepts such as blanks, silence, clarity and revelation, grace and tenderness, courage and acceptance are evident in my gradual search for self.
Being Taiwanese, one is bound to become a contradictory individual. Through conversations with myself and others, I slowly piece together what being a Taiwanese means. While I use art to proclaim Taiwan to the world, I also use it to reconcile Taiwan’s tragic history, complicated status quo, and the collective loss of a sense of belonging.
Art is my language - of silence, of joy, of mourning, and of justice.
My artistic creations reflect my ambivalent self-identity. As a “nationless” Taiwanese and a foreigner striving in the United States, concepts such as blanks, silence, clarity and revelation, grace and tenderness, courage and acceptance are evident in my gradual search for self.
Being Taiwanese, one is bound to become a contradictory individual. Through conversations with myself and others, I slowly piece together what being a Taiwanese means. While I use art to proclaim Taiwan to the world, I also use it to reconcile Taiwan’s tragic history, complicated status quo, and the collective loss of a sense of belonging.
Art is my language - of silence, of joy, of mourning, and of justice.