Based in Changhua City in Taiwan, Lin Ying-Chieh is a visual artist working with site-responsive installation, public infrastructure, and commemorative spatial practices.

Her practice originates from site-based explorations of mobility and habitation within everyday environments, informed by observational approaches associated with modern urban studies. In recent years, she has expanded her work through sculpture, video, text, and performative elements to examine the differences in expression between individuals and collectives following socio-political events.

Lin’s work investigates how public spaces, memorial sites, and urban infrastructure interact with contemporary communities. Through mise-en-scène and participatory strategies, she constructs alternative spatial situations that reveal how memory, affect, and social experience are shaped and negotiated within specific contexts.

LIN’s works have been included in exhibitions at the Taipei Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiayi Art Museum, and Tainan Art Museum. She has received awards from NEXT ART TAINAN (2017), been selected for the Taoyuan Contemporary Art Award (2019), nominated for the Taishin Arts Award (2020), and supported by the Tianmei Art Foundation (2021).

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

I started going to art classes even before I was of school age, and when I was eight, my mom took me to apply for a primary school art program. Because I loved drawing, I continued along this path all the way to university, studying in the Fine Arts department, and even went on to the graduate program at Tainan National University of the Arts. But it wasn’t until my first year of university that I really began to realize that art could serve as a way to respond to and question the world.

In Taiwan, art education for school advancement tends to focus on painting skills and academic grades, with little discussion about creative practice. It was only when I entered Taipei National University of the Arts that I was challenged to think critically about my work and develop a sense of problem awareness. At first, I continued working primarily with painting, but years of training in realistic painting made me feel that the canvas acted like a filter between myself and the real world. I wanted to depict the landscape behind it stroke by stroke, yet it always felt somewhat awkward and unnecessary.

Through different courses at the university, I gradually started looking beyond the canvas to the empty white wall—the space where the painting would ultimately be seen and experienced. In my second year, I began experimenting with spatial installations, exploring the essence of art and the conditions in which it exists. I started working site-specifically, slowly accumulating related works and experiences. I was also inspired by Japanese artist Genpei Akasegawa’s book Introduction to Street Observation Studies, which deepened my fascination with the interactive process of discovering, experimenting, and responding through creation. For me, art is essentially a container for these experiences and dialogues.

What is your creative process like? Do you follow a routine or work spontaneously?

During university, my creative practice often revolved around fundamental questions: How does art happen? Under what circumstances is it perceived by viewers? I usually see myself as the first audience in the exhibition space. Like someone appreciating the work, I walk back and forth in an empty gallery, jotting notes and sketching ideas in my notebook.

I also enjoy taking walks near the exhibition space, deliberately slowing down my everyday pace, noticing and recording anything interesting. For me, experiencing a work isn’t limited to being in the gallery—it extends to the journey to and from it. From my graduate studies up until 2018, works like Min-de Garden, Roofless Way TOGO, and dog person were all created through a similar site-specific approach, combined with the spirit of roadside observation. I drew inspiration from the existing conditions of a space to design a path that guided viewers through the rhythms of daily life. During that period, this method of creation became something I was particularly obsessed with.

A turning point came at the end of 2019. The year before the pandemic, I traveled to Hong Kong and Macau for two weeks. Less than a month after returning to Taiwan, the Hong Konganti-extradition movement erupted. The news footage strongly contrasted with my travel experiences, making the small memories and feelings from that trip suddenly vivid and intense. After several months of reflection, I held a solo exhibition titled With No Names at the Kaohsiung exhibition space “Zheng Bai #FFFFFF” (formerly Black Blank Gallery). The exhibition included a blue drinking fountain, several lightweight clay animal sculptures, and a publication of essays on everyday life under the current political atmosphere in Taiwan and Hong Kong, called paper-roaring news. I folded it into a shape resembling a paper cannon and placed it outside the gallery for visitors to take. The loud impact of the paper hitting the ground was meant to substitute for emotions that were difficult to release.

Through this work, I began to pay attention to sculptures or architectural spaces with specific commemorative significance. I became curious about how these forms connect the audience across the past, present, and future, and how they evoke empathy across different eras.

These questions gradually shifted my focus as an artist. I also began approaching my practice with longer-term projects to accumulate more experience and material. Examples include my 2024 solo exhibition Circle City, which explored changes in public infrastructure in my hometown of Changhua, and my artist residency at the Christchurch Art Centre in New Zealand from April to May this year. Compared to the spontaneity of my earlier site-specific work, I now approach creation more systematically, gradually building a cohesive body of work within a consistent context.

Your practice integrates sculpture, video, text, and performance. How do you determine which medium best serves a particular idea?

I think my strength lies primarily in spatial installations and sculpture. I enjoy allowing viewers to “enter” the space of a work, experiencing the layers of narrative through physical movement. For me, not only images and text can tell a story—sculpture and installation can also be “read” in this way.

I also enjoy writing. For example, in my solo exhibition With No Names, I created a publication called paper-roaring news, using prose to express personal emotions in response to collective experiences during social movements. In my work, whether it’s sculpture, video, or text, each medium can be seen as a form of action corresponding to reality. In my 2024 exhibition Circle City, for instance, the work included a waterway model that visitors could walk into and rest in, video of drifting boats filmed in front of Changhua Station, and textfrom interviews with public art designers whose works had been removed. It was my attempt to connect the city’s history with visions of its future, and I enjoy working through the process of combining these different media.

In what ways does everyday life become a site of inquiry in your installations?

I have been practicing art for about ten years, since university, and the process of making work has become part of my daily life, shaping the way I perceive the world. I like to integrate the rhythm of creation into everyday life, deliberately slowing down and paying attention to subtle, seemingly insignificant traces.

As mentioned in Introduction to Street Observation Studies, observing how stray dogs walk or searching for useless building objects called “Thomason” sharpens my senses. These observations don’t always translate directly into artworks, but they reveal the places where I feel art might exist. For me, moving between daily life and the artistic sphere is similar to walking. Walking is an activity that fuses mental engagement with observation of the world, and much of my practice emerges from these seemingly circular, wandering steps.

What do you hope people take away from your art when they experience it?

If I were to answer in detail, it depends on the message or feeling each work is meant to convey. For example, in With No Names, the gallery was a display case that visitors couldn’t enter. I delivered messages through newspapers placed outside the window, maintaining adistance from the installation, hoping to direct attention toward places far away, where movements were still ongoing.

Of course, it’s not always heavy. In the work Take a stroll, I replaced the gallery’s emergency lights with proportionally scaled screens showing animations of little green men shifting from running to walking with dogs. I wanted to alter the space’s existing rhythm, inviting viewers to linger and notice humor or warmth in seemingly mundane things.

What challenges have you faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

Many challenges are practical. Since starting graduate school at Tainan National University of the Arts, I’ve had exhibition opportunities every year, but after graduation I still had to rely on part-time or full-time jobs to sustain my practice. Managing time and reserving enough resources for my projects has been an ongoing challenge. While it can be tiring at times, it also gives me a great deal of creative freedom.

I also formed an art collective called When Pigs Fly with friends I met in university. Even though we each developed our individual practices after graduation, we still come together through chance or friendship to present work under the group name. Importantly, we preserved the experience of staying up all night discussing work during university, facing the thrill of uncertain outcomes. That feeling has become a foundation for my practice, and we help each other with last-minute production, installation, and de-installation before openings.

On the other hand, during periods without exhibition opportunities, when I’m quietly accumulating work or experiencing setbacks, it’s still necessary to reflect on my practice and maintain a steady rhythm of life. Developing small habits, continuously reading other people’s work, and maintaining sensitivity are practices I consider essential—and also deeply enjoyable.

Text and photo courtesy of Lin Ying Chieh

Website: https://linyingchieh.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lin_ying_chieh/