Life in Transiency

Life in Transiency is a sculptural installation containing running water. A cylindrical container is supported by metal structures, with water flowing off its edge. Water hits a metal surface, is collected at the bottom layer, and pumped into the cylinder.

A ram pump is installed under the cylinder, creating a mechanical pulse driven by the gravitational force of water, lifting a small portion upwards through a vinyl tube weaved into the shape of chains.

Water drips into the cylinder from a metal chain that appears hanging but is welded and self-supported, forming a closed loop in this installation.

Audiences are invited to submerge their hands into the cylinder, where a strong rhythmic pulse is generated, contained, and transmitted in flowing water.

looking back into the horizon,
I fall towards the distant silent scene /
twilights dimming, spilled rainbow colored ink /
metallic iris refracts by the stranded sea /
heavy chains laying, vanishing point in reach,
of strong currents midst, rogue waves it beneath /
home /
seemingly burdens but supports me indeed,
twisting and winding is the trace I leave /
the source is traced far beyond distance,
does it joins with my future foresee

looking down the vein under the skin of my wrist /
flowing, pulsing,
is an aqua blue stream /
the cosmos is vast and ultramarine,
reflection eased in the albescent sheen /
home /
an anchor in the ocean floating deep /
surrounded by swirl, trapped and seized,
I fight and roar as the torrent beats /
struggled to escape but only to see,
glimmering dawn shines on the tide recedes

Once I thought dependency on home was a tethering chain, strangled into my skin and bones. But when I tried to tear off the chain, tried to escape, it became longer as I stepped away. Like an endless anchor chain, One side grows in me, and my home ties on the other.

The world is relative. Home is an anchor point among this relativity. The one lost in time looks back along the chain, winding is the trace of my footstep. Home, it is not my destination, but showing my direction in an implied opposite. Losing home is also losing self.

And I see home at the end. It is not concrete nor defined, but denser than any substance, flowing and tumbling in deep darkness. It merges into a greater body, colliding and blending. Home flows in connections.

It is everyone I have met, every place I have rested. All of them weave and layer like currents, fostering an enormous power, surging beneath the calm water. It flows, breathes, and beats. It is my home, the pivot of my existence, and the essence of my life itself.

In this cycle of ever-lasting flow, I am changing at every moment. Every presence, every glance, every moment of heartbeat in sync. I found my stability lies in this changing dynamic. And my most sincere prayer:

If my splashing drops could change a corner of my surroundings, or a flash of thought by people around, will my existence be written into the world, into someone’s life through this moment of connection? Even if it is slight as a drop of water, evaporating in a blink, for me, they are all precious parts of me.

East River, not the one I am standing in, but one that is far away, on the other side of the planet, the East River, Dong Jiang of Guangdong Province in South China, flows across my hometown.

The river connects. From upstream to downstream, from the mountains to the flatlands, from farming villages to urban cities. It connects people with nature, with each other, with themselves.

The river divides. From side to side. It is the reason we have to build bridges. One, two, and many more.

The river destroys. The massive dams drown thousands of acres of land. The largest one, which my grandfather once worked on, caused one of the most severe reservoir-induced earthquakes in human history^[1], and is still actively shaking the earth.

The river creates. It supplies an economic center in China with fresh water and the energy generated down the stream. It gave my father and mother the chance to get out of the village and work as a part of the metropolitan feeds on the river, allowing me to be here.

The river flows. From the village my parents called hometown, to the city I called hometown, into the ocean, into the endless water cycle on the Earth. I am still connected to it, even from the opposite side of this planet of water.

Why do we say homeland but not home-river? For sure, my home flows in the river. My ancestors were refugees from Northern China into the remote and uncultivated hills in the south, calling themselves Hakka, the guests, the outcomers. The ability to adapt to new environments is in my family’s blood inherited from the ancient. We are like water, flow, stay, flow away. We call every place we rest home, but none of them is the only home. Home is in the fluidity.

The fluid of home flows in the river, and inside of me. I am a self-referencing constellation of consciousness and concepts^[2]. Who am I? I always attempt to look for the answer inward.

I finally found my home, the anchor of my identity, flowing in my veins. It is the crystal form of my activities and relationships^[2]. It is driven by a gravitational, ever-lasting force of change. It connects my past, present, and future. And it is beating –

[1] Suckale, Jenny. “Induced seismicity in hydrocarbon fields.” Advances in Geophysics, vol. 51, 2009, pp. 55–106, https://doi.org/10.1016/s0065-2687(09)05107-3.
[2] O'Connor, P. (2017). Home: The Foundations of Belonging (1st ed.). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315207865.