Very often, even though the taste of home follows us, it is not necessarily home, and can also come from distant shores.

For four artists, moving image becomes the tool to document loss in relation to the sea, capturing the complex narratives that exist beyond its uncontrollable nature.

As I was told, once the last ecologically conscious pavilion has flat-packed its building and left, the site will be transformed into a major casino-resort. From the ruins of the Cloud rises a new totem to Capital.

“Without bamboo, one becomes vulgar; without meat, one grows thin.”

This non-linear, anti-sovereign vision of landscape offers a path of learning in ecological art—not about “knowledge of mountains,” but about the ability to coexist with mountains.

We’re always chasing what’s already been validated—those things that are constructed and explained by professionals—while neglecting the everyday.

Ethnography, then, is also a form of making—one that generates heterogeneity within the field itself. It dialogues with art at the level of practice—how reality is perceived, understood, and transformed. Indeed, it is such moments of entanglement, confusion, struggle, and vulnerability within concrete practices and research that often mark a shared point of departure for both artistic and ethnographic creation.

The paintings in “Searching the Sky for Gold” share the aesthetics of Asian American and diasporic Asian poets in the U.S. who in recent decades, write in response to historical atrocities. Across pages and canvases, the recurrent smoke-clouds, rings of dust, and licks of flames are entangled with the labor and persecution of Asian immigrants on the colonized land of America.

In every family, perhaps, there are skeletons in the closet. In ours, there is certainly that, and Granddad’s presence was like a mountain hiding in plain sight. It was there, silently sitting in the family for decades.

In the end, the impoverishment we perceive in this image, like that of the southwest women portrayed, demands more than a passive acceptance of the established aesthetic formula. Unless we engage with these images in a way that is grounded in real emotion and lived experience, our seeing remains hollow.

Crossing a single ridge reveals a myriad of differences, from the very soil to the local language. I have now resided here for two years, in this inland pocket between Sichuan and Yunnan. My sense of the place constantly evolves with its accumulating contrasts. My first lessons came from friends close by, whose practices seem rooted in the mountain soil itself.

“Factory Girl” flips that logic by turning art into a commodity. For example, a Christmas hat is both a cheap product on the assembly line and an artwork redefined by the artist’s labor. This blurring of boundaries makes us question what gives art its “value”—is it its originality, or the social context in which it’s placed?

Hidden behind every failure of embodiment in Zhang Peili’s bodily imagery lies an eternal unease—and this unease is none other than illness itself.

“It’s massive, silent, invisible—until someone points it out. Your poetry gives me that same feeling.”

Modernity is no longer a solution here, and the modernity of colonization is but a bunch of embarrassing, superficial spectacles. While the anger born in oppression burns and advances, it seems to have been embodied in the histories of Asia and armored with alchemists’ gold—no more opposition between the soft and hard, the resolving and clumping, and perhaps some wiser Dao of life may allow all of them to co-exist.

For today’s documentarians who focus their cameras on the workers, who seek to make documentaries of and for our time, the mission has extended beyond bringing cameras into factories—They must find ways to excavate and preserve these archives, guiding them through the algorithmic barriers into wider view. 

“Beyond the territory of the ‘art circle,’ which consists of artists, galleries, museums, institutions, collectors, curators, critics, and the media, there still exist enclaves where art workers exercise their raison d’être.”

In this new world, video games have ascended to a position of immense and all-pervasive cultural influence, a power that sculpts both our memories and imaginations. It then begs the questions: how did video games emerge from the war machines within the global context of the 1960s, and continue to integrate into the depiction of wars and imaginations of the apocalypse within mass culture? How did the anxiety about and revulsion against nuclear disaster from the Cold War era seep into these virtual battlefields? And how have these elements become part of the players’ historical memories, and passed down to the next generations and beyond through the re-mediatization of TV and movie adaptations? Now, more than ever, it is crucial to grapple with these questions.

The Boys of Summer is such a successful game because it lures you in with its pop colors and whimsical soundtrack, and then gradually, maybe without you even noticing it the first few times, outlines the structures and forces that govern our lives.

Instead of a Global South collectivity defined in opposition to state power, perhaps it’s time for a reimagination of the state truly adequate to the task of dismantling the imperialist structures that have persisted through the age of nation-states and the Global South’s ongoing exhibitionary turn.