Starting New Chapters

Were delighted to introduce Hannah Pierce-Carlson as our newest regular contributor to Although you dont see it, there is a continual hubbub of conversation in our back rooms and Hannahs intelligence, lucidity and passion have been a wonderful addition to our little group. Welcome, Hannah!

We live in a small town in the agricultural plains of western Taiwan. My husband, Michael, and I moved here four months ago for a number of reasons; but most pivotally, I had made a relationship with the Chinese-speaking world that two years of previous living, working and traveling in mainland China did not suffice as enough. You too have a special place that awakened you in someway (Id wage a bet). In the practice of photography, our place is one of our most potent ingredients, right up there with the presence of light. Our place inspires and/or frazzles us to point a camera at it. I was inspired and frazzled by China via the undeviating attention and persistence it required of me. Admittedly and naively, I suspected that my China familiarity had trained me for whatever the island of Taiwan has to offer. But in truth, the assumption that Im ever culturally equipped to photograph anywhere I land is sorely naive, and I try to check myself periodically. Photographing under this delusion is perhaps like fishing using a broad net with wide holes. Youll definitely catch something impressive at some point, but there are the unfortunate dolphins, and all the smaller tasty ones that will slip back into the dark oblivion.

We are not exactly frazzled, I am anything but. We maintain a quiet and straight forward life. I take daily jogs through the farms on small roads big enough for scooters. There are farmer women wrapped to the eyes in multi-colored paisley and floral. I watch them. There is something about this countryside that reminds me not to take it for granted. I can see countryside back home, but I will never see old women tending the fields.

Out here photographic inspiration comes not in the heavy-hand of the blazingly obvious not much is ever obvious. Instead, it arises from a daily experience where one in a thousand of unknowns gradually comes into focus. For instance, there are some major mountains to the east of us that rarely show themselves through the haze. But every few weeks, they gloriously appear. We can see clear across the miles of farmland up to their almost +10,000 foot peaks.

We spend our weekends cycling through the farmland and small dusty, nearly empty towns. Everything that Taiwan eats is here: rice, sugarcane, ducks, greens, fruits. The smells morph from fragrant to earthy to noxious; from orange groves and sugar cane mills, to duck waste, to burning garbage, tars, and the ever-present incense and smoldering paper money that wire blessings up to the ancestors. We like to take pit stops in the neighborhood temples that jut frenetically into the sky.

Their well-tended chambers pump out both musk and recorded prayer music, which echo through whatever semblance there is of a town. The temples for the sea goddess, Matzu, or the other local deities spring up in the small towns like wild flowers. The temple economy is run by, from what I hear, organized crime, playing out a familiar scheme of money laundering mixed with old time devotions. Pious retirees swirl around the country in tour buses, popping into small-town, but no-less renown, mega-temples to pay their respects and offer-up their pennies.

We get misguided by lack of signs or the surplus of confusing signs. We cross our own path often and end up following soot-footed farmers on their motorcycles back out to familiar roads. Weve enlisted so many people on our mission to nowhere. We ride in the dark, staring out onto moonlit fields and through living room windows. The dark homes glow, but dimly, with red ancestral altar rooms on top floors, to flickering blue TV rooms down below.

Blazing scooters and country traffic threaten us at small intersecting side streets. Michael has been swiped by buses and motorcycles a few times. It is enough to make us avoid certain regions entirely. Taiwans lack of public transportation within its lesser cities has made the personal scooter and car prerequisite. The island is smothered in its traffic. In many cities, walking has been made prohibitive by lack of sidewalks. It is often futile to walk around looking for spots to people watch, unless you watch them, like koi in an overstuffed pond at feeding time, clamor up at intersections. You are safest if you are straddling some sort of moving contraption.

There are many sounds. There is the melding of languages in the markets, three tongues on land: Hakka, Taiwanese, and Mandarin, and all of the aboriginal languages in the mountains. There are the random and frequent firecrackers that either ward off ghosts or guide the ghosts home. As a Taiwanese acquaintance puts it, firecrackers are multipurpose. There are the elaborate street funerals that can go on for days; that can cause traffic swells whose caravans of drummers charge through invisible throngs of ghosts as the deceased is chaperoned by a flank of solemn ladies playing tambourines.

There are the fresh heaps of shallow graves in the farm cemeteries that pepper the land. Shallow, so that the bones can be exhumed and pulverized to be placed in the previously mentioned red glowing altar rooms. There are the myriad of superstitions that, if I allow them, make the weight of the Taiwanese cosmology sink me under their homespun metaphors. Ive been in three big earthquakes in four months because they say that under the island there is a snoozing cow rolling over. There are three protective flames that sit on my shoulder-head-shoulder and if I might turn my head, at night, when a stranger calls my name, I will extinguish them. A zombie cold will infuse me and usher in my physical and/or spiritual death. There is the back that I must not pat while playing mahjhong for that person will never win his fortune; or the pregnant womans back that I must not even touch for fear that I will knock the baby out. There is the light in the front of my school that I must never turn off, and the stairwell I must always go down and never up, and the old thing thats just easier to follow and silly to question. I suspect there is consolation in having this acceptance of things.

Move with it and dont question, thats a lesson I try to heed. Michael likes to say that around us there is all this invisible (but photographic) potential. Wherever you are, whatever stage of story, project, or chapter in life, some of the hard work is honing your divining rod toward that potential, and to eventually dig under the flowers and come up with something substantially different, something that nourishes you. Four months in, this is what it is, digging around the foot of a formidable mountain that but occasionally emerges in full view. The hardest work really isnt ever photographic in nature. It is in learning about this place and letting the photos froth up out of that experience. This Taiwan chapter, so far, is going to be about connecting the images to the eventual understanding of what is actually going on around us. As foreigners that might be the best we can hope for. Maybe thats the best anyone can hope for.

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  • Liz Kuball

    Im so glad to see Hannah here! Shes one of my favorite voices in my Twitter stream, and her photographs are equally compelling.

  • Michael Julius

    Starting a new chapter and all its associated issues is a great opportunity for discussion on There is something really important about the cause of paying an informed, and perhaps reverent, attention to your surroundings. Seeking to see something in that invisible potential is a worthy goal because it usually means youre being reflective or connected. As Hannah puts it perfectly, the pictures froth up out of experience.

    Beginning the new, after spending so much time in another world is really difficult and Hannah gets the nuance of those efforts right. I am learning a lot from her. I am having a hell of a time trying to make sense of what I am looking at. I dont speak the language, it is my first time to Asia, and its all a little inexplicable at times. I have yet to make a picture that I care to see twice. Its frustrating, but hopeful all the same, because the craft has become my personal measure of whether Ive found my place in this new place. To me thats a better role for the camera a handy barometer of my growing awareness of my relationship to what I learn.

    Heres to the practice of photography.

  • djrange

    Hi Hannah,
    Ive been in Taiwan for about three years. There are ups and downs. Initially, my wife and I were living in Hsinchu, but only a few months later, we moved to Banciao, a sort of suburb of Taipei. Life is interesting and weve both taken the opportunity to go back to graduate school.

    Hope you enjoy it.

  • sclptrjoel

    I particularly sympathize with Michael. In 2004, my wife and I stumbled into Taiwan when I was invited to represent the USA in the Kaohsiung International Steel Sculpture Festival. Wed never been to Asia and it was a pivotal experience in our lives. We have been back to Taiwan four times since. I agree everybody SHOULD have a place that has awakened us in some way. Taiwan turned out to be that place for two North Carolinians. For ten essays on culture shock in Taiwan I offer my own from the Spring of 2009 at
    And the leading blog for expats in Taiwanif you have not found it yetis Michael Turtons The View From Taiwan (Turton lives in Taichung.)
    Joel Haas, sculptor
    Raleigh, NC

  • TC Lin

    Ah, its always interesting to see Taiwan from the point of a newcomer, kind of reminds me of when I first arrived over two decades ago.

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