“I wouldn't have come to any of these realisations, however partial or biased some of them might be, if I hadn't moved abroad. So, in a way, leaving Taiwan has made me more Taiwanese than ever.”—Liang-jung Chen

CNTRFLD. You grew up in Taiwan before building your life and practice in Europe and now London. Looking back, are there moments from your childhood or early experiences that you can now recognise as shaping the way you observe the world, or the kinds of questions that continue to surface in your work?

LC. I was born in Taipei, but when I was seven my family moved to the countryside of Tainan to live with my grandparents. People there spoke Taiwanese Hokkien, which I couldn't understand, because in Taipei most people speak Mandarin Chinese. The way people lived was very different from the city too, and I struggled to make friends for the first year or two. Looking back, that was my first experience of migration and culture shock, even though it was within the same country.

Not much happened in the countryside, and my childhood was fairly plain. My grandfather was a retired teacher, strongly shaped by the Japanese colonial era, and he was very strict with me. I had to practise calligraphy every day, and if I didn't I was punished, often by being made to kneel (罰跪).

In a way, growing up like that was also very grounding. I'm on good terms with boredom. It made me observant out of necessity, and the discipline gave me the stamina to keep going. Living in London has made me realise how much I was raised with a collective, perhaps somewhat conservative, spirit, where you put other people first. Because of that, I've never been comfortable starting a project that is "about me". That's probably why, in the past ten years since I started making work, I've focused mostly on artefacts and materiality.

CNTRFLD. Identity often reveals itself gradually rather than all at once. Having now spent many years living between cultures, how has your understanding of home, belonging and identity evolved? Has living in Britain changed how you think about being Taiwanese—or perhaps made certain aspects of your identity more visible than before?

LC. My sense of being Taiwanese keeps evolving. It happens organically, as I move between cultures and through casual conversations with people. Living in Britain, I found it interesting to see how strong the ties are between Britain and Hong Kong, because they reminded me of how intertwined Japan and Taiwan are. Becoming friends with many people from China also made me realise how Americanised Taiwan is.

There's a lot of conversation about decolonisation here in the UK, and it has made me more aware that Taiwan's Indigenous peoples, who are Austronesian, are the ultimate ‘real Taiwanese’. I've also enjoyed meeting many second- and third-generation Taiwanese abroad, who see things completely differently from me. I wouldn't have come to any of these realisations, however partial or biased some of them might be, if I hadn't moved abroad. So, in a way, leaving Taiwan has made me more Taiwanese than ever. I enjoy observing the nuances of diaspora, and the small details that give someone's identity away. 

CNTRFLD. Last time we spoke, you described your practice as a way of paying close attention to the quiet details of everyday life. Your recent work, UK Indefinite Leave to Remain Application Fee, feels equally rooted in lived experience, but in a much more direct and personal way. What led you to make this work, and what changed for you in deciding that such an intimate administrative process could itself become the artwork?

LC. It happened almost by accident, but it reflects a fundamental shift in both my life and my practice. In 2025 I was shortlisted for the East London Art Prize, which came with a one-night show at Whitechapel Gallery. But my visa was about to expire, and I hadn't saved enough for the Indefinite Leave to Remain application fee. Art time and bread time were beating each other bloody.

I've always been interested in materiality, and in twisting the stereotypes we attach to certain materials. But after eight years in London, my everyday life was filled with admin, and I spent far more time in Google Workspace than playing with materials. My art and the jobs that paid my rent felt completely separate. Then the lightbulb moment came: what if I applied the same approach to the interface? A spreadsheet, where the dullest tasks happen, can be coloured in and become almost a piece of graphic software. Could I make the exhibition and the visa money at the same time?

My first plan was an archive of "non-artist CVs", collecting the side jobs of artists around me. Two friends politely declined to share theirs. That was fair, because there's a strange embarrassment around being a part-time artist. Those refusals convinced me the project mattered, so I turned to my own experience instead, embracing radical transparency. I was already doing the work. The extra step was framing it precisely as art, with a rigorous structure and the context around it.

CNTRFLD. The work has resonated with many people because it transforms something as bureaucratic as an immigration application into a conversation about care, precarity and belonging. Were you surprised by how audiences responded, and has their reaction shifted your own understanding of what the work represents?

LC. At first, I didn't take it seriously as a work of mine. It felt more like a small side quest I was doing for fun. Then messages and emails started arriving from strangers saying they liked it, which touched me. In a way, I was being a content creator with this work, and a big part of a content creator's life is interacting with a community through a parasocial lens. That's a kind of connection I wouldn't reach if I kept making obscure sculptures.

What really surprised me was that a few more serious opportunities followed. I understand why: the work reads as a critique of the current UK government's anti-immigrant tendencies. That wasn't my original intention, but it has opened a new door in my practice, towards a more socially engaged direction, but with more nuances. 

CNTRFLD. Much of your practice quietly examines systems that shape everyday life, whether institutional, architectural or social. Your forthcoming exhibition, The Museum After at MOCA Taipei, begins with the museum’s own period of renovation and transition, asking how institutions might be rebuilt with greater care for artists, workers and audiences. How does this exhibition build on ideas you’ve been exploring in your own practice, and what conversations do you hope it opens?

LC. I think my practice is often about encouraging people to look at the reality we all live in from a slightly different angle. When you’re dealing with something that might otherwise sound quite serious or institutional, I find that humour can help counterbalance the weight of the subject. In this work, I approach the museum quite lightly, and I’m also gently poking fun at my own life and the situations I find myself in. I think people are increasingly tired of everything being so polished and glossy, so sincerity can sometimes resonate more.

Perhaps both artists and cultural institutions need to develop a more entrepreneurial mindset these days — not necessarily in a commercial sense, but in being agile, responsive and willing to adapt to the zeitgeist. That can be particularly difficult for institutions because of their scale. Meaningful change takes time, and transition requires investment, patience and a willingness to sit with uncertainty. Often, though, that time isn’t really given, and change ends up being absorbed through overwork instead.