Timeless London #7 Jake Garber
- Mar 24
- 22 min read
Updated: Mar 27
作品是人，是關係，是社會，是我們共同生活的世界。
時：2026年1月31日，下午一時
地：The Curve Garden, Dalston Junction
人：Jake Garber
過去兩年，我在倫敦一直兼職教廣東話，我由此認識了六位非常有趣的學生，而這次的受訪者Jake就是我其中一位學生Florence的朋友。Florence告訴我，Jake是一位藝術家，也是一位家長；這天，與Jake相約在Dalston Junction坐下來做訪問，在步向一個設有露天茶座的花園期間，Jake在公共圖書館的窗前停了下來，那裡展出了一個社區藝術計畫，擺放著很多手作的人型玩偶，我見他興致勃勃地看著計劃的介紹，又拍下了照片 ── 到訪問之後，我才明白這正正是他會停下來好好細看的事物。
你來自哪裡？為什麼住在倫敦？
我來自 Sheffield，一個位於南約克郡（South Yorkshire）的工業城市。在重工業出現之前，當地有很多由細小的河流帶動的磨坊，有巨大的石輪去打磨各種工具，所以它以製造鋼鐵而聞名。這個城市也有很強的工人階級與左翼政治傳統，甚至一度被稱為「The Socialist Republic of Sheffield」── 我就在那裡長大，我媽媽至今仍住在我和哥哥出生的那間房子裡，所以我對那個地方有很深的歸屬感。
後來我來到倫敦，原因其實很單純：我的朋友們都搬來了，而且他們似乎很享受倫敦。大學畢業後，我先在法國生活了一年半，之後覺得應該回到英國，試著開始職業生涯也好、做些甚麼也好，而倫敦正好是我的朋友們所在的地方。
你在大學是讀數學和哲學的，我很好奇這兩科看似不太相關的科目，到底是怎麼連在一起的？
我在布里斯托（Bristol）大學讀數學與哲學。這兩個學科各自包含的內容都非常廣，所以我選擇的是彼此之間最相通的部分。
在數學上，我主要學的是純數學（Pure Mathematics）。純數學並不是關於應用或者觀察世界那方面，而是集中於抽象的結構，去想像數學的圖案和模式，並且去形容它們；我很著迷於這種純粹的抽象性，對我來說，閉上眼睛去想像自己看到這些水晶般的結構和重複的圖案，從美麗的風景、建築和各種構造之中展現，是非常浪漫的經驗。純數學就像一扇通往永恆現實的窗口一樣。
而在哲學上，我讀的是科學哲學（Philosophy of Science）和數學哲學（Philosophy of Mathematics），它們探討的問題有很多：在科學的領域上，我們是如何了解這個世界的？我們的認知是基於什麼？我們透過感官所接收到的訊息和我們關於世界的敘述之間到底有什麼關係？數字是甚麼？── 我覺得這些問題非常有趣，也很能刺激我的思考。
大學畢業後，你為什麼首先去了法國？
大學期間，除了讀書，我花了很多時間做音樂製作，主要是Instrumental Hip Hop和爵士樂，我很想可以更認真地投入創作。當時我很幸運地申請到一個歐洲資助計劃：「Leonardo da Vinci Scheme」，它讓我可以到法國工作和實習。我搬到了馬賽，在那段時間大量做音樂，同時也在海邊攤位賣Crepe，裝裝法國人的樣子。
回到英國決定在倫敦定下來之後，我其實也沒有計劃甚麼，只是覺得能夠住在一個跟家鄉的路程只有兩小時火車的國際城市，真是一種privilege。 我覺得我應該在這個城市拿些經驗，看看她能指引我到哪裡，這樣，轉眼就十幾年了。
你在倫敦的職業路徑是怎樣的？
我的職業路徑非常曲折，但我很享受這種非直線的狀態。我首先在一個名為The Young Foundation的社會研究機構實習，之後再在The Children’s Society，一個中型的社會機構工作。在那裡，我們與來自羅姆人（Roma）背景的孩子與家庭合作，透過不同的藝術計畫，一方面為孩子們創造正向的經驗，另一方面也讓在政府公共部門的工作者更能理解這個長期被忽視和歧視的族群。
當中有個計劃讓我印象很深刻：與我們合作的其中一位父親是個極具魅力的小提琴家，他技藝精湛，能用牙齒拉琴，同時也是一位說故事高手。他給孩子們講了一個傳統的羅姆人故事，孩子們於是把它改編成一本書。我們當時正好在教孩子們針孔攝影，他們用紙和紙板做了針孔相機，也剛好造了服裝去扮演故事裡的角色。我們得到Art Council England的資助，弄到了一匹馬和一輛露營車。用針孔相機學來的原理，我們把車裡所有空間都遮黑了，只在門上開了一個圓孔，當你進去關上門，這個暗箱就形成了，把外面的世界倒過來投射到小巴的牆壁、天花板和地板上；我們帶著這本書去了不同的地方：他們居住的Newham附近，還有South Bank，把書送給路人。這真是一種很好的方式，讓周圍的人了解他們在做什麼。我們玩得很開心。
我非常享受這份工作，因為它很有意義，也讓我第一次真正意識到藝術不只是物件，而是一種關係、一種經驗。
我知道你也是一位藝術家，可以講講藝術對你來說是甚麼嗎?
我剛才提及的項目正是一個藝術項目，當中涉及攝影、手作、故事、書本製作。我喜歡用手製作東西，看物件被慢慢完成的過程。但如果問真正讓我著迷的是甚麼，其實是「關係」。
我還不敢妄稱自己是個藝術家,，如果用藝術世界的語言，我所做的是比較接近Social Practice Art（社會實踐藝術）吧。它所關心的不只是一件完成品，而是一個事件、一段經驗、人與人之間的關係，以及在那些關係裏發生的對話。這些對話很多時候只會發生一次，無法複製，那個當下本身就是作品了。當然，一件實體的藝術品可以支持或者承載這些事件的發生，但最精華的部分始終是那個經驗本身。
所以如果你問我的作品是甚麼，我會說是人，是關係，是社會，是我們共同生活的世界。這些才是最好的素材。藝術對我來說，是嘗試用更有意識、更有想像力的方式去塑造文化，去讓我們的生活方式變得更美也更有意思。
可以分享你其中在做的一件藝術品, 或者一個藝術事件嗎?
我想我可以用一件作品作為例子，去解釋我剛才說的：把事件、經驗、關係等等透過一個物件去承載著的藝術形式。我最近在做一件刺繡作品：我繡了一顆真實尺寸的人類的心臟，再把它繡在一件方方正正的裇衫上。單看這件裇衫，你不會明白它有什麼特別，但其實它的創作誘因才是重點：這件作品，源於一次職場上的衝突。而很遺憾地，如果我透露事件詳情，我將面臨法律訴訟。
我把一個心繡在裇衫上，是想借此發出「制度應該如何運作」的提問。機構很多時候會為了延續自身的運作而維持既有的方向，於是真正的問題落在「人」身上，身在其中的人，是否願意在現實的壓力與脆弱之中，仍然用「心」去做不同的決定？除了裇衫，我更會把整個事件寫成一篇文章，而這顆心就是那篇文章的延伸，某程度上也是插圖。如果沒有了這個物件，沒有了二十多個小時一針一線的勞動，沒有了那種近乎愛的耐性，我不覺得這些漣漪會以同樣的方式發生。單純寫出事件是一回事，把它繡進布料裏，又是另一回事。
在這個事件當中，我確實失去了工作收入這種現實的損失。但如果有人看到這件衍生出來的藝術品時，能夠意識到「即使有損失，我仍然可以做出勇敢的選擇」，那麼對我來說，這件作品就有意義了。
你會怎樣形容你此時此刻的人生狀態？你有甚麼想去追求？
此時此刻我是快樂的。這並不代表我沒有挫折和掙扎，只是它們不是目標導向的。
我沒有一個想明確抵達的終點，但我很珍惜一種感覺：渴望。我覺得渴望很重要，它讓人不至於停滯，它讓人想往前走。對我來說，渴望幾乎是神聖的。我渴望有時間去愛我身邊的人，渴望可以在不匆忙的狀態下創作，渴望能在這個混亂的世界裡，做出一點點正面的改變。另外，也許是創造本身，我也說不太清楚是甚麼，總之就是渴望創作東西、做出東西，讓一些原本不存在的事物誕生。我最近很喜歡一個說法。研究生態深度心理學的Bill Plotkin，對「靈魂」有這樣的描述：當你找到自己在生態系統中合適的定位時，這個位置就是你的靈魂所在。我不敢說自己已經找到，但我感覺自己正慢慢靠近，在那個範圍裏工作、生活。我感到有能量，覺得自己正在做應該做的事 ── 那是由我的性格和我所遇到的生命處境，所共同交織出來的位置。世界一直在流動在變化，而我的狀態比較像是，我在學習如何在這個流動當中存在，去擁抱它的美、它的痛、它的混亂。
成為父親，對你造成了什麼改變？
我有一個兩歲的女兒，叫 Bobby。Bobby 其實也是我父親的名字，我父親在我十二歲時過世了。我伴侶懷著 Bobby那一年，我們一家人剛好聚在一起為本來應該是他八十歲生日的那一天做個紀念。於是我們想，不如就叫她Bobby，像是一種延續。我其實很喜歡當爸爸，但在 Bobby 出生之前，我也焦慮過。我總是覺得：如果我爸爸還在，我可以問他很多事情，例如「你當年是怎樣做父親的？」、「這些情況你會怎麼處理？」但我沒有那個人可以問。所以後來我也開始了一個小計畫。每個月我會在一間酒吧聚會，跟幾個爸爸一起做拼貼（collage）。我們會一邊剪貼圖片，一邊談自己作為父親的感受，沒有說誰在教誰，只是一個讓大家分享經驗的空間。至於對 Bobby 的期待 ── 可能有點老套，但我真的只希望她能快樂。更重要的是，希望她能對自己有信心，能夠依照自己內在的感覺去做決定，而不是被社會或他人的期待推著走。我知道事情從來不是那麼單純，父母多少都會帶著自己的價值與期望，只是方式不同而已。很多時候，我們也是在一邊摸索，一邊學習。成為父親之後最大的改變，大概是我對「什麼事情才是真正重要」這件事變得更清楚了。而因為時間忽然變得很有限，所以我更認真地思考自己應該把時間花在哪裡。我從來沒有像現在這樣深刻地愛過一個人，我的女兒。這種愛會改變你，也會改變你和世界之間的關係。
如果你可以，你想改變甚麼…？
這聽起來或者會有點抽象，但我想，我想改變我們對「分離」的集體想像。
我覺得很多問題的核心，其實都是來自一種「分離的神話」，關於我們怎樣被灌輸分離這個概念。我們很習慣去相信人類是和自然分開的，不同文化、不同種族是彼此對立的，甚至別人的痛苦，都彷彿跟自己無關 ── 這些關於分離的敘事，加起來會慢慢變成一種理所當然。不好的是，它讓某些行為、某些政治決定看起來是合理的。
但如果我們不再那樣理解世界呢？如果我們能夠更深地意識到彼此是連結的：自然與人、人與人、痛苦與痛苦，其實都是互相連繫著。這樣的話，很多事情可能就不會以現在的方式發生。我並不是說問題會就此消失，而是我們做選擇的方式，可能會有所不同。
一年後的今天，你覺得自己會在做什麼？
我想我大概還是會在家裡吧。我大部分時間都在家工作，所以一年後的今天，很可能是某個星期一，我會坐在桌前，喝著熱水、處理一些事情，只能說那是最無聊但也最真實的生活版本了。
但如果要給你一個更有趣的答案呢：我目前正在發展一個計畫，我暫時叫它做Shadow Puppets（影子木偶）。這個想法來自一個心理分析的概念：每個人的心裡都有一些「陰影部分」，可能是內在對自己的批評，也可能是某些我們不太願意承認的性格。它們不一定是負面的，只是我們未必會常常意識到它們的存在，然而它們確實在某程度上影響著我們的行為與選擇。
我想幫助人們辨認出自己的某個「影子角色」，然後把它做成一個巨大的木偶。那不是象徵性而真的是一個巨大的物件。接著，人們可以嘗試與它建立一種關係。我我希望把這個方法帶到那些屬於「社會陰影」的地方，那些社會不太願意直視的空間，例如監獄、安老院等等，讓人們在那些場域裡以一種創造性的方式，和自己的陰影對話。當一個原本藏在心裡的角色突然站在你面前，佔據整個空間，那會不會改變你內心的一些什麼？我很想知道。所以也許一年後，我可能會在某間安老院裡，和二十呎高的龐大木偶一起跳著舞吧。
Jake讓我又大開了眼界，他對於純數學和科學的浪漫看法，讓絕對沒有科學天分的我十分感動，原來，「美」可以存在於你未必想像到的地方，而且那種美一樣可以很美很美；他所做的藝術形式也給我一種新的感受：藝術從來沿於生活，不一定只能放在高高的殿堂跟群眾疏離。社區實踐的藝術、經過一些真實事件後引發的藝術，一樣能滲透和打動人，一樣很美、很美。
世界有著如此多的面向，而生而為人，活到了而立有多的年紀，我彷彿才真的能深深感受到這個事實，並又被這個領悟深深打動著。
專欄簡介
用心生活的人都是值得欣賞的。在倫敦，我召集了十二位用心生活的人，他們有著不同的
背景、職業、愛好、生活方式，但共通的是，他們對生活有著熱情的心。我一一訪問，紀錄他們當前狀態，希望一年後，這個小小的時間囊會成為他們檢視生活的美好回憶。
作者簡介
大學中文系畢業、英國University of Leicester博物館及畫廊研究碩士。目前在倫敦某大型
文化藝術中心工作，並以教廣東話作為點綴；兩屆青年文學獎得主，作品曾刊《字花》、
《別字》等，著有專欄〈原來都走到這裡〉刊《大頭菜文藝月刊》。喜歡村上春樹、古典
音樂、伯爵茶和鄰居的貓。
Timeless London
#7 Jake Garber
Date: 31 January 2026, 1 PM
Location: The Curve Garden, Dalston Junction
Guest: Jake Garber
Over the past two years in London, I have been teaching Cantonese part-time. Through that work, I met six remarkably interesting students, and the guest this time, Jake, came into my world through one of them — Florence. Florence told me Jake was both an artist and a parent.We arranged to meet near Dalston Junction. On the way to the small garden café where we planned to sit down for the interview, Jake suddenly stopped in front of the window of the public library. Inside was a small community art display: handmade human-shaped dolls arranged alongside descriptions of the project. He studied the display with obvious curiosity, taking a photo of it before we moved on. Only after the interview did I realise that it was exactly the kind of work that would capture his attention.
Where are you from? Why did you come to live in London?
I'm from Sheffield, an industrial city in South Yorkshire. Before the rise of heavy industry, the area was filled with small rivers that powered grinding mills. Huge stone wheels were used to sharpen tools. The city later became famous for its steel production.
Sheffield has a strong working-class and left-wing political tradition. At one point, it was nicknamed “The Socialist Republic of Sheffield”. That's where I grew up. My mum still lives in the house where my brother and I were born, so I feel a very deep sense of belonging to that place.
I moved to London for a simple reason: lots of my friends had come here, and seemed to be enjoying it. After graduating from university, I spent about a year and a half living in France. When I returned to the UK, I felt it was probably time to start something, a career, perhaps, or at least the next phase of life. London was where my friends were, so that's where I came.
You studied Mathematics and Philosophy at university — two subjects that seem quite far apart. How do they connect to you?
I studied Maths and Philosophy at the University of Bristol. Both disciplines are extremely broad. I focused on the areas where the two fields overlap.
On the mathematics side, I mainly studied pure mathematics. Pure mathematics isn't really about application or observing the physical world. Instead, it focuses on abstract structures: imagining patterns and forms within mathematics and describing them.
I find that kind of abstraction fascinating. I close my eyes and picture those crystalline structures and repeating patterns unfolding, almost like landscapes or architecture; it feels romantic to me. Pure mathematics is a window onto something eternal.
On the philosophy side, I studied philosophy of science and philosophy of mathematics. These fields ask questions like: How do we come to know the world? What is our knowledge actually based on? What is the relationship between the sensory information we receive and the descriptions we construct about reality? Or how about: ‘what are numbers?’
After graduating from university, why did you first go to France?
During university, alongside my studies, I spent a lot of time making music. I was mainly producing instrumental hip hop and jazz. After I graduated, I wanted to take the creative side of my life more seriously.
I was fortunate enough to get support from a European programme called the Leonardo da Vinci Scheme, which allowed me to do work experience in France. I moved to Marseille and spent a lot of time making music. I also worked at a crêperie on the Vieux Port of Marseille, pretending to be French at the request of my employer.
When I eventually returned to the UK and decided to settle in London, I didn't have a big plan. It seemed to me that being able to live in a global city that was only a two-hour train ride from my hometown was a privilege. I thought I should spend some time here, gather some experience, and see where the city might lead me. And somehow, more than ten years have passed.
What has your career path in London been like?
My career path has been quite winding, but I've always enjoyed that sense of non-linearity.
I first worked at a social research organisation called The Young Foundation, and later worked at The Children's Society, a mid-sized social charity. There, I worked with children and families from Roma backgrounds, developing arts projects that served two purposes: creating positive experiences for the children, while also helping people working in public sector institutions better understand a community that has long been marginalised and discriminated against.
One project in particular has stayed with me. One of the fathers we worked with was an extraordinarily skilled violinist; he could even play the violin with his teeth, and he was also a wonderful storyteller. He told the children a traditional Roma story, and the children then adapted it into a book. We taught the children how to build pinhole cameras using paper and cardboard. They created costumes so they could act out the characters from the story and took photos of the scenes to illustrate the book.
With funding from Arts Council England, we got hold of a horse and a caravan. Using the same principle as a pinhole camera, we covered every opening of the caravan, leaving only a small circular hole in the door. When you stepped inside and closed the door, the caravan became a giant camera obscura: the outside world would appear upside down, projected across the walls, ceiling and floor.
With the children and the caravan, we took their book to different places: around their neighbourhoods in Newham, and also to the South Bank, giving copies of the book to passers-by. It became a beautiful way for people around them to see what they had created and learn about Roma culture. We had a lot of fun.
I loved that work. It was also the first time I understood that art is not only about objects, it can also be about relationships, about experiences.
I know that you are also an artist. Could you tell me what art means to you?
The project I just mentioned is, in many ways, already an example of the kind of artistic work that interests me. It involved photography, craft, storytelling, and book-making. I enjoy making things with my hands and watching an object slowly take shape. But if you ask what really fascinates me, it's actually relationships.
I'm still hesitant to call myself an artist. If I were to use the language of the art world, what I do would probably fall under what's called social practice art. It's less about producing a finished object and more about creating an event, an experience, and the relationships and conversations that emerge between people within that space. Often, those conversations only happen once. They cannot really be repeated. In that sense, the experience itself becomes the artwork.
Of course, physical objects can still play an important role. They can support or hold those events in place. But the most essential part is still the experience itself. So if you ask me what my “materials” are, I would say: people, relationships, society, and the shared world we live in. Those are the richest materials there are.
For me, art is an attempt to shape culture more consciously and more imaginatively, to find ways of living that are a little more meaningful, and perhaps a little more beautiful.
Could you share one artwork you are currently working on, or perhaps an artistic project?
Perhaps I can use one piece I'm currently working on to explain what I meant earlier, this idea of holding an event, an experience, or a relationship within an object.
Recently, I've been making an embroidered piece. I stitched a life-sized human heart onto a very plain, business shirt. If you simply look at the shirt, you probably wouldn't think there was anything particularly special about it. The real significance lies in the situation that led to its creation.
The work grew out of a conflict I experienced in my professional life. Unfortunately, I have been threatened with legal action if I share the details of the situation. By embroidering a heart onto the shirt, I wanted to raise a question about how institutions, even charities, operate. Institutions often prioritise preserving themselves and continuing what they already do. The ethical questions then fall on the people within them. Faced with pressure and real-world consequences, are we still willing to make decisions with our hearts?
Alongside the shirt, I'm also writing a piece about the incident itself. In that sense, the embroidered heart becomes an extension of the text, almost like an illustration, but more than that. For me, the object matters. Without the object, without the thirty-odd hours of stitching, without that slow, patient labour — something close to love, really — I don't think the ripples would happen in the same way. Simply telling the story is one thing. Stitching it into fabric is another.
In practical terms, I did lose income because of the decision I made. But if someone encounters this piece later and realises that even when there is something to lose, it is still possible to make a choice, then the work will have meant something.
How would you describe the state of your life at this moment? What are you striving for?
At this moment, I would say that I feel happy. That doesn't mean there are no struggles or difficulties. It's just that they are not driven by some particular goal I'm trying to reach. I don't really have a fixed destination in mind. But there is something I value very deeply: longing.
Longing feels important to me. It's what prevents us from becoming stagnant. It's what draws us forward. In a way, longing feels almost sacred. I long to have time to love the people around me. I long to create without being rushed. I long to make whatever small positive difference I can in this rather chaotic world. And perhaps it's simply the act of creation itself, I can't always put it into words. Just the desire to make things, to bring something into existence that wasn't there before.
There's a thinker whose work I've been drawn to recently — Bill Plotkin, who writes about eco-depth psychology. He has a way of describing the soul that I find very compelling. For him, the soul is something like your ecological niche, the place within the wider ecosystem where you truly belong. I wouldn't claim that I've found that place. But I do feel that I'm slowly moving closer to it, living and working somewhere in that vicinity.
I feel energised. I feel that the work I'm doing is, more or less, the work I should be doing, something that emerges from the combination of my personality and the particular circumstances life has brought me. The world is always in motion, always changing. My practice, perhaps, is learning how to exist within that movement, to embrace its beauty, its pain, and its chaos.
How has becoming a father changed you?
I have a two-year-old daughter called Bobby. Bobby was actually my father's name as well. My dad died when I was twelve. During the year my partner was pregnant with Bobby, our family happened to gather together to mark what would have been his eightieth birthday. So we thought, why not name her Bobby, as a kind of continuation?
I really love being a dad, but before Bobby was born, I was also quite anxious. I kept thinking: if my dad were still here, there are so many things I could ask him, like, how did you approach being a father? Or what would you do in situations like this? But I didn't have that person to ask. So eventually I started a small project. Once a month, I meet a few other dads at a pub, and we make collages together. We cut out images and paste them while talking about how we feel as fathers. No one is teaching anyone; it's just a space where people can share their experiences.
As for what I hope for Bobby — it might sound a bit cliché, but I really just want her to be happy. More importantly, I hope she can have confidence in herself and make decisions based on her own inner sense rather than being pushed along by social expectations or other people's ideas of who she should be. Of course, things are never that simple. As parents, we inevitably bring our own values and expectations into the picture. It's just that people do it in different ways. A lot of the time, we're figuring things out as we go along.One of the biggest changes since becoming a father is that I've become much clearer about what actually matters. Because time suddenly feels much more limited, I think more carefully about how I want to spend it. I've never loved another person as deeply as I love my daughter. That kind of love changes you, and it also changes your relationship with the world.
If you could change something in the world, what would it be?
This may sound a little abstract, but I think I would want to change our collective imagination around separation.
So many problems seem to grow out of what we might call a myth of separateness, the way we are taught to think of things as fundamentally separate from one another. We become used to believing that human beings are separate from nature. That different cultures or races stand in opposition to each other. Or that someone else's suffering is somehow unrelated to our own. When these stories of separation accumulate, they begin to feel natural. They shape the way we see the world. And unfortunately, they can also justify certain behaviours and political decisions.
But what if we understood the world differently? What if we recognised more deeply that everything is connected: humans and nature, one person and another, one suffering and another? I'm not suggesting that all problems would suddenly disappear. But perhaps the way we make decisions would begin to change.
Where do you think you will be a year from now?
Honestly, I will probably still be at home. I work from home most of the time, so a year from now it will likely be an ordinary Monday. I'll be sitting at my desk with a cup of hot water, answering emails or working on something. The most mundane version of life, but probably also the most accurate.
But if you want a more interesting answer, I'm currently developing a project that I'm calling Shadow Puppets. The idea comes from a psychoanalytic concept — the notion that each of us carries certain “shadow” parts within our psyche. Sometimes these are inner critics; sometimes they are aspects of ourselves that we would rather not acknowledge. They are not necessarily negative, but they are often things we are not fully conscious of, even though they quietly influence our behaviour and choices.
What I want to do is help people identify one of their shadow characters, and then turn that character into a giant puppet. Not just symbolically, but an actual, enormous physical object. Then people can begin to build a relationship with that figure. I would like to bring this process into what you might call the shadow spaces of society, places we tend not to look at too closely. Prisons, care homes, places like that. In those environments, people could engage with their own shadow characters through a creative process.
When something that once existed only inside your mind suddenly stands in front of you, occupying an entire room — might that change something within you? I'm very curious to find out.
So perhaps, a year from now, I'll be in a care home somewhere, dancing with a twenty-foot puppet.
Jake opened my eyes in more ways than one. His romantic way of speaking about pure mathematics and science deeply moved someone like me, who has absolutely no talent for science. It reminded me that beauty can exist in places we may never have imagined, and that kind of beauty can be just as profound.
The kind of art he practices also gave me a new perspective. Art does not always belong in distant halls or lofty institutions, separated from ordinary life. Community-based art, or art that emerges from real events and lived experiences, can be just as powerful. It can move quietly from one person to another, and then further still. That kind of art is beautiful too — deeply, quietly beautiful.
The world has so many dimensions. And now that I have reached my thirties, I feel as if I am only beginning to truly understand that. The realisation itself continues to move me.
(Originally written in Traditional Chinese.)
About This Column
People who live mindfully are always worth appreciating. In London, I gathered twelve individuals who each live with intention. They come from different backgrounds, careers, interests, and lifestyles, but they all share a passion for life. I sat down with each of them to capture a snapshot of where they are right now. A year from now, I hope this little time capsule brings them warm memories as they reflect on how far they've come.
About the Author
Iris Yee-Ting Chow, (Official Website) born and raised in pre-1997 Hong Kong. Moved to the UK in 2018 and has been here ever since. Holds a degree in Chinese Language and Literature from Hong Kong, and a master's in Art Museum and Gallery Studies from the University of Leicester, UK. Currently works at a major art and culture centre in London and moonlights as a Cantonese teacher.
Twice awarded the Hong Kong Youth Literature Award. Work has appeared in Fleurs des Lettres and Typo. Writes the column ‘So This Is Where I've Come To‘ for The Turnip Arts Journal. A lover of Haruki Murakami, classical music, Earl Grey tea, and the neighbour’s cat.
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