This site-specific project extends my thinking about sculpture into the time and space beyond the exhibition itself. Alongside the "exhibition period" from October 31 to November 29, the show includes a "construction period" from October 3 to October 29 before it and a "deconstruction period" from November 30 to December 13 after it, during which visitors can enter the space and watch the artist install and dismantle the work. In the past, my laboring body always stayed hidden behind the finished work; this time, I bring it into the exhibition.

I approach the historic architecture of Yongkang Street through the weatherboard forms of my earlier work. During the Japanese colonial period, the Yongkang Street area was planned as an official residential district for the Government-General, housing officials of every rank, and traces of that era still linger in its street layout and buildings. It is not only a commercial street in Taipei but a place of historical layers — colonial planning, postwar migration, everyday life — each laid over the last to form what it is today. It is in this kind of space that I take weatherboard as the core formal vocabulary of the work.

Weatherboard was introduced to both Taiwan and Malaysia by colonial powers: Japan brought it to Taiwan, and Britain brought it to the Chinese New Villages of Malaysia. Though far apart, the two places share a similar colonial history that produced an overlap in their architectural vocabulary. The New Villages began in the 1950s, when the British colonial government, seeking to cut ties between rural Chinese communities and the Malayan Communist Party, forcibly resettled Chinese residents and, with scarce resources, relied heavily on weatherboard to build functional houses from as little material as possible. Those buildings were products of colonial control, and also the everyday landscape of my childhood.

The work is made from pallets I bought second-hand at salvage prices. Pallets are the most basic carriers of the modern logistics industry, present almost everywhere in trucking, air freight, and shipping. Making weatherboards from pallets is not only a material choice; the two echo each other conceptually. In English, this kind of board is also called "shiplap," a technique that shares its roots with Viking shipbuilding. Ship planks hold back seawater rising from below; weatherboards keep out rain seeping from above. Opposite directions, the same technique — both resist water with the simplest overlapping structure. The ship was the most important vehicle of the colonial era; as a contemporary means of transport, the pallet continues the same historical thread.

My interest in architecture has never come from an architect's aesthetic sensibility, but from a worker's bodily experience — understanding how a board is fastened, how a wall is built up layer by layer. Weatherboard is cumulative: one board overlapping the next, taking shape through repetition and arrangement. This structural logic corresponds to the core concern of my practice: how time accumulates through labor and remains in visible form.

In a place built from layers of history like Yongkang Street, making a work in the language of colonial building techniques is not about representing history, but about making the time carried by materials and forms perceptible again in the present. From construction to exhibition to deconstruction, the work is stacked up day by day and taken down board by board; the time of labor no longer hides behind the work, but becomes something visitors can witness for themselves.