top of page
IMG_0970.JPG
takwing.png

Tak Wing and Eternal

During a rehearsal, an actor was moving back and forth with a large prop while delivering lines. During this time, a small collision occurred, but the team did not notice anything unusual, and the actor chose to continue performing. Only when the scene concluded and the director called for a stop did everyone realize that the actor's hands were covered in blood. They hurried to help clean his wounds, and he slowly leaned against the wall and fainted.

 

The director of the theater company once said that this actor is a gem; with a bit of polishing, he could shine brightly. Even though he did not come from an academy, no one should view him as an amateur.

 

This actor is Chan Tak Wing.

 

I studied at the same university as Chan Tak Wing. He was in the Chinese Literature Department while I was in the Journalism Department, but we never got to know each other until we participated in the aforementioned theater production in 2017.

 

Chan Tak Wing is reserved and doesn't speak much. He is not the extroverted type, yet he gives off a steady and reliable impression. When he knows you need him, he will be there to help without making you feel pressured. Only when he is having fun does he return to his childlike nature, showing that rare yet genuine smile. Behind his enduring and humble personality, a subtle glow always seeps through.

 

Even after three or four years without meeting again, such a person remains in my heart. Whether as an actor or simply as a person, there is much to learn from him.

 

Later, I left the media industry, hoping to step into the realm of acting and art. However, my doubts about myself and the future have never ceased. For example, I constantly ponder whether I should pursue relevant qualifications. When I had the opportunity to interview Chan Tak Wing for "Go Theater," I secretly hoped he would tell me that not coming from an academy was acceptable.

 

With this mindset, I went to see Chan Tak Wing, whom I hadn't met in a long time.

 

He had lost weight and seemed more composed, still as taciturn as ever. But it wasn't that he was unwilling to speak; rather, during the interview, every word was carefully considered before being spoken, each sentence carrying weight.

 

Chan Tak Wing's acting career began during his college years. He started on stage through the "Cultural Ambassador" acting workshop and community musical productions. After graduation, he fully committed to being an actor, participating in various productions and gradually building his strengths while earning recognition from others. He has unknowingly walked this acting path for ten years.

 

Without systematic training in acting, he admits that he initially didn't understand what acting was all about: "You just do what the director tells you." At that time, he felt he was merely "doing something" on stage, not grasping the relationship between the actor and the audience, or between the body and the performance. Sometimes, he would even "overexert" himself. Wanting to learn more, he took classes and relied on self-exploration.

 

Feeling that he wasn't good at speaking, Chan Tak Wing was afraid of saying the wrong thing, which led to him speaking even less. "Fear of making mistakes" seemed to be his inner demon. This accumulation made him accustomed to putting himself in the background, prioritizing the group's operation. Unless someone else needed him, he might not take the lead, but he would always faithfully follow, keenly observing, listening, and responding. In truth, he hopes to have more opportunities to be more than just a "follower" and to learn to be honest in his creativity and express himself bravely.

 

Loving and enjoying acting, Chan Tak Wing sees the theater as a refuge—a space without right or wrong, open and inclusive, where everyone can be themselves. He yearns for the theater of Shakespeare's era, where the relationship between actors and audiences is intimate, like friends, and performances serve as a mode of communication among friends. Especially in these chaotic times, with both personal and external environments undergoing drastic changes, Chan Tak Wing wishes to share his inner turmoil through performance, revealing vulnerability in front of friends, drawing closer, and finding strength to continue. "Others may have gone through similar feelings, and perhaps when they see the performance, they will feel more comfortable? Find solace? Perhaps that's the meaning of performance?"

 

Chan Tak Wing hopes to find a more at-ease and composed version of himself in the theater, a self without too much judgment. I feel like I understand him better, almost as if, with his permission, I've had a glimpse into the dark room he has been guarding—his underlying insecurities and purity. While this surprises me, realizing that capable individuals also have barriers to overcome before they can fully enjoy life, I believe in Chan Tak Wing. I hope he believes in himself too; he can do it.

 

So, did I find an answer to my premise? Of course, it’s impossible to find one, because whether "can" or "cannot," Chan Tak Wing would never answer. Who can be sure that the choices made at this moment will leave no regrets in the future? Who can guarantee that the future will lead down the desired path? Who can simply declare another's future? Furthermore, the questions about background and prospects seem somewhat redundant for Chan Tak Wing; he has always focused solely on acting.

 

After the interview, we parted ways. Chan Tak Wing sent me a short message:

 

"Let’s encourage each other: if you are sincere about drama, it can take you to the ends of the earth."

 

Isn't that the answer?

 

If you are sincere about drama, it can take you to the ends of the earth; it can take you far and wide; it can lead you to explore the world and experience the universe. Regardless of age, status, or background, as long as you believe in and love it sincerely, that is enough.

 

Chan Tak Wing, thank you. Thank you for thoughtfully considering and seriously addressing my doubts. Thank you for reminding me—to stay pure. Let’s encourage each other.

kaki.PNG

Two sides of the same coin. Luk Ka Ki

How do we evaluate whether an actor is successful? If we quantify it by looking at performance experience and resumes, the achievements of Ka-ki are undoubtedly impressive。

 

In her final year at the academy, she won the Best Actress award at the 11th Hong Kong Small Theatre Awards for her role as a social worker in Children's Abuse, beating out three other working actors. In less than two years after graduation, despite facing social movements and a pandemic, she has participated in various performances. In addition to reprising her role in Children's Abuse, she took part in Our Musical, planned by renowned local composer 高世章 (Ko Sai Cheung), and was recognized alongside senior actors as one of the "Top Eight Musical Theatre Actors." She has also appeared in the Chinese-English Theatre's Life is Just a Sad Song, children's theatre, school tours, and short dramas for RTHK. Soon, audiences will see her in the upcoming production of The Plague as part of the Hong Kong Arts Festival。

 

With a prolific career and numerous accolades, Ka-ki's future is undoubtedly bright. However, I sense a duality within her: the outwardly projecting side is very professional and meets institutional expectations; yet, from another perspective, she craves external validation and applause while struggling to admit her own insecurities。

 

Between the ages of 16 and 23, Ka-ki applied to the academy four times. Initially, she was unsuccessful for three consecutive years and, due to changes in the education system, she couldn’t apply again, leading to a two-year period of uncertainty where she worked while doing amateur performances. After being reminded by friends, she decided to complete a two-year higher diploma, using that qualification to apply one last time. If unsuccessful, she would give up. Ultimately, she was nominated. Why did she spend seven years striving to enter the performing arts? What was she determined to achieve? She didn’t respond directly, simply summarizing it as youthful stubbornness。

 

Life at the academy is notoriously busy and competitive. She admits that her sole goal during those four years was to graduate smoothly. "Don't get kicked out, don’t skip classes, be a normal student, and do everything I can." Thus, she devoted all her time to attending classes, practicing, completing assignments, and rehearsing, allowing no time for rest, and gradually "cutting ties" with family and friends。

 

This student was indeed very disciplined, insisting that her academic performance could not be poor, that her audition performances must be flawless, and that she could not let anyone see her weaknesses. She wanted to be seen but also wanted to be true to herself. If her performance wasn’t up to par, she would suffer and spiral into a vortex of distress, "It’s in my nature; I won’t let myself lose. I’m very competitive and aggressive."

 

Ka-ki reflected that the degree she worked so hard for had to be treated with seriousness, believing that effort could yield results. Now, nearly two years after leaving school, she recognizes that her past desire to prove herself stemmed from a need for acknowledgement. Why did she feel the need to validate her capabilities? Was it due to the fierce competition at school? Or was it her desire to redeem herself after multiple failures? Once again, Jiaqi downplayed the question, but upon further inquiry, she candidly admitted her lack of confidence。

 

"When I first entered, I was afraid to act; I felt like a stiff log on stage, paralyzed with fear, until I broke through for the first time and realized that I had to be brave and believe in myself to perform." However, that belief was initially based on sheer willpower, as she repeatedly brainwashed herself: "I can do it! I’m good enough! Everything is possible!"

 

Eventually, the school recognized her potential and provided her with practical opportunities, which helped her realize that she wasn’t as inadequate as she thought. Even if she did fall short, it didn’t have to be viewed as a flaw; instead, it could be seen as room for improvement. "I don’t need to rely on others' opinions, criticisms, or affirmations to survive... Now, my belief doesn't require constant reflection, though it sometimes resurfaces, but I don’t dwell on it as much." Her previous confidence carried a hint of insecurity, whereas now she believes that if others choose her, there must be a reason。

 

Although her confidence has grown, Ka-ki still cares deeply about receiving affirmation. Last year, she participated in several stage productions that required her to sing and dance, yet she felt her singing wasn’t up to par. She addressed her mental state regarding singing in one of her personal creations for "去劇場" (Nobodies Theatre), sharing it with the audience. She portrayed her younger self, who had won a singing competition years ago, performing a foreign pop song but appearing nervous and strained. She then performed it again, this time with the sound muted, and appeared much more at ease。

 

I think this actor places significant value on external opinions and evaluations. In her pursuit of applause, she continuously pushes herself to improve, believing there is no best, only better, which will undoubtedly lead to her success. However, I also wonder why her value as an actor is so heavily based on the perceptions of others. Could this create a sense of instability and lead her to lose her own identity?

 

In my view, Ka-ki's personality isn't particularly strong or critical. She has heard some industry insiders deem school tours tedious and productions done for the sake of doing as meaningless, with not all productions being of high quality. However, she disagrees, as she places greater importance on the connections made through collaboration and how people communicate. She believes every performance holds its own significance. She also disagrees with the industry's trend toward "work-focused" productions, asserting that even if rehearsals are brief, as long as those involved are dedicated, passionate, and believe in the stage, the quality and creativity of the performances can be maintained。

 

Perhaps it is precisely Jiaqi's unassuming, pragmatic, and neutral qualities that allow her to fluidly adapt to various productions and roles, leading to opportunities and steady growth, achieving a certain level of "success" as generally defined in the acting world. I believe many admire her professionalism and standards, recognizing her choices. Perhaps young people like Jiaqi, who have applied to performing arts multiple times, view her as a success story: "We can do it too; hard work will pay off."

 

Given the instability of the performing arts development environment in Hong Kong, I feel happy for Jiaqi for finding her footing. Yet, I still cannot fully convince myself to wholeheartedly follow the path she has taken. I cannot ignore the struggles she faced from applying to the academy to being accepted and graduating, navigating her way through the industry. Watching her, I am always tempted to ask: why is it necessary to pursue this path? Why must one attend performing arts school? Why sacrifice one's life for academic achievement? Why does the system dictate what is deemed good? Is there only one path? Can't one have their own?

 

However, I did not ask, knowing she might not respond, but I can imagine her answer. I have been debating in my mind, engaging in a dialogue with myself, and have yet to resolve these contradictions, which is why, despite my doubts about the academy, I still applied. Compared to Ka-ki's clear goals, my indecision seems quite ridiculous. Ultimately, I must understand that every gain comes with loss, and there is no perfect solution; it’s about how to make choices. If I do not wish to become her, who do I truly want to be? What kind of actor do I aspire to be?

mingyan.png

Keep listening. Ho Ming-yan

Ming Yan has been dancing for many years, with a background from an academy and rich performance experience. However, she rejects the title of "dancer," believing she is simply someone who happened to fall in love with dance and had the opportunity to learn and perform. Compared to dancing, she actually loves choreography more; compared to performing, she prefers creation. To this day, when asked to dance under the gaze of others, she still feels doubt and fear, with her body and mind feeling bound.

In a personal creation titled "Nobodies Theater," she will bring back to the stage a graduation piece she choreographed for six dancers at the Academy. But this time, she will not only serve as the choreographer but will also perform solo. She hopes to rediscover the life challenges she faced at that time by revisiting the movements and actions she choreographed for others. Her body language is clear, exuding emotion, but at the same time, you can see her avoiding the audience's gaze, her feet slightly trembling.

Eventually, after many requests to speed up, slow down, and repeat the dance numerous times, she finally forgets about being watched. Her body doesn't lie; she is very scared, saying, "I'm afraid of being seen, afraid of not doing well. I really want to do what I know I can do. I think these are my anxieties."

It's not just in this performance; she is also accustomed to hiding herself in her works, turning her back to the audience, concealing her expressions, and incorporating frantic movements that reflect her unease with observers. Her body is a vessel, carrying years of unresolved emotions. Others can read her through it, and she can read herself, depending on whether she is willing to engage in that reading.

 

Ming Yan began learning ballet at the age of eight. At 17, during the transitional period between the old and new school systems, she transferred from a prestigious girls' school to Hong Kong Design Institute, where she started to explore contemporary dance. Five years ago, she graduated from the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts, majoring in choreography.

During her time at the academy, the training emphasized achieving extreme physical ability, but at that time, her learning efficiency was low, she was slow to memorize movements, often distracted, and unable to concentrate. Once, a classmate made fun of her in class, saying she looked out of place. She felt very scared, and from then on, she often hid in the changing room or sought refuge with her closest friends.

Ming Yan said she understood her classmates' thoughts; if she encountered such a dancer in her work, she would also be troubled, so she wouldn't force them to listen and understand. Indeed, she had to work harder, but it was difficult because "at that time, my sensitivity to my body was still very weak."

From Design Institute to the Academy, Ming Yan experienced many changes in her life over those years. At 16, she fell seriously ill, suffering from hyperthyroidism, and had to take medication for six months to control her heart rate and thyroid secretion, which altered her muscle tone. She became easily fatigued, like an old computer that would crash, needing to rest and adjust her state. For a dancer, the body is not just a tool; it is vital to life. She feels a responsibility to manage her illness well, saying she feels guilty about being a dancer, "I don't really like telling people I'm a dancer because I haven't worked hard on my body for a long time."

While she was still learning to deal with her body, the unfriendly treatment from some classmates in the academy left her traumatized. "I was very scared during that phase, but I didn't realize how big the fear was." Even now, she doesn't hate performing, but she still hesitates and is sensitive to being watched, even her breathing is affected.

 

 

Illness wasn't the biggest blow; Ming Yan says the turning point in her life came when her partner, with whom she had been together for several years after university, proposed to break up. Her life fell into disarray, losing the comforting shared space and the person she could have deep conversations with. No one could explore life and art with her anymore or create freely together. She felt everything in life became meaningless, and she fell into a chaotic state, "From believing in something deeply to constantly wanting to overturn everything, losing the motivation to live."

 

Creation became her mental support at that time; she could only keep choreographing, dancing, and performing to move past the pain. However, Ming Yan said that behind the unusual excitement, her inner world was still chaotic. She realized she had never been good at talking to herself and found it hard to accept others' instructions. More importantly, the failure of that relationship magnified her rebellious, confrontational, and sensitive traits from childhood.

 

Coming from a prestigious school, she was often required to be a "good person," a "good student," a "good woman." The school emphasized excellence and standards, suppressing individuality, leading to a natural backlash. "I don’t fucking care that you want me to be good, so I resist 'good'." In her growth process, she encountered many people with biases and preconceived notions, as well as those who were rigid and unaccepting of opinions.

She didn't want to be judged first; whenever she sensed that the other person had blind spots, she would instinctively retreat, refusing to continue the conversation. Gradually, she became easily defensive, unconsciously interpreting others' hints as control, quickly saying no to new and uninteresting things: "Why should I listen to you?" Even without malice, she loved to add her own ideas to things she liked without explaining the logic behind her divergence, giving others the impression of "You want me to do A, so I do B."

 

This understanding and sorting out of herself has only been achieved by Ming Yan over the past year. In mid-2019, she joined "Nobodies Theater." Unlike her previous creations, the team only had her as a dancer; the others were actors from diverse backgrounds. They came together not to produce a performance; initially, it was just "purely trying things out, training together, working on things, discussing performance." Ming Yan said that everyone didn't compete against each other; they would act and ask questions, trying to find and discover in performance together. She is slow to warm up, but this space allows understanding to ferment slowly, with no preconceptions or judgments.

Everyone puts in a lot of effort and time to sort themselves out, listen to others, and communicate with each other. She loves this generosity.

 

She has been learning from them, "learning how to truly hear my own voice and the voices of others." Now, whenever she realizes she is about to lose patience, she thinks of one of her important mentors—dance artist Zhou Pei-yun—who reminded students in class, "I still remember her tone and manner when she told everyone to listen!" Ming Yan reminds herself to remain humble, open, and to listen; to hear herself, others, and the world.

"Don't judge too quickly what others' reasons are; just keep listening, listening, until you hear." If not, she will become what she least wants to be—a person full of biases.

 

 

Interactions between people should not carry biases. Of course, there should be no biases against others, and there shouldn't be against oneself either. It's easy to say and hard to do. Thank you, Ming Yan, for this reminder.

 

Years ago, I saw her at an event, dressed simply, with long hair, dancing spontaneously, and thought she was someone far removed from worldly affairs. When I first got to know her and interviewed her, I found she was quite talkative. But at that time, her speech was fragmented, and her logic was disjointed, making it hard to understand. Sometimes I doubted whether dance was the first language of a dancer, and words were the second, so I gave up trying to understand her further. But actually, we had only talked once, and neither of us really knew each other. Wasn't I also carrying biases? All of this was prejudice against "dancer" and "Ho Ming Yan."

 

Four months later, we met again at night. Completely different from our first meeting, she listened attentively while answering, and I was braver in my probing questions; we were both very honest. I felt the weight of our conversation, no longer feeling lost. I think we both set aside the layers of habitual pretense, willing to trust each other first, which allowed us to clear the fog of dialogue.

Afterward, I remembered her saying that when a person is too focused on saying what they want to say, they actually can't hear others. In fact, when a person is too focused on asking what they want to ask, they similarly cannot hear others. As long as I listen to her ramblings without preconceptions, the distance between us closes. I no longer feel she is far away; in fact, she is very warm.

Untitled_Artwork 8.PNG

A letter to Jovita Siu (an actress who abandoned the academy)

Dear Jovita,

How are you? Have you been busy with classes and rehearsals, sweating and shedding tears? I hope you are doing well. I miss your curly hair, your sun-kissed skin, your adorable bunny teeth, and the big hugs you give every time we meet.

You know, ever since our fifth meeting when you unexpectedly opened your heart and shared many stories and thoughts, I've been looking forward to our next encounter for a heartfelt conversation.

Before that meeting, I always thought we were from two different worlds; after all, you have a strong personality while I tend to hold back. It was only after that meeting that I realized how similar our thoughts are. The confusion I'm experiencing now, you have gone through; the doubts you're facing now, I often question myself as well.

When you said you shouldn't pursue reading just for the sake of it, nor should you attend the academy just to "enter the industry," which is why you declined admission, I felt a jolt in my heart. Because I also wish I had that courage to stick to my own ideas. When I share my doubts about the academy and the insecurity of the system with my peers, they often tell me it's an easier path, that the environment will be painful, but "that's just how the world is."

You, however, are different. You often say, "That's not how it is; I don't want that." You believe there isn't just one path for an actor. If you had four years, you would rather live, experience, or attend a school that truly interests you to study the arts. You believe that if you're unwilling to play this game, you don't have to change yourself or the game; you can create your own game. Thank you for personally demonstrating that life can have different choices.

Are all Virgos like this? Stubborn and unwilling to let themselves off the hook? You said you often fall into self-doubt. On one hand, you know that even without attending the academy, there will still be opportunities for work and creation; but on the other hand, you also realize that your network and development opportunities are narrower than those of actors from the academy. You constantly have dialogues with yourself, questioning whether you've taken the wrong path.

Actually, I'm the same way, always thinking and thinking, without answers. "Why am I moving so slowly?" "I'm falling behind!" I often say these things to myself, after all, I only started pursuing my acting dream at 24, which is truly being behind. To me, you are doing great. You have a lot of performance experience, continuously learning and discovering in physical performing arts, and trying different creations; you've already come a long way, so have confidence in yourself.

When I face performance, creation, and art, I always think about self-worth and future development. You, however, are much purer, simply enjoying creation, loving how performance allows you to live in the moment and genuinely feel your own existence and that of others. You love performing, and it gives back to you. The challenges of growing up have forced you to be independent, but performance allows you to be vulnerable, to be yourself. This openness carries back into your life, where you can express yourself and seek help from others. You don’t have to keep your feelings inside, organizing them a hundred times before you speak. You don’t have to take care of others before taking care of yourself. Do you know that?

Although you say you are a headstrong person, I genuinely admire and respect you. The things I want to do but hesitate to take the first step, you have already done. The things I believe in but haven’t acted on, you have quietly taken action on. In you, I see my own weakness and conservatism, hypocrisy and laziness. I want to learn from you and hope that one day I can become a more candid and courageous person.

I know that at this point, you would want to give me a hug and gently tell me: It’s okay not to be okay. Okay, let’s cry together, then work hard together, progress together, and become better people together.

I’m grateful for our encounter. Grateful that the slow-warming you opened your heart, allowing me to see your orange bubble "energy." Grateful for the sincerity in our meeting and the gentle treatment.

Wishing you all the best.

Kasen

xiyong.png

A heated conversation with Chen Hei-yong - Can you really leave the theater?

(Here is a summary of Chen Hei-yong's interview content, written from his perspective. What is true and what is false is for the reader to judge; or you may directly talk to him, as the best way to understand a person is through personal contact.)

■Question: Kasen Tsui

■Answer: Chen Hei-yong (born in 1995, Virgo, a man one day younger than me. Originally intended to study philosophy, but ultimately graduated in performing arts and is now a freelance actor, currently self-studying anthropology. He is both a lone wolf and a social butterfly, a strong organizer but expresses himself in a very roundabout way. He talks a lot about not caring but will prepare hot chocolate and hot water, caring for his fellow actors. His thoughts are as delicate as his physique; they move quickly and require careful chewing to understand his true intentions. He is a very interesting person, and I suggest taking him seriously and not being fooled by his playful demeanor.)

Q: In one of your personal creations for "Going to the Theatre," you drew from your family experiences. You recreated a scene where your uncle, who suffers from mental illness, has an episode, sticking memo notes on the wall and talking to himself. The sentences are illogical, but some relate to him, while others concern you and your sister. Then you turn and step onto the stage to recount those sentences from your own state. Why did you choose to draw from family experiences, even sharing such a private story about mental illness?

 

A: At first, I didn't think about doing it from my family…

Q: Have you never done it before?

A: No. There was no need to touch on it; I had forgotten about it for a long time. Such performance states are rare in my life, only happened twice. Until I saw my friends in "Going to the Theatre" fully investing themselves, directly facing their mental and physical pain, I asked myself, what else do I want to explore in performance? Are there personal issues? That led to this creation about family and myself.

 

Q: Why did you explore these things so little before or confront them directly?

 

A: I felt it didn't affect my life; I was still functioning. Haha, yes, you heard that right, I was functioning. If it hasn't become a barrier, then exploring it would somehow be a form of consumption. I just didn't have the energy or motivation to deal with it.

 

Q: In our last interview, we talked for two to three hours, and you shared a lot. I found your thoughts very interesting; very few people are like that. I thought you were naturally contemplative, but only after seeing that personal creation did I realize it’s not like that… Compared to what you shared, there’s actually so much more you haven't mentioned. For example, you didn't talk about your family; how did that step by step influence you?

 

A: I have a family history of mental illness. Since I was little, I’ve constantly heard about my grandmother's suicides, from being shocked the first time to being curious about her methods by the fifth or sixth time, turning impatient. I’ve also seen my uncle during his episodes, sticking memo notes on the wall.

I often fear that one day it will happen to me. It's not entirely about "fear"; it's not panic. I've excluded "fear" as an emotion for a long time; I think it's become internalized into my daily coping mechanism. I often wonder, if that day comes, how I should prepare myself? I have no courage to deal with it once it arrives. Over time, many choices in my life, both artistic and personal, have been made with a certain distance, trying to maintain emotional stability.

 

Q: But isn't that quite painful? You think you might develop a mental illness, but in the end, it may never happen. Looking back, doesn’t that seem foolish and unworthy?

 

A: However, this kind of worrying about potential issues might just be a manifestation of having problems.

 

Q: (sighs) … If you want to maintain emotional stability, isn’t being an actor a dangerous job?

 

A: My dad is actually very worried about me being an actor. For him, acting is a job that manipulates emotions and experiences extreme highs and lows. He fears I might follow the same path as my uncle and would rather I become a biologist or a food truck owner. But he knows he can’t force me; seeing me pursue my path, he can only let me go.

But it’s not really that extreme. Being an actor actually gives me space to understand myself and embrace suffering, which makes me less worried about family genetics and fate.

The year I graduated from the Academy, I did a play called "Fire Face." The male lead dislikes his parents and the system, living in chaos, believing the world is fake, needing to set fires continuously to destroy and control it, leading to a series of tragedies, ultimately choosing to self-immolate in defiance. I felt a connection to him, understanding him as another version of myself in a different time and space...

 

Q: It seems like he has many things he wants to do or not do but has always suppressed them?

 

A: No. I understand that deep down he is a lonely boy, and many of his actions stem from that loneliness. When I was seven, I once cried for no reason while watching TV, rushing to the kitchen to hug my mom, asking her, "When will you, dad, and my sister die? My sister is two years older than me; will she die two years before me? Then I’ll be alone for two years?" Actually, I’ve been very afraid of loneliness and solitude since I was young; I’m just like him.

People fear something because they don’t understand it. When you understand more, you become less fearful and less prone to suffering. Theatre allows me to understand myself better, making me less afraid of myself. My sensitivity, delicateness, sentimentality, and worrying are warning signs for my family, but for me, they are virtues; in theatre, I can place my virtues comfortably.

 

Q: You once said theatre is "fake," where you can safely express emotions, while the real world is real, and you can’t do that. Do you feel that theatre is your outlet? Or in other words, it seems destined that you must walk this artistic path because you need theatre, you need performance, and you need to be seen.

 

A: I need theatre; I really need it. But I’m sure it doesn’t need me; I need it desperately. In theatre, I can truly feel my existence. When you know your existence is being watched, every move you make, every breath you take, every bit of energy you release gains some meaning, a meaning of existence. I’m no longer just a physical being made of flesh and blood, but something greater than myself. At that moment, I understand what my teacher meant by "the truth on stage is more real than in life." Life can be chewed like that; being human can be chewed like that… I would say many important moments in my life have happened on stage.

 

Q: So what do you most want to do in art? What do you want?

 

A: Nothing! I can’t answer that; I still can’t give a clear answer, even if I ponder it at midnight, I can’t answer myself. If I knew, I would have done it long ago.

During my four years in the academy, I had a lot of space and time to explore art, and I found that what I wanted to express in art is about society and life, very emotional things. But once out in the working world, there were many things to adapt to; it’s not something you find immediately. Although I’ve been involved in many works and many troupes, and enjoyed the process of acting, after rehearsals, I feel an indescribable emptiness. This emptiness tells you that these aren’t the things you want.

 

Q: Does this gap leave you feeling lost?...

 

A: I constantly ask myself what I want to do; I need to invent my direction, find my path. However, I’m definitely not in a hurry; sometimes I even unconsciously make myself a bit more lost, prolonging the process. Why rush to find an answer? Once you find one, there’s another question waiting for you. Plus, you never know when you’ll leave or die.

 

Q: Hmm… I have nothing else to ask because I’m not sure how to proceed; I can’t ask what I want to know…

 

A: What do you want to know?

 

Q: I realize that what you say isn’t important; what matters is what you don’t say and why you say it. I thought I had asked a lot, and you shared a lot, but every sentence expresses your true thoughts in a very roundabout way. You protect yourself so well; I can’t see through you. I feel like the words you gave me were misleading, and I need time to digest what you said…

 

A: Thank you for telling me this, because it’s very possible that I don’t even realize it myself.

 

(A pause)

 

A: I think my habitual thought process is—"maximize what can be lost." So if you ask me, can I leave theatre? I can answer you directly, I can leave theatre, leave the theatre circle.

At that moment I said this, I truly believed it. But I’m not sure if this is my protective mechanism activating? I don’t know if it's real or fake; I’ll only know if it happens if I can truly let go. Many of my actions in life carry this motive.

In my mind, there is a line; if I think beyond this line, I enter a state of "nothing matters, life becomes meaningless." Studying, theatre, movies, happiness, friends, family—none of it matters. Right now, I still have the energy to manage my spirit, controlling myself not to touch that line, not to think that way. But I will build up my mental fortitude, preparing to face loss.

Recently, I’ve been studying anthropology, and I really want to ask: "What does a person need to live well?" Actually, it’s still asking the same thing: What else can I lose? Can I let go first? If letting go is possible, then there’s nothing to worry about. I can lose anything, take it all. I can lose everything; if you take everything away from me, that’s fine. As long as I’m mentally prepared, taking anything from me won’t cause me to collapse. I’m prepared to lose everything.

Q: You often say that many things don’t matter, and you won’t strive for them, that it’s whatever. At first, I thought you were someone who lives freely, but now I feel that you are actually very afraid of loss, which is why you talk about accepting loss so easily.

A: Yes, I believe that’s true.

Q: Living like this isn’t very painful, is it? If you want something, just go for it.

A: It’s not painful. Nothing much is happening, and I’m still functioning. Maybe I’ve already anesthetized myself, trained my emotional responses well; I’m not in an intense, anxious state. Slowly, slowly convincing myself, I can achieve that.

I know there are hidden issues, but I won’t deliberately bring them up or talk about them much. It’s really rare to encounter friends with whom I can discuss these things; it sounds exaggerated, but this phone call, this interview, is a moment worth living in my life. I don’t know when I will die, but if in these twenty-something years, some views converge into thoughts, and they have existed in the world, like tonight, I will cherish it.

Q: (deep breath) Alright. Thank you, Hei-yong.

A: Thank you, Kasen.

得永
嘉琪
明恩
芷芊 Jovita
熙鏞
bottom of page