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Absence Space Tainan

Chinese version

 Absence Space is located on Zhengjue Street in the North District of Tainan, Taiwan, founded by Yi-Lin Ku and Yu-Ching Chen in 2021 during the COVID-19 pandemic. Before its founding, both had spent years practicing as dancers. Throughout their long-term bodily training and performance practice, they developed a new understanding of the nature of theatre space: it is not merely a container of performance, more importantly, it composes a structure of relationships, a site generated through the entanglement of bodies, time, and ways of seeing. 

For Yi-Lin and Yu-Ching, a space does not pre-exist. Rather, it is continuously produced and organized through repeated actions, rehearsals, viewings, and encounters, which in turn give rise to new understandings of it. Through reading, living, and practicing, they are gradually drawn to a more fundamental question: how are relationships between people activated, unfolded, and sustained within concrete physical environments? Space, in this context, is no longer a fixed geographical location, but something closer to an ever-evolving social structure—a relational web woven together by bodies, actions, and emotions. 

Over the past four and a half years, Yi-Lin and Yu-Ching have gradually cultivated Absence Space  into a wild yet vibrant experimental field for performance art. In 2025 alone, more than 400 exhibitions, performances, fairs, and workshops took place within this three-story art space, housed in a renovated old building. Artists, dancers, musicians, researchers, and audiences from diverse backgrounds have gathered here—encountering one another, lingering, exchanging ideas, and parting for new trajectories. Over time, the building has shifted into a fluid cultural node from a purely physical space.

Yi-Lin and Yu-Ching’s surging, genuine passion for independent art space practice left a lasting impression on me during our interview. They spoke repeatedly of the ways energy gathering, flowing, and spreading between people, seeing it as both a crucial condition and a form of nourishment for art to happen. For them, an independent art space should function as an open-ended medium: energy, information, knowledge, and sensations travel across dispersed physical sites, reaching toward distant and unfamiliar directions, before eventually returning through new contingencies and encounters. This reflects both their imagination of Absence Space and the way they continue to work in practice.




Yu-Ching Chen, Yi-Lin Ku, Jiani Wang, January 11, 2026

Jiani    

Could you briefly introduce how Absence Space was established?

Yu-Ching    

I’m from Tainan. After high school, I moved to Taipei for my studies. I was trained as a dancer throughout high school and college, and pursued interdisciplinary practice in graduate school. Then the pandemic hit, and all the exhibitions and performances I had lined up were canceled, so I returned to Tainan. Around that time, I became very interested in theater history and started researching it more seriously. I later met Yilin, and we came across this vacant old building tucked away in an alley. Two of us began talking about the possibility of creating Absence Space. Once we started, it felt like something we could just continue doing—especially since we had no idea when the pandemic would end. And somehow, we’ve kept it going all the way until today.

Yi-Lin    

I danced for ten years growing up, though I wasn’t trained in any degree-granting program in college. My academic background is in Taiwanese literature, and my interests focus on the female body and communities of women artists. The pandemic arrived while I was in college, and that’s also when I met Yuching. We shared a common interest in creating an experimental art space, so we started working on Absence Space together.

Jiani    

Yu-Ching, how did you come to shift from dance to a more interdisciplinary practice?

Yu-Ching    

When I was still a dancer, I spent years trying to get myself onto the stage. But at a certain point, I began to feel a sense of doubt about this process. Perhaps because I was always performing others’ choreography, or trying to fit myself into certain expectations of what a dancer should be, I started to feel a strong sense of dissonance on stage. After that, I began auditing classes at different schools and exploring other artistic fields. One subject I cared deeply about was the construction of a person’s subjectivity.
        I moved to Taipei in 2013. The following year, the Sunflower Movement happened, and Taiwan entered a period of reconfiguration—a process of trying to answer questions like: “What does it mean for Taiwan to exist as a subject in its own right?” That felt like an awakening moment for me. I began to think about who I was, and that was also when I started thinking more deeply about community.

Jiani    

What kind of community do you want to build?

Yu-Ching    

Personally, what I care about most is how people connect with one another. When I talk about this, I would naturally think of the theoretical framework and practice of Relational Aesthetics. But I think when people discuss these ideas, the focus often leans too heavily toward visual and presentation, and on work that positions the artist as the central subject. Based on my reflections from dance practice, I want to step back from the role of community initiator and allow the community to emerge organically, rather than being steered by a strong controlling force.

Jiani    

Has anyone had a strong influence on you during this process?

Yu-Ching    

There’s an artist in Taiwan named Kao Chun-hung. Some of his work engages with East Asian anarchist spaces and international networks. He has thought a lot about Taiwan’s leftist and anarchist histories, and his work and ideas have had a deep influence on me over the years. Taiwan’s democratization is relatively recent, and it wasn’t until after the Sunflower Movement that I began to understand what democracy really means. Democracy isn’t something that simply appears once a country opens up—it’s a continuous process of testing boundaries and always in motion.

Jiani    

Why did you name the space Absence Space?

Yu-Ching    

There’s a metaphor embedded in the name. In traditional theater, to “exist” means to be illuminated by light. But for us, much of the meaning of theater lies in its dark moments. To create a performance that lasts just over ten minutes, artists often spend years in rehearsal. There’s also the time spent adjusting the stage and lighting before the audience enters. Theater time doesn’t begin when the audience sees the stage—it begins when the artist starts preparing. 
        Darkness, in this sense, is actually the essential element in the theater. So how do we honor these dark moments? How do we speak about the dark space and time that matters most? These were the questions we held when we named this place.

Jiani    

Could you tell me about how the space is structured? 

Yi-Lin    

It’s a three-story building with a skylight. The third floor is a performance space where our shows take place. On the second floor, there are three rooms for artist residencies. The first floor has a white cube exhibition space, a woodshop for basic woodworking, and a small library for people to gather and exchange ideas.

Jiani    

How does Absence Space sustain itself financially? What does its current operational situation look like?  

Yi-Lin    

We registered as a non-profit performing art organization in 2022. Right now, we’re able to maintain regular operations. Our special projects, such as Everything Growing, have received public funding from Taiwan. We also generate income through accommodation and space rental, and we receive voluntary support from audiences.

Jiani    

You host many events across diverse fields, with artists from around the world. How did you initially build visibility for this newly-established space and connect with the participating artists?  

Yu-Ching    

In the first few months after the space was founded, we barely knew any friends in Tainan. There were times when I was the only participant in an event, or when Yi-Lin performed and I was the only audience. 
        But as we made more friends, the atmosphere became more lively, and more people—often strangers—started to come by. Sometimes international artists visiting Tainan would stop by, and if they liked the space, they would recommend us to their friends. For instance, the person who introduced us to you participated in one of our Butoh workshops. There was no single turning point that defined the space. It really grew through word of mouth and things began to take shape over time. 

Jiani    

Absence Space’s activities are organized around several main sections—film screenings, body workshops, reading clubs, artist residencies, exhibitions, and so on. Do you plan the space usage and programs in detail?

Yu-Ching    

We tend to see the space more as a platform that allows us to connect with different people and offer them opportunities to develop projects they are interested in. As an independent space, the resources we can offer are limited, whether social or financial. But what we can do is act as a kind of intermediary and agency, helping people realize what they want to do with as little friction as possible. 

Yi-Lin    

At the same time, we have a relatively structured project called Everything Growing. We collaborate with six local artists to develop different sub-projects, including sound art, dance theatre, zine publishing, and more. We see ourselves more as a platform that sparks the conditions for these projects to take place. The arts scene in Taiwan is actually quite compartmentalized, and Absence Space provides a chance for  people from different fields to encounter. 

Jiani    

How did Everything Growing develop a particularly strong connection with the local community in the context of the space? 

Yu-Ching    

Fang-Yi Liu, the artist collaborating on the sound section of Everything Growing, was already a long-time friend of ours even before the project took shape. His music collective, Cochlea-gigs, used to host all-day music performances occasionally at Absence Space, over 20 of them in total. When the idea of Everything Growing emerged, we invited him to participate and continue the activities of Cochlea-gigs. The difference was that Everything Growing had secured funding, so we were able to waive the venue fee and also offer him an artist fee. 
        Fangyi also invited another sound space in Tainan, Ting Shuo Hear Say, to host a workshop. The way we build relationships with Fang-Yi and other artists follows a similar mode: we let things grow “by touching the stones”at the beginning, feeling our way forward, and over time, and then relationships take shape gradually through accumulated time and continued flow. For instance, Fangyi has been quite busy recently and can now only organize Cochlea-gigs performances once a month, so he has been connecting us with other international artists. Just yesterday, a Japanese musician and a Taiwanese dancer performed here at Absence Space, and Fangyi came as an audience. 

Jiani    

It sounds like the connections that emerge through this space don’t only exist in the final works, but are more embedded in the process along the way.

Yu-Ching    

Yes. Another example would be we met a young local art collective in Indonesia when we attended the Jakarta Biennale. At the time, they were students at the Institut Kesenian Jakarta and were deeply engaged with the social transformations and activist movements currently taking place in Indonesia. So we found a strong resonance between us. A few weeks ago, when they came to Absence Space for a residency, we also introduced them to other artists in our space. During their stay, they were particularly interested in the situation of Indonesian migrant workers in Taiwan, and we tried to connect them with relevant people. Later, two of our artist friends visited Indonesia and stayed at their space. To me, all of this is part of the same flow of relationships. This continuous, river-like state is what we try to cultivate.

Jiani    

Can you elaborate a bit more on the situation of Indonesian migrant workers in Taiwan? 

Yu-Ching    

Many factories in Taiwan have employed Indonesian migrant workers, and a lot of them have creative talent or experience. In a way, the work they produce while in Taiwan can be seen as part of Taiwan’s art scene, but at the same time, it also belongs to Indonesia. I find the dissolving of boundaries particularly interesting, as it involves not only exchanges on an artistic level, but also more grounded exchanges tied to labor and production. Through these artists, we are able to glimpse a broader picture, and I think that’s something quite meaningful. 

Jiani    

How do you feel about the art scene in Tainan？

Yu-Ching    

I think each city in Taiwan has its own set of rules of the art world, the evaluation standards, and ways of doing things. Tainan is not an international metropolis like New York, Taipei, or Tokyo—it is a historical city and relatively small in size, and it’s also currently facing the issue of population outflow. Many artists here spend a lot of time simply hanging out together. For instance, we meet regularly to play badminton every week and do things that have nothing to do with art. The artist community here is quite close-knit: people come together not out of pursuing major grants or prestigious awards, but out of fun and emotional connection. 
       In this kind of environment, when working on a project like Everything Growing, Yuanfen—chance and affinity—becomes a crucial condition. It’s not so much that we come up with an idea and push to make it happen. Rather, the process feels more like encountering one another and then letting things unfold spontaneously. 

Jiani    

This approach or mindset sounds more like waiting for Yuanfen to happen, rather than actively reaching out and initiating something.

Yu-Ching    

It’s a kind of active waiting, like a spider weaving its web. 

Jiani    

I am also curious about your thoughts on physical space. A friend of mine used to run a small art space in New York, but eventually had to close it due to rising rents. With the rise of digital media, many people have shifted curatorial and organizational practices online. 

Yu-Ching  

For me, physical space is absolutely crucial, one hundred percent. When I was in Taipei, I used my own home as a place for people to gather regularly, to watch films and share their work. Now, as Absence Space approaches its sixth year, it has, in a way, grown into something of its own. It feels a bit like raising a child: in the first couple of years, they stay very close to you, but as they grow, they gradually develop a sense of their own subjectivity. 

Yi-Lin    

For me, physical space is important because if artists want to step outside their existing networks and go somewhere new, having a place to stay becomes essential. Residency is an important part at Absence Space. We’ve also been imagining that if more spaces around the world operated in a similar way as we do, people could travel to unfamiliar places at relatively low cost and exchange what they already carry with one another, then the ecology of the art world would be quite different. Physical space is like a container—it allows connections to take on a tangible form very quickly.

Yu-Ching    

The experience of digital space can easily resemble standing in front of a department store display, and you can choose which counter to approach effortlessly, whereas entering or leaving a physical space is less arbitrary and flexible. Yet it is this kind of limitation that sometimes sparks unexpected connections. Many of our friends actually live nearby. They might pass by on their scooters, stop for a cigarette, and fall into a conversation, and by the next day a performance takes place. This is something that happens at Absence Space all the time.

Jiani    

Are there any connections or works that have taken place in the space that stay with you? 

Yu-Ching    

We once had an intern who was an art student. During his time at Absence Space, one of his tasks was to help us change and wash the bed sheets. Later, his thesis project turned out to be a video piece in which he was making a bed that seemed impossible to be fully smoothed out. Another artist who interned at Absence Space  also made an interesting work titled Today’s. He placed a refrigerator in the space, filled with bottles of alcohol, and added more each day for people to drink for free. After work, he would cycle for 15 minutes to Absence Space and have a drink. 
        In 2024, we initiated a project in which we mapped the third-floor theater of Absence Space using blue-and-white tarpaulin, transforming it into a mobile theater. We then brought it to different parks across Tainan, where we organized performances, reading sessions, and film screenings. The curator we collaborated with on the project initiated an exhibition titled Street Snapshot Notes in our space the following year, and invited both Yilin and me to participate as artists.

Jiani    

Thank you both for sharing. To wrap up this conversation, could you recommend some independent art spaces to our readers? 

Yu-Ching    

I can think of so many just off the top of my head—it’s exciting just to think about them. In Tokyo, there’s an art space called Ongoing, which has been running for over twenty years. There are also quite a few spaces across Southeast Asia that have been inspiring to me. For instance, Ruang MES 56 in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, and a residency space in Chiang Mai called Mirror Artspace, founded by a performance artist friend of ours.

Jiani Wang writes about art, produces films and creates her own visual works. She is currently living in New York. The interview was originally conducted in Chinese and translated by Jiani Wang. 




不存在劇場
台南



不存在剧场位于台南市北区正觉街，由古伊琳与陳昱清在2021年新冠疫情期间创办。在成立剧场之前，两人都是有着多年实践的舞者。在长期的身体训练与表演经验中，他们逐渐对剧场空间产生了新的理解：剧场不仅仅是承载演出的容器，它同时也是一种关系结构，一个由人、身体、时间与观看方式交织而成的场域。对于伊琳与昱清来说，空间并非预先存在，而是在一次次行动、排练、观看，与相遇中被不断生成、组织，与重新理解的。由此，他们开始关注一个更为根本的问题：人与人之间的关系是如何在具体的物理空间中被触发、展开，与持续的？空间也因此不再只是固定的地理位置，而更像是一种不断生成的社会结构——由身体、行动与情感共同编织出的关系网路。

在过去四年半里，昱清与伊琳将不存在剧场一点点开垦成一片野生且充满生机的试验田。仅2025这一年，在这栋由三层老屋改造而成的艺术空间中，便展开了四百余场或大或小的展览、演出、市集，与工作坊。不同背景的艺术家、舞者、音乐人、研究者与观众在这里相遇、停留、交换、离开，使这栋建筑逐渐从一处单纯的物理空间转变为一个持续流动的文化节点。

在我们的采访中，伊琳与昱清对独立艺术空间的实践流露出十分真挚的热情。他们反复提及人与人之间能量的汇聚、流动，与扩散，并将其视为艺术实践得以发生的重要条件与养分。对他们而言，独立艺术空间应该是一种开放的媒介：能量、资讯、知识与感受经由一个个散落在各处的实体空间不断传递与流动，以世界为活动场域，向遥远而陌生的方向延展，并在未来某个时刻，藉由新的相遇与契机再次回返。这既是昱清与伊琳对于不存在剧场的想象，也是他们持续工作的方式。




陳昱清，古伊琳，王佳妮，2026年1月11日

佳妮    

你们可以先简单介绍一下不存在剧场是如何建立起来的吗？

昱清    

我是台南人，高中畢業到台北求學，高中、大學都是就讀舞蹈科班，研究所就讀的是跨領域創作。讀研究所期間疫情發生，原本敲定好的展覽、表演都取消了，於是我從台北回到了台南。當時我對於劇場歷史很感興趣，就開始著手研究。後來認識了伊琳，也剛好遇見了這個坐落在巷子裡閒置的老建築，我們兩個就開始討論建立不存在劇場。開始做之後覺得好像可以就這樣一直做下去，因為當時也不知道疫情什麼時候會結束。於是就持續到了今天。

伊琳    

我從小學跳舞10年，但我不是科班生。我的學術背景是台灣文學，興趣比較著重在女性身體與女性藝術家的社群。上大學期間遇到了新冠疫情，同時認識了昱清。我們對於創辦實驗藝術空間的興趣不謀而合，就開始一起做不存在劇場。

佳妮    

昱清怎么想到从跳舞转向媒介更为多元的创作？

昱清    

之前跳舞的時候，我花了好幾年的時間想要讓自己站到舞台上面，可是忽然某一刻，我開始產生某種懷疑。可能因為那時都是跳別人的舞作，或者是讓自己變成某個樣子，所以我在舞臺上感覺到很強烈的違和感。從那之後我開始去不同的學校旁聽，認識不同領域的藝術。我很關心的一個議題就是人的主體建構。
        2013年我來到台北，隔年剛好發生太陽花學運，台灣開始了一個重新建構的過程，試圖去回答“台灣作為一個主體，到底是一個什麼樣的存在”這類的問題。我在那個時間點好像被啟蒙到，開始思考自己是誰。這也是我思考社群的開始。

佳妮    

你们想建立一个什么样的社群呢？

昱清    

作為我個人來講，我最在意的是人跟人如何聯絡在一起。提及這個話題時，我會自然而然地想到關係美學這樣的理論與實踐形式。但我覺得當人們談到這些關鍵詞時，還是會將注意力主要放在某種視覺與表象的呈現，並且對於以藝術家作為主體所發展出來的內容更為在意。結合我在過往舞蹈實踐中所產生的自我反思，我會想要讓自己作為社群建立者的角色退後一步，讓所謂的社群以有機的方式發生，而不是有一隻較為強硬的手促使它發生。

佳妮    

在这个过程中有没有对你产生很大影响的人？

昱清    

台灣有一位藝術家名叫高俊宏，他有一部分的作品是關於東亞無政府主義空間與國際串聯的實踐。他對於台灣的左派歷史、無政府主義歷史都有很多思考。他的作品和想法在過去一段時間裡對我影響很大。台灣民主化並沒有很多年，我從太陽花學運之後才逐漸意識到什麼是民主。民主並非是國家開放後就產生的，而是不斷嘗試邊界、甚至不斷滾動的過程。

佳妮    

为什么将空间命名为不存在剧场？

昱清    

我們給空間取名為“不存在劇場”的背後有一個隱喻：在傳統劇場中，如果你想要“存在”，就要被光照到。但在我們心中，劇場的意義其實很大一部分來自於那些黑暗的時刻。為了完成一個十幾分鐘的作品，藝術家往往要花費幾年甚至更長的時間去排練。還有除錯舞台、燈光的時間。然後才是觀眾進場。所謂的劇場時間並不是舞台被觀眾看到的那一段時間，而是從藝術家準備上場的那一刻就開始了。黑暗反而是劇場裡真正重要的部分。那我們要怎麼去榮耀這些黑暗的時刻？怎麼去談及那個最為重要的黑暗空間與時間？這是我們在給這個空間起名時所考慮的。 

佳妮    

可以请你们大概描述一下这个空间的构成吗？

伊琳    

不存在劇場是一個三層的透天建築。三樓的劇場是平常進行表演的地方，二樓有三個房間為藝術家提供駐村。一樓有一個白盒子展覽空間，旁邊還有一個可以做簡單木工的工作區域。另外還有一個小型圖書館，供大家在空間裡交流。 

佳妮    

不存在剧场在经济上是如何运转的？目前的运营状况是怎样？

伊琳    

我們在2022年申請成為非營利演藝團隊。目前處於可以維持運營的狀態。我們的專案計劃，例如“萬物生長”，有收到來自台灣公共資金的資助。此外還有住宿、場地租借等收入來源。我們也有收到來自觀眾的自主支援。

佳妮    

我看到你们的活动举办得很密集，触及到的领域也很广泛，艺术家也是来自世界各地。我很好奇你们一开始是怎么让大家认识与了解到这个新成立的艺术空间，以及是如何接触到这些参与的艺术家的？

昱清    

其實在空間剛剛成立的前幾個月裡，我們在台南也沒有認識什麼朋友，很多時候活動只有我一個人參與，或是伊琳的表演，觀眾只有我一個。後來隨著交的朋友越來越多，空間的氛圍也變得越來越活絡，就會有越來越多不認識的人來到這裡。有的時候一些國際藝術家被邀請來台南，也會來我們的空間坐坐，發現不錯之後就會推薦給他們的朋友。比如把我們推薦給你的朋友就是我們的舞踏工作坊的參與者。好像也不特別因為某一件事情讓我們變成某個樣子，就是透過口口相傳，隨著時間就會有一些事情完成。 

佳妮    

不存在剧场的活动目前分成了几个主要版块，比如电影放映、身体工作坊、读书俱乐部、还有艺术家驻地和展览等等。你们会对空间使用与专案做很详细的策划吗？

昱清    

我覺得我們的空間比較像是一個平台，讓我們跟不同的人接觸，提供機會給他們策劃各自感興趣的內容。因為一個獨立空間可以提供的資源是有限的，不管是社會資源還是經濟資源。但我們可以作為一個中介與連線，讓大家儘可能以最小力氣的花費來實現他們想要實現的內容。

伊琳    

與此同時我們有一個比較詳細策劃的計劃叫做“萬物生長”。我們會和在地的六位藝術家合作發起不同的子計劃，包括聲音藝術、舞蹈劇場、小志出版等等。我們更像是一個策劃的平台，讓這些活動可以有地方發生。因為台灣藝術圈其實分工蠻明確，不存在空間讓他們有機會遇到彼此。

佳妮    

“万物生长”专案是怎样你们的空间产生尤为紧密的在地连结的？

昱清    

“萬物生長”聲音單元的合作藝術家劉芳一在“萬物生長”的計劃產生之前就已經是我們的老朋友。他所在的音樂組織“耳集”以前會不定期在不存在劇場舉辦全天候的音樂演出，一共有二十幾場。後來“萬物生長”的想法有了之後，我們又邀請他來參加，延續“耳集”的活動。不過差別是“萬物生長”申請到了經費支援，因此沒有收取他的場地費，還向他支付了藝術家費。
        芳一還邀請了台南另一個聲音空間聽說來舉辦工作坊。我們和芳一以及其他藝術家關係的建立都是遵循這樣的規律，一開始以一種摸著石頭過河的方式讓東西長出來，透過時間的累積讓關係發生並且一直流動下去。比如最近芳一非常忙碌，只能一個月做一次“耳集”演出，他就會介紹其他國外的藝術家與我們聯絡。昨天就有一個日本音樂家和台灣舞蹈家在“不存在”演出。

佳妮    

所以其实透过“不存在”所产生的连结不止存在于最后做出的作品，很多都隐藏在往来、交流的过程里。

昱清    

是的。還有一個例子就是之前我們去參加雅加達雙年展時，認識了一個當地的年輕藝術團隊。他們本身是雅加達藝術學院的學生，對於印尼目前正在經歷的社會轉型與社運很關注。因此我們之間產生了很多共同語言。他們前幾個禮拜來到不存在劇場進行駐村時，我們也把他們介紹給我們空間其他的藝術家。在駐村過程中，他們也很關注臺灣的印尼移工現象，我們也會試著去幫忙介紹。後來我們有兩個藝術家朋友去印尼時都去到他們的空間拜訪居住。我覺得這都是一種關係流動的過程。這種綿綿不絕，像是河流一樣的狀態，是我們比較追求的。

佳妮    

可以展开讲一下台湾的印尼移工问题吗？

昱清    

台灣有很多工廠都僱傭了印尼的移民工人，其中有很多人都有創作才華與經驗。這些移工來到台灣的創作某種程度上算是台灣藝術的一部分，但它也是屬於印尼的。我覺得這裡頭邊界的消失也是很有趣的。它所包含的不僅僅是藝術上的交流，中間還存在著非常落地的工作和生產上的交流。我們可以透過這些藝術家來認識這一整個圖景，我認為這是很有意義的。

佳妮    

你们觉得台南的艺术氛围是什么样的？

昱清    

我覺得台灣每一座城市的藝術規則、稽核標準、在玩的遊戲都不太一樣。台南不是像紐約、台北、東京這樣的國際大都市，它的規模偏小，是一個古城，目前也面臨人口外流的問題。其實很多藝術家日常都會花蠻多時間耗在一起玩樂，比如我們每個禮拜都會找時間一起打羽毛球、做一些和藝術無關的事情。台南藝術家的社群很緊密，但並不是為了要一起拿到一個很大的補助或是得一個很大的獎，單純只是因為好玩或是情感上的聯絡。
        在這樣的土壤裡做像“萬物生長”這樣的專案，緣分變成了一個蠻重要的條件。好像並不是我們產生了什麼樣的想法，然後硬要推動它發生。這個過程更像是我們彼此“相遇”，然後順水推舟地一起走下去。

佳妮    

这种方法或是心态听起来更像是等待缘分的发生，而不是更加积极主动地发起邀请。

昱清    

是一種積極等待。就像是蜘蛛結網一樣。

佳妮    

我还想知道你们对于实体空间的看法。我身边也有朋友曾经经营小的空间，后来因为房租的原因没有进行下去。当下数字媒体盛行，也有很多人把策展、组织活动转为线上。

昱清    

我覺得實體空間的重要性是百分百。以前我在台北的時候，就會用我家當作大家定期聚會、看電影，甚至發表作品的地方。現在不存在劇場做到將近第六年，它已經以某種方式生長成一個它所是的樣子。這種感覺就好像一個小孩在剛出生的一兩年會跟你跟得很緊，可是在ta慢慢長大之後，ta就有了自己的主體。

伊琳    

我覺得實體空間很重要，因為藝術家如果要打散原有的人際關係網路，去到一個新的地方的話，能夠住宿是蠻重要的。不存在劇場很重要的一個部分就是駐村。我們也一直在想象，如果全世界有非常多的空間都像我們這樣運營，大家可以用比較低的成本去到一個未知的地方，把自己已有的東西跟對方進行交換，這個世界的藝術生態會蠻不一樣的。實體空間像是一個容器，它可以很快速地把那些連線顯化出來。

昱清    

數位空間的體驗在我看來很容易變成在一個百貨公司的商品櫃前，你可以較為輕易地選擇走到哪一個櫃檯面前。但是進入或離開一個實體空間相對來說沒有那麼隨機與自由，但也因為在地性的限制激發出一些意想不到的連結。像我們很多朋友其實就住在我們空間附近，他們可能騎車經過，就下來一起抽支菸，然後可能會有一場對話發生，隔天有一場演出誕生。不存在劇場常常有這種事情發生。

佳妮    

还有什么在这个空间里发生过的令你们印象深刻的“连结”或是作品？

昱清    

有一個實習生是藝術學生，他在不存在劇場實習期間有一項工作內容是幫我們換洗床單。後來他在學校的畢業作品是一個影像，內容就是似乎在鋪永遠無法鋪平的床。另一個在不存在實習的藝術家的作品也非常有趣，叫做《今天的》。他放了一個冰箱，冰箱裡面有很多瓶酒，他每天都會補上更多瓶酒，大家可以免費喝。因為他每天下班之後會騎腳踏車15分鐘，來到不存在喝一杯。我們2024年有一個專案是將不存在劇場三樓的劇場用藍白帆布拓撲下來，變成移動式的劇場，然後到台南的不同公園裡面去做表演、讀書會、影像展覽等等。當時跟我們合作的策展人隔年就在我們的空間裡發起了一個名叫《街拍記》的展覽策展計劃，還邀請我和伊琳作為藝術家參加。

佳妮    

谢谢你们。采访最后，我想请你们推荐另外一些独立艺术空间给我们的读者。

昱清    

我隨便想就想到很多，越想越興奮。日本東京有一個叫做Ongoing的藝術空間，已經運營了二十多年。東南亞的很多空間都非常啟發我的想法。比如印尼日惹的Ruang MES 56，還有我們的行為藝術家朋友在清邁蓋的駐村空間，叫做Mirror Artspace。

王佳妮写作、拍摄影像、制片。她目前生活在纽约。

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