by Franky Hsiao
The "Sea" That Once Was
This body of water was first marked on nautical charts by the Dutch at the tail end of the "Age of Discovery" (15th–17th century) due to its commercial trade significance. However, as early as the Qing Dynasty, the Zengwen River's course changed, leading to gradual siltation. The once-thriving "Great Bay," a crucial mid-stop connecting distant oceanic destinations, was reduced to a historical relic discernible only through old maps, letters, oral traditions, and archaeological findings.
At the time, long-distance voyages were daring pursuits of new hope. Sailors lacked precise longitude measurements, wooden hulls were vulnerable to seawater and shipworms, and food preservation techniques were rudimentary at best. Journeys that lasted months or even years were endured under unimaginable sanitary conditions—all in the name of expanding the known "world." Amid the boundless ocean, navigation relied on winds and currents; only the sight of land confirmed one's position. "I see it—it's an island!" The exhilaration of glimpsing the horizon was always accompanied by grave decisions—whether unseen reefs lurked beneath, whether the shore offered safe refuge, or whether the seemingly calm bay concealed the spellbinding songs of the Seirênes (Sirens).[1]
"This place is near the sea and has many sand dunes. Occasionally, one sees low shrubs. Further inland, on higher ground, some trees and bamboo are visible, but they are difficult to reach."
Whether by fortune or misfortune, the inland sea of this island bore no enchanting melodies of longing, only the dorsal fins of great fish breaking the surface. The elusive Kun sandbanks stretched across the waters, enclosing a tranquil yet ever-shifting expanse—the nascent land upon which Fort Zeelandia was built.
[1]In Greek mythology, the Seirênes (Sirens) used enchanting music and melodious singing to lure nearby sailors onto the rocky shores of their island, causing shipwrecks. As described in Homer's Odyssey, the Sirens resided on an island near the waters of Sicily, a place strewn with the bones of those who had perished. Their celestial voices bewitched passing sailors, rendering them spellbound and leading their ships to crash and sink.
There Were Ships
During her months-long residency at the Taijiang Cultural Center, artist Wang Yu-Ting immersed herself in historical documents and maps, exploring the Zengwen River basin, the Yanshui River, and estuaries in search of traces of shipwrecks that might still exist. Mounting a GoPro camera on a pole, she submerged it into the water like an archaeologist excavating a trench, following historical references to examine the landscape and envision how it might have transformed over the centuries, meticulously surveying the waters one section at a time.
"On July 30, in the morning, we heard that the aforementioned small flat-bottomed ship Charlois had dropped an anchor to pull itself free from the sandbank, but the rope broke. The ship was then pushed further onto shore by the surging waves and is now completely immobile, stranded deeper in the sand, with no water reaching it."
Unlike archaeology, which prioritizes concrete evidence and precise deduction, Wang relied solely on historical and modern map overlays to delineate potential underwater sites. Engaging with local fishermen and oyster farmers familiar with the waters, she navigated the coastline by boat, retrieving images from likely shipwreck locations. Along cemented seawalls, breakwater-protected beaches, oyster shell ridges, and floating dock stations, she selected sections of water that "seemed likely" to hold remnants of sunken ships. When recording, she chose not to use a monitoring screen, trusting instead in the intuitive belief that "perhaps something could be seen." Most underwater footage revealed low-visibility green murkiness filled with floating particles, though on fortunate days, moss-covered shells clinging to modern debris or pairs of small fish drifting past the lens could be glimpsed.
Navigating with only rough maps from past centuries, she set her lens toward faintly visible landmarks, drifting along with the wind. These seemingly detailed, first-person-perspective records unexpectedly echoed the logbooks of sailors who once traversed these waters. In the second-floor gallery of the Taijiang Cultural Center’s theater building, where sunlight filters through glass-paneled windows, this journey unfolds once again. Beyond underwater exploration, the multi-screen installation also presents horizon-line imagery—sunlit waves shimmering, egrets soaring over lush grass patches—preserving the visual origins of the underwater footage alongside its above-water counterpart.
[1] Quoted from the Re-saw project’s creative concept published on the website: https://wyts.space/re-saw.
Seen: Re-saw
Within the exhibition space, surrounded by projections tracing the contours of a ship’s hull, viewers navigate through an immersive arrangement of imagery. The longer one stays, the more expectations rise to spot tangible proof of a shipwreck amid the disturbed sediment. Yet, as the water’s flow continually disperses clarity, only the traces of the artist’s "imagination" remain: "This is a ship without evidence, yet one that truly left a past behind. It is not a static relic eroded by the deep sea’s currents; rather, it emerges as the 'ship of time' named 'Taijiang,' its presence becoming clearer as audience after audience lays their eyes upon it."
Does something cease to exist without evidence? Perhaps those wooden-hulled ships long ago fragmented into countless invisible pieces—some buried beneath asphalt in urban redevelopment zones, some dissolving into nutrients enriching the waters, some drifting across the seas, setting sail on new journeys. Just as explorers in the Age of Discovery embarked upon quests based on rumors of golden cities, Wang guides us to experience "seeing as an act that brings the unseen into existence."
"November 5: The weather remains the same—no difference at all."
The Taijiang Inland Sea is no more, but the Kunshen (sandbanks) remain. The lagoons have yet to dry up, and the egrets continue their flight. The sea belongs to those who look upon it; searching for shipwrecks is akin to seeking the past adrift upon the ocean. Sugimoto Hiroshi once said, "Seascapes overlap with the collective memory of humanity." We gaze at the sea, describe it, sail upon it, and capture its image. The sea has existed since time immemorial, beyond words and legends. It surpasses time itself, perpetually cycling through the planet's waters and life. Even a vanished "sea and ship" continues to exist, constantly accumulating in our gaze.
－The ship was running before the wind and time.-
[1] Sugimoto Hiroshi (杉本博司, b. February 23, 1948), Japanese photographer, contemporary artist, architect, and theater director.
Original quote:
"I believe the earliest landscape humans ever saw was the seascape. And then I wondered—when early humans first became aware of themselves, what kind of sea did they see? This is not only a way to trace my personal memories but also an overlap with the collective memory of all humankind."
Original Sources:
1. The Commander Reyersen’s Logbook (1622–1623), Cornelis Reyersen, translated by Lin Wei-Sheng, Taiwan Documents, Vol. 54, Issues 3 & 4, December 2003, National Taiwan Library.
2. Preliminary Survey of Historical Waters and Cultural Heritage in Taijiang National Park: 17th-Century Anping Harbor and Dutch East India Company Shipwreck Investigations, 2012, Taijiang National Park Management Office, executed by the Tree Valley Cultural Foundation.
3. The Zeelandia Diaries, Vol. III (1648–1655), edited by J.L. Blussé, W.E. Milde, and Ts’ao Yung-Ho, 1996, The Hague, translated by Chiang Shu-Sheng, 2003, published by Tainan City Government, accessed via National Central Library’s Taiwan Memory System.
Photo：Franky Hsiao