Dear Taiwan Museums, This Is Why Artists Are Leaving - Part I

I've noticed my emotional and physical health deteriorating lately, which I've come to recognize as a response to my recent stress working with Taiwan art museums. After dedicating over a decade to building my artistic career here, this is another time, another reasons that reached my breaking point. So this isn’t just another web blog update—this is a sincere attempt to ask for support, to reflect, and to consider whether I can continue down this path in the art world I once loved so deeply. The painful truth I’ve come to confront is this: In Taiwan's institutional art world, the power imbalance has become increasingly unbearable. Artists often bear the burden of institutional shortcomings, while remaining silent becomes the unspoken requirement for maintaining professional opportunities. I'm sharing my experiences not to burn bridges, but to open honest dialogue about challenges that many artists face silently.

A young woman stands amidst towering stacks of documents labeled "Contract" and "Museum Policies," cradling a small plant with withered leaves, embodying the spirit of resilience and hope in a bureaucratic world. - Generated by AI with Ghibli style.

The Typhoon Incident: Asked to Bend Rules, Then Left Alone to Clean Up

During a severe typhoon, when everyone should have been safely sheltered, the museum demanded we install our works because "the opening cannot be postponed." With no ventilation options during the storm, I had nowhere to spray-paint a installation component. A museum assistant suggested using a corner inside the building—clearly an unusual and last-resort solution under the circumstances.

Despite taking every possible precaution to contain the paint, some mist reached the floor. My team and I spent three exhausting hours scrubbing it clean. Yet the next morning, when traces remained, the same assistant who had suggested the location shouted, "No more spraying!" while the curator told me I might need to cover marble restoration costs that could easily exceed my artist fee.

I didn’t make this decision alone—but I was the one held responsible.

Financial Miscommunication: Overlooked Details, Institutional Shrugs

At the same project, the museum agreed to provide a 25,000 NTD budget for a designer. However, they omitted mentioning the 12% tax deduction that applies to payments over 20,000 NTD. My designer had already accepted the full amount as their fee, my desperate pleas to either increase the budget to make the designer fee flat or split the payment were dismissed with a callous, "This is just how institutions work."

I paid the difference myself. It may have been a small administrative oversight on their part—but for me and the designer, it meant unexpected financial strain during a time I was already stretched thin.

The Exhibition Space Switch: A Quiet Contractual Shift

For a recent solo exhibition, I carefully planned my work to fit the layout of Room A, using the floor plan the museum provided. But when the contract arrived, it listed Room B instead. A staff member casually mentioned that Room B should still work for my layout on the phone. I trusted their judgment and signed.

Later, when I visited the space, I realized Room B was significantly smaller. It compromised the entire concept I had developed. When I raised my concern, the museum responded, “You’ve already signed the contract. Please understand—it’s difficult to change.”

Mistakes happen. But there was no real conversation in between, no collaboration, no apology, and no effort to repair the situation. I was left to adapt, absorb, and accept.

Leading Different Possibilities

These three examples reflect a broader pattern I’ve experienced throughout my career. Time and again, I’ve been left to bear both the emotional and financial consequences of decisions made by institutional teams—decisions often formed behind closed doors, through opaque processes, with little room for meaningful dialogue with independent artists like myself.

What wounds most deeply is the absence of accountability—the simple “I’m sorry” that acknowledges human error. Shared responsibility and empathy are rare. Institutions expertly deflect requests for support, framing any assistance as a generous favor rather than a basic professional standard. In this environment, apologies become unthinkable concessions rather than a reflection of human decency.

My work with international organizations has shown me a different possibility. Despite their logistical challenges—last-minute travel arrangements, accommodation issues, delayed payments—they approached problems with humanity. They acknowledged mistakes, offered sincere apologies, and collaborated on solutions. We functioned as human beings working together, not as replaceable components serving an authoritative institution. This fundamental difference in approach has shown me what's possible.

Here in Taiwan, where institutions wield significant gatekeeping power, speaking out carries considerable risk. Independent artists and curators understand that being labeled "difficult" or "unprofessional" can result in exclusion from exhibitions, funding opportunities, and professional networks. Many of us remain quiet—not from passivity, but from hard-learned survival instincts in this ecosystem.

Yet this silence exacts its own cost. It gradually erodes our creative energy, physical health, emotional wellbeing, and faith in the system.

That’s why I’m speaking now—not out of anger, but from exhaustion, accompanied by a quiet hope for change. I’m no longer sure if I can continue as a full-time artist in Taiwan. But I do know what I believe is possible—because I’ve seen it elsewhere, in places where these values are treated as the baseline, not the exception.

A future where institutions and artists collaborate in genuine partnership—a positive-sum game, rather than opposing sides competing for limited resources. Where human-centered support and agendas are recognized as organizational strengths, not weaknesses. Where accountability is embraced as a natural institutional value rather than perceived as a threat—precisely because institutions possess the power to lead this change. Their existing authority gives them the capacity to be more accountable, to provide meaningful support, and to transform the cultural landscape in ways individual artists cannot. Where artists are no longer left to navigate challenges in isolation, but are supported as essential members of a healthy creative ecosystem.

Institutions have the power to lead this change—and that’s precisely why they must.

If you’ve experienced something similar—whether as an artist, a curator, or someone working to improve these systems—I would be deeply grateful to hear from you. This is a request for connection, for perspective, and for support. Artists around the world may be grappling with similar dynamics, but by sharing our experiences, perhaps we can begin to imagine and create more sustainable ways of working.

Taiwan has the opportunity to envision a more compassionate and resilient art world. Together, maybe we can begin to build it.