User:ZUZU/Assessment

⊹₊⟡⋆Assessment⊹₊⟡⋆

I explore the concept of 'nearby', not just as a geographical proximity, but as a sociological and emotional construct. Inspired by anthropological discourse, 'nearby' reflects the complex relationships and dynamics between individuals and their immediate environment. The anthropologist Xiangbiao suggests that "the public mind tends to be preoccupied with the very near (the self) and the very far (the nation and the planet)."I try to enter from this concept and look at the daily life of the coordinating self and explore the forms that can be acted upon.

The nearby as a scope of seeing is fluid and generative. It is fluid because its internal relations are constantly changing; it is generative because it enables us to see and do new things. The nearby is, thus, very different from ‘community’ that is based on stable membership and homogeneity.--The Nearby: A Scope of Seeing by Biao Xiang

why

During our first class in special issue 24, when everyone shared memories of where they come from, I found this question to be quite conflicting for me. Physically, identifying where I come from implies that this place had the most significant impact on my upbringing. However, I struggle to claim a specific place name as my place of origin because I lack a sense of belonging.

I've lived in Shanghai for over 20 years. I often felt paradoxically distant from the people around me. Despite physical closeness, there was an emotional and relational void—a phenomenon I term "the disappearance of nearby.”

During the COVID-19 lockdowns in Shanghai, this phenomenon became particularly stark. In a residential building where I lived for over three years, I encountered neighbors daily but never established meaningful connections. Our interactions, or lack thereof, reflected a broader urban trend: individuals existing side by side without forming genuine ties.

We were not allowed to leave the building at will. Our only reprieve came when we were randomly summoned—sometimes at 5 AM, other times at 11 PM—to take the elevator down to the first floor for mandatory COVID testing. Ironically, the purpose of restricting movement was to minimize the risk of infection, yet the cramped elevator rides packed with more than ten people undermined this entirely.The lifts, crammed with ten or more residents during these tests, became a surreal space of both enforced closeness and profound isolation.

As time went on, I began to feel suffocated. The rules were arbitrary and often absurd, but no one questioned them. Eventually, I couldn't help myself. I posted a message to the group outlining several logically flawed policies and asking for clarification from the administrators. What struck me was the response - or lack of it. Out of some 300 participants, not a single person engaged with my message. It was ignored, quickly buried under updates about group food purchases and other day-to-day concerns.

Later, when I challenged the policy a second time, a neighbour finally approached me - not to discuss my points, but to accuse me of being a foreign spy sent to undermine the government. This was the first "conversation" I had had with a neighbour in my three years there, though "conversation" might be too generous a term. It was an exchange, but one rooted in suspicion and absurdity.

I developed a strong urge to run away, and it wasn't the city itself that I fled from, but a deeper sense of collective disillusionment - disappointment in those around me, which included disappointment in myself, and I was also an accomplice in constituting my nearby - how could I blame the apathetic masses if I never attempted to make a connection?

A common criticism on the Chinese internet is that people "don't care about specific individuals," becoming collectively obsessed with grand narratives. These grand narratives often attempt to instill a sense of national identity in the masses.

The policies that governed our lives during the lockdown were emblematic of a broader societal trend: the prioritisation of collective narratives over individual voices.The disappearance of the neighbourhood is not just a by-product of urbanisation, but also a symptom of systemic alienation, exacerbated by technology and governance structures that prioritise control over connection.

The erosion or weakening of close, everyday social interactions and the ability to take concrete, meaningful actions in the immediate, everyday context.

For marginalized actors, who often lack representation in grand narratives and broad policy discussions, focusing on their day-to-day realities can highlight their specific needs, struggles, and strengths.

connection with previous practice

In this section, I will describe how, while working on the earlier special issue , I noticed that although the topics varied, I always consciously or unconsciously connected them to people and their nearby.

Touch and Giving Back

In Special Issue 22, I worked with Wang to develop the project. For the final post-apocalyptic theme, we imagined the audience as survivors of the apocalypse. Through the Rain Receiver, we analyzed the language of nature by capturing the frequency of rain to generate sounds. When survivors touch the Rain Receiver, they become part of an unfolding narrative. This intimate gesture, akin to the act of giving, triggers a cascade of experiences—rain sounds, fragments of stories, and stream-of-consciousness memories collected from the community.

The concept of a **gift economy** became central to our exploration. For example, while a person can buy a wool scarf in a store, receiving a scarf hand-knitted by someone close carries a different emotional weight. Both serve the same physical function of keeping someone warm, but the emotional connection to a gifted item is far deeper. This realization resonated with my preference for the metaphor of a post-apocalypse picnic box. In a gift economy, community networks are built not on material wealth, but on connections that avoid disrupting the natural flow of resources for artificial scarcity.

Loitering街溜子

For my last Special, the theme was "loitering." In Chinese, the word "街溜子" translates directly to "someone who wanders on the streets." But it’s interesting because, in Chinese, this word has a negative connotation. It often refers to someone who’s aimless, has no income, and might even cause trouble.

While working on this project, I started thinking about why I enjoy walking without purpose. I realized there are many reasons. One of them might be that it’s a late rebellion against my childhood, when I wasn’t allowed to play freely. I was told to be a “good kid,” go straight home after school, and finish my homework. Running around outside was seen as something only “wild kids” did. When I became an adult, I finally had my own time, but society trained me to be a cold, rule-abiding city person. I quickly, and without realizing it, accepted these rules: staying quiet and behaving in public spaces.

I’ve taken many photos while wandering. They capture moments of absurdity or fun in daily life,I realized I enjoy doing nothing. But as adults, it’s easy to lose the ability to laugh freely or express emotions openly. One memory stands out: during a winter trip, my mom and I visited a frozen river, a famous seasonal attraction. I’ve never seen her so happy. She skated on the ice like a child, screaming with joy. That environment made such emotions feel acceptable. But in cities, adults are only allowed to show emotions in specific, paid-for spaces, like theme parks or cinemas.

I created a sofa that inflates based on a person’s emotional fluctuations. I think there are many types of freedom, and emotional freedom is one worth paying attention to.

what

My final output will develop gradually, with three interconnected parts: workshops, Self-Protocol, and a role-playing game.

It looks at hidden rituals and participants share short stories about their lives or present daily performances in an unusual setting. The idea is to develop small projects that focus on the everyday moments that often get overlooked.

workshops

When I first moved to the Netherlands to study English in a northern student city Leeuwarden, I lived in a typical student dormitory. It was there, for the first time in my life, that I began interacting with strangers in elevators—though passively. I vividly remember one encounter. A young person, deeply focused on her phone, quickly murmured something like, "I’ll be done in a moment," as the doors opened. A few seconds later, she slipped her phone into her pocket and naturally started a conversation with me. While I no longer recall what we discussed, I distinctly remember being impressed by how effortlessly she shifted her attention from her phone to engaging with a stranger. This seemed like a personal gift of hers, the ability to turn an awkward moment into a genuine connection.

Inspired by this memory, I chose elevators as the site for exploring connections between space and proximity. For the Public Moment , I created a small role-playing experiment. Each person entering the elevator was assigned a character to interpret and embody freely. I was curious whether such performances could transform the atmosphere of a closed space like an elevator or influence people’s physical behavior within it.

Self-Protocol

As an extension of this project, I began developing a personal Self-Protocol plan. I called it the Elevator Sunflower Protocol, imagining myself as a sunflower—bright, open, and welcoming. Over time, however, I noticed something unsettling: I felt less like myself and more like an actor performing a role. In elevators with others, I experienced pressure to “deliver” the protocol as if on stage. When alone, I felt a strange relief, as if retreating behind a closed curtain. This performative nature made me question the authenticity of my experiment. Was I truly fostering connection, or merely acting out an idea?

I realized I needed to invite others into the process  to bridge this gap, transforming it into a collective experiment. I wanted to explore how the immediate surroundings—both physical and social—shape interactions. I considered designing simple invitation cards to explain the project and include a link to a digital space, an "elevator diary network," where participants could record and share their experiences. These cards could circulate beyond my control, transforming elevators everywhere into nodes of connection.

Elevators, often characterized by rigid unspoken rules, could become experimental sites for small acts of defiance—redefining proximity, reimagining social scripts, and fostering hidden yet interconnected communities. As an experimental space to explore how bodily actions and spatial contexts might disrupt social norms and open pathways for subtle resistance.

Role play game

I’ve found myself relying on the Chinese internet more than ever. Part of it is because language barriers limit my access to local information. Interestingly, because of big data, I feel like I understand the daily lives of women in the Netherlands—women I’ve never met—better than I ever understood the lives of those around me back in China.

These women, my “internet neighbors,” have become an essential part of my _nearby_. We’ve never spoken directly, and I’ll probably never meet them, yet their shared advice shapes my daily life here in profound ways.

The game is set in a fictional space where a language that's not easy to understand is spoken. Players roll dice to randomly assign their identities. The challenges in the game are not huge or dramatic. Instead, they focus on small, everyday moments that capture the subtle complexities of life. For instance, one scenario might involve trying to find the right platform at a busy train station, with announcements in an unfamiliar language and background music that builds the tension.

These challenges will integrate my thesis findings, including exploring the daily lives of my female ‘internet neighbours’ through personal interviews and data collection from Chinese social media.