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.

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.