The tale of this city is always one about the ever-present tension with its motherland. As the streets and skyscrapers creep up its topographic lines, the land gently devours back neglected traces of civilization. War is thus inevitable the moment the city has risen from its soil.

The people who had chosen to settle on this land used to live upon its vast mountains and seas. They have cultivated from its rich soil, and fished from its crystalline waters. They could’ve told the weather with just a glance at the sky. As generations go by and the city rises, however, none of those legacies remain, except for ghostly melodies of Nanyin in the suburban landscape, lingering and whispering about a distant past that people no longer remember.

For the past two or three years I have been thinking about the meaning of being “local”. People often identify their places of origin with familiar people or culture, but it is ultimately the land that possesses the ability to shape a nation on a fundamental level. As an effort to trace back to my roots I have been wandering among the city, the nature and everything in between, where I have seen the colossal dams and retaining walls which suppressed rumbling waters, and the moss-covered headwalls of villas and forts that were slowly crumbling back into the embrace of soil. These were the ever present conflicts and chaos from which our city has been born. Inside the paradoxes of nature and civilization were fissures which I was probing in a pursuit for the roots.

In a desperate attempt to plant my feet into the land - because that is where our souls lie.