白森林
《Tissue》以衛生紙——日常中最脆弱卻無所不在的物質——為創作起點，揭示其柔軟表象背後隱藏的工業宿命。當我們輕易使用一張紙時，往往忽略它的起源：大片速生林被規律種植、反覆砍伐，最終淪為工業原料，森林在全球供應鏈的邏輯下被簡化為「養樹場」。
藝術家尹子潔追溯源頭，帶著台灣生產的衛生紙前往印尼的速生林，反思自然在工業結構下被宿命化的現實。以衛生紙製作的風箏在人工林邊界放飛，讓短暫、脆弱的材質於天空中留下抵抗性的軌跡。
邊料與原料亦被重新編構為空間裝置，轉化為「白森林」，以符號相互指涉展開閱讀的可能。透過裝置與錄像，作品邀請觀者在熟悉的材質與陌生的形態之間，直視被柔化的當代傷痕，並思考「使用」與「照顧」之間的關係政治。在消費與創造之間，每一張紙都可能成為觀看世界的入口，觸發對自然的尊重與「再荒野化」的渴望。
Tissue takes toilet paper—an everyday material that is both fragile and ubiquitous—as its point of departure, revealing the industrial structures and conditions embedded beneath its soft surface. When a single sheet is casually used and discarded, its origin is often obscured: vast areas of fast-growing plantations are systematically cultivated and cyclically harvested, as forests are reduced to calculable “tree farms” within the logic of global supply chains.
Zi-Jie traces this material trajectory in reverse, bringing toilet paper produced in Taiwan back to the fast-growing plantations of Indonesia. Through this gesture, she repositions the disjunction and entanglement between sites of production and consumption. A kite made of toilet paper is released at the edge of the plantation, where its fragile body inscribes a fleeting and unstable trajectory in the sky—an ephemeral deviation that gestures toward resistance against the predetermined logic of production.
Within the installation, remnants and raw materials are reconfigured into a “White Forest”—at once a reconstruction and a system of signification; both landscape and language. As viewers move through the space, they encounter a dissonance between familiar material and unfamiliar form, confronting the structural wounds softened and obscured by everyday consumption.
Through the interplay of installation and video, Tissue articulates a politics of relation between “use” and “care.” Between consumption and regeneration, each sheet of paper is not merely a unit of depletion, but also a potential interface for re-seeing the world—prompting a renewed sensitivity toward nature and evoking a desire for rewilding.
▌建築的恐懼與療癒
The Architecture of Fear and Cure ▌
2025-10-04 — 2026-01-25
新北市美術館 – 6A、6B展覽室
⇒ https://ntcart.museum/exhibition/H2508001
｜策展人｜ 阮慶岳
｜參展藝術家｜尹子潔、布恩森．普瑞姆塔達、吳增榮、吳耀東、松田和久、洪浩鈞、徐婷、符昌鋒、曾志偉、楓川秀雅、廖偉立、澎葉生、陳東華、陳家毅建築師事務所、賴伯威、顧世勇
–
白森林戰隊
技術統籌｜
楊承浩Cheng Hao, Yang
竹藝｜
裴立農Li-Nung, Pei
洪綾黛Ling-Tai, Hung
曾鈺芩Yu-Chin, Zeng
林怡萱Glee Lin
鐵藝｜
張心蓉Hsin-Jung, Chang
黃志良Chih-Liang, Huang
李品翰Pin-Han, Lee
生態指導｜
蔡志忠 Chih-Chung, Tsai
趙克堅 Ke-Jian, Chao
楊勝欽 Sheng-Chin, Yang
錄像｜
蔡易庭 Andy Tsai
特別感謝｜
楊豐宏Feng-Hong, Yang
林昭安Jhao-an, Lin
鄧志權Chih-Chuan, Teng
謝秉佑Bing-Yu, Hsieh
1.建築的恐懼與療癒
作品〈白森林〉的起點源於對「建築的恐懼與療癒」的思考。
當時我想「恐懼與療癒」是人的內在經驗，若將身體視為一種建築，那內在又是如何運作的？時間如何在其中流動？建築是否也能被理解為外部的身體——與環境一同成長，也在時間裡緩緩崩解，從內在到身體到建築，再到自然的整體包容，意識到時間尺度，物理上，身體是短暫的居所，建築能流傳百千年，但在自然面前，所有都顯得渺小。進而想著這種內在建築體感如何顯現，我想到了廢墟的概念：廢墟能夠成為空間本身，當他不在為他所建構出來的意義服務時。
若內在建築終將崩解，是否自然能再次成為庇護的空間？
內在建築總有一種在消逝之中仍欲留下痕跡的衝動，也許會在青苔覆上的時候變得溫柔。
2.里山呢
「里山（Satoyama）」是源自於日本的概念，心中萌生疑問：台灣是否真的存在里山？若以地理向度來看，台灣處處皆里山，但若以倫理與關係來談，政策卻常將里山形式化、複製化。我所知道的里山，是人與土地共生共存，那是一種連結，人與自然在時間中彼此學習、彼此尊重的生活樣貌。
3.迷途山中
與法籍聲音藝術家 Yannick 一起進入山林錄音的那日，我們約在一條坍塌封閉的步道口會合。走了許久才發現彼此其實在平行的兩條路上，折返回起點再走向下一個登山口是最簡單的路徑，而我在離線地圖上看著點到點的最短距離，決定直接切西瓜切下去，卻在陡峭山壁、前進放棄、竹林與藤蔓之間耗盡數小時。天色漸暗明度降低，我聽見溪流的聲音，像一條溫柔的指引，隨著聲音找到了下切的溪谷路徑，一路上有團結的石頭、高大的蕨與貼身的荊藤相送，終於走到比較步道的步道了，哈，那一刻意識到（活著真好），與自然相處並非掌控與計算，而是一場被邀請的謙卑體驗。
當我終於走出森林，Yannick像是闖關關主在面前煮著咖啡，身旁不遠處有毛絨絨的大耳朵凝聽著，他不區別、不批評地接受、包容一切，專注在耳朵時，頭腦便沈默了，聲音來回的折射中，我感覺到空間的層次，真是浪漫的一天哪！
而後Yannick分享著關於花園新城、山、鳥、聲音、還有泰雅族的故事。偶有幾隻鳥參與我們的對話，我問：「他們的歌聲一直以來都是這樣嗎？」
Yannick回：「這樣唱著，就像DNA一樣，有些是跟爸爸媽媽學的，但史單然，由些地方如果封閉了起來，會唱出同樣的曲子，不一樣的聲調呦～」
「所以我們現在聽到的，是來自很遙遠的過去的歌聲呢～」
我回想那天的一切，心中浮現的不是得救，而是一種被寬恕的感覺。
4.衛生紙
那天傍晚，坐在一間連鎖咖啡店，正在想著要如何把經驗收束、回應建築、里山以及人與自然的關係⋯⋯做出一件好作品，腦中浮現的是廢墟結構長出苔蘚的畫面，那種空間被遺忘之後，自然再次溫柔地接納的無時間感⋯⋯，而我並不想在美術館「再現」自然，或是以自然材料再次佈景化，這些都太不自然了⋯⋯自然在很長一段時間裡一直是人的背景，而我們在思維上能做的事，翻轉這個關係邏輯，再次認識與自然的連結關係⋯⋯應當從生活出發，不勉強自然為我們做什麼，不把自然視為資源⋯⋯眼前的桌面是木料貼皮，對面大學生的電腦外殼是大理石貼膜，影像世代的我們已經習慣表象大於材質本身，視覺大於觸覺甚至五感⋯，想著想著⋯⋯哈啾！下意識地抽了一張衛生紙，潔白柔軟得讓我忘記他來自一棵樹。
衛生紙—這個我們再熟悉不過的日常用品—成了當代人與自然關係的隱喻：當我們需要時，隨手取用；用過即丟。
5.藝術來了
正當我想要用衛生紙做為材料的念頭出現時，我告訴身邊的朋友，而他回我：「喔，我堂哥是在做衛生紙的。」於是我去拜訪了衛生紙工廠。
那是我第一次真正看見衛生紙的誕生。
巨大的機具在轟鳴，空氣裡是纖維與蒸氣的味道，每個步驟像是交響樂般演奏著，隨著生產線的音符，譜出衛生紙不同的樣貌，像白色的薄霧、像初雪。
我走到工廠最深處，眼前是切下來堆積如山的邊料，一旁有堆疊著的白色方塊如磚般構築起純白高牆，上面以紅色墨水印著日期和字樣：「Made in Indonesia」
那一刻我愣住了。原來我手裡這張柔軟的紙，來自那麼遙遠的一座島。
那些印著「環保」字樣的產品，其實來自被砍伐的原始森林，取而代之的是一片片人工的「養樹場」，重新種上了整齊的人工樹林——三公尺乘三公尺，像一座被精密規劃的矩陣世界。那些樹生來就是為了被製成紙，這是「樹命」。
那是一種不再純粹的自然，一種被人類的技術與慾望重新排列過的風景。
當下悲從中來，只有一個想法，就是去看看這些樹。
雖然我什麼也做不了，世界不會因我而停止轉動，但至少我能去看看他們。看看這些樹。
六、白森林
我帶著一捲工廠生產的捲筒衛生紙，去了印尼，蘇門答臘島。那裡不太有觀光客，路途很長，手機訊號時有時無。當地的女子會把物品頂在頭上，我也入境隨俗，把衛生紙放在頭頂，一路走、一路問：「Do you know this Tree? Made? From?」他們笑著指向山的那裡。
蘇門答臘主要有三種樹，Kelapa Sawit （油棕）For Oil，Pinus （松）For tile，Eukaliptus（尤加利科） For Tissue Paper。
蘇門答臘不如想像中小，沒有過多計劃的我，如同在汪洋中迷航著，然後問著哪裡有魚？雖然毫無計畫，但總是感到一種牽引，如同在山上時那溪流的聲音⋯⋯在一個十字路口的路邊休息，看著母雞帶著小雞悠閒地經過，也放下追尋的執著，我深呼吸，告訴自己，至少我到了這裡，回想這段旅程的初心，深深吸一口氣，然後不自覺地笑了出來，突然有一輛載滿新鮮樹幹的貨車，經過我眼前，若是一台便罷，一連開了數台經過！！！
有台停下來的貨車大哥，正準備要吃Mie Goreng，我便興奮地跳到他面前指著頭：「Tree? Tissue? Where? Dr.paper?」大哥不懂英文，指著一條主幹道的支線，看起來有點像是產業道路的樣子，我抱著最後的期待騎上了那條路。
在這段路上，有背著槍的摩托車騎士，像是巡山員，有木作的高蹺站哨台，也開始有迷彩的沙袋⋯風景似曾相識，有時有點台灣的錯覺，又遇見了載著滿滿樹幹的貨車，一台接一台使我更加堅信不移，油門催下去，衝一波！心想總算到了對的路途，騎著騎著⋯⋯，正當我又開始懷疑，是不是會這樣無止盡的騎到天黑時，一個轉彎，便是如網路上看到的養樹場景象，山坡上出現了一整片排列整齊的樹——它們筆直、安靜，多到令人震懾⋯⋯。
從六個月大到兩年，一路上騎了半小時，都是一樣的風景。看著他們身上的記號，上面寫著時間、區域，有如身分證般⋯⋯，頓時也有一種集中營的想像。
接下來就是錄像作品中的畫面了。
我看著其中一棵身上有黃色噴漆做記號的他，知道再過不久他即將展開另一趟旅程，而我就這樣輕輕地擁抱他，我感受到，我吸進來的，是他吐出來的，而他吸進去的，是我吐出來的，我們是共同的肺，擁抱著，直到頭上的那捲衛生紙掉落。
像是告別，也像是團聚，那一刻，只是一起在風裡。
–
錄像作品裡唯一有的人聲：是我在樹林裡數數，從一數到十七。數字在那裡不是理性的計算，而是童年的躲貓貓遊戲。當鏡頭語言以過曝過場漸白，也像是樹們的一生，指涉回衛生紙的白色，從一片森林到一張紙。
數到（16）⋯⋯現場裝置的十六棵紙柱，是我在思考廢墟、建築、時間與自然之間關係的結果，十六棵紙柱同萬神殿柱子的數量，支撐著自然與信仰。
數到（17）⋯⋯一則2018年的新聞，環保組織首席執行官威廉（William Yu）博士解釋：「至少要砍掉17棵樹、耗費掉2萬加侖的水，才能生產出一公噸的衛生紙。」
而展場中，僅有紙筒的第17棵紙柱，靜靜地躺在錄像作品前。
1. Fear and Healing in Architecture
The work White Forest originates from a reflection on “fear and healing in architecture.”
At the time, I considered fear and healing as internal human experiences. If the body is understood as a form of architecture, how does this interior operate? How does time move within it?
Perhaps architecture can also be understood as an external body—one that grows alongside its environment, and gradually disintegrates over time. From interiority, to body, to architecture, and ultimately to nature as an encompassing whole, one begins to perceive different scales of time. Physically, the body is a temporary dwelling; architecture may endure for centuries, yet in the face of nature, all things appear insignificant.
I began to ask how such an internal architecture might manifest. This led me to the concept of ruins: ruins become space itself when they no longer serve the meanings for which they were originally constructed.
If the inner architecture is destined to collapse, can nature once again become a space of shelter?
There is always an impulse within this internal architecture to leave traces even in the process of disappearance—perhaps becoming gentle when covered by moss.
2. What About Satoyama?
“Satoyama” is a concept originating from Japan. It raises a question: does Satoyama truly exist in Taiwan?
Geographically speaking, Taiwan could be seen as entirely Satoyama. Yet in ethical and relational terms, policies often formalize and replicate it into a standardized model.
The Satoyama I understand is a mode of coexistence between humans and land—a relationship in which humans and nature learn from and respect one another over time.
3. Lost in the Mountains
On a day when I entered the forest with French sound artist Yannick to record, we agreed to meet at the entrance of a collapsed and closed trail. After walking for a long time, we realized we were actually on two parallel paths. The simplest route would have been to return to the starting point and head to another trailhead.
However, looking at the shortest distance on my offline map, I decided to cut straight through. What followed were hours spent navigating steep slopes, hesitation, bamboo groves, and tangled vines.
As daylight faded, I heard the sound of a stream—like a gentle guide. Following the sound, I found a descending path along the creek. Along the way, there were clustered stones, towering ferns, and thorny vines brushing against me. Eventually, I reached a more defined trail.
In that moment, I realized: it is good to be alive.
Being with nature is not about control or calculation—it is a humbling experience of being invited.
When I finally emerged from the forest, Yannick was there, like a gatekeeper at the end of a trial, brewing coffee. Nearby, a furry creature with large ears listened attentively. It did not distinguish or judge; it simply accepted and contained everything. When focusing on listening, the mind falls silent. In the reflections of sound, I sensed the layers of space. It was a deeply romantic day.
Later, Yannick shared stories about Garden City, mountains, birds, sound, and the Atayal people. Occasionally, birds joined our conversation.
I asked, “Have their songs always been like this?”
Yannick replied, “They sing like this—like DNA. Some learn from their parents, but in isolated places, they may sing the same melodies with different tones.”
“So what we are hearing now,” I said, “are songs from a distant past.”
Looking back on that day, what emerged in my heart was not a sense of being saved, but a feeling of being forgiven.
4. Toilet Paper
That evening, sitting in a chain café, I was thinking about how to bring these experiences together—to respond to architecture, Satoyama, and the relationship between humans and nature.
An image came to mind: ruins covered with moss, spaces gently reclaimed by nature after being forgotten—timeless.
Yet I did not want to “re-present” nature in a museum, nor stage it again using natural materials. That felt artificial. Nature has long been positioned as a backdrop for humans. What we can do, conceptually, is to reverse this logic—to re-understand our relationship with nature, starting from everyday life. Not to force nature to serve us, nor to treat it as a resource.
On the table before me was wood veneer; across from me, a student’s laptop was wrapped in marble-patterned film. In this image-driven era, surface has overtaken material, vision has overtaken touch—even the senses.
As I was thinking—achoo! I instinctively pulled out a sheet of toilet paper. Its soft whiteness made me forget that it came from a tree.
Toilet paper—this most familiar everyday object—became a metaphor for the contemporary relationship between humans and nature:
we take it when needed, and discard it once used.
5. The Arrival of Art
When the idea of using toilet paper as a material first emerged, I mentioned it to a friend. He replied, “Oh, my cousin works in toilet paper manufacturing.”
So I visited a factory.
It was the first time I truly witnessed the birth of toilet paper.
Massive machines roared; the air was filled with fibers and steam. Each step unfolded like a symphony, composing different forms of paper along the production line—like white mist, like first snow.
At the deepest part of the factory, I saw piles of discarded edges stacked like mountains. Nearby were neatly arranged white blocks, like bricks forming a towering wall. On them, in red ink, were printed the words: “Made in Indonesia.”
I froze.
The soft paper in my hand came from an island so far away.
Products labeled “eco-friendly” were, in fact, sourced from deforested primary forests, replaced by artificially planted “tree farms”—grids of three meters by three meters, like a meticulously planned matrix. These trees were born to become paper. This is their “tree fate.”
This was no longer pure nature, but a landscape reorganized by human technology and desire.
A sense of sorrow emerged. I had only one thought:
to go and see these trees.
Even if I could change nothing, even if the world would not stop turning, at least I could go see them.
6. White Forest
I carried a roll of factory-produced toilet paper to Indonesia, to the island of Sumatra. There were few tourists, and the journey was long, with intermittent phone signals. Local women carried items on their heads; I followed suit, placing the roll of toilet paper on mine, walking and asking, “Do you know this tree? Made? From?”
They smiled and pointed toward the mountains.
In Sumatra, there are three main types of trees:
Kelapa Sawit (oil palm) for oil,
Pinus (pine) for timber,
and Eucalyptus for tissue paper.
Without much planning, I felt like I was drifting in an ocean, asking where the fish might be. Yet there was always a sense of being guided—like the sound of the stream in the mountains.
At a crossroads, I rested by the roadside, watching a hen lead her chicks. Letting go of my insistence on searching, I took a deep breath and told myself: at least I am here. Suddenly, trucks loaded with freshly cut logs passed before me—one after another.
One truck stopped. The driver was about to eat mie goreng. I excitedly approached him, pointing at my head: “Tree? Tissue? Where?”
He did not understand English, but pointed toward a side road branching from the main route. I followed it with my last bit of hope.
Along the way, I saw motorcyclists carrying guns, like forest guards; wooden watchtowers on stilts; sandbags in camouflage. The landscape felt strangely familiar—almost like Taiwan at times. Trucks full of logs kept passing, strengthening my conviction. I accelerated forward.
After riding for a long time, just as doubt returned, I turned a corner—and there it was:
a vast plantation of neatly aligned trees, stretching across the hillside. Straight, silent, overwhelming in number.
From six months old to two years, for thirty minutes of riding, the view remained the same. Each tree bore markings—time, area—like identification tags. For a moment, I imagined a concentration camp.
What follows appears in the video work.
I approached one tree marked with yellow paint, knowing it would soon begin another journey. I gently embraced it. I felt that what I inhaled was what it exhaled, and what it inhaled was what I exhaled. We were a shared lung.
We stayed in that embrace until the roll of toilet paper fell from my head.
It felt like a farewell, and also a reunion.
In that moment, we were simply together in the wind.
The only human voice in the video is mine, counting from one to seventeen.
Numbers here are not rational calculations, but echoes of a childhood hide-and-seek game. The overexposed transitions into whiteness mirror the life cycle of trees—referencing the transformation from forest to paper.
At “sixteen”:
the sixteen paper columns in the installation echo both ruins and architecture, referencing the number of columns in the Pantheon, supporting nature and belief.
At “seventeen”:
a 2018 report cited by environmental organization CEO Dr. William Yu states:
“At least 17 trees and 20,000 gallons of water are required to produce one ton of toilet paper.”
In the exhibition space, the seventeenth column—only a paper core—lies quietly before the video.
