196 × 131 × 128 cm
My mangled chandelier is a hauntological cipher for Hong Kong, shaped by its unique geography. Coastal edges, mountain ridges, and water systems form the basis of a cosmology tuned to the rhythms of water, air, and light. As early as 1000 BC, coastal and boat peoples thrived through fishing, salt harvesting, and oyster farming. Later, deep-water ports and favorable currents drew colonial occupation, transforming Hong Kong from a regional outpost into a colonial trading hub, where elemental flows became metaphors for exploitation, globalized trade, and low-tax opulence.
Drop-tear chandeliers, first introduced in the court of King Louis XIV, embodied wealth and power, light refracted into spectacle. This upcycled Taobao chandelier at first appears as a signifier of imported class, but its disrepair reveals the marks of cheap mass production. Chandeliers have since served as symbols of economic absurdity: during the Soviet Union’s Five-Year Plan, factories were forced to produce heavier and heavier lights until ceilings collapsed. “They fulfilled the plan,” Premier Khrushchev remarked, “but who needs this plan? To whom does it give light?”
Here the chandelier hangs low, held up by disused bedside stands from the public healthcare system. It still performs as media, reflecting sterile UV beams like sun sparkles, while red lights from ancestor worship practices shine like beacons, and electronic fans spin pinwheels for good luck. The cosmology endures, maintained not by choice, but by necessity.