I was fortunate enough to have seen Lee Fang-Yu's series of works before her award at Taipei National University of the Arts, the Kaohsiung Art Fair, and her solo exhibition ‘Tile Tail’ at the King Car Cultural & Art Center. Keywords like ‘trippy’ (kiāng), ‘cute,’ and ‘flat’ can capture the characteristics of the work to varying degrees, yet strictly speaking, terms feel a bit too heavy. What caught my attention and excited me even more were the ‘patterns’ formed by lines that are slightly more awkward than effortless, yet somewhat more composed than mere doodles. Neither planted nor decorative, they were closer to the bodily sensation of operating a smartphone, 'swiping into view' atop holographic sticker—a material that takes considerable time and patience to meticulously paste and align. Amid recurrent rhetoric proclaiming the 'death' or 'end' of painting, she solemnly achieves a painter’s maximum static friction. In White Ceramic Tiles, Flower, Gap, to remain faithful to everyday observation without sacrificing painterly freedom, Lee transfers the visual vocabulary originally anchored on holographic stickers onto white ceramic tiles. What truly deserves to be reassessed with artistic weight is the labor Lee invests within this translation, alongside those harmless little flowers that stand their ground, 'attacking' the viewer with bright, gleaming eyes. Given that the inspiration stems from the 'tulip' patterns emblazoned on Taiwanese construction site fencing, when you feel observed by these flowers, it implies a subtle reality: 'you are surrounded.' You thought you were looking at a construction site enclosed by fencing, but viewed from another angle—is it not you, swiping your phone every day, who is truly surrounded?"

Only when freedom is felt once again do we suddenly realize that freedom is not an effortless state, but a capability that requires practice. Much like how a fully grown adult—having witnessed the realities of the world—can still fall asleep in seconds upon closing their eyes, a feat envied as a true 'ability' by insomniacs. The charm of ‘Kawaii’ from Lee’s flowers rekindles the viewer's passion to create with their own hands, signaling that one's capacity to perceive the world has been unlocked once more. While this might not have been the artist’s explicit intention, it stands as the most singular revelation left in the wake of her award-winning work.

When we say painters spend most of their time and energy conversing with materials, it is more precise to describe it as a continuous process of transformation—one through which raw material gradually manifests as materiality. This evolution encompasses both technical control and the intervention of chance; it is simultaneously the labor of the hand and the construction of a way of seeing. Thus, when an artist speaks endlessly about their 'process,' it is not for lack of a story to tell or emotion to confide. Rather, it is because only through an intimate understanding of materiality can one unlock the exclusive content reserved for 'Close Friends.'

A morning when sunlight trickles across rumpled bedding; a lazy afternoon beneath dappled tree shadows; a twilight dusk where shadows hang at one's heels……Beyond any reliance on narrative, how can an image come into being through such moments alone? Huang Kuan-Chun’s Spaces of Presence and Absence offers a precise, ‘direct-hearted’ attempt, and also represents the fruition of his transformation after training in sculpture and fiber dyeing. When komorebi—the sunlight filtering through leaves—becomes an integral element of the work itself, the spatiotemporal variations of each exhibition space are likewise subsumed into the artwork’s essence. In other words, the ontology of the work extends beyond the tangible object to encompass the ways light and time permeate it, rendering every encounter an unrepeatable, living moment. This continues the ontological inquiry into painting's 'exhaustive utility of materials' that Huang has pursued since his 2020 solo exhibition, ‘Objectified Colors.’

Chang Hao-Yu’s work embodies a firm commitment to the materiality of painting alongside a continuous exploration of artistic discourse. His creative trajectory subtly reflects the path of many young Taiwanese artists under the academic examination system—a process of quiet dormancy giving way to liberation in free creation. At first glance, Beginning with Water… Then a Simulated Narrative features layered textures reminiscent of egg tempera and fresco, exuding a quality of deep introspection and slowness. Upon closer inspection, however, one reveals that the canvas itself is an unstretched 'semi-finished product' presented as the 'finished work.' Embedded in the lower left of this semi-finished piece is a hand-painted motif of a mother and child—a painting within a painting, a draft within a draft—foreshadowing the former life of this unfinished state. Yet the most ideal artwork remains an 'imagined painting' completed in the mind of each viewer on their own terms—where the artist's iterative sketches and smeared brushstrokes serve as guides, charting the generative pathways of imagination."

Aesthetics of representation are often viewed as 'tradition'—and for most people, the question of verisimilitude ('does it look real?') remains the most intuitive standard for understanding a painting. Throughout art history, ‘trompe-l'oeil’ served varied purposes: religious devotion, royal eulogy, or scientific documentation. Among the ambiguous methods of visual rendering, directness does not equal efficacy; yet realism invariably invites us to knowingly play along, suspended between belief and skepticism. Huang Chia-Ning’s Cactus Segment (Monkey Tail Cactus) captures a corner of everyday life easily overlooked. Yet when a forgotten corner expands into a landscape, the artist's buffer zone ceases to be private, becoming shared instead. With an even-tempered rhythm of brushstrokes and a soft layering of lingering brush marks navigating between the cactus's needle-like spines, 'texture' transitions from being seen to being felt. Softness and hardness are re-perceived only after a tactile sense has been generated. Uniquely, Huang's painting loosens the curse of high-definition while simultaneously seizing the viewer’s obsession with—and pleasure in—exquisite detail.

The shortlisted artists represent a microcosm of the generational spectrum in Taiwanese painting. There are artists with accumulated experience maturing in the art world, as well as emerging creators making their debut. The differing ranks awarded to various artists across awards highlight not only differences in jury perspectives, but also the continuous fluid and renewing energy of Taiwan's painting scene.

The 'sense of image' and 'sense of the digital' in painting are not mere representations of digital experience; rather, they transform painting into a reflective mechanism. Lu Guan-Hong’s Apocalypse Now: Writing, Empowerment, Spirit-Listening, and Walking Words, Hsiao Tsan-Chun’s Forgetting Where to Begin, Wang Po-Chin’s New System Sample 6: How to Cut Milk, and Huang Ko-Wei’s Tinder each articulate everyday life or visual experiences under the influence of contemporary media. Lu Guan-Hong and Hsiao Tsan-Chun fuse historical archives with real-world textbook illustrations, news footage, daily streetscapes, or urban corners. Wang Po-Chin utilizes heavily impastoed, textured paint to layer characteristics of internet memes and pixelated imagery, while Huang Ko-Wei’s work demonstrates how individual desires fluctuate with the operation of digital tools, thoughts shifting in a snap. These works present the logic of digital image generation and circulation, contrasting and permeating with painting’s own generative mechanisms, thereby revealing the ongoing translation and re-encoding process of contemporary painting under the dominance of image culture.

Distinct from the aforementioned image worlds, Yan Jheng-Hao's Coming from Faraway Lands, Chin Ko's Seven Fairies, and Wen Chia-Ning's We Are More Similar than Different present a highly personalized rumination filled with strong bodily sensation, social perception, and gender consciousness. The very existence of these works acts as a glaring object within the established normative order. Yan Jheng-Hao employs the ‘moon’ as a symbol converging technology, sensibility, desire, and cultural memory. Chin Ko appropriates the legend of the Seven Fairies using shower curtains as a medium, generating an ambiguous voyeuristic experience through floating curtains and gaps in space. Meanwhile, Wen Chia-Ning constructs a viewing structure of interwoven concealment and reflection on film-covered canvas—featuring figures in black and white accented with fluorescent hues—referencing female conditions and satirizing social realities.

The creations of Huang Yu-Huan, Grace Wu, Chou Kai-Lun, Lin Ying-Hsiu, Kuo Ping-En, Huang Chih-Cheng, and Yang Cheng-Yen are not mere landscapes and still lifes, yet each work brings forth its own unique scenic perspective. While calligraphic brush-and-ink is not a shared concern for all these artists, the gathering forged by this prize fosters engaging comparisons and intertextuality among their works.

Huang Yu-Huan’s Reality Gaze resembles a thrilling apocalypse steadily approaching the viewer atop overexposed film negatives; heavy paint coatings interact with a hazy depth of field, foretelling a critical state where vision is on the verge of collapse. Grace Wu’s painting M001 seems to pursue the texture of ultra-glossy photo paper prints through lacquerware craftsmanship; in meticulous grinding, paint layers turn into flowers blooming in the dark. Huang Chih-Cheng has long studied the art of leaf gilding; the metallic luster complements the subject of glass vessels holding liquid. In this large-scale still life, the curved liquid surface inside the glass becomes shimmering waves. Yang Cheng-Yen's work echoes his mountaineering viewing experiences within a vertical scroll format; adding wool to the substrate gives the picture a rough, fluffy texture, as if physically feeling the friction and resistance when traversing through vegetation. Huang Chih-Cheng’s Still Life and Yang Cheng-Yen’s Being Stare at Hugely seem to differ widely in theme, yet mirror each other in the microscopic perspective of their materials.

For Kuo Ping-En, maintaining humor represents the highest standard of quality. Painting and diverse texts—spanning art history, literature, and philosophy—serve as cues to prompt his own presence. This elegant tension resides in neither uninvolved detachment nor direct, interventionist critique. His work Ophelia No. 619 Green shares a cross-temporal translation with John Everett Millais's 1852 Ophelia. The two arched upper corners of the original masterwork were cropped into 'paintings' by Kuo's curiosity; these hand-drawn 'offcuts' scattered beside the main panel act as the painter's exclusive sticky notes: 'This is my humble, sincere question to the masters of art history.

"Compared to the aforementioned visual arts' indirect handling of the world’s 'surface,' strategies of detour, delay, and non-direct identification have become a contemporary norm. This forces the viewer to engage in reflection and translation before 'comprehending' meaning; within this context, navigating between 'taking a stance' and 'adopting a posture' has imperceptibly become an essential skill in an artist’s nurturing. Conversely, works that exhibit a clear inclination toward taking a stance are rarely simple descriptions; within recognizable forms, they continuously imply multiple references and care for real-world situations.

The tradition of woodcut prints and leftist arts once intervened in reality through strong representational and political mobilization functions—how can contemporary painting make use of this tradition? Lee Tek-Khean’s intense concern for reality is generated precisely within this translation, pulling painting’s habitual 'otherworldliness' back into the real world. In Show Time Trilogy, copper leaf shines inside the worked grooves of woodcuts—glitz and glamour, or is silence golden? 'Allegory' makes one re-aware of the close yet non-reducible historical relationship between woodcut prints and political propaganda; the immense scale amplifies the image's visual impact, while a nearly theatrical viewing experience expands the language of printmaking.

Finally, the works of Chou Kai-Lun and Lin Ying-Hsiu are the two sets that lingered in my heart the longest after viewing the exhibition. This entangling stems not from formal similarity, but from the dialogue opened between their different painting vocabularies: one displays expressive fluidity through color and brushstrokes, while the other forms an almost impressionistic perceptual space within rhythms and layers akin to ink tone. In terms of medium alone, Lin Ying-Hsiu is the only artist in this year's exhibition working with ink; yet even within an ink group exhibition, her work represents a rare 'purification' of black and white. Nothing on the canvas is still; rustling and agitated, carrying a brush intent of subtle tickling and restless impulse (ngiau), or may be seen as a deformation and re-composition of traditional ink techniques: Cun (texture strokes), Cha (rubbing strokes), Dian (dotting), and Ran (washing / dyeing). To me, however, it feels closer to a 'trace landscape'—like a fleeting glance—continuously pursuing the trail of brush intent beyond visual habit.