[Issue 2-2] “Are we good now?”

“I should probably write an update as the issue has been resolved now,” I thought to myself days ago, but I just couldn’t get myself to think about it. This simply becomes a constant reminder that you always have to fight for who you are, more so aggressively, all the time. Nevertheless, here it is. Please note that this is much more casual in tone than the previous one, with nothing particularly critical. Feel free to treat it as my personal rant. 

On 25 August, Taiwan’s Ministry of Culture issued another statement, strongly protesting what it described as “repeated obstruction” by the two organizations [Gwangju Biennale Foundation and Asia Cultural Center]. According to the Ministry, the Taiwan Pavilion was originally scheduled to begin installation on the 18th, and the artworks had already arrived in Korea but were not allowed into the venue. The Ministry demanded that the organizers publicly commit, no later than 26 August, to fulfilling their contractual obligations and allowing the exhibition to proceed under the name “Taiwan Pavilion.”

Meanwhile, artists from the main exhibition and other pavilions of this year’s Gwangju Biennale issued an open letter, “You Must Change Your Name,” borrowing from the theme “You Must Change Your Life,” to the Biennale Foundation, supporting the Taiwanese artists and curators, and protesting that the Foundation was “becom[ing] instruments for suppressing how people identify themselves.” It became clear that the issue was no longer “personal” or “administrative,” as the Biennale had attempted to frame it earlier. Everyone was waiting for a response. 

Things took a turn—a huge one—later that day. 

At around 5 pm Taiwan time, several news outlets and social media posts from Taiwan released a brief update stating that, according to a report by MBC, the Foundation had reconsidered the issue after the Taiwanese side made clear that it would have no choice but to withdraw if it were not allowed to use the name “Taiwan.” The Foundation therefore decided to permit the use of the name within the exhibition space and to identify the pavilion as the “Taiwan Pavilion” in official documents and promotional materials. 

I was confused. It’d be great if it was true. But I needed to confirm. Why did none of these posts tell me where the original source was? I used my Duolingo-level Korean to search the MBC website, found the one (also very short and with little info), and checked its credibility with my precious Korean friend. 

It wasn't misinformation—the issue seemed to be resolved. I kind of blamed myself for having trust issues in life. But why was there no official statement from the Gwangju Biennale Foundation? What was their negotiation? What caused the sudden change in attitude, especially after the Foundation had been ignoring the matter for two more months and multiple exchanges of statements?

It wasn’t until a day later that the Gwangju Biennale Foundation posted its official announcement on Instagram in both Korean and English. A very brief one. While feeling relieved, this expression immediately came to my mind—

“Are we good now?” 

The brevity of the Foundation’s announcement was unsettling. It almost felt like it was calming down a whiny kid. Unfortunately, my instinct was scarily right. The post from the Gwangju-based independent bookstore Girlsbookshop, who had been in solidarity, following the issue and consistently providing updates in Korea, confirmed that it was not my trust issues or meanness. In the Korean version of the announcement, they used the term “승인” (承認 in Mandarin), which can be translated as “permit,” “approve,” or “accept,” while in the English version, it says “agree.” The former sounded authoritative, again, while the latter sounded —just bland, but at least acknowledged the consensus. This could be due to a language or cultural barrier, but it was hard to believe an international organization couldn't understand the nuance of language. Then, could this be intentional? Were they trying to belittle the people who spent time and effort fighting? And most importantly, why didn’t they explain the reason for the standing change in the first place? 

Many people on social media were content that the issue had been resolved. Even Taiwan’s Minister of Culture posted on his Facebook, saying that “justice that arrives late is still justice.” 

But I felt like we lost. The Gwangju Biennale Foundation successfully sustained their initial attitude toward the matter — the issue was a result of “administrative and procedural disagreements”, and “the controversy was mostly an extension of cross-Strait tensions between Taiwan and China in which the Biennale has simply become entangled.” 

Since you asked nicely, we’ll give it to you. 

On the same day as the Foundation’s announcement, Jeonnam-Gwangju Mayor Min Hyung-bae criticized the controversy and questioned why political or administrative forces had intervened in the cultural and artistic sphere and allowed the issue to become distorted to the point of provoking public protest and damaging Gwangju’s reputation. Min said it was “shameful for Gwangju” that artists had felt compelled to protest, issue statements, and even call for responsible officials to resign.

As mentioned earlier, I was almost deprived of any motivation to write this update. Frustrated. Until today, when I saw something I had been waiting to see. According to MBC, China protested the Gwangju Biennale’s decision to restore the name “Taiwan Pavilion.” Chinese Ambassador to South Korea Dai Bing reportedly raised the issue with Gwangju Mayor Min Hyung-bae, while Chinese artists scheduled to participate in the Biennale began withdrawing at the Chinese embassy's request on 28 August. The dispute has therefore expanded from a naming controversy into a broader diplomatic confrontation.

Now I’m being paranoid, even in my writing. It’d be a huge understatement to say that I was awaiting, or even expecting, this to happen. My manipulative mind yells, “aha! I told you so.” Only an administrative disagreement? Sure. No politics involved? Okay. What if the Chinese artists and curators can no longer present their work? This is nothing political. The Mayor said: no political or administrative forces should have intervened in the cultural and artistic sphere. This is true, or too good to be true. These forces were, and will continue to be, entangled with the cultural and artistic sphere. 

On 31 August, the issue took yet another twist (surprise?) After China’s protest, Jeonnam-Gwangju City issued an official apology for the controversy that arose due to insufficient communication (highlights added by me) between participating institutions regarding the biennale pavilions. The city then emphasized, "Our stance on respecting the One-China Principle, in line with the government's diplomatic policy, remains unchanged," and clarified, "The designation of the Taiwan Pavilion is merely an expression left to the participating artists in the artistic domain and does not imply that the city or the biennale recognizes Taiwan as a country." It further stated that it would take appropriate measures.

The Taiwan Pavilion controversy exposes a contradiction in the Gwangju Biennale’s own history. I wanted to share a very well-written piece by Taiwan’s Coolloud on the fundamental issue with the Gwangju Biennale’s imagination of “nation.” Its inaugural 1995 edition, “Beyond the Borders,” imagined art as a means of moving beyond ideological, territorial, and national divisions. Instead of nations, the exhibition emphasized “global citizenship,” a uniquely '90s vision toward globalization, and was curated based on six regionally focused sections: West Europe and East Europe / North America / South America / Asia / The Middle East and Africa / Korea and Oceania.  

By 2018, the Biennale itself had begun reconsidering the optimism of its earlier borderless vision through the theme “Imagined Borders,” which explored the “political, cultural, physical and emotional concepts of borders.” The Pavilion Project also launched that year, but all three inaugural pavilions were all institutional participants. It wasn’t until later that more national pavilions began to take space. State recognition slowly but increasingly becomes central to how participants are classified.

Taiwan’s case emerged precisely along this boundary. While Taiwan has participated in the Biennale through individual artists and institutions before, this year marks its first appearance as a “Taiwan Pavilion.” The dispute therefore raises a broader question: why should artistic visibility depend on whether a participant is recognized as a nation? National pavilions can offer formerly marginalized societies a form of self-representation, but they can also reproduce the same nation-state logic that structures diplomatic exclusion, determining who is allowed to speak, and under what name.

As I began to find ways to end this piece, something came to my mind. Last year, Taiwan was designated as the “Guest of Honor” of the 2025 Seoul International Book Fair. This was especially significant, since most people may not know that Taiwan once pulled out of the Seoul International Book Fair in 2008 to protest the use of the name “Chinese Taipei.” Seventeen years later, Taiwan took center stage and reclaimed its name. “Taiwan Pavilion” also appeared everywhere at the book fair. I can’t quite articulate or even understand the difference between now and then. 

The Biennale has opened. The conflicts remain unresolved. Are they ever gonna be? I have all doubts. I suppose I should be grateful that, for now, “Taiwan” is still on its updated poster. It is too utopian to even dream, in my opinion, that one day, no one needs to fight for their existence, freedom of expression, or simply their names, the grammatically correct and pronounceable ones. 

*Note: The only moment that I found peace while following all these was when I saw people in Korea showing their solidarity with Taiwanese artists and curators. There were many of them, especially 소년의서 girlsbookshop, which even made protest T-shirts, and I really wanted one.