The Growing Pains of Displaced Spatial Transformation – Community Art's Distance Learning (Part 4)
Si Kei, from I Fong, often jokes that all government departments in Macau exist to serve the Tourism Bureau.
Las Vegas, USA, is the world's most famous casino city, brimming with surreal entertainment that long ago transcended realistic perceptions. Once, a large resort with over seventy years of history was demolished. The authorities used a sky full of fireworks and over five hundred drones to transform the demolition of a mundane building into a spectacular show, with the entire operation completed in just over twenty seconds amidst dazzling sparks. If Macau truly aims for entertainment to the death, it is still far from qualified.
Las Vegas was originally a desert, while Macau was once a world hub; the latter is rich in cultural advantages, so how can they be compared? At this stage, it is indeed difficult for us to judge whether the cooperation between the government and enterprises can "promote the transformation and utilization of cultural resources." However, bearing this burden—to "revitalize," create more unique cultures, promote community projects, expand "cultural tourism development space," and also "drive the development of small and medium-sized enterprises"—the sheer number of proposed slogans makes it hard not to reasonably question. If it were honestly and openly geared towards entertainment, perhaps there wouldn't be this awkward sense of two disparate styles and incompatible concepts. Culture speaks of context, requiring sorting and sedimentation; entertainment thrives in the superficial world of images. In this so-called revitalization process, we are constantly reminded that Macau should have many more cherished aspects that other cities may not possess.
Wherever there are historical sites, there are invariably new bars and restaurants nearby.
Community redevelopment emphasizes sustainability, with businesses mutually supporting each other. The premise for old shops to attract visitors is that they must all survive. Simply renovating old houses and resurfacing them with cement cannot keep the city's spirit alive. The scenes that residents take for granted are precisely the differences between cities and the charm that visitors can experience. Attracting new, young blood is a new proposal for aging communities, but old shops cannot be allowed to be eliminated. Both sides must bridge the gap—the coffee I sell and your aged tea leaves can coexist, supplying each other, and insisting on using local ingredients as much as possible. Macau is too small for cultivation, but dried goods and raw materials are not an issue in old districts, and there are many traditional craft industries. By purchasing services on the same street, new and old industries can also adapt well, avoiding incompatibility or even forced departure when tourism pressure mounts.
At this point, art can only take a back seat, becoming one of the ties linking the entire area. If the government and gaming enterprises aim solely to commercialize space, initiating irrelevant festivals and carnival-style consumer activities and mistakenly targeting large numbers of tourists, they overlook that the interaction between businesses and people is paramount. All art resources should be entirely dedicated to the community, and not a single penny should be spent on those who visit only once. Engaging communities are what can change the local business atmosphere. Residents should consider this place home, and young newcomers should not leave after merely making a quick buck, but rather see it as a second home. Ryo Yamazaki of Japan humbly entered unfamiliar lands, diligently communicating with locals until consensus was reached. Jane Jacobs, the "mother of cities," fiercely defended living streets, advocating for communities to embrace passion and vitality, criticizing blind development. She believed that body, space, streets, and life should be organically integrated, and that without considering the functional order of the city, all efforts would be in vain. There is no magic touch; all conditions must be taken into account. Cities are composed of different layers of communities and cannot ignore commercial, cultural, and political factors for single benefits, just as you must factor in commute time when going to an appointment—the "magic door" has never been invented.
One of the few remaining old shops in Rua da Felicidade, with a "for sale" sign for the building next to it.
Taiwanese urban scholar Wu Bi-na's "Strolling in the Blank City" perfectly clears the urban planning gridlock, bringing everything back to square one. A common blind spot in urban planning is the tendency, consciously or unconsciously, to intervene in undefined or overlooked spaces when holding planning authority. "Blank space" does not mean allowing mosquitoes to breed, but rather intentionally leaving certain ecological or natural areas in the planning for people to breathe, thereby allowing residents to choose an organic space for a simple life. That is, until an appropriate solution is found, its function should not be arbitrarily defined. In Macau, space is never empty. The public knows that the six "dead" districts mentioned in official discourse are still breathing, suitable for quiet contemplation, strolling, or lingering. Since they are not dead, how can we speak of revitalization?
Proposed abandoned factories for wedding photography, a declining main street hosting entrepreneurial competitions, inflatable figures placed by a artificially severed seashore... These are far from the sophisticated postmodern spatial utilization that rejects irony and symbolism, expressing dissatisfaction with those in power. This detached and marginalized entertainment space has lost its original essence. On the other hand, after the implementation of the New Land Law, Macau gradually reclaimed undeveloped plots with overdue concession contracts. Consequently, "blank spaces" have continually appeared in prime locations. These should rightfully be considered part of development, yet they are increasingly becoming restricted areas surrounded by barbed-wire fences.
Prime real estate in the Nam Van district, with giant mosquito-breeding spaces due to decades of legislative delays.
According to Wu Bi-na, contemporary Taipei allows users to interpret it for themselves due to its tolerance for a wide variety of lifestyles and more flexible working hours. Non-traditional laborers frequently move through the city, and emerging middle-class consumption patterns intervene with high visibility… This suggests that Macanese people treat the city as a "non-place"—a concept derived from physical spaces like highways or airports, which people don't need to focus on or wait in, and which should inherently resonate with life. But if we disregard the city, treating it merely as a place to work and earn money, leaving the city after work to spend money up north, the occasional glances along the path instantly make everyone live in a "non-place." This city will never be valued, and none of us will want to stay.
Macanese people view this place merely as somewhere to commute between work and home. This perspective is also reflected in urban planning, with numerous skywalk systems connecting private and public housing estates appearing in recent years, separating the path from the light rail station to home from any closeness to the local area.
Xi Xi referred to Hong Kong as "My City" in the 1970s, and a new generation of writers like Ke Luo responded intertextually with "Whale City," creating a literary dialogue that kept the city's conversation alive across generations. Taiwanese writer Shu Kuo-chih recalled old Taipei, where small rivers and bridges were everywhere, until urban development "drained the shallow water left in the basin." First, there must be these city-loving pedestrians to make more people realize that those who can truly rally a living culture are at the grassroots.