Intermezzo

 

In the last three months of 2025, I did two AIR¹ programs in Parainen (AARK) and Turku (Life on a Leaf).

The artist residency experience in Finland was a very immersive one. The quiet nature on the island of Korppoo, the walk to the lake, the bicycle ride to Ulkosaariston Koulu, and taking the elders out for a walk around the town center with the students, the medieval church that never had its light on when we were there – everything, all at once, on that tiny little island, everything that made me feel so alive.

It was probably the first time ever in my life that I had no desire toward any materialistic thing, although I did buy a very typical Nordic-looking sweater at a thrift store in Turku as a souvenir for myself. I started to wonder if that little island could become the fantasy of a possible future – not the place itself necessarily, but rather an image of what I am leading myself towards: a cottage in the woods near water, a canoe, a cabin next to it as my studio, and potentially a very tiny but comfortable sauna.

My experience in Finland was rather an intermezzo than an intermission of real life. There was, and still is, a glimpse of hope to unfold a lifestyle through such peaceful serenity. For a person who constantly struggles with stress and fear triggered by sensory overstimulation, my first art residency was a treatment: jellyfish, spruce trees dancing, and greeting the same swan family.

Two weeks prior to Halloween, some artists needed to print out photographs from the local school’s library. I tagged along. That week was the one when we had the car left by the residence’s host to carpool everywhere. While the other artists were printing their images, I was loitering. A little boy came up to me to inquire about my ethnicity. “I am Chinese,” I told him. “You came to Korppoo from China?” he asked. I nodded. I asked if he had plans for Halloween and whether they also do “trick or treat” here in Finland, and if they did, they were welcome to our residency. I’d prepare candies.

Two weeks later, I still had no clue whether the kids would come in a group to our residency or not, but I still bought two packs of candies. On that Saturday, as I was doing my weekend cleaning in my own apartment, a group of kids, with full faces of makeup, all in costumes, swung into the building. There was such a sweet relief in my heart and a burst of tears. I almost talked myself out of a self-imagined disappointment.

The following Tuesday, I met the same group of kids again in the grocery store. I thanked them for coming. The little boy smiled with pride, “A promise is a promise.”

My second residency at the Lehtitalo was even more surreal. The building itself looks like a kindergarten for adults, and I still couldn’t believe that I did a soundscape sauna in a big yellow garlic. I was lucky that not only did I share beautiful moments and conversations with both of the Andersson families, but also made new friends along the journey that I consider family for the rest of my life.

I knew that I felt safe there when I was gently enfolded by the kindness around me. I knew that I was on a land of contrast but also a land of tontut². A fellow artist had once told me about the “suicide tango” and how to make friends with Finns. He said Finns are tontut or gnomes; they could look shy or even grumpy-looking, but if you “scratch them” a bit and they feel the warmth, they’d open up genuinely, and they’d always love to help your life become a bit easier. Throughout my residency, I received massive help from many friends from the Turku art scene. I wouldn’t have been able to survive a snowless, watery November if it weren’t for those friends.

As a Chinese who grew up quite internationally and also went to college in the US, I am so used to the loud culture at home and then at those food courts in Singapore, and obviously later in the midst of so many small talks in the US, that I wasn’t sure if such a quiet culture in Finland is real or surreal. I struggled a lot at the beginning with whether I should make the move to connect with people or not in Finland, but at the same time felt a bit intimidated. After a few weeks, I just let the idea sink in for a bit and focused on my own thoughts. What am I doing for my life? What do I actually want to do in my life is not necessarily a clear profession as an immediate answer. The residency experience in Finland, the quietness there, the subtle isolation from the landscape to the language, stimulated a lot of thinking. I also found some unrealized hidden power or potential in me – hey, I could even do woodwork!

Listening to an intermezzo does not take you out of a full act or a whole piece, which is why I felt the surreality and almost thought that I was escaping from reality – but only almost. Towards the end of my residency, the Miss Finland scandal pulled me right back in, to things that I could not escape. And I am not the kind of person who would escape.

The drama of Miss Finland is a pocket knife that slits your skin without notice, and the moment you find it out, you already see the blood dripping. The scrutiny of that slit is how deep the cut is into the skin, and how you would do your first aid. Then, how would you place and keep the rest of your sharp things? What I learned from this incident in this country is that not only did the first aid not follow up properly, but also the wound is still there, socially and structurally.

I saw the tontut, and I saw the scars and wounds in that society. This is what makes the reality – but I wonder: Will the tontut let those wounds rot?

 

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Editor’s Note:

1. Short for “Artist-in-Residency”. ↩︎
2. Plural of the Finnish word tonttu, meaning small, mythological creatures in Finnish folklore. ↩︎