(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

My experiment study piece: Modern Kunoichi

(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

The debate on traditional Chinese characters and simplified Chinese characters is an ongoing dispute concerning Chinese orthography among users of Chinese characters. It has stirred up heated responses from supporters of both sides in mainland China, Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan, and among overseas Chinese communities with its implications of political ideology and cultural identity. Simplified characters here exclusively refer to those characters simplified by the People’s Republic of China (PRC), instead of the concept of character simplification as a whole. The effect of simplified characters on the language remains controversial, decades after their introduction.

Problems

The sheer difficulties posed by having two concurrent writing systems hinders communications between mainland China and other regions, although with exposure and experience a person educated in one system can quickly become familiar with the other system. For those who know both systems well, converting an entire document written using simplified characters to traditional characters, or vice versa, is a trivial but laborious task. Automated conversion, however, from simplified to traditional is not straightforward because there is not always a one-to-one mapping of a simplified character to a traditional character. One simplified character may equate to many traditional characters. As a result, a computer can be used for the bulk of the conversion but will still need final checking by a human.

The writer Ba Jin, in his 1999 essay “Thoughts: Reform of Chinese characters” (simplified Chinese: 随想录·汉字改革; traditional Chinese: 隨想錄漢字改革; pinyin: Suí xiǎng lù hànzì gǎigé), urged caution in any reforms to the written Chinese language. He cited the inability of those educated in Hong Kong or Taiwan to read material published on the mainland, and vice versa, as a great disadvantage of simplified Chinese. He also cited the ability to communicate, not just with Chinese peoples of various regions, but also with people from across the Chinese cultural sphere—countries such as Japan, Korea, and Vietnam—as a great advantage of the written Chinese language that should not be undermined by excessive simplification.

Simplified characters

Proponents say that the Chinese writing system has been changing for millennia: it passed through the oracle script, bronzeware script, seal script, and clerical script stages. Moreover, the majority of simplified characters are drawn from conventional abbreviated forms that have been used in handwriting for centuriessuch as the use of 礼 instead of 禮, and some simplified characters are in fact restorations of ancient forms that had become more complicated over time. For instance, the character for “cloud” was originally 云 in early inscriptions, but the character was borrowed to write a homophonous word meaning “to say”. To disambiguate the two uses of the character, the “rain” radical (雨) was added on top when it meant “cloud”, forming the current traditional character 雲. The homophonous word meaning “to say”, however, has become archaic in modern Chinese, though 雲 continues to be used for “cloud”. The simplified version simply restores 云 to its original use as “cloud”.

Traditional characters

While some simplified characters were adopted from conventional abbreviated forms that have existed for a long time, those advocating the simplified forms often fail to point out that many such characters in fact had multiple vernacular forms out of which just one was chosen, arbitrarily, and then privileged by the designers of the simplified character scheme. Many of the changes can be seen as ideological, such as the removal of the “heart” (心) radical from the word “love” (愛) into the new character (爱) without heart. To some, the new ‘heartless’ love character is an attack on Confucianism, which emphasizes the virtues of filial piety and humanity in relationships so as to maintain a harmonious society. Supporters of simplification argue that the removal of the heart radical occurred in the context of calligraphy in ancient times and was not viewed in an anti-Confucian light. A variant form without the heart radical appears in the Kangxi Dictionary under the head character 愛. Moreover, the simplified form 爱 is well-attested in the semi-cursive script calligraphy from imperial times, appearing in the work of Sui dynasty calligrapher Zhi Guo (智果) and Emperor Taizong of Tang and has appeared in calligraphic works from the Song, Yuan,

and Ming dynasties. Pro-traditional commentators argue that the changes through the history are almost exclusively alterations in writing styles, especially vernacular writing, and not in the fundamental structure of the characters—especially after the Qin standardization. They have alleged that simplified characters were arbitrarily schematized and then imposed by the PRC on its people with the intention of subverting and eradicating selected elements of traditional Chinese culture, in order to carry out what the PRC viewed as necessary revolutionary modernization. These critics point out that many of the fundamental characteristics underlying Chinese characters, including radicals as well as etymological and phonetic elements, were deliberately omitted in their simplified form at least partly for this reason (i.e., disrupting continuity with traditional Chinese culture). 

Simplified aesthetics

• Simplified Chinese characters are more legible when small fonts are used, or if the electronic display has a low resolution. The fine details of traditional Chinese characters are easy to discern in large size calligraphy but the individual strokes of a number of complex characters are harder to distinguish when smaller fonts are used and some components are slightly altered as a solution. This problem is exacerbated by low-quality printing or usage of thicker lines. The recognition issue applies to some OCR software as well. Such software is more accurate with hanzi of simpler composition.

Traditional aesthetics

• Opponents argue the problem with the displaying of certain traditional Chinese characters is largely irrelevant as characters are recognizable by their shape and form as a whole and not by each individual stroke. And, moreover, that as one gets used to reading traditional Chinese characters, the initial discomfort from having to read them on small screens or fonts is likely to fade away.
• Aesthetic continuity with China’s immense heritage of art, literature, and calligraphy is diminished by the supplanting of characters that have been in standard use for centuries with an arbitrary selection of vernacular and shorthand variants along with many invented forms that are nowhere to be found in most writings, inscriptions, and art made in China before the 20th century.
• Traditional Chinese characters are often used as the standard characters set in Chinese calligraphy in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, and are even allowed for calligraphy in the PRC, presumably because of its aesthetic value.
• Opponents argue a strong preference for the aesthetics of traditional characters among Mainland Chinese is evident in their significant usage of traditional forms in artistic work, signage, advertising, and internet screen names.
• Even though about 30% of simplified Chinese characters match simplified kanji, those who understand traditional Chinese will understand a much greater proportion of Japanese Kanji, as the current standard Japanese character set is much more similar to traditional Chinese.
• Simplified characters, such as 门 for 門 (mén, door) look like the universal informal handwritten form, and look as improper as cursive would look in printed English.

Bibliography

(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

Gentrification, urbanisation, Westernisation. Whatever the diagnosis is, the prognosis is the same – once treasured trades and practices in Hong Kong are slowly disappearing before our eyes. Thankfully though, they’re not gone quite yet, so if you want to get acquainted with these sunsetting industries in Hong Kong, read on as we take a look at some once-thriving trades and practices on their last legs and where you can find them. 

Neon sign making

Birdcage making

Cheongsam dress-making

Handmade photo frames and glasswave

Jade craftmanship

Mahjong tile carving

Bus sign painting

Umbrella repairs

Bibliography

(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

One of the most distinctive things about Hong Kong is the abundance of colourful neon signs – often written in traditional Chinese calligraphy – that hang on the side of our city’s buildings. While there are local preservation groups in the city who work hard to keep this remarkable cultural aspect alive, not many know or understand the work that goes behind the makings of these glowing signs that light up our streets. So, we paid a visit to Au Yeung Cheong, acclaimed calligraphy and authentic Chinese typeface signage master, who has been keeping the tradition alive for more than 40 years. By Andrea Wong (Brilliant Tailor Shop, one of the two last remaining tenants inside State Theatre)

Once a landmark and the glory of North Point, the 68-year-old State Theatre Building is the kind of place that would give you goosebumps the moment you step into the building. Clouded in an eerie atmosphere throughout the premises – most likely due to the vast empty spaces, vacant shops, and sounds of reverberating water leakage – the dimly lit building is a jarring contrast to the bustling streets of the North Point neighbourhood. If you walk further into the building, you’ll spot the two remaining tenants tucked in the back, one being a traditional tailor shop, and the other surrounded by lit-up signboards and plastic signs, which is where Au Yeung Cheong and his shop King Wah Signboards (京華招牌) . 

Having learned calligraphy through books like Tung Shing (traditional lunar calendars) and Buddhist scriptures given by his father during his younger days, Au Yeung Cheong is a good example of ‘practice makes perfect’. Au Yeung did not have the best tools available to master his craft, yet, he made do with what he had with no complaints and persevered to become an apprentice at numerous signage stores, before opening King Wah in the 80s. With decades of practised precision, every stroke is as sharp as a knife, or in his words, “as sharp as the knife you’d use to cut up a winter melon.”

His workshop is raggedy, messy, with materials and tools scattered all over the place (some of his works littered the staircase that leads to the basement of the building) – the setting may seem chaotic, but that wasn’t always the case. During the prime of his career, he had four shops within the State Theatre Building, around 20 staff members, and was living quite the luxurious lifestyle without worrying about running out of money. “Back then, I never worried about whether I was making enough. If I ever ran out of cash, I know I always have money in the bank. I also had a maid, and I would always go play mahjong after work at around 2pm.” Sadly, the merciless fire that occurred in the State Theatre in 1995 burned all of his work and effort into ashes, leaving him with no choice but to lay off all his employees, sell his house, and continue on his journey as a one-man-band to provide for his three children. Now, what remains of his shop is also his ‘home’ – where he has his meals, paint during his free time, all while doing what he does best, making traditional signboards.

Au Yeung takes immense pride in his craft, and he doesn’t shy away from complimenting his own skills. “These computers can’t do what I do,” he explains. “Machine-made typefaces are not as clean-cut and cannot top my authentic calligraphy. Most of them are simply a common replica of the real deal that lacks character, they’re just there for the ‘cockroaches’,” he adds. While some may call him cocky and arrogant, quite frankly, his success and legacy give him full bragging rights. When asked what his most notable works are, he simply says, “if you look above you on the streets, most of the signs are probably written by me. Even the ones opposite this building are done by me.” 

With his shop becoming a hot Instagrammable spot, Au Yeung seems utterly unfazed by those who only want to snap a pic for a few ‘likes’ on social media. The setup of the shop feels like it’s intended for people to freely photograph his work, with stools and tables set up, signboards scattered in a disorderly fashion, and lit up signs that created a warm and vibrant nook against the backdrop of the dark and empty spaces of the State Theatre. During our interview, there was a photographer having a photoshoot with a model, and a whole film crew shooting a music video with piano and erhu playing just steps away from his store, but he was never bothered or annoyed. “Why would I be annoyed? If everyone can see my craft on the internet, then they will know how great my craft is.” Throughout our visit, he made sure that we had noted down every answer and anecdote properly and even suggested for us to film the tour that he gave around the shop – 10 out of 10 points for the hospitality!

Au Yeung worries that no one will take over his business and carry on his legacy. Yet, he remains hopeful and continues to provide mini ‘lessons’ for any visitors who are interested to learn the craft. One of Au Yeung’s wishes is to have authentic Chinese typefaces and signboards spread across the world. “As long as there’s a place with these authentic Chinese typefaces, it’ll withstand the test of time and survive forever,” he enthuses. With no successor to inherit his vocation, it’s a pity to eventually must bid farewell to this authentic craft when Au Yeung decides to retire.

Bibliography

(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

When photographer Greg Girard visited Hong Kong in the mid-70s, he’d heard of a mysterious community set in the heart of the country, where prostitutes and priests lived side-by-side, and drug addicts and children walked the same halls. He’d never seen pictures, nor did he know anyone who had visited.

“In 1985, I simply stumbled across it one evening. I came around a corner and there at the end of the block it loomed: this massive building-thing that looked like nothing else I’d ever seen. ​‘This must be the Kowloon Walled City’ I remember thinking to myself.’’

The Kowloon Walled City, with a history tracing back to the Song Dynasty (960‑1279), was an entirely self-governed city within Hong Kong – a closed-off complex of extreme poverty and desperate living conditions. Despite being held together by leaky pipes and crumbling walls, it was home to some 35,000 people; all tightly squeezed into paltry-sized rooms arranged on top of one another.

“I realised that in spite of its reputation as a dangerous slum it was, in reality, a working-class vertical village with people trying to get by like anywhere,” the photographer says of his first visit to the Walled City. ​“In a sense, its ordinariness was what was surprising, and what became the main point of the project: to show how people lived and worked in these extraordinary conditions.”

Despite the grating poverty and inequality it represented, Kowloon has gone on to inspire countless pop culture moments, from films like Bloodsport (1988) to Batman Begins (2005) and feature in video games like 2010’s Call of Duty: Black Ops. Girard puts the cultural fascination down to the fact that it also ​“represented freedom; a place where anything could happen and everything was tolerated.”

While demolition plans were put in place in 1987, the City was finally destroyed in 1994, spearheaded by the British and Chinese government’s intolerability for its health standards and poor quality of life. In response to the thousands of potentially homeless residents, the Hong Kong government issued out roughly $350 (£270) million in compensation to both residents and businesses of the City.

A year after its demolition, the City became a public green space, Kowloon Walled City Park, in the 330,000 sq ft area once home to the most densely populated spot in the world.

Girard’s project, aptly titled City of Darkness, saw him and fellow photographer Ian Lambot capture the spirit of the City. Currently exhibiting in Hong Kong’s Blue Lotus Gallery, City of Darkness sets out to illustrate not only the conditions, but the spirit of the community going about their normal lives within an abnormal environment entirely self-governed and neglected by the British, Chinese and Hong Kong governments.

Below, Girard tells of his experience documenting the Kowloon Walled City.

Was it difficult to gain access to a (literally) closed-off community?

It might sound disappointingly straightforward but I simply walked in and began asking people. In the early days, there was some initial suspicion and hostility but after January 1987, when the HK government announced that the place would be cleared and its residents resettled, things got easier. There was an implicit understanding that the Walled City’s days were numbered and you were there to make a record.

Could you see a beauty in the space which you perhaps didn’t initially think you would?

There was definitely fascination from the beginning, and a sense of exploring an urban hybrid, a monstrosity even, which clearly had its own strange beauty, and was almost like a living thing. Seeing it for the first time at night, glowing at the end of the block, it was beautiful and intimidating. This building-thing that shouldn’t be there but was.

What were some of the sounds and smells you remember experiencing?

Summers in Hong Kong are notoriously hot and humid, and so the smells from the food production factories were pretty rank. At a barbecue meat workshop, men stripped to the waist would use blow torches to burn the hair off freshly slaughtered pigs. Animal carcasses lay splayed on floors wet with water and blood. It could be pretty nasty. All the run-off from the shops flowed into open gutters that ran alongside the alleys.

As you walked through the Walled City’s alleys, the sounds would combine and separate as you passed various workshops: metal being pounded into shape, cotton-weaving machinery, music from radios and cassette players, mahjong tiles clattering, televisions blaring, air conditioning units humming, water dripping everywhere after it rained. It always seemed to feel damp in there even long after the rain stopped.

How did the Walled City’s world of drugs, prostitution and gambling compare to the outside metropolis of Hong Kong during the ​’80s?

By the time I started photographing there in the mid-1980s all those things [drugs, prostitution and gambling] had migrated into Hong Kong proper, and it was mostly just the anarchic physical space that remained. Having said that, because there was almost no enforcement of Hong Kong’s civic codes [in the Walled City], it meant that unlicensed doctors and dentists could operate, and food production factories needn’t worry about visits from the health and safety department.

What do you think the City can teach us about freedom and oppression in 2019?

The Walled City suggests that people can get along just fine without regulation guiding every facet of life, especially in urban life. There was a measure of tolerance at the heart of what allowed the Walled City to function. How did 35,000 people manage to live in a single Hong Kong City block, in 300 interconnected high-rise buildings, none of them built with input from architects or engineers? Those were the questions we tried to answer in our books, City of Darkness and City of Darkness Revisited. But whether that is replicable or transferable to elsewhere I’m not sure. I’ll leave that for others to explore.

What do you think the photographs represent?

I hope they present a fair and sympathetic portrait of a place and its residents who made up one of the world’s most extraordinary urban communities, and who were slighted and judged to the end.

Which photographs from the project best illustrate the realities of living in the City?

I’d probably have to choose two photographs, one from a factory or workshop down in the bowels of the place, and one from the rooftop of kids playing in the late afternoon or people relaxing in the early evening with sprawling views of Hong Kong. Those two slightly contradictory views define the Walled City for me: the extreme physical compromises of the living and working spaces below against the slightly whimsical nature of the interconnected rooftops and the relaxed atmosphere up there in the evenings.

(Project 2 Sequences and Time)

History

The history of the walled city can be traced back to the Song dynasty (960–1279), when a military outpost was set up to manage the salt trade in the area. Little took place for hundreds of years afterward, although 30 guards were stationed there in 1668. A small coastal fort was established around 1810 after Chinese forces abandoned Tung Lung Fort. In 1842, during Qing Daoguang Emperor‘s reign, Hong Kong Island was ceded to Britain by the Treaty of Nanking. As a result, the Qing authorities felt it necessary to improve the fort to rule the area and check further British influence. The improvements, including the formidable defensive wall, were completed in 1847. The walled city was captured by rebels during the Taiping Rebellion in 1854, before being retaken a few weeks later. The present walled city’s “Dapeng Association House” forms the remnants of what was previously Lai Enjue‘s garrison.

The Convention for the Extension of Hong Kong Territory of 1898 handed additional parts of Hong Kong (the New Territories) to Britain for 99 years, but excluded the walled city, which at the time had a population of roughly 700. China was allowed to continue to keep officials there as long as they did not interfere with the defence of British Hong Kong. The following year, the governor, Sir Henry Blake, suspected that the viceroy of Canton was using troops to aid resistance to the new arrangements. On 14 April 1899, British forces attacked the walled city, only to find the viceroy’s soldiers gone, leaving behind only the mandarin and 150 residents. The Qing dynasty ended its rule in 1912, leaving the walled city to the British.

Though the British claimed ownership of the walled city, they did little with it over the following few decades. The Protestant church established an old people’s home in the old “yamen” (Chinese administrative office) as well as a school and an almshouse in other former offices. Aside from such institutions, however, the walled city became a mere curiosity for British colonials and tourists to visit; it was labelled as “Chinese Town” in a 1915 map. In 1933, the Hong Kong authorities announced plans to demolish most of the decaying walled city’s buildings, compensating the 436 squatters that lived there with new homes. That same year, the Nationalist Chinese government protested, claiming jurisdiction over the city. The Nationalist Chinese government continued to make claims on its jurisdiction throughout 1935, 1936, and the first half of 1937, until the war between China and Japan started.

Urban Settlement

After Japan’s surrender in 1945, China announced its intent to reclaim the walled city. In November 1946, Nationalist Chinese officials created the “Draft Outline Plan for Reinstatement of Administration” of the area, which included an office, schools, police, and other functions. Refugees fleeing the Chinese Civil War post-1945 poured into Hong Kong, and 2,000 squatters occupied the walled city by 1947. After a failed attempt to drive them out in 1948, the British adopted a ‘hands-off’ policy in most matters concerning the walled city. On 8 January 1948, the Nationalist Chinese government sent a memorandum to the British Ambassador, stating “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs now formally declare to the British Embassy that, in accordance with the provisions of the said Convention, the Chinese Government enjoys jurisdiction over the City of Kowloon and that they have no intention whatsoever of renouncing this jurisdiction.” The British Foreign Office, on 4 February 1948, considered a variety of solutions (including turning the site into a Nationalist Chinese Consulate-General), and ultimately recommended that the British “accept the principle of Chinese jurisdiction over Kowloon Walled City but the Chinese agree not to attempt to exercise that jurisdiction in practice.” Additionally, the British Foreign Office said that “A public garden controlled by the municipal authorities of Kowloon Leased territory offers such a solution and so would a Chinese consular compound, if the Chinese could first be induced to agree in principle to the appointment of a Consul General.”

In January 1950, a fire broke out that destroyed over 2,500 huts, home to nearly 3,500 families and 17,000 total people. The disaster highlighted the need for proper fire prevention in the largely wooden-built squatter areas, complicated by the lack of political ties with the colonial and Chinese governments.   The ruins gave new arrivals to the walled city the opportunity to build a new, causing speculation that the fire may have been intentionally set.

With no government enforcement from the Chinese or the British aside from a few raids by the Hong Kong Police, the walled city became a haven for crime and drugs. It was only during a 1959 trial for a murder that occurred within the walled city that the Hong Kong government was ruled to have jurisdiction there. By that time, however, the walled city was virtually ruled by the organised crime syndicates known as triads.

Beginning in the 1950s, triad groups such as the 14K and Sun Yee On gained a stranglehold on the walled city’s numerous brothels, gaming parlours, and opium dens. The walled city had become such a haven for criminals that police would venture into it only in large groups. It was not until 1973 and 1974, when a series of more than 3,500 police raids resulted in over 2,500 arrests and over 1,800 kilograms (4,000 lb) of seized drugs, that the triads’ power began to wane. With public support, particularly from younger residents, the continued raids gradually eroded drug use and violent crime. In 1983, the district police commander declared the walled city’s crime rate to be under control.

The city also underwent massive construction during the 1960s, with developers building new modular structures above older ones. The city became extremely densely populated and “a world unto its own”, an enclave, with over 33,000 people in 300 buildings occupying little more than 7 acres (2.8 ha). As  result, the city reached its maximum size by the late 1970s and early 1980s; a height restriction of 13 to 14 storeys had been imposed on the city due to the flight path of planes heading toward Kai Tak Airport. As well as limiting building height, the proximity of the airport subjected residents to serious noise pollution. Eight municipal pipes provided water to the entire structure, although more could have come from wells. A few of the streets were illuminated by fluorescent lights, as sunlight rarely reached the lower levels due to the outstanding disregard to air rights within the city. Although the rampant crime of earlier decades diminished in later years, the walled city was still known for its high number of unlicensed doctors and dentists who could operate there without threat of prosecution.

Although the walled city was for many years a hotbed of criminal activity, most residents were not involved in any crime and lived peacefully within its walls. Numerous small factories and businesses thrived inside the walled city, and some residents formed groups to organise and improve daily life there.  An attempt by the government in 1963 to demolish some shacks in a corner of the city gave rise to an “anti-demolition committee” that served as the basis for a kaifong association. Charities, religious societies, and other welfare groups were gradually introduced to the city. While medical clinics and schools went unregulated, the Hong Kong government provided some services such as water supply and mail delivery.

Eviction and demolition

The quality of life in the city—sanitary conditions in particular—remained far behind the rest of Hong Kong. The Sino-British Joint Declaration in 1984 laid the groundwork for the city’s demolition. The mutual decision by the two governments to tear down the walled city was announced on 14 January 1987. On 10 March 1987, following the announcement that the walled city would be converted to a park, the Secretary for District Administration formally requested the Urban Council to take over the site following demolition. Owing to the presence of numerous other green spaces in the area, the Urban Services Department doubted the need for “yet another park” from a planning and operations point of view, but the council agreed nonetheless to accept the government’s proposal on the condition that the government bear the cost of park construction.

(Project 02: Sequences and Time)

Personal opinion

As someone who’s from Hong Kong, Kowloon Generic Romance was a love letter to me. One side of the story is a wholesome slice of life between two office workers in the bustling district of Kowloon, showing their fun daily life in a district that is known for being old and worn-down. The beautiful art style of this manga, mimics manga from older generations, complementing the setting of the manga and giving a sense of nostalgia. The detailed references, from the local food and overhanging street signs with traditional Chinese font to the hidden back alleys and the old architecture, really hits home and makes the story so much more immersive.

The character designs with traditional Chinese fashion, also following the recent Chinese fashion trend ‘’neo-Chinese style’’, which combines modern and traditional elements together for the outfits. On the other side of the story is a sci-fi mystery which gives more depth to a slice of life romance and interesting contrast between the past and future.

The reason why I did the research on this manga is because I was born and raised in Hong Kong. It’s surprising to see one of my favourite mangakas make a project based on an area that not longer exists, Kowloon Walled City. I didn’t have the opportunity to visit and explore the city due to is deconstruction during the late 80s. It was interesting to read the story and see the practices from my culture that remain in this modern era and the various practices that vanished with the city. I think the idea of combining the past city with the “futuristic” setting of the manga fit well with the “sequence and time.” Reading and learning more about the manga was a fun experience as it gave more insight to the culture I was raised upon.

Bibliography

(Project 2: Sequences and Time)

A recent McKinsey report has confirmed that Chinese consumers enthusiasm for domestic brands did not wane. What has changed translates to ‘’national trend’’, entered a new chapter in 2022, and blossomed into xin zhongshi (Modern Chinese style) or neo-Chinese style. AS with guochao, neo-Chinese style combines traditional Chinese fashion and modern elements, but does in a bolder and ‘’edgier’’ way, borrowing from niche aesthetics, such as cyberpunk, goth, and the hyper-popular Y2K style. It is fueled by Chinese consumers increasing interest in domestic brands that celebrate Chinese traditions, customs, and culture.

Neo-Chinese fashion, meanwhile, often features Chinese elements in subtler ways and pairs them with other modern aesthetics, such as dyed hair and bold makeup.

Following the publication of a white paper titled ‘’2022 Taobao and Tmall Apparel Industry Trends Report’’ on August 26, the hashtag ‘’Why has neo-Chinese style gone viral?’’ has been trending on the microblogging platform Weibo and garnered more than 230 million views.

Influenced by the rise of Douyin and Xiaohongshu, China’s answers to TiktTok and Instagram, neo-Chinese style has dramatically evolved over the past few years. Niche Gen Z communities in China thrive on these platforms, sharing everything from their OOTD (outfit of the day) to makeup tutorials and masterful cosplay getups.

A search on Xiaohongshu reveals the hashtag ‘’Neo-Chinese style’’ has been viewed approximately 130 millions times, while Neo-Chinese Style Outfits’’ has been viewed more than 72 million times.

The success of neo-Chinese style stems from the ongoing national trend craze, but it can also be attributed to crossover creativity. With their daring and experimental fashion sense, Chinese youth feel seen by brands that combine elements of their culture with the digital world and niche aesthetics.

Bibliography:

WAVE: Currents in Japanese Graphic Arts

(Project 01: Identities and Space)

Sketches

Photographs references