When night is no longer dark, can time still be recognized?

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In the summer of 2024, I stayed two months in residence in Reykjavík, Iceland.

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In the far north, where there is light, there is color and warmth; without it, everything sinks into a heavy, oppressive gloom. The uninterrupted light of summer blurs day and night, as if one were living inside a single, endless day. Even after sleeping and waking, the world beyond the window remains bright.

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For one month leading up to the summer solstice, I stood on the balcony of my accommodation at midnight each day, facing the sea, mechanically releasing the shutter. “Midnight Sun”—a paradox in itself. If the sky stays bright, can it still be called night? Or perhaps “night” is merely a concept constructed by human perception?

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This experience ultimately became the work Waiting for Solstice.

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From May 19 to June 20, I took a photo every midnight on the balcony facing the ocean. Whether documenting time, looking for inspiration, or simply producing some kind of meaning within the process, I continued pressing the shutter day after day.

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Gradually, it became something like muscle memory. Every day, I waited for 12 o’clock to come, put on my jacket, grabbed my camera, stepped onto the windy balcony, and got it done. I even set an alarm, like Pavlov's dog (In this case, I am both Pavlov and the dog). 

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Until one night, it was neither cold nor windy. A pink-orange light spread across the sky, meeting the peaceful blue of the sea. It made me think: what if this is what I’m actually waiting for? A tranquil surprise of a warm Icelandic midnight with the sun (I mean, not that warm, but warm enough).

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To be present in that very moment and to possess that state of mind, none of it was in vain.

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As no equipment could fully capture the essence of such a moment, I recorded the scenes as black-and-white images on negative film. Months after returning to Taiwan, I began to re-color these memories by hand, creating monoprints that are now layered with black-and-white projections. I once considered using photomechanical printing to reproduce the images, but the environmental impact of the materials required for thirty plates felt unjustifiable. This led me to the idea of using light in place of ink, superimposed onto the monoprints—a logic that, in principle, remains synonymous with the layering process of printmaking.

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What I find compelling about printmaking is how a fixed matrix can evoke such diverse atmospheres when printed with different colors, much like how a single location transforms across different points in time. On that same balcony, the shifting light each day felt like a single plate being inked with ever-changing colors—a repetitive composition, yet never the same face. By merging light with printmaking, the work embodies both characteristics, echoing the consistent yet mercurial landscape I witnessed every day during that time.