Ya-Lun and Liu engaged in a thoughtful conversation exploring the three major components of the exhibition—”Ubiquitous No. 9,” “Ubiquitous No. 10,” and “The Drifter.” Serving as both curator and interpreter, Liu facilitated the discussion, translating Ya-Lun’s reflections from Mandarin while drawing out the conceptual threads that connect the works.

The central theme throughout the conversation was the notion of the “ghost.” The discussion began with “Ubiquitous No. 9” and “Ubiquitous No. 10,” two virtual reality installations that present seemingly utopian landscapes devoid of human inhabitants yet subtly haunted by unseen presences. Although these virtual worlds contain no corporeal bodies, Liu observed that visitors themselves become the “subjects” who occupy the physical space of the gallery. Through the VR experience, each participant negotiates the threshold between the tangible world and the imagined one, allowing personal perception and lived experience to shape the encounter. Liu described this condition as one of liminality—an in-between state where reality and illusion coexist.

The conversation then turned to “The Drifter,” the exhibition’s most personal and politically charged work. Ya-Lun explained that the project originated from an earlier journey through Israel and Palestine, where he first began reflecting on exile and displacement. Those experiences later informed the film’s central narrative, which follows Max, a Ukrainian living in exile in Poland.

Within the work, Ya-Lun himself becomes a ghost-like presence. Traveling through Ukraine during wartime while carrying a VR apparatus on his back, he confronts the realities of military checkpoints, border restrictions, and political conflict. Yet, through the virtual reality system, his movements are directed remotely by Max, who experiences the journey through Ya-Lun’s body. Ya-Lun therefore occupies a paradoxical position: physically present yet symbolically absent, surrendering his own agency so that another person may temporarily reconnect with a homeland from which he has been displaced. In this sense, Ya-Lun becomes a spectral figure whose selfless performance allows another’s memories and longing to take physical form.

The discussion also expanded beyond the artwork itself to Ya-Lun’s own experiences traveling internationally as a Taiwanese artist. He reflected on the uncertainty and bureaucratic challenges created by Taiwan’s unique political status, particularly the difficulties of obtaining visas and navigating systems of international recognition. These experiences further reinforced the exhibition’s exploration of invisibility, displacement, and belonging.

One particularly memorable story centered on Ya-Lun’s visa application to Lithuania. Officials there remarked that they had never encountered a Taiwanese passport before, and their curiosity about his nationality ultimately became part of the experience itself—an unexpected reminder of the exhibition’s broader themes of identity, recognition, and the borders that define both nations and individuals.

The conversation concluded with a reflection that resonates throughout Ubiquitous Ghosts: that all people, in different ways, experience moments of displacement as they search for belonging. Whether navigating physical borders, political identities, or imagined landscapes, we all inhabit spaces where presence and absence, memory and reality, continually intersect. Ya-Lun and Liu suggest that it is within these liminal spaces that our shared humanity becomes most visible.