PULI, Taiwan—It’s Saturday afternoon in late January, and Pan Suchen is halfway through the day’s work. She’s got another hundred or more sheets to do before clocking off.
It’s not easy work, she explains between breaths as she reaches across the giant bed of hot iron, wiping her sweaty face with her forearm. She answers a question each time she moves past, flopping a wet piece of paper down on the iron press, then sweeping it over with the brush. The paper dries quickly, and there is steam everywhere. She peels it off, in the same move adding it to the dry bunch, then grabs another wet sheet with the long, thin, bamboo stick.
The basic idea is to get the stack of wet paper dry. This is done manually, one sheet at a time. Decades ago when she first started this work—or art, as it is now seen—every one of the movements she is doing now was fraught with peril. The paper could rip, buckle or scorch, and she frequently burnt her hands and elbows. The brush she uses weighs one kilogram, and its full weight can’t touch the paper. It took a whole year to be able to do it proficiently, and that was starting on small pieces.
Paper was invented by the Chinese close to two thousand years ago, and from there it spread to the rest of the world. Nowadays, the vast majority of paper is made by machines. This is what makes Suchen’s job, and the factory where she is doing it, so valuable. It was precisely this that Huang Huanchang and Wu Shuli, a husband and wife couple, wanted to get across when they opened the Kuanghsing Paper Factory (also spelt “Guangxing”) to the public in 1994. It was right after Huang finished his compulsory military service.
During the early 1990s most of Taiwan’s paper-makers moved their businesses to mainland China, where material and labour costs were cheaper. Precious few remained in Taiwan. Back then, paper-making was done by many smaller outfits. They simply set up along the side of the river, out in the open. When it flooded, they’d have to pack up shop for a while and wait it out. Conditions were tougher.
Apart from the general knowledge that the central province of Nantou is where paper is made, years ago the general public did not know much about the inner workings of one of the country’s most important cultural assets.
Puli is a special place in Taiwan; it is hidden amidst the mountains in the north of Nantou, the only landlocked province of Taiwan. Paper needs crystalline water, and Puli is the only place in the country to provide it. The overall soil content of the area contains few minerals, Wu explained, which means that the water is very clear, and perfect for what they need to do.
Wu took a few hours out of her hectic schedule to explain the history, motivations, and minute details of the fascinating operation she helps to oversee.
It’s not easy work, she explains between breaths as she reaches across the giant bed of hot iron, wiping her sweaty face with her forearm. She answers a question each time she moves past, flopping a wet piece of paper down on the iron press, then sweeping it over with the brush. The paper dries quickly, and there is steam everywhere. She peels it off, in the same move adding it to the dry bunch, then grabs another wet sheet with the long, thin, bamboo stick.
The basic idea is to get the stack of wet paper dry. This is done manually, one sheet at a time. Decades ago when she first started this work—or art, as it is now seen—every one of the movements she is doing now was fraught with peril. The paper could rip, buckle or scorch, and she frequently burnt her hands and elbows. The brush she uses weighs one kilogram, and its full weight can’t touch the paper. It took a whole year to be able to do it proficiently, and that was starting on small pieces.
Paper was invented by the Chinese close to two thousand years ago, and from there it spread to the rest of the world. Nowadays, the vast majority of paper is made by machines. This is what makes Suchen’s job, and the factory where she is doing it, so valuable. It was precisely this that Huang Huanchang and Wu Shuli, a husband and wife couple, wanted to get across when they opened the Kuanghsing Paper Factory (also spelt “Guangxing”) to the public in 1994. It was right after Huang finished his compulsory military service.
During the early 1990s most of Taiwan’s paper-makers moved their businesses to mainland China, where material and labour costs were cheaper. Precious few remained in Taiwan. Back then, paper-making was done by many smaller outfits. They simply set up along the side of the river, out in the open. When it flooded, they’d have to pack up shop for a while and wait it out. Conditions were tougher.
Apart from the general knowledge that the central province of Nantou is where paper is made, years ago the general public did not know much about the inner workings of one of the country’s most important cultural assets.
Bringing it to the public
Puli is a special place in Taiwan; it is hidden amidst the mountains in the north of Nantou, the only landlocked province of Taiwan. Paper needs crystalline water, and Puli is the only place in the country to provide it. The overall soil content of the area contains few minerals, Wu explained, which means that the water is very clear, and perfect for what they need to do.
Wu took a few hours out of her hectic schedule to explain the history, motivations, and minute details of the fascinating operation she helps to oversee.
