Book Review: Lost in Taiwan

First, a touch of random business: check out my interview with designer Johnny Chiu of Not Just Library and the east coast culinary train in Taiwan Everything, and my interview with the general secretary of the Taipei Zoo in Taipei Quarterly. Both interviews were fantastic, but in very different ways. Imagine talking design one day, and learning about various mating practices the next. 

And now, back to the show.  

More than once, I've been on the receiving end of some weird assumptions that as a childfree person, I must dislike children. That all of us who chose not to have kids get hives when they're around -- well, mental hives, at least. It's not really true though: I don't want to spend all day, every day with children which is why I neither teach nor spawn them, but I don't mind being the weird wine aunt who blows in from Asia once every few years, bearing gifts and stories. 

Not long ago, I happened to arrive for a visit with some friends on the birthday of their 8-year-old daughter. She's into graphic novels, and I wanted to bring her something specific to Taiwan. When it comes to English-language children's books with a Taiwan tie-in, there are...not a lot. There's Hey Taipei, which is for much younger children; this one reads at a junior high school level. There's The Astonishing Color of After, but that might be more appropriate for a tween or young teen. 

For an 8-year-old, even one who's a precocious reader? I mean, if you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

After a long search, I finally came across Lost in Taiwan, a fairly new graphic novel by Mark Crilley. I'd never heard of it, and couldn't preview it as I wanted it sent directly to my brother-in-law in the US so I could pick it up from there and give it to her personally. I decided to take a chance, and am happy I did. 

As an adult, I read Lost in Taiwan in perhaps an hour, while flying from Albany, New York to northern Virginia. The main draw of graphic novels are the illustrations, and this book delivers. Obviously they're gorgeous, and Crilley is an accomplished graphic novelist. The real charmer is the way Crilley's art captures Taiwan's uniquely atmospheric urban and semi-urban spaces. Dare I say, he's nailed the Taiwancore aesthetic?

Even as an adult reader, panels depicting, say, a string of red lanterns in an urban cementscape, the dark entrance to a traditional market alley, and the random fields between clutches of buildings caught and kept my attention: this is a person who gets the feel of daily life in Taiwan. 

But what's the story? Well, young teenager Paul is visiting his older brother Theo, who's teaching English in Taiwan. The city is never specified and to be honest, it doesn't have to be. Theo is learning Mandarin, cooks homemade danbing, has a local girlfriend and in general seems genuinely interested in engaging with Taiwanese culture. Paul...isn't. For most of his visit, he's shown very little interest in leaving Theo's apartment. Overall he's a bit defensive and walled-off, as many young teenagers are.

Then he notices that there's a gaming console on sale in a nearby store, so with his trip almost over, he finally heads out on his own. 

Of course, Paul gets lost. But he meets some locals who help him out, makes new friends, learns something about himself, you know the drill. It's a little cliché, but for a young adult graphic novel that's absolutely fine. The moral lesson hits a bit too hard, but I probably only noticed because I'm approximately quadruple the age of the target reading demographic. 

In fact, if I had one criticism of Lost in Taiwan, it wouldn't be the moral theme -- it'd be the narrative taking for granted that white guys in Taiwan, whether they're adults or teens, will all easily and predictably meet the cute Taiwanese girls and women of their dreams. It's not that that's a bad thing per se, it's just that white-guy-Taiwanese-girl meet-cutes are perhaps a tad overdone? It's not the most interesting experience one can have in Taiwan. I say this with confidence, as I'm not a white guy who's met-cute a Taiwanese girl, and yet I've chosen to stay here for the better part of two decades and counting. 

But you know what? Whatever. The Maybe Romance? storyline never gets creepy, with Theo in a happy relationship and Paul seeming to be more friendly than romantic with his new local friend. That's a good thing -- it works better than an international teenage love story subplot ever could. 

Overall, Crilley is a talented artist and storyteller, and I'm both happy and grateful to have found a graphic novel targeting exactly the sort of reader I was buying for -- a near-tween who can read at a 7th grade level and has a Cool Wine Aunt who lives in Taiwan and brings her random gifts. 

Walls, cultural and personal

I've had both a series of medical issues these past months, in addition to my usual anxiety and overall executive dysfunction. Add to that a case of writer's block as cliché as it has been severe, and I simply haven't had it in me to face the world as a writer or as much of anything. 

It's not entirely debilitating, and I am not entirely splenetic. I can still work and have a social life, and I wouldn't say the American people voting for President Rapist again has completely broken me. But it's broken me a little bit -- what tiny shred of optimism I may have once clung to has been swept away in the swash of my complete and utter inability to forgive anyone who thought a known rapist would make a great president. Quite literally, if I find out someone I know voted for him, I will never speak to them again. 

In this intense anger and anxiety, various physical ailments and investigations, and not one but two ageing and unwell cats, I've been more reclusive and less engaged. I want to wall the world off, but I've mostly been turning inward, a marked change from my usual extroversion. It's not quite to the point where my subconscious has Cask of the Amontillado'd the rest of me, but I genuinely don't think the world will be okay. 

In an attempt to deal with this constructively,  I've been escaping from the world by methodically making over the smaller back rooms in our apartment. Mostly, I'm trying to make my space more functional  and improve overall flow. There's an aesthetic component to this as well, though. My home office, which my friends call my 'lady cave', is now drenched in a plummy color hilariously called Aubergine Burst. 

This chain of events led recently to a direct confrontation with one of the few things about Taiwanese culture that I don't like, even as I have sought to understand and accept it -- the indirect, high-context no. 

In addition to enplummification of my lady cave, I've been preparing to hang new art. And that's turned into a labyrinthine side quest of its own.

A few years ago, I became the new caretaker of a massive family heirloom -- a thick, heavy tome of my great-grandfather's that was either meant to be prominently displayed in a home library or office, or perhaps on a coffee table. A Historical Atlas of Armenia, published in 1953. I can't read most of it -- my Armenian is still not that good -- but the illustrations are plentiful and...how else to describe them? Luscious. Fine detail, rich colors, metallic accents. Various maps, historical coats of arms, portraits, prints of Medieval etchings, portraits of historical notables, artistic renderings of Mount Ararat, you name it. Slightly frayed at the edges of the binding, the cover a deep wine red with the gold stamped letters ՀԱՅ (among other things), it looks exactly like the sort of thing your Armenian great-grandpa would have had in his study to show off to his friends over a bottle of cognac.

I sought to have four of the most enigmatic images scanned, printed and framed, with the metallic accents faithfully reproduced if possible. The binding on this book is so thick that it cannot be scanned and printed directly, and one fold-out map is too large for the machinery at an average copy shop.

My usual print shop for this kind of work, River Image, seems to have gone out of business. So, asked for recommendations on where to get this done, and received just two replies -- a small custom printing firm in Wanhua that seems to have mostly corporate clients, and Sir Speedy. The latter couldn't do metallic accents, so I hauled my tome across town to Wanhua to inquire at the former.

This printing business is located in a narrow lane otherwise lined with old walk-up apartments. You know the kind -- clad in mid-century tiles in neutrals and greens, with iron window grilles and sprays of plant life in pots both along the road and growing out of cracks in the wall. You'd have to look closely to even notice the existence of a print shop on the ground floor of one of these buildings. Inside, there was so much printed material for various businesses, all beautifully done, that the employees balanced A Historical Atlas of Armenia on top of one pile to inspect the pages I'd selected. 

Then they discussed the matter in Taiwanese. I even understood most of it! The binding was the thing -- the only ways to avoid shadow-casted scans were to cut the binding, or digitally pretty them up. I didn't want to cut the book, and they doubted they could re-bind it well enough. They asked for time to look into how it might be done, which I granted. 

We all agreed the job was possible. They even had metallics! The question was more about how much effort it would require, and what that would cost. 

I got the distinct sense that they didn't particularly want to do it, at least not at a price a single person would pay, compared to a business. But, they assured me, they'd try. We added each other on Line and I went home, bookless. 

A few days later they got in touch: they could do the job, but the total cost would be around NT$40,000 for two color copies each of the four images, on good paper, with gold and silver accents. They wouldn't be able to do the work until January.

Honestly, I very much wanted these prints -- one set for me, one for my sister. But I knew, and I think they knew, that I wasn't about to pay over a thousand US dollars and wait over a month for them. I drafted a message saying I'd think about it for a few days, and I genuinely would, but deep down I knew that it simply was not going to work.

I asked a local friend to check my reply in Mandarin, as I wanted to avoid any inadvertent rudeness. She felt they were "treating the customer like a buffet", and perhaps she was right. She grew up in this culture, after all; I didn't.

But something about the exchange, and the way they responded positively to my reply -- of course we know it's a big expense, we quoted the upper estimate because we want to do the best possible work, and you can get quotes from other printers too -- made me think that they weren't trying to scam me, per se. 

Rather, they didn't want to do a fairly small job for what wouldn't have been much profit, but because they could do it and didn't want to outright reject the project, they quoted a price at which they would take it on, knowing full well I'd say no thanks and look elsewhere. All on good terms, of course. 

I then took the book to Sir Speedy near Da'an Station, and they were able to scan the pages, remove the shadows and give me two sets of pretty good prints (no metallic accents, though) for NT$1400, including digital copies.

I like to think I understood what was happening and responded astutely, but I didn't like it. I knew not to pay that outrageous sum of money, which no one ever expected me to fork over, but I’ve met exists with too much money and too little sense to understand that. 

The fake quote was a way to shimmy out of an awkward ‘no’, but it put me in the awkward position of having to say it was out of my budget, whereas I wouldn’t have found a direct rejection to be awkward. Research shows that when communicating across cultural divides, people tend to develop clearer styles with more nonverbal language to alleviate misunderstanding, so it makes sense to me to do this.

I'd rather be told kindly but directly that they weren't going to take the job. I accepted how the events unfolded, because I had no choice. Just because I can see it, understand it, accept it and respond to it doesn't mean I agree with it. 

Besides, this communication style makes sense to me, not to them necessarily. I’m naturally direct, it’s also my ‘home culture’ (New York). I communicate regularly in multiple languages with people from different cultures, and have done for decades. While I don’t want to make assumptions, they likely haven’t.

And what can I do but accept and work within the culture where I chose to live? Complaining does nothing. One must adapt.

My experience with the print shop reminded me of the other aspects of local culture that I don't care for -- not standing up to toxic bosses, but rather job-hopping to the next toxic boss, and the next, and the next, whenever the current one becomes too unbearable. Doing things one actively disagrees with to avoid arguing with one's parents, including signing anti-marriage equality petitions, not buying homes they don't want you to buy, or even having kids when you don't feel ready (or want them at all). 

In a lot of these cases, I think of them less as passively accepting poor treatment from others, and more as just making a choice that I wouldn't have made, and still wouldn't make even after almost two decades in Taiwan. Sometimes I even see the wisdom -- years ago I expended far too much energy standing up to a toxic boss, but in the end the only real solution was to quit. Perhaps there's something to be learned from declining to make the effort to change a dynamic that probably can't be changed. I'd choose to die on more hills; perhaps that causes me to die more often.

But you know what? I'll still stand up for myself if I think a boss or manager is wrong about something that concerns me. Diplomatically, even kindly, if they're not irredeemable. But at the very least, I will state my position.

All this to say, I'd rather interact in a still-foreign culture in ways that feel a little unnatural to me, to say "I'll think about it" when I know the answer is "no", to respond politely to an outrageous price quote -- understanding and accepting even though I'm not fully in agreement -- than speak to single person who voted for President Rapist.

Untold Herstory: The brutal film that you must see

Imagine a Taiwanese crowdfunded film about female prisoners on Green Island making it into Vieshow Cinemas. So central was crowdfunding that donor were thanked at the end (though some had simple nicknames and others cheeky handles like "1450"). 

Although it was reviewed by the Taipei Times, I hadn't heard of Untold Herstory until a very close friend with a connection to the film sent seven free-ticket vouchers.

Imagine, then, that this friend had offered similar vouchers to other people she knew and was rebuffed. "Let the past be the past," they said. Of course, this attitude only protects the villains of history: the same people who call Untold Herstory "the past" which we should "move beyond" probably lose their minds when removing Chiang Kai-shek's statue from Dead Dictator Memorial Hall is discussed. They so often only want to let some history stay in the past. 

The group I went with included people whose families either were touched by the White Terror, or came close to it. They of course have a rather different take on whether The events of Untold Herstory can be considered history at all, seeing as it hasn't even been a century and the party that committed all those atrocities still exists and runs in elections. Chiang Ching-kuo makes an appearance in the film, though they don't show his face presumably because they couldn't find any actor ugly enough to play him. 

His so-called grandson who is Maury Poviching the hell out of that purported family connection might be the mayor of Taipei in a few weeks. 

Is that really ancient history, or is it relevant right now?

***

That's the background. On to the movie. 

The Taipei Times covers the way Untold Herstory pays meticulous detail to language use: people speak in various dialects of Mandarin (you can tell which characters don't speak it natively), Taiwanese, Atayal and Japanese. The guards all spoke Cantonese. As such, the film has both Mandarin and English subtitles, which also make it more accessible to an international audience. If your Mandarin subtitle-reading isn't so hot, catch this movie now: it's one of the rare films of this genre to offer English.

I'm not sure that the prisoners of Green Island would have been allowed to speak that much Taiwanese and Japanese without more severe punishment, but then they also said at the beginning that the inmates were all now numbers, not names. Then they continued to use names, because clearly some rules matter more than others, even back in authoritarian Taiwan.

The plotting and general mood is very Taiwanese. I appreciated the nonlinear scenes which set a certain mood of tension, depression, tragedy and chaos. The opening scenes are slightly disorienting, which does a good job portraying what it likely felt to have your world torn asunder as you land on Green Island for a stint in prison.

The overall effect is one of an agglomeration of memories that come together to tell a whole story, but are experienced somewhat out of order, they way you might encounter it in nightmares and PTSD flashbacks. 

Other details lend authenticity: the fact that some of the inmates were indeed refugees from China themselves -- not everyone was from Taiwan, and not everyone was a leftist or home-rule advocate. The authorities running the prison slept with whatever female inmates took their fancy. That the guards were usually but not always cruel. Most people executed were chosen for political reasons, none got a fair trial, and many were hand-picked by Chiang Kai-shek to die.

Upside-down shots from the viewpoint of characters strung up by their legs also imply how justice was absolutely turned on its head: some (though not all) of the characters are actually guilty of the "crimes" they've been sent to Green Island for. The problem is, in any free country they would not be crimes at all. These "crimes" include being a member of a socialist organization, passing newspaper clippings to one another, and merely thinking Taiwan might be better off as an independent state. That they were crimes as defined by a monstrous government only means that justice had been turned asunder. Those that recognized this and suffered mental breakdowns over it were called "crazy". But of course, they were right.

Untold Herstory isn't exactly subtle on the imagery, but I didn't mind that. Every time some KMT officer was unusually cruel or hypocritical, an ROC flag, a picture of Sun Yat-sen or Chiang Kai-shek was prominently displayed in the frame. The music drove home the point. Sone lines -- "I'm not a Communist bandit, I'm just a Taiwanese ox!", "You are a spy if the Commander says you are a spy!" and the double-edged "how can a flag be just a rag?" were heartbreaking. 

And speaking of smiling in the photograph taken of you just before your execution as a form of rebellion? Well, that just broke me. It broke me. This did, too.

The scene at the end is all the more heartbreaking for being out of context and highly metaphorical: I won't spoil it, but someone in our group recognized scenes like these as a trope borrowed from Japanese films.

It was difficult to make Untold Herstory, and friends pointed out that it probably wouldn't have been made at all even 20 years ago. This was not just because society was perhaps not ready for it, but because the real women who lived these experiences did not want to talk about them, with reasonable justification. It's never easy to talk about that kind of pain.

This is why films like Untold Herstory and the book it's based on do need to be discussed in the present. They exist in living memory. They still affect society. And, after all, only those who want to protect the truly guilty -- the people who committed the White Terror which saw these women and so many others tortured and killed -- seem to think it should be "left in the past". 

They are wrong, so prove them wrong. Go see Untold Herstory. Learn about exactly what the KMT did in Taiwan, and why justice was never served, as those criminals were never truly punished for what they did to the people they imprisoned, both Taiwanese and Chinese. That those perpetrators of crimes against humanity -- and now their sons and grandsons, or "grandsons" -- are even still a political party disgusts me. The DPP needs meaningful opposition, but it shouldn't be a gaggle of mass murderers and their descendents.

Then get a drink afterward, because I promise you will not want to go directly home and stew in your thoughts. 

Collecting Majolica Tiles in Taiwan: A History and a Buyer's Guide

 

It's been a rough few weeks, and I think we deserve a fun, colorful post with a little history and a touch of advice. I have some heavier stuff in the oven, but you'll just have to wait. Today, I want to talk about Majolica tiles in Taiwan: their history, their entry point into Taiwan and their popularity, both past and present. 

As a collector of the real vintage Japanese tiles as well as happy owner of modern interpretations on these traditional designs, I also wanted to offer a buyer's guide: should you collect the real antiques, or modern versions? What sort of prices should you expect to pay? Are there any ethical issues in buying old tiles? (Spoiler: there don't seem to be, but always trust your gut). And, of course, where can one find them?

The pictures will be a bit scattered and cover several countries -- they are here for your aesthetic enjoyment and don't necessarily follow the flow of the text. 

Part of my own collection of Taiwanese Majolica

The style we now call Majolica was probably invented in the Middle East or Iran centuries ago. It arrived via trade routes to Europe by the 1400s, where it became especially popular in Italy, and became known as "Faenza tiles", for the Italian city known for producing them. The original method from the Middle Ages and Renaissance involved lead-glazed ceramics colored with tin oxides. 

Original colors were therefore all based on tin oxides: manganese purple, antimony yellow, cobalt blue, copper green and rust orange. In fact, this is likely why the Majolica tiles one sees in places like southern Spain so often follow a blue/yellow/green/orange color scheme: if they're old enough, those were the only possible colors. 

The firing process and generally viscous paints allowed multicolored tiles to be fired only once, making brightly-colored wares more affordable and accessible. By the Victorian Era, this is part of what fueled their popularity -- as attractive, colorful signifiers of middle-class status.

Bookmark this for later: the same Middle Eastern origins of these tiles also spread eastward to India, and for years along those trade routes, they were associated with Islamic art and architecture (for example, in Mughal India). That would change in the 19th century, however -- and this link is a fascinating read.

The style made its way to Spain, where they came to be known as "Majolica", a corruption of Majorca, the place where such wares entered the country. They were called faience (after the city of Faenza) in France and 'delft' in the Netherlands. The blue-and-white style became especially popular beyond Spain, including Portugal. 

Not all "Majolica" tiles are of the same type: some were etched and filled with paint to create something of a shiny, brightly-colored almost three-dimensional effect. Blue colors especially did a fantastic job of mimicking water. Some were simply painted on the shiny white finish of plain tiles. Some looked more like pools of limpid color, others were more opaque with visible brushstrokes and overlapping colors. Some took on a distinctly European style, some imitated Chinoiserie in blue and white, and some -- especially in Spain -- retained their Middle Eastern aesthetic roots. Some were transfer-printed geometric designs that didn't look like painted glass at all. 

It's hard to say of any or all of these could truly be called "Majolica", but when I use the term I'm specifically referring to the glazed tiles -- some in three- dimensional relief and some not -- popular in Taiwan in the early 20th century.

The baskets of fruit, including grapes, peaches and pomegranates, proved popular with Asian buyers

The style fell out of fashion for awhile, but was resurrected in Europe in later centuries, and enjoyed a huge boom in popularity in Victorian times. 

Victorian times were also colonial times, so perhaps it's clear where this is going. 

The Great Exhibition of 1851 (something like a World's Fair) in London brought the style back in a big way. Across Europe -- but especially in England -- the tiles began to be used to decorate houses and public areas. They were especially common on the walls of pubs and around fireplaces, being easy to clean and able to withstand high temperatures. They began to be mass produced by companies like Minton and Wedgewood, which used fanciful designs that called back to nature (a 'return to nature' was a big thing, stylistically). Industrialization and improved techniques made these colorful items available to the masses. They were seen as sanitary (easy to clean) and attractive -- again, a sign of middle-class status in the 19th century.

Not all Majolica items are tiles: in fact, the style more typically referred to housewares made of inexpensive earthenware or clay, fired with a tin glaze providing a white, glossy surface for painting. In the Victorian era, Majolica pots, urns, pitchers and servingware were all popular. I don't have time to talk about those, and that style isn't particularly to my liking (lots of pitchers decorated with bulbous grapes or squirrels) -- let's focus on the tiles. 

Reproduction (modern) tiles using traditional designs, available at the Museum of Old Taiwan Tiles with shops in Tainan, Taipei and the museum in Chiayi

Taiwanese Majolica tiles turned into decorative hangings using vintage glass and window framing, purchased here

These tiles fell out of fashion towards the end of the 19th century, as their bright colors and naturalistic elements -- plants, animals, leaves, feathers, fruit -- didn't quite mesh with the incoming Art Nouveau and Bauhaus styles. 

However, they didn't disappear entirely: if you look at vintage tiles from that era, the whimsical floweriness of Art Nouveau started to show up in tile designs, replacing prim Victorian roses. Look hard enough and you'll even find some tiles with Art Deco influences, including some with a Streamline style.

This was also around the time that they began to catch on in Asia.

A few things happened here: in India, upper-class Indians often sought to imitate the British colonizers, including decorating their own homes with the tiles they saw in British houses. 

At the same time, the British wanted to promote "sanitation" -- as they saw it, cleaning up India by tiling as many surfaces as possible. A house with a tile floor was a "clean" house, it seems. Once associated with Mughal design, these tiles became associated with modernity (and, yes, colonialism). 

But what did South and Southeast Asians want in their tiles, and could Europe provide it?

The answers seemed to be bright colors, fancier (more expensive) designs for the upper classes, and no -- England could not provide enough of them affordably.

Four of my favorites: an early Art Deco style (note the Streamline influence and minty color), an Art Nouveau (the natural floral lines, ornate but not feminine, lots of rust and purple), a rare green and purple combination with an octagon, and a lion with a deep, limpid blue background setting off green leaves -- explicitly for the Chinese/Taiwanese market)

At the same time, after Japan was forced at gunpoint to end its isolation with the rest of the world, they began a rapid process of industrialization. Foreigners were moving in, and decorating their houses in Japan with these colorful painted tiles. 

Some Japanese saw a business opportunity, and began experimenting with tile manufacturing. By the early 1900s, they were more or less able to replicate the imported European tiles, and started their own manufacturing enterprises.

This was also the period of early colonial rule in Taiwan, as well as a great deal of trade between different communities across Asia. 

If the Chettiars of Tamil Nadu (a well-known group who traded extensively and made massive fortunes) had gorgeous peacock and floral tiles, their counterparts in Southeast Asia wanted them too. Many of those communities were ethnically Chinese, and some had roots in Kinmen. 

Desire for these brightly-colored tiles among wealthy Asian communities began to grow -- perhaps inspired by what they saw imported from Europe, but far more local as time went on. The yanglou 洋樓 of the Kinmen elites were often practically encrusted with these tiles, just as the mansions of the Chettiars in Tamil Nadu. (Chettinad itself is still a center of tile manufacturing, though the method is quite different from the tiles in these pictures).

Some modern takes on old tile patterns -- silicone coasters from the Museum of Taiwan Tiles, and a peacock coaster from Perfume Tiles (which also sells solid perfume). 

Sensing this demand, the Japanese companies making the tiles began to create designs that would appeal to South Asians and Chinese. Colors got brighter -- the pale lavenders and pinks of the English tiles became bright greens and bubblegum colors. Images these communities like began to be produced: peacocks, lions, fruit and flowers that symbolized prosperity, community or longevity -- fewer English roses and more bamboo, Buddha's Hand, birds, lions, peaches and pomegranates. Baskets overflowing with fruit.

Lotus flowers and lilies also became popular, and with the rise of Indian nationalism, there was a massive demand for Hindu iconography in India. Tiles bearing Krishna, Lakshmi, Sarasvati and more began to appear, often directly imitating the influential work of painter Raja Rami Varma. Demand only grew between the two world wars, at a time when Japan could provide but Europe, perhaps, could not. 

Modern reproduction tile coasters from the Museum of Taiwan Tiles

In India, the rise of the swadeshi movement caused Indians avoid British-made goods. Japanese ones, however, were considered an acceptable substitute by some. They might not be Indian, but at least they weren't British! Southeast Asia was probably less ideologically driven to buy the Japanese tiles as simply finding them more affordable and aesthetically pleasing.

In Taiwan, conidering the contact that wealthy Taiwanese would have had with the Japanese and other Asian communities as well as the West, it isn't surprising that demand for these tiles grew, giving Japan another market. 

                        

Peacock Majolica from a Chettinad mansion

Wealthy Taiwanese homes were often already paved with terracotta-style tiles (those dark rusty-red tiles you see in old farmhouses). But the colorful Majolica tiles were a way to decorate your home -- especially the exterior as the glaze would repel water -- adding a pop of color while acting as a status symbol. 

You can see them in situ in many of the pictures below, as well as here at the Kuo Family Mansion. Xianse Temple in Sanchong also has some lovely ones, and they are easy to find on preserved mansions in Kinmen. In Taichung, the old Wu residence gatehouse, relocated to Taichung Park, is decorated with Majolica.

In other words, as demand for Majolica fell in Europe, it spiked in Asia, with India as a leading market, though many found their way to Taiwan -- a prosperous territory, even as a colony.

If the Japanese Majolica looks brighter than its Western counterparts, or incorporates more post-Victorian design trends (such as Art Nouveau and Art Deco) and even seems highly market-specific, that's because it is. 

It wasn't going to last, of course: World War II kicked up, there was no budget or supply chain for luxuries, and Japanese Majolica tile production dropped off. 

Whatever was already in Taiwan was more or less Taiwan's Majolica legacy. That is to say, the real stuff is almost entirely post-1900, but pre-war. Old, but not ancient. 

Some pieces, however, are rare enough to sell for huge sums. I didn't pay this much, but I've seen lion designs like this one go for NT$12,000 per tile. 

So, what to do if you want a few of these tiles for yourself, or simply a decorative item that evokes this history? 

The tiles are no longer made, but the Museum of Old Taiwan Tiles has led the way -- and created an excellent example -- for salvaging these pieces of 'everyday' art from old houses that are slated for demolition. The museum acquires the tiles, cleans and refurbishes them, and either displays them in their small museum space in Chiayi or returns them to any original owners who want them back. 

From them, you can buy modern designs based on these traditional tiles at affordable prices. Larger ones can be used as trivets, and smaller ones as coasters (there are also tea tray, mirror and coat hook options). The museum shop -- located in Red House in Taipei, Blueprint Cultural and Creative Park in Tainan and the museum itself in Chiayi -- also sells a variety of related items, including jewelry, compact mirrors, tiled bathroom mirrors, washi tape and more.

Yes, you can tell the difference between the new and old versions -- look above, and you'll note the opaque colors and uniform flat designs. However, they make excellent coasters, tiles for decorative projects and trivets. I've never sensed disappointment when giving one as a gift. 

The museum occasionally offers limited runs of hand-painted tiles in the same style and colors as the originals. I bought this peacock from them -- it looks authentic, but it's quite new. These will cost more, however (between $1800 and $4000NT depending on whether you buy a design with a single tile or two).

Perfume Tiles are another option. They pop up in Eslite, and many of the "cultural and creative" markets around Taiwan, as well as on Pinkoi.

But let's say you want originals. You should use these as decorative items only; the Museum of Taiwan Tiles reproductions make good coasters and trivets, but the true antiques won't. You can even see in my set of four coasters that I had to give it a bit of a gold paint job after my cat knocked it off the table!

A tiled mansion -- check out the ceiling! -- in Chettinad, India

Real antiques will, of course, cost more. A common design such as the ones below might run anywhere from NT$700 to NT$1300, depending on the seller and the condition of the tile (tiles with obvious color bleeding or other damage sell for less, of course). 

Tiles in common patterns and painted trim in Kinmen

Rarer designs will cost you more: anywhere from $1500-$3000NT. The rarest -- which often include animals or intricately painted flowers in vases -- can go for up to NT$6000 per tile, depending on condition, quality and shape (flat or with a relief pattern).

Occasionally, tiles from England or meant for the Indian market will appear from Taiwanese sellers: these can be cool additions to a collection, though in general I like to keep it local and stick to whatever was popular in Taiwan. Majolica is expensive but it's also everywhere; a curated collection of specifically Japanese tiles meant for the Taiwanese market lends uniqueness to the endeavor.

I would not recommend buying at that upper limit if you just want something pretty -- there are plenty of options at lower price points. 

Generally speaking, tiles with relief patterns -- raised off the tile surface - will cost more unless they are significantly damaged. Flat designs will be cheaper, unless they are rare. Heavy damage usually means a solid discount -- color running not so much, but chipping or dirt stuck in the glaze that can't be removed will drive down prices. 

Rarer tiles like these (I almost never see the patterns below come up for sale) will, of course, cost more:

From a compound of old houses in northern Tainan county

Sometimes you can get a good deal if you buy four of a kind and frame them together.

But where does one acquire them?

Honestly, your best bet are Facebook groups. These are run almost entirely in Mandarin.

何武朝根 is an artist in Pingtung who sometimes incorporates tiles into his work. A typical piece (like the diamond-shaped ones in photos above) run approximately NT$1800, including shipping.

老花磚繽紛樂 are more expensive, but hold regular sales and have a Yahoo! Auction function. They also have the widest variety and focus exclusively on tiles. Interestingly, some of their offerings clearly came from India -- there's a Krishna on their Yahoo! Auction page.

eBay has quite a few options, including Indian and English tiles, but you'll pay a massive premium. I've never used them.

Tiles sometimes pop up in 二手。古董。老件。收藏。裝飾 but it's not all they deal with. However, seller 秦立珍 often has them and always has fair prices. She's based in Kaohsiung but ships securely.

I sometimes post good finds that I won't buy myself in Taiwan Home Decor, but it's nothing you can't find by trawling these other pages.

老花磚Old Tiles瓷磚タイル汰嚕 doesn't sell, it's just for showing tiles one has found, but it's nice to look and see what patterns are common or rare.

I should note that all of mine are framed, but they usually don't come that way. I take them to a framer for that, and yes, it costs extra. Some of the more expensive options will occasionally come with frames, however.

Old tiles on Kinmen and Tainan mansions -- I covet that center tile

Tiles on old houses in Tainan county

This brings us to the last question: is it ethical to buy these old tiles?

I think it is. They don't sell for enough to be worth thieves' time to go around and pry them off old houses. Every seller I've worked with has given every indication of being above board, and they're not selling patterns consistently enough that I think they're being taken unethically from someone's neglected property and put on the market. The Old Tiles group dedicated only to selling them seems to get them from a more international source, considering the inclusion of tiles obviously meant for other markets.

In fact, the one time I saw a tile -- broken, and a common pattern, but still a tile -- that had fallen naturally off of its perch on someone's half-ruined old farmhouse, the locals had perched it neatly on this brick column and left it there. The idea of taking it seemed unconscionable. 

I highly doubt Majolica tile trafficking is a big deal, in other words. If I learn differently, I'll update. But you can assume you're buying from people who've salvaged them ethically or acquired them from families looking to offfload them.

I also like collecting Taiwanese Majolica specifically because it tells a story that goes beyond the expected tropes of colonialism and the evil aspects of global capitalism. Perhaps Majolica could have been a tale of British notions of civilization and sanitation being foisted onto India and then spread across Asia. In another timeline, maybe.

It's not, though. It's a story of a ceramicware process that started in the Middle East (that is, Asia), and then became popular in Europe. When these tiles made their way toward East Asia, locals with the means decided they liked them. Rather than be willing markets for foreign producers, Japanese manufacturers figured out how to create high-quality versions more locally. Yes, Japan was an imperial power too, but nobody forced Taiwanese to buy the Majolica that began to appear. At the same time, these tiles provided an alternative to buying British during a time when India wanted to be free from Britain. The popularity of religious iconography in the Indian versions and what it says about Hindu nationalism, in a place where the original tilework methods already existed and were already associated with non-Hindu origins is indeed fascinating, but not closely related to their story in Taiwan.

Desire for these aesthetically pleasing items, produced in Asia for Asian consumers, spread via Asian -- that is, regional and local -- networks. They came to Taiwan in the early 20th century not because Japan made it so. They came because they were beautiful and affordable. Taiwan was prosperous before the Second World War, and there were middle and upper classes of locals who could afford them, and were well-traveled enough to have seen them -- perhaps in Singapore, Vietnam, Malaysia, India, Japan or even Europe itself.

That, to me, is not a colonial story from the West, though colonialism is indeed inextricable from the narrative. 

Rather, it's a story of local people deciding they liked a thing merely for its beauty, having the means and worldliness to know it exists at all, and figuring out how to produce or acquire what they wanted themselves.

There's a positive take here, and that's the one I want to leave you with.

Now, I'd just like to see you off with some lovely pictures of Majolica tiles from around the world -- Spain, Portugal, India, and Taiwan.

Enjoy!

Lisbon

 Lisbon

Seville

Seville

Porto, most likely

Lisbon or Coimbra (above and below)

                    

Seville

Lisbon

Seville (all four above)

Taiwan 

\

You can also see painted tiles like this in some temples in the flat part of Beitou, but the one above in Gongguan/Taipower, near the Kishu An Literature Forest (紀州庵文學森林).

Gate of the Wu residence, relocated to Taichung Park

Kuo Family Mansion in Neihu (you can see them on the upper columns)

The Museum of Old Taiwan Tiles, Chiayi

Hoi'an, Vietnam: not sure that these are Majolica in the sense of what I collect, but the idea is more or less the same

Turkey's famous tiles and ceramics (look for the tiles at old mosques and palaces, including the Rustem Pasha Mosque and Topkapı Palace) are also technically "Majolica" in that they are fired similarly -- shiny white base, multiple colors fired together, and almost certainly originated with tin oxide pigment -- but more likely came from the Middle East rather than via Italy/Spain/Europe.

They're in the same family of decorative items, but the ones popular in early 20th century Taiwan arrived via Europe and Japan, not Turkey. 

I have been to Istanbul, however, so here are some photos: