Hsu’s works often feature the sounds of natural forces encountering human-made environments—from the unrelenting rains of Typhoon Morakot to the clatter of cooking in the Chenglong Wetlands, the metallic rhythms of Taipei’s “Blacksmith Street,” and the delicate chimes of stained glass in her album Flash. Whether through performance, installation, electroacoustic music, or soundtracks for dance or film, Hsu’s soundscapes elide stable categories of documentary, fiction, or sonic imagination. What concerns her is how sound forms individual and collective memory—and how it can spark new imaginary worlds while reconfiguring our connection with our surroundings.
White Fungus editor Ron Hanson interviewed Hsu to delve further into her sound creations.
Ron Hanson
Your entry into the world of sound art came during 2008–2009 while working on the Chiayi Sound Project, building an archive of regional sounds. In Chiayi, you collaborated with Yannick Dauby, a French artist and long-term resident of Taiwan. He is known for his ecological sound works, including recordings of Taiwan’s wetland and forest frog populations. Can you tell me about your experience on the project and your collaboration with Dauby?
Yenting Hsu
At the time, I was working for the independent record label Trees Music & Art as the project manager for the Chiayi Sound Project. I lived in Chiayi conducting field research while Yannick participated as both a consultant and field recordist. Occasionally, he would come to Chiayi for a period to record; at other times, we talked online. Over the course of our collaboration, Yannick introduced me to several artists and works related to field recording, deepening my understanding and sparking my interest in sound art.
Chiayi County comprises eighteen townships spanning coastal areas, plains, and mountainous regions—a vast territory with diverse geography and rich soundscapes. Our work began when the county’s Cultural Affairs Department sought to create a sound database for the area. We focused our recordings on oral histories, the natural environment, music and folk traditions, local industries, religion, and regional festivals. The scope of the project was extremely broad, and we knew it couldn’t be completed during our time in Chiayi. It was conceived as a long-term project that would require collaboration with local venues, schools, and communities to ensure the database could continue to grow and be updated.
Our goal was to record as many sounds as possible during our time there—sounds that intrigued us, sounds on the verge of disappearing, or those captured from chance encounters. We used these recordings as examples in talks and workshops held at bookstores, schools, and community spaces. Through these events, we introduced local residents to field recording and sought future collaborators. Unfortunately, the county government was later restructured, merging the Cultural Affairs Department into the Cultural and Tourism Bureau, and the project came to an unceremonious end.
Even though it took place a long time ago, my memories of the project remain vivid and clear. There were so many moments of deep listening and the stories behind them. It’s impossible to describe them all here—they could easily fill a book. The project unfolded during a particularly low point in my life, when many unfortunate events were happening. Yet listening to and recording these sounds helped me find calm and experience brief moments of stability. That’s probably why I began creating art. In every sense, this project was an important beginning for me.
RH
During Typhoon Morakot—the deadliest and wettest typhoon in Taiwan’s recorded history—you were stranded in the mountains with Dauby, with all connecting roads badly damaged. You’ve described a pivotal moment when you were submerged in heavy rain. All you could hear was the sound of rain, but when it subsided, other sounds—including bird song and insect calls—began to re-emerge. What was it about that experience that was so unforgettable? How did it influence your approach as a listener and as an artist?
YH
On the worst days of Typhoon Morakot, all you could hear on Alishan Mountain was rain—the sound of rain landing on the floor, on the tin roof, down the mountainside, and into the river. The torrential rain triggered mudslides that poured into the river, causing it to churn and swell. All my ears and skin could perceive were dampness and a sense of enclosure. My body was heavy with moisture. During those days, the only sounds beyond the rain were those of human voices. It was as if the world had disappeared.
It wasn’t until the typhoon eased and the sound of rain began to subside that the sounds of birds and insects returned. Only then did the world feel alive again, as if color were returning to a gray, misty haze. Looking back on that experience, I realized—through my bodily senses—how sound influences our emotions and perceptions of the world, and the important role it plays in shaping collective memory. I later used my recordings of Typhoon Morakot to create my first sound work, Timeless Rain.
I also have vivid memories of being evacuated by a rescue helicopter from the mountain and seeing the devastated landscape of mountains and rivers below. A month or two later, we returned to Alishan with the bird expert Gu Ruiyuan. We saw the river reduced to a bed of gravel. I felt heartbroken and utterly desolate, but Ruiyuan told me not to worry. “Give nature time,” he said, “and it will find its own way.”
RH
Environmental issues are clearly important to you and inform your underlying philosophy. How do you feel about environmental awareness in Taiwan? How do you see your sound works connecting to or contributing to that awareness?
YH
For me, addressing environmental issues is not merely about the natural environment. It also encompasses the social and cultural environment—all the intangible systems that shape our connections with nature and one another, such as the economy, the media and technological landscape, social structures, and our own worldviews. My work arises from the relationship between listening, the environment, the body, and the spaces I inhabit. I aim to connect these layers and invite my audience to listen in a broader, more holistic way.
This is evident in two of my long-term projects: Waterland and the Blacksmith Project. Waterland explores the relationship between humans and the ocean—a relationship shaped by psychology, politics, education, and environmental change. In the installations, I use sound and objects to create site-specific compositions that weave together field recordings, natural materials, and human-made objects, sometimes involving the audience through participatory activities. These elements construct a surreal space, inviting audiences to experience the connections between body, space, and sound, and to reflect on our relationship with the ocean.
In the Blacksmith Project, I explore Taipei’s Xingcheng Street—known locally as “Blacksmith Street”—using my own childhood memories and family stories as a starting point. I recorded interviews with the blacksmiths still working there and supplemented these with historical research, connecting their stories to Taiwan’s early shipbuilding industry, economic development, and urban renewal policies. Through sound and light installations as well as video works, I investigate the intersections of history, space, and both individual and collective memory, examining how we confront what persists and what disappears. Even simple field recordings can encourage people to listen to their surroundings anew and experience them from a fresh perspective.
RH
You employ numerous approaches to working with sound, but one important strategy is the use of field recordings. I’ve often seen artists express frustration with how field recordings are commonly perceived, arguing that this practice is more than mere documentation. You, in fact, have a background in journalism, yet you sometimes describe your works incorporating field recordings as “sound novels.” Can you tell me a little about your philosophy when working with field recordings? What are sound novels?
YH
Years ago, while collaborating with my musician friend Xie Jie-Ting (謝杰廷), I used the sound of a speeding motor scooter passing by in our work. Jie-Ting remarked that this kind of sound contains a narrative in itself—a kind of “novelistic sound.” His comment sparked a lot of thought.
In 2014, during a residency in Paris, I proposed a sound novel project. The idea was like a game of imaginative associations between sound and memory: Participants were invited to share memories, images, or stories that a particular recorded sound evoked for them. Following this thread, I would select the next sound and invite the next participant to respond, and so on. I used these sounds and the participants’ feedback as the raw materials for a sound novel. However, I never published it, as I couldn’t find an ideal format for presentation.
Nevertheless, the concept has remained central to my work. For me, field recording isn’t mere documentation. Once a sound is removed from its original context and incorporated into an artwork, it can create a new imaginary space, allowing listeners to freely associate it with emotions, memories, or images. When creating art, I focus less on the documentary aspect of recording and more on its fictional potential—the emotions and rhythms the sounds suggest, the visual images and narratives they can evoke, and the space they allow for re-imagination. Listening back to these recordings expands my world. Even without other participants, this process unfolds entirely within my own creative universe.
This interview was commissioned by the Taichung Art Museum and first published in the fifth issue of The Subconscious Restaurant, the sister publication of White Fungus. The issue formed part of a collaborative project tied to the museum's inaugural exhibition, A Call of All Beings: See You Tomorrow, Same Time, Same Place. On March 7, 2026, White Fungus hosted a sound event in the museum's Culture Forest, featuring a performance by Yenting Hsu.
