Taipei is an outdoor place. People put half their things out for passer-bys to see. Chairs as left outside for fresh air. Statues and plants slide from the street into the shops, as if there was no door to divide the outer world and the inner spaces. Even a closed pottery shop only has a gate, filled with ample spaces for you to see the piles of bowls it offers when it is open. People do not mind you spying.
Walking, down the dim alleys, with only the sound of footsteps falling, I spied a silent conversation. The voices that came out of the moving mouths were barred in by the traditional, iron, padlocked gate that I had to stick my camera through. The woman who saw me was unperturbed, despite my invasion of the private space; the 10 or so feet between us still shrouded the topic of conversation in mystery.
Oh, but the expression on the woman’s face! It shows such empathy for the story, such tolerance for the ranting. Hearing secrets, digging up stories, is no longer a rarity, but rather a habit. Hearing what the woman was explaining would likely reveal another typical grievance about this irritating relative, or the outrageous price of education, or some other mundane topic for gossip. Seeing the concern on the listener’s face reflects the immediate impact and emotional investment the woman who’s back was facing me had in her words.
In the intimacy of the night, over a few cups of good tea under one lamp protruding from the wall, many secrets are let loose. But is it the words that we excitedly overhear, or is it the emotional baggage that is shed, that is important to the speaker? Was the topic in the secret more important, or was the act of showing that we as people can have feelings, can care, can worry, can lack confidence, can have weaknesses and guilts?