New Southbound Policy Portal

 

Taiwanese streetscapes are by no means orderly or color-coordinated. But they are approachable and characterful. The huge numbers of shop signs written in Chinese make the observer feel as if the signs are vying for attention: “Choose me! Choose me!” The energy and vitality of such scenes leave lasting memories in the minds of many international visitors.

Layered streetscapes

Dr. Lee Ming-tsung, CEO of Searchlight Culture Lab and a sociologist who loves to read as he walks along, uses the word “palimpsest” to describe his view of shop signs on Taiwan’s streets. A palimpsest is a piece of writing material such as parchment that has been reused after erasing the original text. During the Middle Ages, it was common practice in the West to scrape parchment clean so it could be reused. However, the previous writing could never be completely effaced: some traces of the past always remained. In a wider sense, particularly in architecture and archaeology, the word can refer to anything that has been altered and repurposed.

Lee applies this metaphor to changes in Taiwan’s street­scapes: Taiwan does not have a very long history, and we can see how people have continually tried to erase things from earlier times, but these have never completely disappeared. New things are layered over the old without entirely replacing them. “The most visible embodiment of this phenomenon on our streets is probably shop signs.”

Taiwan’s shop signs incorporate multicultural elements, as Lee elaborates: “Foremost is undeniably the culture of Chinese characters, then comes Japanese colonial culture, and finally the impact of globalization and especially American influence. More recently, the cultures of Taiwan’s indigenous peoples and of Southeast Asia have been added into the mix.” One could say that “shop signs are a microcosm of culture.”
 

Carved wooden shop signs

Taiwan’s shop sign culture can be traced back to the era of Japanese colonial rule (1895–1945), and signs have further developed with the rise of an industrialized society. Sheet metal was used for shop signs from the beginning, but many signs took the form of carved wooden plaques.

“Chen’s Wood” is a venerable wood carving shop located in Taichung, and it has produced countless wooden shop plaques. Chen Wen-tsai, the business’s second-­generation owner, talks about the glory days of the past: As Taiwan’s economy began to take off in the 1970s, all kinds of new ­social, commercial, and industrial organizations were established. There was frequent gift-giving in the inter­actions within and between the public and private sectors, and demand for wooden plaques continually grew.

“In the past there were calligraphers who specialized in writing the characters for wooden plaques, and they could handle all the major calligraphic styles. But merchants mainly asked for ‘regular script’ because it looked more dignified.” Shop signs were businesses’ outward face, and special care was taken even in their delivery: “After a plaque was carved, it would be decorated with a red sash, and a band playing traditional Chinese instruments would accompany it on its journey when it was delivered.”

“All kinds of businesses ordered custom-made wooden shop signs, but they were most often used by firms like Chinese herbal pharmacies, medical clinics, and incense stores.” Chen Wen-tsai’s son Chen Hsi-yen flips through photographs, showing us some of the signs that his family’s business has carved. He explains, “These kinds of firms depend more on their reputations, and they could demonstrate their trustworthiness and respectability through the quality of the materials, calligraphy, and carving of their signs.”

Combining the skills of calligraphy and wood carving, wooden shop plaques can be said to be works of art. The streets of Taiwan formerly had mostly Southern-­Fujianese-­style architecture, with arcaded frontages providing covered walkways for pedestrians. In the old days wooden signs were hung out above the doorway, and Chen Wen-tsai describes how walking past one shop after another was like strolling through a fine arts museum. “The calli­graphy on some shop signs really was worth savoring, and it grew on you more the more often you saw it.”

Free rein for creativity

Japanese typographer Kentaro Fujimoto has written a book about strolling through the streets of Taiwanese cities and observing the signage, just as he did in ­Japan. Chinese characters are used in both Taiwan and Japan, but Fujimoto spotted many interesting things about Taiwan that Taiwanese do not notice because they are so familiar. For example, the shop signs of fashion boutiques are well worth looking at because some use ornate Gothic style writing while others convey a modern feel with Japanese Showa style characters. He also mentions the lanterns often seen in temples, with characters stretched out wide in a way that made his “heart skip a beat” when he saw them. He also remarks in the book that many shop signs in Taiwan are created with hand­written calligraphy, sometimes with a degree of freedom beyond his imagination, even reducing the number of brushstrokes, in stark contrast to shop signs in Japan.

Taiwanese typography researcher But Ko wrote a section in Fujimoto’s book in which he introduces the background to the use of the written word in Taiwan. He says that seriously explaining the history of language in Taiwan is no easy task, and that the island’s linguistic diversity has penetrated into our shop signs, for example in the use of the Japanese hiragana syllable の (no), the letter ê as used in Romanization of Chinese, or the Mandarin phonetic symbol ㄟ (ei or ê), in place of the Chinese character 的, meaning “of” (pronounced de in Mandarin and ê in Taiwanese Hokkien); and the use of the Japanese word bentō (便當, “boxed meal”, pronounced biandang in Mandarin). In Taiwan languages are mixed in complex and lively ways.

Ko also says of the design of Chinese characters in Taiwan that more emphasis is placed on their emotional impact and the vigor of the brushstrokes than in Japanese typography.

Lee Ming-tsung, meanwhile, draws attention to streets in urban neighborhoods with mixed-use zoning, where resi­dential and commercial premises are mixed and signage is complex. When you also consider the flourishing number of street vendors, competition in commercial areas is intense, and signs become the focal point for businesses to display their creativity and capture the public’s eye. “The blending and mingling of different graphic styles, along with the creative use of homophones, language mixing, kuso, and even culture jamming, means that one plus one no longer always equals two, but may be more than two. It’s really fascinating.” (In Taiwan the word kuso, derived from the Japanese term kusogē—short for kuso gēmu, literally “crappy [video] games”—nowadays refers to anything funny or outrageous, especially parody based in popular culture.) This is something that we also want to share with our foreign friends: Taiwanese shop signs contain many whimsically creative uses of language. Therefore, when foreigners come to Taiwan they should find a good guide to explain them.
 

The freewheeling 1980s

In response to the growing diversity of shop signs, voices began to appear in society discussing their impact on the streetscape. People called for signs to be regulated as part of urban redesign, and advocated limiting their size or requiring uniformity. However, such experiments have never really succeeded in Taiwan.

“We should not rush to conclude that this is a form of ugliness that must be eliminated. Instead we should try to understand how our present streetscapes came about.” Lee reminds us that we shouldn’t look only at the surface of a problem, but must look for its origins. “After a long period of repression in Taiwan, the 1980s were an era when Taiwanese society was undergoing liberation and people were seeking freedom.” Materials technology also played a part, as acrylic plastic was becoming the dominant material for signs back then, making large-scale replication possible. At that juncture, businesses sought high visibility, and preferred their signs to be eyecatching or even obtrusive. They gave no thought to harmonizing them with the surrounding environment.

Finding one’s own style

Some people believe that a major effort should be made to revamp street aesthetics and signage, or even that the government should step in. But Lee believes that anything that doesn’t grow organically in a locality can be dangerous. “The real solution would start with aesthetic education, aesthetic experience, and public understanding of beauty. This will take a very long time.”

Moreover, he says, “Taiwan need not try to take any shortcuts.” When more people in Taiwan are discussing this issue, and there are more guides on the streets to help people to “see” and “discuss” it, gradually the new will replace the old and localities will find their own style.

In fact, in recent years some businesses have been redesigning their shop signs, and thus quietly changing our streetscapes. They are no longer seeking merely to compete for attention, but are considering what they want their own image to be.

Chen’s Wood, which is nearly a century old, has been hit by the decline of its industry, and Chen Wen-tsai, facing a dearth of opportunities to practice his craft, once thought of retiring and closing the shop. However, with help from the Beautiful Touch design team, Chen’s Wood began working with designers from other business communities, and has made signs for many designer workshops and start-up brands, including Joe Fang Studio, Light House, Bleu & Book, and Fufu Grocery Store. Combining design and craftsmanship, these carved wooden shop signs have made a distinctive addition to their local streetscapes.

Every shop sign also has its own story. For example, at Lukang Xi Yue, which produces traditional Chinese bridal cakes, the calligraphy was done by the father of the family, and the family’s hopes and dreams were carved into the sign. Tai­nan’s Wuming Rice Cakes asked Chen’s Wood to reproduce its old metal sign in carved wood, preserving its typography, layout, and style, in order to maintain the ambience of the old shop. Meanwhile, 1035 collab, a coffee shop in Taichung that opened last year in a refurbished house from the 1910s, takes its name from the premises’ four-digit telephone number from the era of Japanese rule, and Chen Wen-tsai carved hand signs for the numbers one, zero, three and five into the sign that now hangs on the facade; it’s very intriguing.

For Hello Tattoo Studio, Chen Wen-tsai again took up his writing brush and used three-dimensional characters to recreate the old-fashioned look of the signs of yesteryear. For the Michelin-­recommended Yuan Huan Pien Oyster Egg Omelette restaurant (Oystera) in Taipei’s Ningxia Night Market, the owner commissioned a designer, who then turned his design over to Chen’s Wood to carve by hand. They used relief carving techniques as well as artificial aging and feibai calligraphy, mimicking the strokes of a half-dry brush, to bring out a sense of the passage of time, yet the oysters on the sign look fresh and delicious. It is a beautiful combination of a Taiwanese-­style snack-food eatery and traditional craftsmanship.

From urban planning to craftsmanship, the topic of shop signs involves many aspects and is difficult to summarize in just one article. For now, let’s adopt these words of Lee Ming-tsung’s as our provisional conclusion: “Without cultural diversity, we would not have interesting shop signs!”

For more pictures, please click 《Signs of the Times: Shop Signs’ Place in Taiwan’s Streetscapes》