Synthesising art practice and theoretical study, this practice-based project proposes an innovative approach to theme park and costume studies, one that is interdisciplinary, non-binary, open-minded, and exploratory. It creates a fictional space - a hyperreal reflection of the real world - for speculation. In the context of the theme park industry, discussing original materials can be challenging due to various sensitive factors. However, this does not mean the issues should remain unaddressed and unexplored.

Utilising printmaking as a means of archiving individuals’ daily lives, I created a series of prints reflecting the daily schedules of theme park dressers. Immersing myself again in the line schedule, I carefully selected letter stamps from the wooden box where they were organised alphabetically, pressed them on the ink pad, and stamped the seemingly mundane words onto the paper. The letter stamps were lightweight, yet they felt surprisingly heavy as I pressed them firmly onto the paper - a moment requiring precision, control, and pressure.

In response to the high staff turnover rate in the theme park industry, I created an installation featuring fictional staff passes of resigned theme park employees. The purposely distressed cards are placed disorderly in a basket, a file organiser, a cage, or a scrap bin, depending on how you would interpret it. The piece poses several questions: What does it mean to quantify individuals? What happens when the identities of individuals are reduced to simple digits systematically coded by the year and the order of recruitment? How do these abstract digits dehumanise and objectify concrete, actual individuals?

‘Fabric’ serves as a tangible testament to centuries of human labour and ingenuity. However, alongside ‘manufacturing’ and ‘construction’ lies another layer of meaning: ‘fabrication’, a word that denotes ‘lying’, ‘falsehood’, and ‘forgery’, reflecting the darker facets of an industry plagued by deception and manipulation. In building this piece, I collected, unpicked, reassembled, and repurposed, exploring the breadth, depth, complexity, ambiguity, ruggedness, and darkness of denim fabric - a material deeply intertwined with the theme of labour since its origin. The process epitomises what I would call ‘thinking through touching’ and ‘thinking through making’.

When considering the materiality of theme park costumes, our attention is naturally drawn to the vibrant fabrics - the outside - which take centre stage in the spectacle. They are the parts being seen. However, if we delve deeper into the inside, we find that many large-scale character costumes are supported by hidden frameworks, with some structures made of metal. While fabrics embody the labour of those who design, make, and maintain the costumes, metals, on the other hand, might leave a deeper impression on those who dress and perform in the costumes. These are harder and heavier parts that support, encase, and protect but also exert pressure, constrain movement, and cause discomfort.

Metal embodies both energy and stability, turbulence and calmness. Its duality captivated me. It bent, broke, rusted, and did not easily conform to fabrication. The juxtaposition of fabric and metal revealed a dialectic between fragility and strength, human agency and material limitation, and ephemerality and permanence. By probing how fabric and metal interact, I gained a more concrete understanding of the interconnectedness of all things.

The process of exploring various materials and making techniques led me to textiles monoprinting. This practice resonates with me for several reasons. The first is its non-repeatable nature, as indicated by the prefix ‘mono-’. In contrast with the principles of industrial reproduction, it brings the attention back to hand-made qualities. Moreover, the process encompasses painting, printing, steaming, washing, drying, and ironing; it results in outcomes that are not entirely controllable and often include accidents and flaws, or what I would call serendipities. Such unpredictability makes it ideal for exploration and experimentation. Lastly, the process’s vitality, rhythmicity and, most importantly, physicality. The labour-intensive yet gratifying and fulfilling process allowed me to fully engage both my body and soul, leading to a ‘state of flow’.

Through textiles monoprinting, I came to understand my limits, both physically and psychologically, as a human being. It guided me towards a more fluid, non-hierarchical, and collaborative creative approach to working with materials. Rather than imposing preconceived designs onto the materials, I developed the aesthetics and creative methods by diving into the process and conversing with the materials. I allowed the creative moments to shape and inform the outcomes. I splashed, sprayed, poured, dripped, and spilt, embracing the fluid qualities of the medium.

The shift from a ‘solid’ to a ‘fluid’ approach in my art practice brings to mind Zygmunt Bauman’s concept of ‘liquid modernity’. According to Bauman, while ‘solids cancel time’, for liquids, ‘it is mostly time that matters’. Unlike solids, which are ‘cast once and for all’, ‘keeping fluid in shape requires a lot of attention, constant vigilance and perpetual effort’; therefore, shaping liquids ‘is easier than keeping them in shape’. Bauman suggests that in ‘liquid modernity’, traditional knowledge and expertise may become obsolete or irrelevant; this necessitates individuals to constantly learn, unlearn, and relearn in response to the changing social conditions. It highlights the importance of mobility, adaptability, and flexibility. However, Bauman also acknowledges the security and stability provided by ‘solid’ modernity - qualities often lacking in the ‘fluid’ state. I would argue that rather than repudiating the past structure, it is crucial to simultaneously reflect on the past while responding to and creating with the present moment - a process of ‘improvisation’ or ‘jazzing’.

Experiments with fabrics of various kinds - linen, cotton, and silk with different weaves, weights, textures, and finishes - guided me to explore ‘opaqueness’ both materially and conceptually. From a practical perspective, lightweight fabrics tend to be more suitable for monoprinting, as they absorb dyes and print paste more effectively and usually result in higher-quality prints. This insight guided me to choose translucent fabrics such as silk organza and cotton organdie. Conceptually, the term ‘opaque’ originally meant ‘dark, shaded, unlit’; it later evolved to include connotations such as ‘shady, dark, darkened, obscure’ and ‘hard to understand’. Instead of blocking the light with opaque materials, I hoped to let the light shine through, turning the obscure into the lucid.

In the over-saturated wonderlands full of spectacles, theme park costumes situate right at the junction where the surreal and the real, the abstract and the concrete meet; they embody both fantasy and labour. Here, theme park costumes serve as both physical artefacts and philosophical metaphors. This research draws an analogy between theme parks and the contemporary world, bridging the surreal and the real, the abstract and the concrete, as well as the theoretical and the practical. By putting myself through the life cycle of theme park costumes, the intensive and laborious creative processes effectively help transform ephemeral thoughts into continuous experiments, make the intangible tangible, and contribute to the articulation of ideas.

One of the most important insights I have gained from this project is comprehending the value of ‘not knowing’. Starting without a script, I embarked on the journey without knowing how the research would develop, what mediums I would use, which workshop I would work in, and where I would end up. This uncertainty was unsettling to me at first. However, the off-script journey allowed me to step away from the predefined path. It led me to an alternative space - a space where I could immerse myself fully, embrace the moments, and follow the processes. Resisting definitive interpretation, I explored the unknown with curiosity and humility, entering a space of wonder. In Rachel Jones’s words, ‘Not knowing constitutes on the one hand an inevitable effect of the perspectival limits that allow us not only to think, but to exist at all, as the temporarily individuated entities that we are; and on the other, a condition of becoming, of the possibility of the not-yet and still-to-be, without its emergence being overshadowed by what already is and has been.’