- 篱笆Liber
While first-tier cities hold significant resource advantages, second- and third-tier cities face serious population outflows and a disconnect in the exchange of information with the outside world. The information gap makes it difficult for us to realize many of the structural flaws. Some might argue that in the information age, such gaps no longer exist. But the truth is, what we see is what we’re allowed to see. While access to information is broader and faster, the environment doesn’t cultivate independent thinking, value judgments, or artistic exploration in a fully natural way. Public education institutions might have been a solution to this, but art museums in second- and third-tier cities often lack innovative and quality exhibitions, failing to introduce new knowledge and serve the local public effectively. This creates a vicious cycle, where information-blocked regions are less likely to attract dynamic self-organized groups and institutions that thrive on information flow.
Classroom education could also be a gateway for cultural introduction, but in second- and third-tier cities, education systems are more focused on test preparation. Compared to first-tier cities, these areas lack early exposure to arts education and basic art history knowledge, while parents are more inclined to focus on their children’s performance in college entrance exams, often overlooking artistic development. However, my 12 years of small-town education and 4 years of higher education have brought me back here to voice this message: "Go, seek out the cultural, artistic, and political information concentrated in educational resource-rich regions. It will plant the seeds of freedom for young people in small towns, influencing their future career and life choices."
So, this time I returned to Sanming to build 篱笆 Liber for some reasons. First, it will allow me to share the broad cultural books I’ve read since leaving Sanming, with some of my added commentary. (It’s called a "non" bookstore because no books are for sale; they’re only available for free reading inside the space so that more people can access them. If anyone likes the books, they can buy them online, and for those hard to find, they can ask me.)
Second, although I don’t have the resources to organize exhibitions, I’ve brought back many exhibition brochures from places like Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Chengdu, and Hong Kong, which are available for free viewing. Whether you're born in Sanming, have moved here, or are a short-term traveler, in the future, these written and visual memories may serve as clues to help you integrate into the cultural life of more central regions when you eventually flow to those places. (A special thanks to curator Chi for providing a lot of privately collected exhibition brochures.)
Third, the space will offer open-access literature and documentation on various events throughout the day, along with weekly outdoor film screenings. Again, the aim is to provide just a bit more equal access to information and knowledge under conditions of structural inequality.
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This is a mock interview I did with ChatGPT when Liber was just being set up in 2023.
When I first set up 篱笆 in my mother’s store—three modest rooms among her business— I primarily translated feminist, queer, and censored news materials and readings and also screened non-mainstream films and documentaries with alternative ideological narratives for the local community before I came to the US.
After one year, and about 30 screening events, 篱笆Liber is no longer just about providing feminist literature or screening indie films; it was about creating a space that could hold all the things society tells us we shouldn’t talk about.
In smaller towns, where the cultural constraints and information gaps are prevalent, spaces like this become ones where you can breathe, think, and challenge what the world outside says you have to be. I think that’s why 篱笆 felt like such a personal act of defiance for me.
A friend from afar left me a message asking, “Most of the recent films require a certain level of film-watching experience for the audience to truly enjoy. I’d like to know how you choose the films each time.”
To answer the factual part of the question: I selected the films for the first six sessions. All the films after I left were selected by Lin and Pingdu, who stayed behind and continued to be responsible for the screenings. They are both high school seniors. Some of the films may be ones they’ve seen and want to share, while others may be films they haven’t seen and want to experience together with everyone. They also post screening announcements on the campus bulletin board for each session, and the number of people attending the screenings is actually much larger than when I was organizing them. I’m not sure whether other students have participated in the film selection process at times, but I have not intervened in the selection process for these screenings.
What I’ve noticed is that, interestingly, some of the people embedded within the community actively choose films that are more challenging, large in scale, and technically or professionally acclaimed. These choices sometimes cause outside observers or allies of the community to worry about the potential high barrier to entry in terms of film-watching experience.
As for the premise that “a certain level of film-watching experience is required for the audience to enjoy,” I have some reservations. To me, rating the audience’s level of acceptance is just another form of censorship.
In fact, no matter how the selections are made, film screenings are always a process of cultural filtering. When I was initially organizing the screenings, I deeply felt the self-doubt brought about by the power I held. As for the format of thematic screenings, Chi had reminded me about it at the beginning of the year. She told me about the internal screenings at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, where the hosts rotate. Later, I talked to more people about this desire as well.
Now I’m still running it remotely with the volunteer students from the local high school — it stopped being just my project. When I left, I met Lin and Pingdu who weren’t just helping me keep the place running—they were sneaking out of school to continue the screenings, to make sure 篱笆 Liber didn’t fade away. When they left for college, three other students showed up and said something that still sticks with me: “We just want to do something to make sure this place doesn’t disappear, this only place that they can read and watch this kind of material.” That’s when it hit me — 篱笆Liber had become more than just a bookstore. It had turned into a place where people, especially young people, felt they belonged, where they could explore parts of themselves that had no other outlet in our small town.
It was also around this time that we made a crucial shift: from a place where I curated all the content to a community-driven project. The screenings transformed into thematic events—anyone, from anywhere, could submit a curated list of films and a theme they wanted to explore. Suddenly, it wasn’t about what I thought should be shown; it became about what we as a community wanted to see, think about, and discuss. This decentralization of power, this handing over of the reins, was key. It turned 篱笆 from a personal project into a shared cultural platform. The films weren’t just being consumed; they were being chosen, debated, loved, and experienced by the very people they were intended for. It was no longer top-down. It was collaborative, collective, and alive.
This shift, from “I choose” to “we choose,” is where I really started to understand the power of creating inclusive spaces. It’s not just about offering a safe space for people to hide away in—it’s about creating a place where people can actively shape the narrative, where they can feel empowered to express what they think, feel, and believe. The “thematic film screenings” became a way for people to bring their stories into the fold. And it wasn’t just limited to locals—anyone, even people far away, could submit their ideas. This new wave of participation broke down the barriers of what a bookstore or a screening space could be. It became a place of cultural empowerment.
Every screening, every discussion, every book that gets passed through 篱笆 is a step towards redefining what it means to belong. And the more voices we bring into this space, the richer and more layered it becomes. The collective ownership of this place means that it’s not just mine anymore—it’s everyone’s. It’s about saying, “We belong here, as we are.”
It’s proof that creating inclusive spaces—whether through literature, film, or community gatherings—can change things. These spaces become refuges, yes, but they also become engines for cultural change. They challenge the status quo by offering something alternative, something inclusive, something that invites people to be part of the conversation.
What I always feel—isolated, abandoned, self-estranged, and alienated from my own life—seems more bearable since 篱笆 Liber has become the embodiment of “being the person I needed when I was younger.”
I see everybody locally as sharing the same possibilities of destiny with me. When I see them, I see my past and my future. It’s a place where we’re not just watching films or reading books — we learn how to love who we are, and how to love others who share this destiny of navigating a world that often tells us we don’t belong.
Timeline
No.0
No.1-No.6 screenings by me
No.7-No.27 screenings by Lixiang Lin(Lin) and Rui Yang (Pingdu)
No.28 – Present “Theme Screening” by everyone