Event｜Liu Shiming Art Foundation Presents Screening and Panel Discussion

The Liu Shiming Art Foundation hosted a screening of three short films—Ume or (The Will to Fly Blind), Muted, and Blue Desert—on October 5, 2024, followed by a discussion led by curator and writer Hindley Wang. This event is part of the Foundation’s ongoing programming, aligned with the themes explored in their current exhibition “Half the Sky: Works of Liu Shiming”, which focuses on women’s roles in society and art.

The films explore narratives where women are active protagonists, grappling with personal growth and societal pressures. Sam Kumiko Sheridan’s Ume or (The Will to Fly Blind) follows a 17-year-old Japanese American girl facing the emotional complexities of abortion. Michelle Ma’s Blue Desert provides a reflective piece exploring a daughter’s relationship with her mother, combining dreams and memory. Chris Zou’s Muted tells the story of a Chinese American high schooler under academic pressure, navigating her strained relationship with her mother.

The post-screening panel, moderated by Hindley Wang, touched on themes of motherhood, language, and cultural identity. The filmmakers shared how their personal experiences shaped their films, focusing on the absence of maternal figures and the complex interplay between language and emotion in cross-cultural settings.

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Below is the transcript of the panel discussion.

Hindley Wang (Moderator)

Each of your films presents a rich tapestry of layers that unfold in unique ways. I would like to begin by asking, what was your emotional and intellectual state when you embarked on these projects? What inspired you to pursue such bold narratives, and what compelled you to make these deeply personal films?

Michelle Ma

I didn’t initially view myself as a filmmaker before working on this project. It wasn’t something I had planned—it was more of an internal drive that I couldn’t ignore. I didn’t even identify as an artist beforehand, as I always felt that label sounded a bit pretentious. However, this project felt necessary. Much of the inspiration came from my relationship with my mother. When I was younger, she would often joke about how I never wrote essays about her, something that was common in elementary school assignments in China. Back then, I found the idea cringeworthy, but in retrospect, this film became my way of writing that "essay" for her.

Chris Zou

The story behind Muted originated from something a friend shared with me. They grew up in a highly competitive suburban area, and they told me about a girl who was incredibly accomplished, but tragically took her own life in high school due to immense pressure. That story deeply affected me, and I wanted to capture the suffocating environment of such a high-pressure academic world. It was essential for me to convey the sense of isolation and confinement that can come with such circumstances, and that formed the foundation for the film’s narrative.

Sam Kumiko Sheridan

The story came from a period of reflection on my life, particularly at the end of my time at NYU. The timing coincided with the overturning of Roe v. Wade, which had a profound impact on me. I wanted to explore the emotional and intellectual challenges I faced growing up in New York City and attending college there, especially around the complexities of reproductive freedom and what it means to be a young woman navigating those issues. That’s where the heart of my film originated.

Muted, 2024, 6 min, Chris Zou. Courtesy the artist.

Hindley Wang

Michelle, I’m particularly glad you mentioned the relationship with your mother. That theme is so central to your film and understanding that background adds a great deal of depth to the work. I feel there’s a common thread running through all three films—the tension between parents and children, particularly with mothers, is something that resonates deeply with many people.

Initially, I had designed this question for Sam and Chris, as their films overtly address the navigation of conflicts with their parents. There is a clear expectation of perfection, and this manifests in different ways. However, I also see this dynamic in Blue Desert. Even though the mother is not physically present, her influence still permeates the film.

I sense a recurring theme of burden and the expectation of perfection from parents, and the outcomes diverge in each of your films. The mother-child relationship appears central, with each of you addressing it in distinct ways. This dynamic seems particularly prevalent in East Asian families and within the immigrant experience in the U.S., where there’s often a gap that is difficult to articulate—not only in terms of language but also across generations.

This brings me to my next question: how did you approach the challenging emotions and themes of care within your films? Whether it’s care within the household, as we see in Sam’s film regarding reproductive freedom, or in Chris’s film, where the pressure transforms into a muted force—how did you navigate these emotional dynamics?

Michelle Ma

I don’t think my mother was particularly traditional or strict. I attended high school in Boston while both my parents were in China, so there was a physical distance between us. Prior to that, my mother was someone who was incredibly sensitive to imagery—she would constantly take photos of me, which, at the time, I found irritating. I would often wonder, “Why are you taking so many pictures?” I don’t know if others have had similar experiences, but I found it repulsive back then.

Looking back now, I realize those photos were her way of preserving our connection. Although she’s no longer with us, the only thing she left me was a hard drive with a password. There was no explanation, no context—my father isn’t very tech-savvy either. When I finally accessed the drive, I discovered it was filled with images, all meticulously categorized by time and labeled with the nicknames she had given me. In this way, I began to recover pieces of my memory of her.

The drive was carefully organized, but it struck me as strange because it felt like a part of her that I didn’t fully experience while she was alive. It was almost as if she was curating my life through these images and memories. In some ways, she continued to shape my perception of myself, even after her passing. This overlap between her life and my memories became deeply intertwined. It’s as if she lived on through these images, documenting my childhood and adolescence in a way that I couldn’t have fully understood at the time.

When I was writing the film, I found myself reflecting on familiar tropes often seen in Asian American stories, such as the depiction of strict, perfection-seeking parents. While there is some truth to that—my own mother had those tendencies—I wanted to delve deeper into the emotional complexities. The absence of the mother in my film makes it more compelling, in my opinion. I chose to explore these dynamics through the father-daughter relationship, with the father attempting to connect with his daughter over the mother’s absence. This approach allowed me to explore the story from a perspective that is not often seen.

Blue Desert, 2024, 18 min, Michelle Ma. Courtesy the artist.

Hindley Wang

It reminds me of how parents and children often exist on different timelines, where their experiences may intersect but never fully align. It’s touching to think of your mother documenting your life, and how that became part of how you remember her. That connection through imagery is so powerful, and it resonates strongly in your work.

In Sam’s film, the father-daughter dynamic is also particularly striking. The father tries his best to understand, but there is an emotional gap that he can’t quite bridge. That part of the film really resonated with me as well.

Sam Kumiko Sheridan

When I was writing the film, I found myself reflecting on the tropes common in many Asian American stories—like the strict parent who demands perfection. While that was true for my mother, I wanted to explore it on a deeper level. The absence of the mother in my film adds complexity. It allowed me to focus on the emotional dynamics between the father and daughter. The father’s attempt to connect with his daughter over the absence of the mother offers a different angle than what we typically see in these kinds of stories.

Chris Zou

The relationship in my film is also based on my own experiences with my mother. You can’t really fabricate something like that. My family is from Chengdu, Sichuan, and I grew up speaking a dialect that, in my opinion, is quite “aggressive”—it’s sharp, much like a New York accent. Although the dialogue in the film isn’t directly in that dialect, it was important for me to capture the tone of how parents speak, the way their words feel.

One of the things I found intriguing was that the mother in the film is never fully seen until the very end. She’s always a looming presence, watching but never directly involved. I wanted to capture that push and pull between care and control—the tension between the two. By the time the mother finally appears, it’s the culmination of all the subtle moments of her presence throughout the story. She’s always been there, watching over everything, but never fully involved.

Through this, I aimed to convey the complexity of the parental role in the film. There’s care, but also a disconnect, which stems from the cultural differences between the mother and daughter. Even though they come from the same family, their experiences and expectations are vastly different. Yet, despite the distance, there are small moments where they do find connection, and that was very important to me.

Hindley Wang

This brings me to another significant theme present in all three of your films—language. Each film showcases a complex interweaving of languages, predominantly English, but with the characters’ native languages playing a background role. This adds another layer of conflict or serves to highlight certain emotional dimensions of the story, especially in how language sometimes fails to convey specific feelings.

The way language shifts between English and the characters’ native languages seems quite unique to the Asian American experience. There is often a difficulty in expressing emotions, particularly between generations, and this challenge becomes even more pronounced when a language barrier is present. I’d love to hear more about how you approached this, and how language either articulates or, at times, fails to articulate emotions in your films.

Michelle Ma

For me, language is definitely a way of perceiving the world. I often wonder how language shapes our understanding of reality. In Blue Desert, I deliberately switch between languages. There are only three or four lines spoken entirely in Chinese, but those moments stand out. The way I transition between languages reflects how my brain processes different emotions—it’s not merely about translating words, but rather about expressing the complexity behind them. I don’t speak Chinese to many people in my life anymore, apart from my family, but it remains a trigger for certain emotions and memories.

When I use Chinese in the film, it isn’t just a matter of language preference—it represents a sentiment that feels frozen in time. In those moments, using Chinese feels like reaching for something deeper, something that can’t be fully expressed in English. That’s how I experienced those emotions, and I wanted the film to reflect that. Stripping away semantics and focusing on sound and tone allows the emotion to come through in a more visceral way. Sometimes, it’s not solely about language—it’s about how space and sound combine to create meaning.

Hindley Wang

There’s certainly an emotional depth that’s hard to translate, especially when switching between languages. It’s as though something remains unspoken, a feeling that lingers even when the words themselves are lost in translation.

Sam Kumiko Sheridan

When I was writing this film, I found myself thinking a lot about my childhood. I grew up in the city, and my parents are divorced, like many others. In one household, everything was conducted in English, while the other felt like a darker, more distant place, centered around Chinese. This created a split in my thinking, dividing my brain into two ways of processing. As I got older, I began to realize that I had two languages, two worlds. They felt so separate, yet somehow intertwined.

I didn’t get to choose which words to say—Japanese and English constantly switched depending on the situation. That added a lot to the film, especially during improvisation in certain scenes. It’s also amusing because subtitles introduce another layer to the viewing experience—whether for Japanese or English speakers, the film carries multiple meanings depending on the audience. This added an important dimension to how the film came together.

Ume or (The Will to Fly Blind), 2024, 14 min, Sam Kumiko Sheridan. Courtesy the artist.

Chris Zou

The actor who played the mother in my film is a family friend who works in the film industry in China. She’s known me since I was young and has watched me grow up. I remember showing her the scenes and asking, “Can you make this sound more authentic?” While I had a general idea of how my parents spoke, I needed her to bring a more traditional and accurate portrayal. We spent a lot of time working on making the dialogue feel real.

For me, language plays a crucial role in demonstrating the cultural disconnect between the mother and daughter. The mother speaks Chinese, while the daughter speaks English. This disconnect isn’t about a lack of understanding—it’s a conscious choice. The daughter knows Chinese but chooses not to engage with it. This deliberate distancing from her heritage was something I wanted to explore.

I find that this kind of disconnect can be dangerous, especially in this context. It’s not ignorance, but rather a deliberate focus on separating oneself from their cultural background. This theme was interesting to me, as it reflects a broader issue faced by many children of immigrants.

Hindley Wang

Building on the theme of the missing mother that you’ve all touched upon, I wanted to explore how the absence of the mother manifests in different ways across your films. One character grapples with the loss of her mother and tries to reconnect through memories and images. In another case, the mother may not be physically present, but her influence is ever-present, lingering in the background.

There is also the concept of the young girl on the brink of motherhood, making decisions about her freedom and future, all while her mother remains in her thoughts. I’d like to ask how the idea of the missing mother—both her presence and absence—reshapes the way we think about ourselves, both in your films and in real life. How did this dynamic affect your approach to these projects?

Michelle Ma

In my own life, the physical presence of my mother is completely absent, but her images remain, and they’re static. That’s how I remember her—through these static images. When she became very ill, I didn’t interact with her much, so my memory of her is essentially frozen in time, almost like a statue. In the film, you can see posters of my mother in the subway, and at the end, there are still photographs of her on the subway car. Everything about her presence is static.

I tried to contrast these static images with the moving parts of the film to show that her presence is now inaccessible to me, not just because she is no longer alive, but also because the only way I can remember her is through these still images. It’s ironic, considering that film is made up of moving images, yet my mother’s presence in the film is never in motion. This is how I tried to explore the theme of absence in my film—playing with the idea that the film itself is always evolving, just as my process of understanding my mother continues to change.

This film underwent numerous changes throughout its creation. My creative director helped me immensely, and we built the entire project together. What’s interesting is that the film never had a fixed form—it was constantly evolving, and it still is. Even now, I continue to explore these questions of memory, absence, and presence.

Hindley Wang

The way you describe this moment really resonates with me. I think, in many ways, the absence or presence of answers often shapes how we approach the writing or conceptualization of a film. It guides both the creator and the audience in navigating through mourning and memory.

That’s why it was particularly moving to uncover the layers of the mother-daughter relationship, not only in the film but also in the real-life experiences that informed it. I feel that this sense of inaccessibility, this emotional distance, is a recurring theme. It impacts not only how the film is structured but also how we think about the role of women in cinema, both broadly and specifically in your projects.

Sam Kumiko Sheridan 

The question of absence and presence in life doesn’t necessarily connect in the same way in film as it does in real life. As I mentioned earlier, the mother is not physically present in my film, but I don’t believe that detracts from the story. In fact, I think her absence adds to the dynamics, making them richer and more layered.

Perhaps, if I had approached it differently, the film might still have conveyed similar emotional depth. However, I believe that removing the mother added something unique to the narrative. This was the primary reason I structured it this way—to make the film more engaging and to explore what the story might look like without a central maternal figure present.

Chris Zou

I touched on this before, but I’ll elaborate. The scene where the mother appears as Maddie was directly inspired by the film The Lighthouse (2019). In a climactic scene, Robert Pattinson’s character fights Willem Dafoe’s character, and at one point, Dafoe’s character transforms into a European man Pattinson’s character had killed earlier in the forest. This moment in The Lighthouse (2019) greatly influenced how I approached the mother’s appearance in my film.

It’s an unusual reference, but I wanted to create a similar kind of unconscious, almost Freudian moment for my protagonist. By placing the mother in such an intense position, I aimed to stir up deep, unresolved emotions for the character. The mother becomes a powerful force in these moments, and I believe this adds another layer of depth to the story.

Hindley Wang

All three films intersect with our theme and delve into storytelling through a female lens, challenging social norms while preserving a sense of mystery. There is an underlying element of "othering" and absence in these films, where the full background story isn’t entirely revealed, creating a non-traditional narrative.

As a final question, what challenges and lessons have you encountered in telling these stories from a female perspective? Michelle, I’m especially curious about how you integrate the female figure into your work, particularly in contrast to more conventional storytelling methods, such as the essay films of Chris Marker, where the female voice is often used as a vessel for storytelling.

Michelle Ma

In this entirely virtual world, I believe, philosophically speaking, that my film doesn’t adhere to the traditional definition of a film. If I were to define a film, it would be a representation of an already existing world. However, my film is built using Unreal Engine, which is entirely virtual. It’s not an attempt to capture reality—it exists entirely within the digital realm.

For me, the avatar is a means of exploring emotions that have already impacted me. The movements are very animated, almost uncanny. When you see a close-up of the avatar, it doesn’t express real human emotions, and this was intentional. It allows me to unravel my feelings from a third-person perspective, which helped me approach the process in a somewhat detached, yet deeply reflective way.

Sam Kumiko Sheridan 

The most important thing for me in making this film was to tell an honest and genuine story about human life and hope, with the goal of fostering empathy and understanding for everyone. One of my main objectives was to make the film as non-political as possible, portraying abortion simply as a human experience.

I felt that the only way to truthfully tell this story was through a female perspective because that’s the perspective I know best. I would be interested in seeing the story told from a different perspective, but for this film, the female viewpoint was essential.

Chris Zou

At first, I considered telling the story from the perspective of a mother and son, but when I chose to focus on an all-female cast, there was a sharpness, an emptiness that intrigued me. The trio of characters we created gave the film a sense of void—a lack of connection between the characters—and that was essential to the overall tone of the story.