Labor, Liquidation, and Resistance: A Conversation

In June 2024, the e-flux Screening Room presented a program of several works by Jen Liu. The screening was followed by a conversation between the artist, Lukas Brasiskis, and the audience. The transcript of this conversation was edited for the present publication.

Question: Watching your films together on the big screen, I was struck by how cohesive they feel, even though they span almost ten years. It’s like they’re exploring different angles of the same overarching theme. How do you feel about seeing these works presented together as a single-channel screening?

Jen Liu: It’s strange, actually. I noticed that too—it feels like I’m a broken record, though I mean that in the best possible sense. Normally, I see these films individually, each in its own loop, creating its own world. But yes, there are recurring motifs—like disappearance—and a textual flow that runs through all the pieces. Seeing them like this makes me reflect more on their connectedness, though it’s also overwhelming to witness nearly a decade of work all at once.

Question: Each of your films seems deeply rooted in specific contexts—labor conditions, gender, and activism—yet there’s also this recurring theme of liquidation, especially in The Land at the Bottom of the Sea (2023). The concept of liquidation feels almost like a form of voluntary dissolution. Could you elaborate on how this idea connects to resistance, particularly in relation to labor activism?

JL: Liquidation is definitely a recurring theme, and each piece explores it in different ways. In Pink Slime Caesar Shift: Gold Loop (2020–21), there’s this notion of “becoming water,” Bruce Lee’s philosophy, but I contrast that with the harsh physical realities workers face—chemical exposure, bone softening, and other impacts on the body through toxic liquids. So even if liquidation or withdrawal seems like a possible form of resistance, the political and physical toll on the body is still inevitable. By the time we reach The Land at the Bottom of the Sea, liquidation is total—the activists can no longer work, and what’s left is the knowledge they’ve preserved, but not their physical bodies.

Question: Your films often combine surreal aesthetic elements with real, documented accounts of labor conditions and activism. How do you balance this mix of speculative fiction and documentary-style realism, especially when dealing with such politically charged subject matter?

JL: It’s a balance. The surreal elements create a space for viewers to question reality, but I ground the work in solid research. In Gold Loop, for instance, I incorporate first-hand accounts from electronics workers in China, but the presentation is speculative, almost surreal. The real and the imagined are woven together to create a layered exploration of labor exploitation and its broader implications.

Question: Could you describe how your research process begins? How do you take these real-world materials, like first-hand accounts, and transform them into the speculative, narrative-driven spaces that your films inhabit?

JL: For most of my works, I start with a collection of texts or research, often coming from NGOs or labor organizations in China and Hong Kong. From there, I build a narrative that blends these materials with scientific and business texts together into speculative fictions. For example, in Gold Loop, I used a technique called gold biolistics, where gold particles are introduced into cells to deliver new DNA. That idea tied back to my research on electronics workers exposed to toxic materials during e-waste recycling. The scientific process became a metaphor for the interlocking cycles of exploitation I was exploring.

Question: It’s interesting that your films rely on scientific processes and techniques like genetic engineering to speak on labor-related issues… What inspired you to focus so specifically on labor rights in China? Is there a history of your personal interest in this topic?

JL: Labor issues have always been central to my work, but my focus on China comes from a personal connection. My family is Taiwanese-American and has been involved in the semiconductor industry, so I’ve always had a direct link to the workers behind those processes. The economic opening of China and the rise of its industrial sector have shaped my life in many ways, so it felt natural to explore these themes.

Question: The gold spheres in Gold Loop feel to play a symbolical role. Can you explain their significance and how they connect to the themes of labor and exploitation?

JL: The gold spheres refer back to a process called gold biolistics, which I mentioned earlier—it’s a genetic engineering technique where gold particles are used to introduce new DNA into cells. But beyond that, the gold spheres are also symbolic. Gold is often seen as this valuable, desirable material, but in the context of my films, it’s tied to toxicity and exploitation. The gold used in biolistics, for example, comes from recycled electronics—old phones, computers, etc.—and the extraction process often involves exposing workers to deadly substances. The gold spheres mirror this duality: they’re beautiful and perfect on the surface, but they carry a much heavier, more insidious cost beneath.

Question: In The Land at the Bottom of the Sea, there’s a strong sense of death—not just of individuals but also of movements, like labor activism and techno-optimism. How do these themes reflect broader social and political shifts?

JL: That’s a good observation. The Land at the Bottom of the Sea was made during a time when it became clear that the conditions for labor activism in China had drastically changed. Many of the NGOs I worked with were either shut down or no longer able to operate freely. So, the film became a reflection on multiple “deaths,” one being the death of a public political movement. There’s a sense of finality in the film, but it’s also about what remains…

Question: The QR code at the end of The Land at the Bottom of the Sea provides access to an archive of disappeared activists. What inspired you to use this digital encryption, and how does it connect to the film’s themes?

JL: Sure. The idea was to use steganography, which is a method of hiding data within other data—in this case, images packed within the frames of the film itself. The reasoning behind this was twofold: first, it’s about preserving this information in a way that’s harder to erase. These women’s stories are slowly disappearing from the internet, and I wanted to create a digital archive that could survive, even if only in this encrypted form. Second, it ties into the broader theme of invisibility in the film—these activists are no longer visible in the public eye, but their existence is still there, hidden beneath the surface.

Question: You’ve explored encryption and cryptography in other films, like Pink Slime Caesar Shift (2018). How do these methods of encoding information fit into your broader artistic practice?

JL: Encryption and cryptography are tools I use to probe ideas of concealment, control, and access. In Pink Slime Caesar Shift, I referenced one of the earliest forms of cryptography, the Caesar Shift, which is a simple letter-shifting code. In that work, I was interested in the idea of “hidden labor”—the work that goes unseen or is deliberately obscured, whether through political repression or economic structures. By embedding encrypted elements in my films, I’m playing with the idea that certain truths or realities are being hidden, and it’s up to the viewer to actively seek them out.

Question: Have your films been shown in mainland China, or mostly in other regions? How have audiences responded to the political themes?

JL: My films have been screened in mainland China, but seldomly; they are shown much more in Hong Kong and Taiwan. The reception has varied—some people connect deeply with the political critique, while others find it too provocative or uncomfortable. In mainland China, I think the subject matter is usually far too sensitive for public screenings, especially given the political climate.

Question: In The Land at the Bottom of the Sea, the AI-generated text feels unsettling and distorted. Could you explain how you worked with machine learning models to create that specific aesthetic?

JL: The process involved a lot of experimentation. I worked with a machine learning engineer to train different AI models, each designed with certain limitations or “failures.” These models were fed various texts and datasets that related to the themes I was exploring—control, disappearance, biopower. What emerged from that process was this distorted, unsettling text that felt like it was on the verge of collapse. The AI wasn’t producing perfect results, and that’s exactly what I wanted. The imperfections and glitches added to the sense of entrapment and instability I was trying to convey.

Question: Your films often tackle political activism in China, which can be a sensitive topic. Have you encountered any risks or challenges in making work that critiques these systems so openly?

JL: Not directly, but it’s something I’m always aware of. The political situation in China is becoming increasingly restrictive, especially when it comes to labor activism and critical artistic practices. I’ve seen colleagues face real consequences for their work, and while I’m based in New York, which gives me more freedom, I still feel the weight of those risks. My work touches on these sensitive issues, but I’m fortunate to have a bit more distance from the immediate political pressures that others are dealing with.

Question: You also work with physical objects in your exhibitions. How do those objects relate to the ones we see in your films? Do they function differently in a gallery space?

JL: The objects in the films and the ones in the gallery space serve different roles. In the films, the objects are more symbolic—they act as stand-ins for larger ideas. But in the gallery, they become more tangible, physical things that you can engage with in a different way. I’m interested in how the body is compartmentalized in capitalist systems, and this idea extends to the objects themselves. In some cases, I create objects that reflect the dissection or fragmentation of the body, as a way of commenting on how certain parts of the body or labor are valued while others are discarded.

Question: Your films focus a lot on how labor impacts the body, particularly the female body. How does this connect to the larger themes you’re exploring?

JL: The body, especially the femme body, is central to my work because it’s often the site of exploitation in these labor systems. In my films, I try to show how the body is impacted by labor—how it’s worn down, fragmented, or made invisible. This ties back to the idea of biopolitics, where the body becomes a battleground for political and economic forces. It’s a recurring theme throughout my films, especially when I’m dealing with the effects of industrial processes on workers.

Question: You often use animation and AI-generated imagery to create surreal sequences in your films. What draws you to these mediums, and how do they help convey the themes you’re working with?

JL: I’ve always been drawn to the surreal because it allows me to explore ideas in a more abstract way. Animation and AI give me the freedom to create worlds that aren’t bound by physical reality, which is important when dealing with concepts like control, power, and disappearance. These tools allow me to visualize things that would be impossible to capture in a purely documentary format. I like the way they blur the line between reality and fiction, which mirrors the blurring of truth and propaganda in the political systems I’m critiquing.

Question: I am curious what’s next for you? Are you are working on the new projects that build on these same themes?

JL: Yes, I’m continuing to explore the intersections of labor, biopolitics, and environmental degradation in my work. I’m also interested in pushing further into AI and genetic engineering, finding new ways to blend speculative fiction with real-world issues. The political and technological landscapes are constantly shifting, so there’s always more to investigate. Right now, I’m focused on a project that deals with the rise of surveillance capitalism and its impact on labor, which feels like a natural extension of the themes I’ve been working with.