This article has been contributed by Sophie Nowakowska.
Sometimes you need to leave your home to really find yourself. Only then do you see what you share with others and what will always set you apart. You start to notice what you once ignored: how people speak, greet, eat, walk, or leave space between words.
This shift sits at the heart of Millie Chen’s work. She came to the UK to see if she could create a home outside China, to find out if belonging can exist in more than one place. Something changed along the way, and this is when art emerged. It became a language she could trust, something that finally made people notice not only her but also the quiet scars others carry inside them. Her two recent works come from this search: the sense of being lost in another country, of not knowing what to do next, and the quiet hope that someone might say there is a way for her to stay.
Artist’s Website: https://www.milliechenart.com
The first piece, I Tried But There Is No Door 1, looks still, but it feels full of hesitation. The door is not perfect. It’s slightly off to the right. You can’t notice it if you don’t stand at a distance for a while. You need to study it, maybe even know what to look for. Five handles climb across it, as if offering choices, but they only add confusion and frustration. Each one could open a way forward, but you don’t know which to try or if any of them really lead anywhere. The piece waits for a decision that never comes.
In A 2cm Wound, Chen suffered in front of strangers. During the performance, she showed how something had been taken from her, but that she also learnt how to keep going. For this piece, the artist used another familiar object, a chair, and this time she invited the viewer to come close, to see what happens when something steady gives way. The scar isn’t apparent. The knife with which she sawed off one of the chair legs was left behind, along with the dust that came from it. It caused the imperfection, a small wound that can’t be undone. Her hands were covered with splinters and calluses. The cut wasn’t deep enough to make the chair collapse, but it was enough to suggest instability. You could imagine the unease of sitting there, the faint risk under the surface, though most wouldn’t notice unless they looked closely.
Chen’s work begins with her own experience, but it reaches outward. She wants the audience to find themselves in her story, to see that her doubts and losses are not only hers. Still, she keeps the viewer at a distance. She invites reflection but does not allow action. The works suggest a connection but stop before it happens. Hopefully, she will consider this in her future work. Speaking about universal struggles can start a conversation, but only participation can create a community.
Chen’s works never feel finished. Whether they lean against the wall or are left after a performance, they wait. But maybe what they wait for is not just care, but response: someone to step in, to take part, to keep the story moving. That sense of incompleteness could become a way of building the connection she searches for.