小豬故事錄音文本:

小豬「哼哼」在母豬的子宮裡住了114天。牠落地的這天，原本隔著肚皮聽見悶悶的各種聲音突然都放大了，而且四周的一切變得好快好快，飼養員一把抓起哼哼擦一擦，就把牠跟同胎的其他小豬放在一塊，牠看著其他的小豬想著自己跟他們是一樣的嗎?其他小豬也用相似的眼神東張西望。母豬的眼睛隔著眼皮看起來好累。哼哼後來才知道，經過那十公分產道的一小段時光是牠一生中唯一獨處的時刻。

哼哼和兄弟姊妹們睡在一起，他們這段時間就在彼此身上滾來滾去，隔著鐵欄杆吸媽媽的奶。56天後就再也沒見過媽媽了，牠後來也才知道，這輩子吃東西的日子只有那56天。跟吸ㄋㄋ不一樣，牠開始被不知名的東西灌食，肉越長越厚、站起來越來越喘。他每天都更沉重、更難走路，其實也沒地方可去。牠隱隱覺得自己在回應某種期許而拼命地被撐大、明明是一團實心的肉球卻感覺哪裡空空的。

有一次，哼哼問隔壁欄的豬：「那些上車的豬都去哪了？」
鄰居想了想說：「大家都會去的地方，輪到的時候就知道了。」
哼哼覺得聽起來很像哲學，就笑了。

這天哼哼被弄得特別乾淨，難得清爽得有點詭異，哼哼現在六個月大，終於可以知道大家上車去了哪裡。下車後，有個不認識的獸醫很快地幫大家健康檢查，檢查合格的輪流一個個站上舞台。這也是哼哼一生少有一枝獨秀的10秒鐘，在牠還沒回過神來就結束了。台下的肉商們觀察豬的體型與行動步伐，在短短的10秒內出價競標，以最高價決定買主。

白天被買下的豬，被送往繫留場等待晚上屠宰，到了晚上10點左右才在登記合格的屠宰場進行人道屠宰。哼哼不知道人道屠宰是甚麼意思，剛剛有聽到別隻豬在討論千萬不要被選中當溫體豬，讓哼哼突然變得非常非常害怕。也不知道現在是幾點，看著前面的豬一隻一隻被電睡著了，某一瞬間牠頭被抓住，也瞬間失去了知覺。哼哼不知道的是: 接下來自己的血都被放掉了，哼哼已經變成另外的樣子。

屠宰場獸醫再次檢查肉品的衛生狀況後才將豬分切成大塊豬肉，並趕在天亮前送往傳統市場或超市。等哼哼再次醒來時，牠似乎分處在冷凍卡車的幾個位置，肌肉有種前所未有的放鬆感，好像所有的關節鬆開了，全身不聽使喚。旁邊不認識的豬肋排說：「聽說我們會輾轉經過七個地方，我賭我們是「本地嚴選」你看看我的油脂分布，你也不差!」

廚房裡，廚師正忙著set燈光喬角度，準備拍攝料理直播，「今日料理：慢煎嫩豬排～」

等他終於調好鏡頭、整理好他的髮型，哼哼已經拿出冰箱有點久了，廚師邊做菜邊回答觀眾的問題，鐵鍋裡的哼哼被多煎了兩分鐘，還好鏡頭看不出來。廚師心虛地結束直播，切了一塊豬排放進嘴裡：「呸!太老了咬不動。」

哼哼就這樣滑進了廚餘桶。
黑色的蓋子百無聊賴地啪一聲關起來，就像闔上一本千篇一律的書。

哼哼躺在一堆食物殘渣上，眼睛漸漸適應了黑暗。
旁邊一隻被咬一口的炸雞腿對他說：「你覺得我們接下來會怎樣?」

大家默默地躺著好像在烏鴉鴉的天空裡找星星。

蓋子終於最後一次打開，哼哼看到他這一生每天都盯著看的同一個鐵皮天花板。

ㄟ!那不是媽媽嗎?

(感謝你聽完小豬的故事，這個故事說明全球消費現狀和本質的供需脫鉤，企業為了提供消耗過剩的能量而生產，整個世界建構在無意義的浪費，為了浪費而浪費、消耗而消耗，朝著空無的終點一路加速: AI生產的內容快速製造資訊與知識擴張的假象，實際上都是重組肉、回收紙，我們每天上網要浪費越來越多的時間從資訊垃圾裡挑出可以吃的，這些虛無正在吞噬生命的本質。生命本身變成一種內耗消磨，把我們變成虛胖的充氣娃娃，不斷充氣脹大的同時我們還要付出勞力去換。你能想像養豬場一隻為了要被宰來吃的豬誕生了，殺了也切了，層層分裝販賣，到了廚師手中，結果煮壞了整塊丟進廚餘桶，變成餵豬的飼料嗎?請問這隻豬到底存在意義是甚麼?除了其中層層轉手、起承轉合的交易活動，最後它原本設定轉化為人類食物的目地竟然沒有達到。現在的世界過程的消耗就是生產目的，徒勞就是運作的動力。

再感謝你聽完以上的解說，我是藝術家蔡慧盈，今天我沒有在這裡親自演說這個故事，這樣你才能聽故事拿50元。不知道你有沒有想過藝術家們都靠什麼生活?以及我們創作的資金來源是甚麼?接下來讓我以這次的精靈市集為例，解釋給你聽這件作品為什麼是這個形式。在場每個攤位的藝術家有5000元來做這個探索消費與價值系統的非傳統市集，5000元包含我們出場的費用、創作費、材料費、交通費等等，總之全包，擺攤的活動是兩天，加上事前討論事後檢討、事前準備事後收拾以及市集顧攤之外的創作與製作時間，每個人實際花掉的時間假如保守估計至少超過5天，這樣一天收入只有1000元還要扣掉勞健保。台北新竹來回一趟交通費就要花掉一千多元，兩天就是兩千多元，若是我往返三天，所有的錢就花在交通費上，算下來我所有的勞動、心力、創意、時間、材料是0元。也就是說，無償以外，我還不會有你們眼前這些50元作為誘因，讓你來參與我的作品，聽我講一些沒有那麼有娛樂性的話。藝術創作面臨的現實就是，我們的文化產出如何計價?如何獲得金錢回饋而得以永續?為什麼看表演、看展覽、參加工作坊可以免費?你可能以為已經有人付錢給我們了，其實很多時候我們都是無償，甚至自掏腰包，你可能認為藝術家或是街頭藝人不用付場地費就已經是某種優待了，但你也可以想想，做事情最需要的是人，空間空著沒有事情發生，就沒有社群，沒有社群就沒有供需，地方就凋零了，地方凋零房地產也會跌價，我們和其他行業一樣是社會的一環。若不是對文化與社群的價值有信念，我們為何而做?用愛真的就能發電嗎?我今天就直接跳過愛輾轉變成電的過程，直接使用錢來做這件作品，因為錢不是粗俗的、也不是罪惡的，它是你我都需要的，它是價值信念的具體化。今天我沒有足夠支持的外部資金流通來完成作品，所以我需要靠著不出席就不花交通費來控制成本，在不賠錢的無償前提下，擠出這筆不存在的材料費。透過我的這個行為，說出我想說的話。我期待，有些人聽過以後，對文化消費有更深的思考，然後願意像消費其他物質的理所當然一般也來消費無形的文化與活動。我與今天在場的其他藝術家說過，5000元扣除我出席一天的車馬費、陳設攤位的材料費以外，其他的錢換成你眼前看到的這些50元，先換一個你聽我說。

感謝聆聽。聽完有三個選擇: 你可以拿走1個50元，你可以把50元投入小豬撲滿或留在桌上，或是你可以不拿50元然後自由捐獻投入小豬撲滿。市集活動結束後，我這個攤位結餘的錢將平分給所有的藝術家。用我的作品無償來實驗爭取看看是否行為創作能募到資金挹注給藝術家。謝謝你!)

Transcript of the Piggy Story

Little Pig “Oink” lived inside his mother’s womb for 114 days. On the day he landed on earth, all the muffled sounds he used to hear through the belly suddenly became amplified, and everything around him moved so fast. The caretaker grabbed Oink, wiped him off, and tossed him together with his littermates. He looked at the other piglets and wondered if he was the same as them; they scanned the world with the same confused eyes. Through her eyelids, Mother Pig’s eyes already looked exhausted. Much later, Oink would realize that the short trip through that ten-centimeter birth canal was the only moment in his entire life when he would ever be alone.

Oink slept with his brothers and sisters. In those days, they rolled over each other and drank milk from their mother through the metal bars. After 56 days, he never saw her again. He later learned that those 56 days were the only time in his life he would ever truly enjoy eating. After the milk, he started being force-fed with unknown substances; his flesh grew thicker, and standing up made him pant. Every day he became heavier, clumsier—not that he had anywhere to go. He vaguely felt he was responding to some expectation, desperately being inflated. Though he was a solid lump of flesh, something inside felt hollow.

One day, Oink asked the pig in the next pen, “Where do all the pigs who get on that truck go?”

The neighbor thought for a moment and said, “A place everyone eventually goes. You’ll know when it’s your turn.”

Oink thought it sounded philosophical, and laughed.

That day, Oink was cleaned unusually well—so refreshing it felt suspicious. Now six months old, he was finally about to learn where everyone on the truck ended up. After getting off, a stranger of a veterinarian, quickly performed health checks. Those who passed were brought one by one onto a stage. This was also one of the rare moments in Oink’s life when he stood in a spotlight alone—ten seconds that ended before he even realized it. In those ten seconds, meat buyers observed the pigs’ body shape and gait, bidding rapidly; the highest bid determined the owner.

The pigs purchased during the day were transported to holding areas to wait for slaughter at night. Around 10 p.m., they were taken to licensed slaughterhouses for “humane slaughter.” Oink didn’t know what “humane” meant. He had just overheard some pigs whispering that they hoped they wouldn’t be chosen as “fresh pork,” which suddenly terrified him. He had no idea what time it was. Watching the pigs ahead of him get electrocuted asleep one by one, he felt his head grabbed in a flash and instantly lost consciousness. What he did not know was that the rest of his blood was drained afterwards—Oink had already become something else.

After another veterinary inspection, the pigs were cut into large slabs and delivered to traditional markets or supermarkets before dawn. When Oink “woke up” again, he seemed to be scattered around several spots in a frozen truck. His muscles felt an unprecedented sense of relaxation, as if all his joints had come undone and his body no longer obeyed him. A nearby stranger—someone’s spare rib—said, “I heard we’ll pass through seven different places. I bet we’re the ‘Local Premium’ type. Look at my marbling! You’re not bad yourself!”

In a kitchen somewhere, a chef was busy setting up lighting and adjusting angles to film a cooking live stream: “Today’s dish: slow-seared tender pork chop!”

By the time he finally finished fixing the camera and his hair, Oink had already been out of the fridge too long. The chef multitasked, answering viewer questions while cooking, and ended up over-searing Oink by two minutes—not that the camera would show. Feeling guilty, the chef ended the stream, cut a piece, and put it in his mouth.

“Ugh! Too tough. Can’t chew.”

And just like that, Oink slid into the food-waste bin.
The black lid slammed shut with a dull, bored thud—like closing a book that had been written a thousand times before.

Oink lay on a heap of scraps, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark.
A half-eaten fried chicken leg beside him asked, “What do you think will happen to us next?”

Everyone lay quietly, as if searching for stars in a pitch-black sky.

At last, the lid opened one final time. Oink saw the same tin roof he had stared at every day of his life.

Eh? Isn’t that… Mom?

(Thank you for listening to the Piggy Story…)

This story illustrates how today's global consumption has completely detached from the essential logic of supply and demand. Production now exists only to burn off excess energy. The entire world is constructed upon meaningless waste, waste for the sake of wasting, consumption for the sake of consuming, accelerating toward an empty endpoint. AI-generated content rapidly creates the illusion of expanding knowledge; in reality, it’s all reconstituted meat, recycled paper. Every day online, we spend more and more time sifting edible pieces from informational trash. This void is devouring the essence of life itself. Life becomes internal depletion, inflating us into inflated dolls, growing bigger while we still have to work to earn the air.

Imagine: a pig born to be slaughtered and eaten, raised, killed, cut apart, and packaged. And when it finally reached the chef, it was overcooked and tossed entirely into the waste bin to become feed for other pigs. What was the meaning of that pig’s existence? Aside from the transactions happening at each step, even its intended purpose, to become food, was never fulfilled. Today, the consumption of the process is the purpose of production; futility is the engine of operation.

Thank you again for listening. I am artist Tsai Hui-Ying. Today, I am not here performing the story in person; this way, you can listen and receive 50 dollars. Have you ever wondered how artists make a living? And where do the funds for our creations come from? Let me use this Goblin Market as an example to explain why this work takes this form.

Each artist in this market is given 5,000 NT dollars to create this nontraditional marketplace that explores consumption and value systems. This 5,000 includes our appearance fee, creation costs, materials, transportation—everything. The event lasts two days, and adding meetings before and after, preparation, clean-up, and all the creative work beyond market hours, each artist easily spends more than five days. That’s 1,000 NT per day, before deducting labor and health insurance. A round-trip between Taipei and Hsinchu costs over 1,000 NT; two days means 2,000 NT. If I travel for three days, all the money goes to transportation. After calculation, all my labor, energy, creativity, time, and materials amount to zero income. In other words, not only are we unpaid, without these 50-dollar coins as incentives for you to participate in my work, I probably couldn’t even get you here to listen to something not particularly entertaining.

This is the reality artists face: how do we price cultural production? How do we sustain it? Why are performances, exhibitions, and workshops free? You might think someone already paid us, but often we are unpaid—or even paying out of pocket. You may think artists or street performers benefit from waived venue fees, but think about it: nothing happens without people. Without activity, a space has no community; without community, there is no supply and demand; without that, places decay, and real estate falls too. We are part of society just like any other profession.

If not for our belief in cultural and community value, why would we do this? Can love generate electricity? Today, I skip the process of love turning into electricity; instead, I use money directly to create this piece. Money is not crude nor sinful; it is needed by all of us, a concrete expression of value. Without enough external funding, I control my bufget by not being physically present; by not spending on transportation, I can squeeze out the nonexistent “materials budget.” Through this act, I express what I want to say.

I hope that some people, after hearing this, will think more deeply about cultural consumption, and eventually treat intangible culture and activities as naturally consumable as physical goods. I told the artists here today: after deducting one day of transportation and display materials, the remaining funds from my 5,000 NT have all been converted into the 50-dollar coins you see here—to buy a moment of your listening.

Thank you.
After listening, you have three choices:
You may take one 50-dollar coin;
You may place it into the piggy bank or leave it on the table;
Or you may decline the 50 and donate freely in the piggy bank.

After the market ends, whatever money remains at my booth will be split among all the artists. Through this unpaid performance, I hope to test whether artistic action can raise funds to support artists.

Thank you!