Unseen Masters: The Hidden Professions of Taiwan
There is a timeless Taiwanese proverb: “Among the three hundred and sixty trades, every one can produce a master.” It celebrates the richness of human work, and the belief that any path, when pursued with dedication, can lead to excellence.
Yet in contemporary Taiwan, the reality far exceeds these three hundred and sixty trades—perhaps reaching into the millions. Exceptional talent thrives across every corner of society, from centuries-old faith traditions and elite sports to the meticulous world of artisanal craftsmanship. This nation has quietly nurtured professions few would ever imagine.
The Spirit Medium—Shiro
At thirteen, while hiding on the sidelines of a nighttime procession at Xia-Hai City God Temple, Shiro watched as the deities made their rounds. Suddenly, without warning, Ba Ye—one of the divine
guardians of the underworld—turned and pointed directly at him.
“In that instant, an inexplicable sensation washed over my body,” he recalls. “I panicked and ran.”
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Only later did he realize that this was the moment he was “marked” to become a jitong—a spirit medium who serves as a bridge between the divine and the earthly in Taiwanese folk religion.
Shiro recalls seeing spirits since childhood—a sensitivity that seems to run in his blood. Yet, within his family, this was a strictly taboo subject. His grandmother had once pursued her own spiritual cultivation, but it led to a terrifying descent into what the family perceived as ru-mo (demonic possession).
From that point on, all religious practices were banned in the household. Consequently, Shiro grew up as a staunch skeptic. “I stubbornly refused to believe in anything beyond the physical world,” he says.
Despite his skepticism, Shiro remained plagued by a persistent sense of unrest. He often felt unsettled by shifting energy fields and heard voices whispering in his ears—an interference that grew into a suffocating distress. Eventually, the line between reality and hallucination began to blur.
Seeking a way out, he turned to modern medicine. A psychiatrist diagnosed him with dissociation, and Shiro began a regimen of medication and counseling. Yet, even with professional intervention, his condition continued to deteriorate, reaching a breaking point by the age of twenty-three.
In a desperate search for relief, Shiro turned to Christianity for a time, but found little solace. The turning point came during a visit to Baishatun Gongtian Temple. A friend drew a divination lot on his behalf, and its message was startlingly direct: “Your roots are not there; it is time to return.”
The words struck Shiro with the force of an epiphany. Not long after, he embraced his calling and entered spiritual practice. To his surprise, the inner turmoil that had plagued him for years began to subside. “My mind finally found a peace I had never known,” he says. “Slowly, even the weight of my depression began to lift.”
For years, temple masters had told Shiro that he carried tian-ming—a heavenly mandate—yet none could reveal which deity had claimed him. “They would only tell me that when the time was right, I would know,” he says.
That clarity finally arrived one day while he was burning incense. As the ash fell, it settled into the unmistakable likeness of a deity. Shiro sensed it immediately: it was the Great Lord Guo—Guangze Zunwang—the deity he now serves as his principal patron.
Shiro speaks of the divine with an unexpected, modern practicality. “I often say the deity is my ‘boss’,” he says. “I have to take care of myself first to serve him well.”
In his view, spiritual cultivation today has moved away from the grueling asceticism once associated with older generations of jitong—the long seclusions, walking through fire, or climbing ladders of blades. Instead, he follows the wisdom passed down from his own master: “Life itself is cultivation; to become a better version of yourself is cultivation.”
For Shiro, any path that stabilizes the heart and brings inner stillness is a valid form of spiritual discipline.
To Shiro, ritual practice is fundamentally a form of art. Whether it is calligraphy, the sacred footwork of Bu-gang, the chanting of incantations, or the intricate hand mudras of Zhi-jue, each act requires more than just physical grace—it demands a disciplined infusion of essence, breath, and spirit. “When these elements align,” he explains, “it naturally becomes art. And within that art, energy is born.”
Many seek him out in hopes of wealth, luck, or answers to life’s many riddles. While Shiro offers energy blessings to help ease their hardships, he is quick to temper expectations of instant miracles. “You are not going to win the lottery overnight,” he says plainly. “Real change must come from within.”
If life feels stagnant, his advice is surprisingly ordinary: step outside, walk to a convenience store, and buy something you genuinely enjoy. “In that moment of choice,” Shiro says, “you are already deciding your destiny.”
Faith is vital, yet Shiro believes religion is but one vessel for it. To him, whatever one truly pursues becomes their object of devotion. “If you chase money, money is your faith,” he muses. “If you follow the gods, the gods are your faith. But if you believe in yourself, then you become your own faith.”
He views divination—whether through Bazi, Zi Wei Dou Shu, or Tarot—as a form of spiritual statistics. These systems are reflections of one’s present state; they are signals, not sentences. “No fate is fixed,” he says firmly. “Destiny can always be changed.”
Though serving as a jitong is his tian-ming, Shiro maintains that even the divine will respect human choice. Having a “special constitution” does not obligate one to a path they do not love. “Perhaps your true heavenly calling,” he suggests, “is simply to do what you love.”
Over the years, Shiro has moved from resistance and fear toward a quiet reconciliation with himself. Through this journey, he has arrived at one final truth: everything begins in the heart. The moment we dare to take a step toward change, destiny begins to change with us.
The Baseball Glove Restorer—
Kong Ling-Yuan
Kong Ling-Yuan’s life in baseball began not on the diamond, but along its edges. Starting as a ball boy at the Taipei Municipal Baseball Stadium during the CPBL’s second season in 1991, he remained a fixture at the ballpark until around 1998. Still in elementary school, he spent his days retrieving bats and foul balls. For a boy who adored the Brother Elephants, it was a dream. “Being able to chat with the players while working was more than enough reward,” he recalls.
He witnessed the volatile extremes of Taiwan’s baseball culture—from fans so fiercely passionate they threw eggs and scattered joss paper in protest, to the haunting silence following the 1996 gambling scandals. Attendance collapsed so severely that, on some nights, Kong could count every face in the stands on his fingers.
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Like many children, Kong once dreamed of going pro, but he soon realized he lacked the elite talent for the big leagues. After a stint as an office worker, he joined a sports brand where he began selling gloves. To solve his customers’ problems, he became obsessed with the anatomy of the gear, disassembling and rebuilding his own gloves piece by piece. What began as curiosity slowly evolved into a craft
In 2012, Kong mastered the Japanese technique of Yumomi—literally, “hot-water shaping.” A brand-new glove is rarely game-ready; the leather is stiff, and the “pocket” is unformed. While it usually takes weeks to break in a glove, Yumomi accelerates this by softening the leather with hot water before a master meticulously pounds and shapes it. In the hands of a professional, a glove can be ready for the stadium in just one week.
Kong describes Yumomi as a form of spiritual cultivation. There is no fixed manual; mastery comes through instinct and years of repetition. “Every glove is different—infield, outfield, catcher, pitcher—and every brand has its nuances,” he explains. “Most of all, every player has unique habits. My job is to understand the person who uses it.”
To date, players using gloves serviced by Kong have won a combined 39 Gold Glove Awards. Stars such as Chiang Kun-Yu, Lin Chia-Cheng, Chen Chieh-Hsien, and Hsu Jo-Hsi regularly entrust their essential gear to him. Yet, the work remained largely invisible until a championship series when a starting catcher’s mitt broke mid-game. Kong, who happened to be in the stands with his tools, was rushed into action by the staff. A journalist captured the moment, and the public finally glimpsed the vital role of a glove restorer. “To be honest, it moved me deeply,” Kong says. “It felt like my efforts were finally being seen.”
As Taiwan’s baseball culture matures—moving past the shadow of former scandals toward a more robust system—Kong has seen a resurgence in the sport’s popularity. With the opening of the Taipei Dome and Taiwan’s recent international triumphs, he notices more parents encouraging their children to take up the game. “The atmosphere around Taiwanese baseball is truly improving,” he says.
Whenever he shares his expertise with young players, Kong offers a grounded perspective: the door to a professional career is incredibly narrow, and only a few will make it. “But the world of baseball is larger than just the players on the field,” he tells them. “There are managers, trainers, scouts, and even specialists like me—glove restorers and Yumomi masters. You can find your passion and professional place in many corners of this industry.” He hopes that as the culture grows, Taiwan will follow Japan’s lead in establishing dedicated, well-compensated departments for specialized crafts like his.
His ultimate validation came during the WBSC Premier12, where he served as a member of the national team staff. Receiving his official Team Taiwan jersey was a moment of profound pride. “It’s different from buying a jersey as a fan,” Kong says. “It brings a deep sense of belonging—a feeling that I am striving right alongside the team. It is truly wonderful.”
The Hand-Painted Lantern Workshop—Wan Hui Lantern
Li-Chieh:In high school, I studied animation; in university, performing arts. But at twenty-one, I returned to the family workshop to apprentice under my father. It has been ten years now. Back then, I could not find a career path that truly resonated with me, so I figured I might as well start early. This is not a craft you master in a year or two—it is a family legacy that is not taught to outsiders. If we did not return, Taiwan would lose one of its few remaining guardians of this art.
Jui-Cheng: My background is in social work. I decided to return six years ago when my father’s health began to decline. Growing up, the fact that we lived in a lantern shop did not mean much to me. It was not until university, when I saw the astonished reactions from friends, that I realized how rare our heritage actually is. My earliest memory of the workshop is being called over as a child to help peel gold adhesive strips off the lanterns.
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Li-Chieh: I was never assigned to peel those strips. But I do remember playing ball under the arcade outside the shop one day and accidentally shattering the glass. It was only in that moment of sudden breakage that I really felt it—the realization that, “Ah, this place is a shop.” On a lantern, there is no room for drafts. I started by practicing on old newspapers and weathered lanterns, training my mind to project a character before the brush even touched the surface. We maintain the same posture for nearly eight hours a day—it is a test of patience. The more you rush, the worse the calligraphy becomes. It took three solid years of practice before I was even allowed to touch a large-scale lantern.
Jui-Cheng: The dragons on our lanterns follow a strict lineage. My grandfather taught my father, who simplified the steps and brightened the colors before teaching us. We are not allowed to alter the brushwork of the dragon yet; it is all down to muscle memory. On a curved surface, a line that looks straight on paper will warp. That “feel” can only be accumulated stroke by stroke, year after year.
Li-Chieh: The most enjoyable part is painting things unrelated to temples. A recent highlight was creating a custom lantern for the Japanese actor Yutaka Matsushige, star of The Solitary Gourmet. It was commissioned by FarFromSkinny (痛風老饕), a prominent Taiwanese food KOL. I handled the illustrations—painting bowls, chopsticks, and a braised pork hock—while Jui-Cheng did the calligraphy. That was a rare collaboration; we usually work solo to ensure a consistent brushstroke, as even a small hand-off can disrupt the visual flow.
Jui-Cheng: There are still things my older brother can do that I have not yet mastered—intricate dragon and tiger motifs, or hybrid scripts blending Li Shu (Clerical Script) and Zhuan Shu (Seal Script). I am currently honing my technique for bianzi (flat characters), the specialized style designed for curved surfaces. To improve, I have started observing street signs, looking for bold, rounded fonts that might translate well onto a lantern.
Li-Chieh: Today, Wan Hui Lantern is powered by the third and fourth generations working side-by-side, still focused primarily on traditional lanterns for temples. When I first returned, facing two generations of elders on my own, I hardly dared to dream of trying anything new. I mostly just followed orders, treating it as a way to “level up” my fundamental skills.
Jui-Cheng: To be honest, innovation is still mostly a conversation. Our elders feel that temple orders keep us busy enough—why chase “distractions”? In the past, they rejected all custom or commercial requests, believing that time was better spent on temple lanterns to earn more. It is only in recent years that things have started to shift; for instance, they now let us handle media interviews on our own.For those of us returning to a traditional trade, a nagging doubt is inevitable: “Is this really what I will be doing for the rest of my life?” You find yourself questioning if you are even on the right path. But having the space to innovate gives the work oxygen; it keeps the craft from feeling stagnant. I am constantly thinking: how can hand-painted lanterns exist beyond temples? How can we make them more universal?
To Shiro, ritual practice is fundamentally a form of art. Whether it is calligraphy, the sacred footwork of Bu-gang, the chanting of incantations, or the intricate hand mudras of Zhi-jue, each act requires more than just physical grace—it demands a disciplined infusion of essence, breath, and spirit. “When these elements align,” he explains, “it naturally becomes art. And within that art, energy is born.”
Many seek him out in hopes of wealth, luck, or answers to life’s many riddles. While Shiro offers energy blessings to help ease their hardships, he is quick to temper expectations of instant miracles. “You are not going to win the lottery overnight,” he says plainly. “Real change must come from within.”
If life feels stagnant, his advice is surprisingly ordinary: step outside, walk to a convenience store, and buy something you genuinely enjoy. “In that moment of choice,” Shiro says, “you are already deciding your destiny.”
Faith is vital, yet Shiro believes religion is but one vessel for it. To him, whatever one truly pursues becomes their object of devotion. “If you chase money, money is your faith,” he muses. “If you follow the gods, the gods are your faith. But if you believe in yourself, then you become your own faith.”
He views divination—whether through Bazi, Zi Wei Dou Shu, or Tarot—as a form of spiritual statistics. These systems are reflections of one’s present state; they are signals, not sentences. “No fate is fixed,” he says firmly. “Destiny can always be changed.”
Though serving as a jitong is his tian-ming, Shiro maintains that even the divine will respect human choice. Having a “special constitution” does not obligate one to a path they do not love. “Perhaps your true heavenly calling,” he suggests, “is simply to do what you love.”
Over the years, Shiro has moved from resistance and fear toward a quiet reconciliation with himself. Through this journey, he has arrived at one final truth: everything begins in the heart. The moment we dare to take a step toward change, destiny begins to change with us.
Events
01｜
2026 TIDF:
Taiwan International Documentary Festival
Established in 1998, the Taiwan International Documentary Festival (TIDF) is a biennial event and one of Asia’s most influential and long-standing documentary platforms. TIDF champions freedom, creativity, and cross-disciplinary exchange, pushing the boundaries of documentary aesthetics and experimentation.
Each edition showcases approximately 130 global works, complemented by masterclasses, forums, live performances, and exhibitions. The 2026 key visual is an artistic extension of the film Off Frame aka Revolution Until Victory. Through the deconstructive collage and painterly interventions of designer Vedala, scattered fragments of historical imagery are overturned and reshaped—using the act of erasure to give form to truth and redefine the essence of the “real.”
The festival will run from May 1 to May 10, 2026, at the Taiwan Film and Audiovisual Institute (TFAI), SPOT-Huashan, and Taiwan Contemporary Culture Lab (C-LAB).
02｜
Chiayi Art Museum: Sophist’s Stone
Chiayi Art Museum presents its 2026 annual thematic exhibition, Sophist’s Stone, running from April 11 to June 21. Curated by Shen Yu-Chang, the exhibition gathers 17 creators active in contemporary craft and fine art to explore the concept of “Transformation.” Spanning ceramics, metalwork, fiber art, sculpture, video, and mixed media, the artists alter the textures and temperaments of everyday materials, inviting viewers to reimagine the intricate relationship between nature and urban culture through a multifaceted lens.
Editor’s Picks
01｜
Daughter of Nectar
Completed in 1921 by pioneering sculptor Huang Tu-Shui, the marble statue Daughter of Nectar (Kám-lō͘-chúi) is one of the most dramatic works in Taiwan’s art history. Having survived ink defacement and decades of neglect, the statue remained hidden in a wooden crate for nearly half a century before finally re-emerging as a National Treasure.Now, this extraordinary journey is captured in the documentary Daughter of Nectar. Tracing a narrative that spans from the cultural awakening of the Japanese colonial period to the shadows of the post-war White Terror, the film mirrors the turbulent tides and resilience of the Taiwanese experience through the fate of this legendary sculpture.
02｜
Taiwan Travelogue
On March 31, the International Booker Prize announced its 2026 shortlist, selecting Taiwan Travelogue as one of its six finalists. This marks a historic milestone as the first Taiwanese work to reach the shortlist, and it stands as the only work by an Asian author in this year’s final selection. After winning the U.S. National Book Award for Translated Literature, the novel was published in the UK by And Other Stories in March 2026.
Written by Yang Shuang-Zi and translated by Lin King, the novel is set in Taiwan under Japanese rule. It weaves a captivating yet heartbreaking tale of two women, gracefully exploring the challenges of love and friendship within the inherent power imbalances of a colonial era.
03｜
Lún-piáⁿ(Taiwanese Runbing / Spring Roll)
April 5 marks Qingming Festival (Tomb-Sweeping Day) in Taiwan, one of the four major traditional festivals. It is a time for families to reunite, tend to ancestral graves, and offer remembrances. For families with roots in Southern Fujian, the tradition of wrapping and eating Lún-piáⁿ (also known as Runbing or Taiwanese spring rolls) remains a cherished custom. This practice evolved from the ancient “Cold Food Festival,” where lighting fires was prohibited, leading people to wrap various cold fillings in thin flour skins.
In Taiwan, however, these “Taiwanese burritos” are enjoyed year-round! Convenient, savory, and endlessly customizable, it is an essential Taiwanese delicacy that everyone should experience.
New Articles
Feature Story:
A Cat-Centric Society: The Distance Between Us and Cats is Just One Treat Away
HuaIn Taiwan, April 4 marks not only Children’s Day but also Taiwan Cat Day. Around the world, similar cat-related holidays are observed with a shared vision: fostering a more harmonious coexistence between humans and felines.
Today, Taiwan is witnessing a profound shift in its companion animal landscape. Over the past decade, the number of registered domestic cats has surged by 327.8%, while dogs—traditionally the dominant companion animals—have seen a 6% decline. This trend mirrors a global urban phenomenon, shaped by the realities of high housing costs, the rise of singlehood, declining birth rates, and shrinking living spaces.
However, as the bond between humans and cats grows ever closer, an essential question remains: are we truly prepared? Are we ready to embrace the weight, commitment, and lifelong responsibility that come with welcoming such a partner into our lives?
Read the full feature here.
CREDIT
Text
Hsu Yun-Han、Kuo Chen-Yu
Translation
Chou Ting-Ting
Photography
Zhutor
Editing
Kuo Chen-Yu、Hsu Yun-Han
Image Source
Photo by By Phoebe – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=134411664
Photo from TIDF(https://www.tidf.org.tw/zh-hant)
Photo from Chiayi Art Museum(https://chiayiartmuseum.chiayi.gov.tw/english/)
Photo from Daughter of Nectar （https://www.facebook.com/kamlootsuifilm/photos）
Photo from The Booker Prizes(https://thebookerprizes.com/the-booker-library/books/taiwan-travelogue)