When people talk about Hong Kong art, they usually point to neon lights, crowded skylines, or maybe those glossy paintings of traditional dim sum. But for those following the career of Chow Chun Fai, the conversation has shifted. It’s no longer just about his technical skill or his background driving a red taxi through the winding streets of Kowloon. Lately, the discussion has been centered on something much heavier. Chow Chun Fai ongoing trauma isn't a medical diagnosis you'll find in a hospital chart, but it’s the pulse of his work in 2026.
Basically, if you look at his latest series, you’re looking at a man trying to paint his way through a collective heartbreak.
It's been a few years since the world watched the images of 2019 flash across their screens. For most, it's a memory. For Chow, it’s a lingering shadow. He didn't just watch it; he lived it, and then he was left to figure out what happens to an artist when the city they love changes irrevocably.
The Weight of Memory in a Shifting City
Chow Chun Fai has always been a bit of a researcher. He’s the guy who spent years obsessing over the exact color of a taxi's fender or the specific font of a movie subtitle. But something changed during the 2019-2020 protests. You can see it in his "Portraits from Behind" series. These weren't the polished, witty movie stills he was known for. They were small, gritty, and almost frantic.
Honestly, it’s heartbreaking. He started painting these scenes—masked figures, clouds of tear gas, the airport sit-ins—because he literally couldn't focus on anything else. He was "deeply disturbed and shaken," as some critics put it. That’s the root of the Chow Chun Fai ongoing trauma. It’s the trauma of witnessing a home transform into a place that feels alien.
- The Spontaneity: Unlike his older works, which were meticulously planned, the protest-era paintings felt like a reflex.
- The Scale: Some were tiny—10x10cm squares—as if he was trying to contain a massive, explosive emotion into a space he could control.
- The Perspective: We often see things from the periphery, looking over the shoulder of a reporter or a protester, mirroring the feeling of being an observer in your own crisis.
Why 2026 Feels Different for Chow
By now, in early 2026, many of the "red lines" in the Hong Kong art scene have become thick walls. Many of Chow’s peers have left for London, Taiwan, or New York. Chow stayed.
That choice carries its own kind of weight. Staying means navigating a landscape where certain things can’t be said directly anymore. In his 2025 exhibition "Interview the Interviewer II" at Art Basel Hong Kong, he pivoted. He began collaborating with former journalist Sharon Cheung, looking back at archives from the 1997 handover.
It’s a clever move, but it’s also a sad one. By looking back at 1997, he’s actually talking about the present. He’s exploring the "spectral coexistence" of what the city was supposed to be versus what it is. When he paints the 1997 handover ceremony today, he's doing it in the very building where it happened, but the air in the room is different. The "ongoing trauma" here is the realization that the past he’s painting is gone for good.
The "Map of Amnesia" and the Fight to Remember
One of his more recent shows was literally titled "Map of Amnesia." Think about that. In a city where history is being rewritten or simply erased, the act of remembering becomes a burden.
He once tried to find a Mahjong school he had painted years prior, only to find it completely gone. Not just moved—erased from the streetscape. For Chow, this isn't just "urban development." It’s a loss of self. His work has become a repository for things the city is trying to forget.
The Subtitle as a Survival Strategy
If you know Chow, you know his "Painting on Movies" series. It’s his bread and butter. He takes a still from a classic Hong Kong film—maybe Infernal Affairs or a Stephen Chow comedy—and paints the subtitles beneath it.
"I want my identity back."
That’s a real subtitle he used from Infernal Affairs. Back in the day, it was a witty nod to Hong Kong's colonial past. In 2026, it feels like a scream.
He uses these movies because they are a shared language. Everyone in Hong Kong knows these lines. By painting them, he’s connecting with a collective memory that hasn't been "sanitized" yet. It’s a way to process the Chow Chun Fai ongoing trauma by using the city's own culture as a shield. It’s smart, it’s subtle, and it’s deeply painful if you know what you’re looking at.
Is This Just About Politics?
Kinda, but not really.
It’s about the human cost of living through a historical rupture. We often talk about "trauma" in art as this big, dramatic thing. For Chow, it seems to be more of a "gentle whisper," as he described his approach to painting travel memories recently.
During a trip to Taiwan and Europe, he started painting on random objects—stones, parking tickets, old poetry books. It was a way to ground himself. When your home doesn't feel like home, you start looking for anchors in the small things. This shift from the "big" political paintings back to the "small" personal ones is a classic trauma response: retreating to what is manageable.
What Most People Get Wrong
People think Chow Chun Fai is just a "political artist." That’s a bit of a lazy take.
He’s an artist who refuses to look away. Whether he’s painting a taxi in 2003 or a riot policeman in 2020, he’s documenting the reality of being a Hong Konger. The "trauma" isn't just about the conflict; it's about the "unclear identity" that comes after. He once said, "We have art in order not to die of the truth." That’s not a political slogan. That’s a survival guide.
Actionable Insights: Engaging with Art in Times of Crisis
If you’re looking at Chow Chun Fai’s work—or any art born from social upheaval—there are ways to engage that go beyond just "liking" a picture on Instagram.
- Look for the "Translation": In Chow’s work, the gap between the image and the subtitle is where the meaning lives. Ask yourself: Why this specific line? Why this specific moment?
- Understand the Context of Staying: Don't just praise artists who leave. Recognize the immense psychological toll on those who choose to stay and work within "unclear red lines."
- Support Local Archives: Much of Chow's work is based on news archives and film history. Supporting the preservation of local media is, in a way, supporting the raw material of his art.
- Acknowledge the "Fifth Season": As explored in his collaboration with Ivy Ma, trauma often creates a "fifth season"—a state of being that doesn't fit into the normal cycles of life.
The story of Chow Chun Fai isn't finished. It’s a long-form exploration of how a person stays whole when their world is fractured. His paintings are the breadcrumbs he’s leaving so we can find our way back to the truth of what happened.
Keep a close eye on his upcoming projects in late 2026. The shift from grand historical narratives back to "private drawers" of memory suggests a new, more personal phase of healing—or perhaps, a deeper kind of hiding. Either way, it’s a journey worth following.
To truly understand the depth of this work, visit the M+ Museum or follow the archives at Gallery EXIT, where many of these "trauma" pieces are documented. Understanding the history of the Fotanian Artist Village also provides key context for how these artists support one another when the outside world feels increasingly precarious.