Coral Dictionary: Dinawan Journals

Why is it that in English when we say something nonfactual, we say it in past tense? Do we pretend that it has already happened, hence truthful? Or does the temporal distance from the present to the past represent a gradient of actuality, now being the most real. These journal entries were written in 2019, when I visited Dinawan Island in Malaysia to participate in a residency program called Offshore, from which my ongoing project Coral Dictionary was conceived. In the past six years, I kept this journal on my table and revisited parts of it every now and then. Excerpts from it have become ingredients in many of my performative lectures. As the bodily memory of heat, swimming, and mosquito bites inevitably fades, this journal became my source of truth. What hasn’t faded, to my great fortune, is the wondrous and fatal initial encounter that I had with coral debris, also documented here.

9/10

This must be near my first swim on the island, though the exact spot eludes me. But the sea seems different. Jagged reef shards are almost everywhere. I have waded for so long until the water gets only knee-deep—still too shallow to swim. The minefield of coral and reef shards becomes denser, leaving fewer places for me to step. Looking back, the shore has withdrawn into the distance. I feel perplexed as if I am lost in a maze. Stuck in the middle, and my patience wears thin. A few more steps, and cut my calf on something. The sea comes up to my thighs, very barely. Start swimming cautiously toward the deeper water. The coral is close beneath my belly, unwelcoming, if not menacing. At lunch, volunteers mentioned that coral is an animal, not a plant. Do animals possess more emotions than plants? More communicative with each other? Though I’ve heard trees also chat. While I am swimming, I wonder if the sterile hostility emitted by the coral is a response to my intrusion. I kick forward far.

Head toward what seemed like yesterday’s waters but find nothing familiar. Has the sea level dropped this much? I am still intruding. Corals in the sea, all so foreign—their colors (dark red, deep purple), their shapes (clustered, compounded), their texture (slick but unyielding—reached out, just once, and immediately knew I shouldn’t have). I think of the coral debris onshore, simple and plain bone-white, brittle and crisp to the touch, with definite contours—something graspable. It turns out I dare only confront lifeless coral, unable to face its gloomy yet thriving vitality. Swim even harder, but can’t find any trace of the past. It is said you can’t step into the same river twice—apparently, you can’t dive into the same sea either. The sea is a body, undergoing life’s changes and cycles. My knee is scraped and bleeding. I ought to return to the camp for a shower.

I meant to go back to last night’s sunset beach, but distant rolls of thunder are murmuring. Change course, end up by the pier instead. I take photos of organizations of sand in intricate, mysterious, and almost mathematical patterns on the beach. Perhaps traces of the dusk routine of some tiny creatures, leaving various shapes full of inner logic. Bent double, I snap pictures while walking along the shore with [the dog] Shogun padding after me. Slipped into my frame are fallen leaves, pine needles, once a vermilion flower (a tropical one—what’s her name?). Heading south, the sky gets yellow and yellow. I am in a mirror of sunset. The horizon is drowned in that yellow so vivid beyond all reason. Dark clouds thicken above me. A few raindrops fall. I hurry onto the deck with the corals I’ve picked up in my hand.

The young captain and crew are on their phones, listening to music, occasionally humming along. I sit beside them, half-listening while watching the lightning (it is a cool pink today). The dark silhouettes shifting shapes below are swarming small fish. Three or five slender, snake-like ones flicker with a faint green phosphorescence. Three birds hover above the water. Cormorants, perhaps. The sky darkens, the wind grows stronger, and the rain slants harder. Lights across the water look sharper than I’ve ever seen before.

The wind is truly fierce. Maybe because the deck is high up. So strong it feels as if we—me, the deck, the captain, and the crew—are speeding forward, an illusion of motion.

9/11

“Pencils must always be kept sharp.” Dad’s admonition comes to mind whenever I sketch. He was right—only sharpened ones deliver that keenness and precision. Only sharpened ones have the stroke intentional, the strokes’ placement, weight, and movement. I am thinking of the first project at Salt, which explored the introduction of Su Miao (sketching) from the Soviet Union to China and its national implementation. The second sought to strip Su Miao of its designated subject matters. Floating on paper is the semi-transparent spectre of technique. Now this third chapter, that very spectre meets coral bodies—angular, monochromatic, texturally rich— and can’t wait to possess them. The 手艺 (craft), literally “hand art,” behaves like those folkloric ghosts who love to ride on people’s backs. But it makes me hyperfocused and relaxed: ultra present, yet self-forgotten.

Around 4 PM. Shower. Sling on my backpack and off to the island’s west side to collect. Walk the coast, scramble over reefs, and continue along the shore. Left turn into dense woods, and then a small ruin. A foundation without a building amid the overgrowth. Graffiti on one wall read: Welcome to Dinawan, with a bird-of-paradise in the background. Past the ruins, a pond, then a narrow concrete path. The sea ahead. Here, the tide has a temper, clashing with reefs in dramatic sprays. Yes, this side of the island is a theater. The secluded, long way to get here is the darkened hush when cinema lights dim: breath held with the mind, readying the audience for the luminous spectacle.

I am here earlier today than the day before. The sun is still high. A few clouds. I crouch down, fingers sifting through coral debris, noting how they vary from dry to damp. Those farther inland or exposed to the air are parched, while those by the water, tucked behind rocks, or buried deep in sand, still moisturized. The dry ones are bone-white; the damp ones hold muted hues. And the holes. So many holes. Placed just so—always offhand and always poised, strikingly Noguchi-esque. They invite penetration. Jewelry springs to mind. I lose myself in collecting. Back-breaking—that English phrase to describe hard labour. It’s true. Since ancient times, people have toiled with their hands gathering from the earth. We stand upright, only to bend back down.

9/12

Last night’s coral harvest. Washed and arranged at the doorstep. Sorted roughly into these groups:

One hole /
Two to three holes /
Branch /
1 /
Flame /
Three-dimensional /
Snowflake /
Blue /

Not sure what to do with these categories yet. To know and learn patiently. May this mutual familiarization unfold slowly.

At 4 PM, hat on, to wander the island again. The opposite shore (where three stranger dogs roam) is a landscape full of coral debris, entirely. Even the very land (?) beneath my feet felt like (or indeed is?) an assemblage of more, older coral bodies. Most wear a cold turquoise hue, while those under bushes are in pure white and weightless. Sun-dried orphans who’ve forgotten their past lives in the water. I carry them back to camp in cupped hands. Along the beach, Shogun and two more pups keep me company.

9/14

At dusk, the construction workers burn piles of pine branches—waste disposal and mosquito repellent. Blue smoke curls over the island, the scent rather pleasant. I edge toward the fire’s reddish glow. Many of the coral bodies I collected resemble flame, or embody that rich dynamism: quivering, swelling, straining skyward. Flames like tongues, their shifting layers shuffling like overlapping leaves. An energy that is forever releasing. An energy that destroys.

9/15

Is it the tides that carve these holes in coral? Like city banners pre-punctured to withstand roaring winds. One hole, two, then many, structured like latticework. Is it a yielding negotiation with the sea’s brute force? Or is it the frailest bits that naturally vanish? Or maybe these perforated fragments are detrital tangents, breaking free from the main body more easily, now beached for me to attend. I know so little, yet I’m infatuated by their beauty. Trifles over essentials, selective exegesis—I’m fully aware of this misread.

9/16

In town with W and Fan Xi, captivated by consumerism all over again. Not that the goods are exceptional, but the sheer variety seduces. Withdraw cash and get a SIM card first. Then, the acquisitions begin: soy milk, biscuits, coffee, pencils, kneaded erasers, a dictionary Kamus Sari, a headscarf, earrings, plastic rope, sanitary pads, hair clips, more biscuits. The yellow wine shrimp noodles—marvelous. The plum lemonade—instant addiction. Must make this myself back in New York. Finish with durian ice cream and coconut pudding.

The dictionary’s example sentences are ferocious, falling into generally four themes: war, labor, girls, and deities.

9/17

Sunset is a cue. In the woods, all beaks open, all throats wide. Sunset is a cue for a lot of things. Laborers set down their tools, travelers halt mid-stride, corals release pink gametes in the sea, and birds, regardless of species, join in the chorus. Hearth smoke. Dim lights. Footsteps home. The white day fades out; the black night arises. The tide withdraws; stars and moon appear. Some flowers and leaves, even close.

5 AM. The birds wake me. After yoga, a coral research before breakfast. Whether in Chinese or English, biological terminology is full of unfamiliar words. What I jot down in my notebook isn’t just information, theories, or history—it’s the names of things and concepts. Like meeting someone new: once you learn their name, you admit them into your life story. Each drop of new knowledge gives me a new lens to see the world. For example: “clonal colony,” a community formed through vegetative reproduction. Same roots with “colonial” etymologically, and similar meaning: a group of genetically identical individuals (plants, fungi, or bacteria) growing in a given location. “Sessility,” for another instance, means a lack of self-locomotion, immobility of certain animals (sessile animals). It makes me think of Kani, who has no passport, and thus can’t travel.

I’ve been thinking of two things, and maybe they can become one: 1. Yesterday, while flipping through the dictionary, I realized modern Malay is written in the Roman alphabet. (Was it once Javanese? Needs more research.) Forming an alphabet was my first instinct when handling these coral fragments. Words and sentences can be made of coral debris, or represented by drawings. 2. Some of the dictionary’s example sentences, I want to ask the Prince to read to me, recorded in audio or video. He’s in town until the 24th; I can pick out the sentences beforehand. These two things might be connected through sentences, in other words, through “meanings.”

9/18

Morning, drawing. Afternoon, drawing. Start working with the coral debris to translate a sentence in the dictionary: “He is still young.” “He” stands as a singular column. Youth implies dynamism. I feel like punctuation should be of a different substrate. Tried seashells first, don’t quite like it. Z says seashells don’t seem as timeless. Switch to red beans instead. Z suggests that different placements of the bean can mean different punctuations. At the bottom, a period; atop, like suspended and unresolved: ? Exclamation mark in the middle, noteworthy.

9/19

Research spreads like a creeping vine—branching unpredictably, shifting directions. Language, language families, ethnic groups. History, literature, social events. Pull one thread, and the whole tapestry unravels. Sometimes we define language by its speakers: The language used by Chinese people is called Chinese—language externalizes the memory and emotion of the people. Other times, we define people by the language they use: “He’s a Cantonese speaker”—humans may be vessels for languages.

A parallel phenomenon (inspired by India Song): When a British colonialist arrived in Malaya, when the tropical heat and humidity seeped into their body, when mosquitoes and ants pierced their skin with small yet sharp edges, when unfamiliar tongues and traditions shocked their customs, who was the one being intruded? Who was the one being invaded?

Afternoon, coral gleaning again. This time, on the other half of the island, not claimed by Johny. Along the way, freshly washed-up coral bodies glistened. I dare not pick them up. I don’t want to do it, either. They are still flesh. I can’t work with flesh.

Having spent yesterday and today translating dictionary sentences with proper coral bodies, I now see meaning in every piece of debris. This tidal flat harbors thousands of fragments of significations. I glean attentively and translate selectively. But am I using corals to interpret human language in the dictionary, or translating coral’s expressiveness into the language humans are equipped to understand?

On deck, in the breeze, watch the waves. Like a moment of liquor—lightheaded, otherworldly. Every dusk on this island, I pause my doing, halt my step. Sitting or standing, I take in each chromatic shift in detail. Until darkness falls, completely.

9/21

Night is coming. We gather on deck. Eric asks the crew to take us to see fireflies. Enveloped in the air of early night. Thick violet-gray. The boat steers from the boundless sea into narrow channels, flanked by mangroves. Just black silhouettes. Spindly branches arch high over the water. Darkness blankets everything, but one can intuit density and depth in that darkness. Through the dense black, many curious yet quiet eyes blink. Some distant, some near. Fireflies. A crewman lures them with a small flashlight on the bow deck. The beam, filtered through layers of leaves, glows dim green. His hand flutters—cover, uncover, cover—mimicking fireflies’ cadence. A few summoned, drift toward us, hover a bit, then slip away. I sit here at the bow. Looking up, I see the stars. The water is also dark, thick enough to camouflage any creature inside. (They say there are crocodiles.) Tiny lights blink languidly. It’s getting even quieter. When eyes are focused on the micro, ears are concentratedly present too. On that black, the boat glides forward.

9/24

Writing each day’s diary the next morning finds a better balance—a little distance levels things/feelings. Yoga (saw a diver plunge into the water), a shower, then diary-writing on the lounge chair before breakfast. All alone. When not speaking, I feel like carrying a gemstone in my chest. Pine needles keep falling. A tiny spider, striped black and white, parachutes into my coffee. Have been transcribing example sentences in the dictionary before noon. (Selecting sentences feels akin to gathering coral bodies on the beach.) Learning sends me sparks, stirring up old knowledge in my brain.

The dictionary’s sentences generally fall into these thematic categories: labor, war/revolution, colonialism, disease, women (appearances), nature, wealth/poverty, government, morality, daily life, feelings/emotions.

I have some criteria when I select: sentences I’ve actually used here, sentences that seem exclusive to the island, sentences vivid with scenarios, and strikingly beautiful or bizarre ones.

The more I transcribe, the more my own words seem to adopt the dictionary’s tone, distanced from reality. A text to a friend: “Today, the sea is very blue.” After lunch, I encounter “karang,” which means coral, as well as to write and to weave in Malay. Another similar word, “jalin,” means both to weave and to edit. On that note, the Chinese character “编” holds both meanings, too. As I select and transcribe, I feel like a novel or film is taking shape, in a dispersive manner. These seemingly unrelated sentences map out the panorama of life with its full fluidity and complexity—without structure nor framework, also without a seam.

9/28

I’m thinking I might not return in December. That means these remaining days should be for “exhibition installation.” Or at least, to finalize the work and the way of display. The past two weeks saw the project unfold in leaps, growing dimensions. A momentum I’ve tried to keep up with. Yesterday and today, I’ve quietly reined it in to shift the direction. From the slow cultivation of a long-term project to a decisive outcome for an exhibition. From sprawling imagination to pinned materialization. Five days left.

It has to be weightless. The island is already crowded. Plants, landscapes, buildings, people, intentions. A decision gradually crystalizes: I’ll leave a few sentences here. Five? Six? Seven? Seven feels like a more timeless number. But where?

W is returning from the town laden with supplies. (I asked for chocolate.) I am waiting at the pier to meet him. There’s a particular joy in waiting for someone at deck—eyes fixed on the empty sea and impassive distant mountains, watching for a speck to appear. The speck becomes a boat, the boat grows larger, until it’s right before you. Like a sort of vision test, moderately stretching and exercising one’s grasp of distance and time.

It’s been a while since the last time I was here on the deck at this particular hour. I thought of last night, and many nights before: crew, cooks, construction workers lounging here, catching the breeze, listening to music, tapping phones, chatting. The sentences should be left here. A language is embedded with the desire of being heard or seen, should linger where people linger. Where language is produced and used. That place is them. They’re the protagonists of this theater scaffolded by dictionary sentences. The laborers. From the pier, you see the mountains often veiled in clouds. Kinabalu.▪︎

These journals were translated from Mandarin Chinese to English by Huang Sijia.

Learn more about Chang Yuchen’s Coral Dictionary in this original interview found exclusively on the Walker Reader.

Experience Coral Dictionary for yourself. On view at the Walker Art Center as part the exhibition Ways of Knowing through Sept 7, 2025.