Dear Editor:

The reports on the reuse of neglected spaces in September's Sinorama struck a chord with me.

Before the Chinese term for "neglected spaces" entered common parlance, I often would notice how old ladies would plant scallions and chili peppers in forlorn corners of parks they lived next to. Neglected and poorly used spaces can be found all around us.

In the Hsinyi District, one of the swankest locations in Taipei, one often comes across vast spaces that stand empty and neglected, awaiting the erection of new buildings. A few years ago the Fubon Cultural and Educational Foundation provided an empty lot for artists to create a large-scale work of landscape art. The artist Huang Chih-yang created the work together with some local residents. Using large amounts of oyster shells, they created a three-dimensional spider's web that suggested the texture of traditional Chinese ink-wash painting. It was truly an excellent piece of art. Hence, it turns out that even temporarily neglected spaces abound with possibilities for reuse.

Near where my older brother lives in Hsintien, there used to be an oddly shaped plot of land where a large tree grew. Although it was public land, it was poorly maintained and choked with weeds. On a recent visit to my brother, I discovered that this piece of land had already been given a new use: it had been covered with cement and was now being used as a small parking lot. This kind of reuse is truly disheartening. If they had planted some flowers around the big tree and put out a few picnic tables and chairs, they could have created a great spot for people from the community to sit in the shade and chat. Now it has become a stretch of cement that holds only two cars. As far as I'm concerned, no use at all is better than this kind of reuse.

I had similar feelings reading newspaper reports about the recent controversy over the Japanese-era dormitories that caused the Ministry of Finance and National Taiwan University to butt heads. Anyone who has traveled to Kyoto is sure to remember the streets and alleyways lined with elegant and well-maintained traditional Japanese-style residences in which people still live. Strolling those streets one feels the spirit of Japanese literature. These spaces are perhaps unsuitable to financial calculations of their worth. But their value in terms of cultural history is something that even greater economic power could not buy.

I've lived in Taipei for more than two decades and often feel very cramped. I've moved several times, and whenever I do I always look for a place that has a park in the neighborhood. Land in Taipei is said to be worth its weight in gold. But isn't this just another reason that the city needs some spaces to breathe? If those Japanese residences and their gardens shaded by big trees are all turned into rows of skyscrapers, it will only make the city a colder place.

Why not renovate these buildings and open them to the public as community cultural centers like the famous Residence Salon. They could be places where friends meet on holidays to hear a lecture or sip a cup of coffee while watching the trees and bamboo swaying in the breeze and having their common everyday cares melt away. There can't be too many cultural spaces like this. Thus, I hope that your writers and editors will make some in-depth reports on Japanese-era residences, so that these historic sites will not all disappear.

Su Pei-yuan, Taipei(tr. by Jonathan Barnard)