A pair of sunglasses, and in the lens, far off, the reflection of the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall. Lo Chan Peng refracts an entire political monument into the most trifling of fashion accessories — deep in the pupil of youth, the inverted image of a history wrapped into the everyday, all but unnoticed.

This is his most exquisite move in "peeling reality": he neither accuses nor preaches, but lets a political truth, layered and packed away, slip out inadvertently in a single glint of reflection. "Cell Division" paints how this wrapping reproduces itself — individuals multiplying and converging within one system of trendy signs, wearing different faces yet sharing a single, pre-decided look. This is the saturation point of his "symbolic person": seemingly unique, in truth countless copies divided from one mother-cell. When a fictional order succeeds so completely that even those it shapes are wholly unaware, it has achieved the most thorough wrapping of all — making the lie look like nature.

The threshold here is thus a stalling: a person not yet grown into themselves is first copied into a template, stuck between "the self others decided for me" and "the true self," unable to move. And the memorial hall hidden in the lens reminds you — peel away this layer of consumption and fashion, and beneath it lies another, of nation and politics; reality is wrapped layer within layer, and truth is pressed to the very bottom.

Here Lo lays down a proposition that will keep returning: the more natural a thing looks, the more likely it is the best-wrapped lie. That doubt will grow, in the years to come, from a single generation to history, to faith, and at last to the real itself.