​Inside the Kwong Ngai Paper Product Factory on Ta Chuen Ping Street in Kwai Chung, 64-year-old Master Yung Chun-wah bends over his workbench, preparing this year's paper offerings for the Yu Lan Festivals across various districts. From Wong Chuk Hang to Kowloon City, from Tsui Ping to Shun Tin Estate, and on to Fanling, communities throughout Hong Kong await his handcrafted masterpieces—those dignified Ghost Master figures, colorful divine robes, and lifelike divine horses.  The work began back in May, with Yung methodically crafting each component by hand.

Yet behind the steady rhythm of his craft lies a troubling reality: despite Hong Kong's Yu Lan Festival of the Chiu Chow Community being listed as a National Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2011, the traditional craft of Chiu Chow paper offerings faces a crisis of continuity.

 

A Three-Generation Craftsman Legacy

 

The Kwong Ngai Paper Product Factory has witnessed the rise and fall of Hong Kong's Chiu Chow paper craft industry.  Yung Chun-wah's family connection to this craft spans three generations. His grandfather was originally a farmer in Chaoyang's Xiashan village who organized the village Yu Lan Festival activities before the war. "According to my father, grandfather was very sociable and an active community member. He couldn't make paper offerings himself, but he would find craftsmen from the village and nearby areas, coordinating and managing the entire event. In those days, Yu Lan festivals were held at year's end after the harvest season," Yung recalls.

 

His grandfather died young. Yung's father, Yung Siu-ching, came to Hong Kong in 1945 with his brother and cousin to seek their fortunes. He was only 16 years old and found work at Kam Yuk Lau, a paper craft workshop on Cochrane Street in Central—arguably the pinnacle of Hong Kong's paper craft industry in the first half of the 20th century. "Kam Yuk Lau had many skilled craftsmen, working in both Chiu Chow and local styles. The Chiu Chow specialists mainly created figure sets, while local craftsmen made lion and dragon heads for overseas export. During the shop's golden period in the 1950s, they reportedly employed eight to ten Chiu Chow figure specialists alone—it was Hong Kong's paper craft golden age."

 

Eventually, Yung's father struck out on his own, setting up a workshop in Ha Lung Chung, Sha Tin (now Pai Tau Village). Born in 1961, Yung grew up immersed in the family business. "I never had a proper summer break," he laughs. "July was crunch time—the month before the Yu Lan Festival when everyone needed their orders finished. I was packing, delivering, learning the craft whether I liked it or not." By seventeen, he could single-handedly create a complete Ghost Master figure. His first masterpiece was commissioned for the Yu Lan Festival in Tai Kong Po.

The family business moved twice more when Ha Lung Chung was subject to land resumption — first to Shek Kip Mei Factory Estate in 1978, then to their current location in 2001 when their previous building became the Jockey Club Creative Arts Centre. This time, Yung, now taking over the family business, made a crucial decision: he bought the premises outright. No more relocations. No more uncertainty.

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The Distinctive Art of Chiu Chow Paper Craft

 

Chiu Chow paper offerings possess distinct regional characteristics that differ significantly from local Cantonese and Hokkien paper crafts. Take the Ghost Master figures, for instance. These imposing guardians maintain order during festivals, preventing wandering spirits from disrupting proceedings.  They're typically the most "eye-catching" paper offerings at Yu Lan Festivals.

"The Chiu Chow style Ghost Master stands tall with a blue face, and the Goddess of Mercy sits on top of the hat—we rarely use porcelain. The Cantonese versions? They're usually sitting with their legs kicked out, painted faces, with a porcelain figurine of the Goddess of Mercy at the chest level. The Hokkien ones are brown-faced with horns and bare feet," Yung explains.

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Then there are the divine robes. These aren't just decorative; they're functional offerings, meant for deities to change into as a sign of devotion. These are usually hung in divine robe pavilions or near altar structures. Traditional divine robes are divided into three sections representing heaven, earth, and sea. "The sea section features shrimp soldiers and crab generals, while heaven and earth parts typically use yellow to represent royalty, and the sea section uses black or lake blue colors." The designs are rich with symbolism: Five Dragons and Five Pavilions, where the dragons represent imperial power and the pavilions symbolize dragon gates—the mythical threshold that carp must leap to become dragons.

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"The old robes used to have incredible detail work at the bottom," Yung says. "There’re scenes depicting the flooding of Jinshan Temple from the ‘Legend of the White Snake story’, featuring Fahai, Xu Xian, White Snake and Green Snake, and all the underwater creatures. Now, with tighter budgets, many festivals just stick on random figures or use silk-screen printing."

The craftsmanship itself is distinctive. While Cantonese craftsmen rely heavily on bamboo frameworks, Chiu Chow artists work primarily with molded hard paper. There are a few exceptions, including divine horses—those spiritual messengers that carry human prayers to heaven. "Usually we make just one," Yung notes, "though some festivals order a pair, one red, one white."

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A Traditional Industry at Sunset

 

Yung recalls the industry's heyday when Hong Kong had at least four professional Chiu Chow paper craft shops, plus numerous funeral parlor workers who moonlighted as craftsmen. "During peak periods, we'd even post street signs looking for summer workers,” he recalls. “The years 1992-1993 marked a turning point for this industry, as several veteran craftsmen retired or passed away in succession, including the legendary Master Siu Hip-lee, who dominated the Hong Kong Island market. I had seen how he worked. All-nighters were normal for him. He'd pop ginseng just to keep going."

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Yung officially took over the family business in the late 1990s, though his father continued working until his death at 97 just last year—a man who literally devoted his entire life to the paper craft industry. The father-son partnership that sustained the business for decades has ended, leaving Yung and his workers to handle everything. His younger brother helps during busy periods, but that's it.

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"Nobody wants to learn this craft anymore.  We only have two full-time craftsmen left," Yung says.  This year alone, he's fulfilling orders for over 20 festivals—three months of preparation, ten-hour workdays from 8 AM to 6:30 PM, then the labor-intensive installation work at festival sites, sweating under the sun or getting soaked in summer rain. At 64, even Yung is feeling the strain. "My legs can't take it much longer. Next year, I'll probably stop making the big Ghost Masters—maybe one or two orders at most. I can still handle the smaller pieces."

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Competition from imports is making things worse. “Some festivals now source cheaper alternatives from mainland China—plastic-molded imitations that look authentic from a distance but reveal their true nature when burned and lack the traditional craftsmanship. Most people can't tell the difference until they get close," Yung shrugs.​