What’s Behind Hong Kong’s Remarkable Flower Plaques — 花牌

If you look up above the crowds this month, you may spot giant red flower plaques blooming over temples, village entrances and bamboo theatres across the city during the Tin Hau, Dragon Boat and Tai Ping Ching Chiu festivals. These gigantic bamboo banners, known as faa1 paai4 (花牌), are often crowned with spreading peacock feathers and adorned with dragon and phoenix motifs, red fabric, tinfoil flowers and calligraphy — all meticulously tied together with bamboo strips and wire.

While most people notice flower plaques only during celebrations, Choi Wing-kei has been surrounded by them for as long as he can remember. Born into the trade, Choi learned the craft from his father, who founded a flower plaque company in the 1960s after working as a bamboo theatre scaffolder. He began helping out in primary school, folding paper flowers, and officially took over the business in 1998, renaming it Wing Kei Flower Store.

At first, however, the craftsman took little pride in the trade. “It is physically demanding. You have to work under the scorching sun and in the rain. The studio is often very dirty,” says Choi, now 50, standing at his workshop in Yuen Long.

Flower plaque components can be reused and, if properly stored, last for more than a decade. That means craftsmen need large spaces to keep and assemble the towering bamboo structures — something hard to come by in Hong Kong. Choi was fortunate to secure a space on a village hillside in 2020, but summers there are brutal. When we visited in mid-May, we were sweating and getting bitten by mosquitoes almost as soon as we arrived.

Like the craft itself, his workshop is built with bamboo scaffolding. “Don’t underestimate it,” says Choi, pointing to a supporting bamboo pole. “It’s strong enough to withstand typhoons, even No. 8 typhoon signals. Bamboo scaffolding is our best friend. The joints make it easy to tie things together, and it’s flexible enough to bend and twist. Hong Kong people are like that too — we don’t work in a rigid way.”

It was this mindset that kept Choi going, even as he became one of the few craftsmen left in the industry. “I thought to myself, I didn’t have other career options in mind anyway, so why not put the things I like into the flower plaques?” he recalls. “Gradually, people began appreciating my work and my father gave me more freedom to try new ideas. That became my motivation to continue the craft.”

A century-old Hong Kong craft

Included in Hong Kong’s first official list of intangible cultural heritage in 2014, flower plaque making emerged in the 1920s as a way to announce special events at a time when communication channels were limited. The craft reached its golden age during the economic boom between the 1950s and 1970s. Often rising several stories high, these handmade bamboo structures lined the streets for shop openings, festivals and celebrations. In 1961, during Princess Alexandra’s visit to Hong Kong, more than 30 flower plaques were displayed across the city, including five towering 25-foot structures along Hennessy Road. By the 1970s, around 2,000 craftsmen were working in the industry.

The trade began to decline in the late 1980s as soaring rents, urban redevelopment and the rise of mass media changed the market. Today, these colourful plaques are no longer part of everyday street life and are mostly seen during festive celebrations.

“It’s a true Hong Kong tradition, as one of the city’s earliest forms of advertising. Before that, notices were simply painted on walls,” says Choi. “Once you put up the red fabric and floral decorations, the atmosphere immediately feels festive.”

Just as the function of faa1 paai4 has changed over time, so have the materials used to make them. Early flower plaques were covered in red fabric and decorated with fresh flowers. In the 1960s, paper flowers began replacing fresh ones, and by the 1990s, more durable waterproof tinfoil flowers had taken over.

Technology has also transformed the craft, with digitally made signage replacing handwritten calligraphy. “In the past, every company hired a calligrapher, so each flower plaque had its own unique style of writing,” says the craftsman. “Now everything is printed, and that distinct character and human touch have been lost.”

A new take on faa1 paai4

Having practised the craft for more than four decades, Choi has brought new ideas to the century-old tradition and collaborated with different parties to push its boundaries. In 2012, he worked with architect William Lim and other artists to create a giant flower plaque for the West Kowloon Bamboo Theatre. Among the challenges he overcame were matching the colours and piecing giant QR codes together onto the giant flower plaque.

“I learned a lot from their artistic vision and professionalism,” recalls Choi. “After that collaboration, I started experimenting with different colours, like purple and blue, when making flower plaques. Instead of following the traditional practice, I began imagining how different colour combinations would work together.”

Even for funerals, Choi has experimented with adding brighter colours such as pink and green, as well as LED lighting, alongside the usual white tones — as with the flower plaque he made for his father’s funeral in 2018. “I’m not saying funerals should become celebrations, but they don’t have to be filled only with sorrow,” he says. “Of course we feel sad, but I’m sure the deceased would not want to see us crying endlessly. Death can also mean relief. By adding those colours, it gives a peaceful and gentle feeling.”

Since then, the craftsman has continued with bold new projects, including creating a record-breaking 216-foot flower plaque with more than 10,000 LED light bulbs for the Tai Po Lam Tsuen Jiao Festival in 2017; and building a five-storey animated flower plaque for the 30th anniversary of the Hong Kong Cultural Centre. 

He has even brought the Hong Kong tradition overseas. Choi first showcased the craft abroad in 2014 at the annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival on the National Mall in Washington, DC, where he was invited to build a 30-foot-high, 120-foot-wide Hong Kong-style flower plaque. The month before the trip, the craftsman was so worried that he kept checking and recounting the materials to make sure nothing was missing. “After all, we were representing Hong Kong and the whole world would be watching us,” he says. “We couldn’t afford to fail.”

The showcase received an overwhelming response and recognition from people outside Hong Kong. But what Choi valued most was seeing overseas Hongkongers reconnect with a familiar part of home through his work. “There was an elderly couple who cried after seeing the flower plaque,” he recalls. “They told us they never thought they would see one in Washington. When they spotted the red fabric from afar, they could hardly believe it.”

The trip turned the craftsman’s worries into confidence. “You can’t buy that kind of experience. Every time we make a faa1 paai4 overseas, foreigners would stop to watch us out of curiosity, while Hong Kong people overseas looked at the flower plaques as if they were meeting an old friend.”

Keeping the craft alive

Like many traditional handicrafts in Hong Kong, flower plaque making is fading. It’s not for lack of work: the city hosts festive celebrations almost every month where the plaques remain a prominent feature. “I work almost 365 days a year,” says Choi. “About 80 per cent of our business comes from celebrations and festivals, while the rest comes from funerals.” 

But with only three flower plaque-making companies and fewer than five craftsmen left in the industry, there’s a lack of fresh blood to sustain the industry. Choi’s company now has just six full-time employees, including himself, and only one apprentice.

Although flower plaque making is listed as intangible cultural heritage, the trade still relies on apprenticeships, with no official training pathway. “I offer HK$1,000 a day, but no one responds. People would rather work in construction, which pays better and requires fewer skills,” says Choi.

Growing safety concerns and a changing landscape have dealt another blow to the craft. Choi recalls a recent installation in Yuen Long for a shop opening that drew multiple complaints alleging that it obstructed the walkway; in the past there were no such issues.

His way of adapting is to transform the giant outdoor display into an indoor installation. “It’s a good shift because working indoors is less physically demanding, but it requires greater skill. It’s like making a model — the smaller it is, the more detail it needs,” he explains. 

Regardless of the size of the flower plaque, Choi insists on crafting every piece by hand with bamboo and wire. Moving the craft indoors allows more people to appreciate and interact with it without concerns over safety or bad weather. He says: “We don’t need to take it down when there’s a typhoon. It can stay on display longer, and it’s easier for people to stop by and take photos. People enjoy it just as much as when it’s outdoors.”

Asked about the future of the craft, the craftsman remains positive: “For at least another 15 years, Hong Kong will still have flower plaques because I have a daughter in kindergarten to raise. As long as I’m here, there will still be Hong Kong faa1 paai4.” For Choi, adapting to the times is key to keeping the tradition alive. “Just like what my father always told me: things are dead, but people are alive. If things don’t change, then you must.”