This enthusiastic political endorsement and generous funding, together with the widely promulgated belief that “everyone can be a maker”, have sparked individual ambition in maker entrepreneurship. The massive participation in and mobilization of the “Make with Shenzhen” campaign among different interest groups, as we will show in the following sections, have led to fluid and contested meanings of “maker”, “makerspace” and “making”.
3.2.1. A Multitude of Makers
“Honestly, I don’t know what it exactly means”, Mr. Hu, a makerspace operator, said while looking somewhat perplexed when asked about the definition of a “maker” (chuangke). Hu’s confusion has to do with the fuzzy meaning of “maker” in the Chinese context. Originated in the San Francisco Bay Area by technological hobbyists in the mid-2000s, the maker movement was initiated by a group of Do It Yourself (DIY) enthusiasts who shared a passion for digital fabrication. The maker movement in China began in the early 2010s. During the planning stages of the first international maker carnival in Beijing in 2012, China’s makers settled on an alternative term: chuangke (creative professional) [
11]. With the advantage of connoting both creativity (chuangyi) and innovation (chuangxin), chuangke is employed as a positive term within the wider creativity discourse [
11]. Incorporated into the state’s much-touted policy goal of “Mass Innovation and Entrepreneurship”, the concept of “maker” has received unprecedented media hype and public attention, ranked first in the top 10 Chinese internet buzzwords of the first half of 2015 [
40]. While the Chinese government encourages everyone to explore their creativity, risk-taking and play [
41], this approach focuses more on bringing out its entrepreneurial potential rather than promoting the “organic” maker spirit that, according to Dale Dougherty [
42] (p. 12), “celebrates cooperation, creative freedom and hands-on experience”.
Moreover, generous government sponsorship further complicates the composition of makers. The Shenzhen Municipal Government, as mentioned earlier, has released a funding policy for makers that provides up to CNY 500,000 (USD 74,130) to each maker or maker project [
39]. This enthusiastic support from the authorities has motivated thousands of Chinese individuals from diverse backgrounds to become “makers”, and Chinese makerspaces have been flooded with new faces, many of whom have little or no experience, expertise or genuine interest in creating. The potential financial benefit has even given rise to a service that helps makers prepare the application to receive these grants from the government. While some makerspaces hire consultants to update their members about the latest favorable policies, independent intermediaries can earn commission by providing services such as writing proposals, packaging application materials, liaising with government officials, and assisting with project inspection if the application is successful. “I feel the fund for makers is pretty much like the pension program in the West,” an intermediary commented, “it is especially tempting to those who are unemployed and need some initial capital to start their business, and we are there to facilitate the process.”
Encompassing opportunists, amateur hobbyists and professional entrepreneurs, the term “maker” has become increasingly ambiguous in this government-sponsored maker movement, which opens possibilities for individuals’ tactical self-representation. Like many informants, Zhao, the inventor of a large-scale irrigator, was in the process of applying for the much-coveted Shenzhen Municipal maker fund at the time of our interview. However, he refused to identify as a maker:
“I am a hardcore geek, not a maker who makes stuff out of some whimsical ideas. I love technical stuff, and I used to be a member of a hardware interest group for years. As for this project, my partner and I have been working on it for three years, and we are confident that this is the best solution with superb effectiveness in terms of both cost and function.”
Fang, who obtained his master’s degree in artificial intelligence in France, was the recipient of a grant for his project on intelligent robots. He also challenged the appellation of “a maker” by stating:
“I am not a maker but an entrepreneur. Makers are amateurs, they lack technical expertise and business acumen. They more than often overlook the market needs, and their products are usually immature. Running a start-up is a sophisticated job for elites, not for some random unemployed college graduates.”
Like Zhao and Fang, many technology-related professionals, while tactically seeking to include themselves in maker-related policies, emphasize their dedication, expertise, experiences and professionalism to distance themselves from makers that, as the Chinese government claims, “anyone can be”.
While some resist the “plebification” of innovation and entrepreneurship that is promoted by the official maker movement, others embrace the label of a “maker” because of its connotation of creativity. Mr. Li, a furniture dealer who sells his merchandise online, rented a desk at a makerspace. While the seemingly uncreative trading business might render him a misfit in the “creative” workplace, Mr. Li nevertheless saw himself as a maker. “I am experimenting with new business models with the aid of the internet”, Mr. Li claimed, “I am as creative as any other maker”. Similarly, Kathy, an artist at the Dafen oil painting village, called herself a “cultural maker” to distinguish her original paintings from the replicas that were prevalent in Dafen. Like Mr. Li and Kathy, many of those who work outside of the technology domain that is commonly celebrated by maker-related policies identify as “makers”. As the creative economy endorses the superiority of creative labor over other forms of labor [
43] (p. 66), individuals tactically mobilize its symbolic resources to establish a sense of creative identity that for many is seen to justify their access to makerspaces—a term that, as will be demonstrated in the next section, has become increasingly equivocal in the daily practices of Shenzhen’s maker movement.
3.2.2. Contested Makerspaces
In 2015, Henk, a Dutch entrepreneur, joined his expat friends for a three-day makerspace tour to look for a place to continue his hobby of making in Shenzhen. Having failed in his search, he ended up founding his own makerspace, Trouble Maker, in the following year. Recalling the makerspace tour, he commented:
“It struck me that most of the makerspaces here were very different from what one would expect. Very few of them provided labs. Those which were with labs offered little guidance, and the use of tools was strictly regulated. It seemed that they just wanted to keep their places tidy and clean… and most of the large makerspaces were owned by real estate developers, and they operated on rent instead of [on a] membership basis”.
Henk’s observations are acute. Positioned as accelerators for creative and technology-led innovation, makerspaces had been increasingly in the spotlight since Premier Li’s visit to Chaihuo [
18]. As part of the “Make with Shenzhen” Campaign, the local government has enthusiastically supported the founding and operation of makerspaces. Similar to Luo and Chan’s [
26] observations of the production of China’s coworking spaces, strong state intervention in the form of diverse subsidies, awards and mega projects distinguishes the provision of these spaces from their Western counterparts. Legions of dubiously named makerspaces have been built to take advantage of this governmental support. As a result, “makerspaces” have become contested physical and social spaces created and mobilized by individuals and organizations with diverse and even conflicting interests. The transformation of WeHome, an apartment building in Shenzhen, is a case in point.
Located in a former industrial area, WeHome is a chic apartment building converted from an old factory. While the bottom two floors serve as a co-working space for design and fashion start-ups, the top three floors are a co-living space made up of small units. With modern interiors, including a 100-metre graffiti-emblazoned lounge bar, a boutique café, a sleek yoga studio, a well-lit reading room and a brushed silver and grey kitchen, the WeHome complex houses around 160 tenants, most in their 20–30s, well-educated and well-paid. WeHome’s transition into a makerspace began with the slogan on the entrance hall being changed from “Sweet home WeHome” to “Enjoy your creative life in your sweet home WeHome”. The subdistrict office organized weekly training and workshops on entrepreneurship that took place in the lounge, where the graffiti on the walls was replaced by national flags and banners promoting the “Make with Shenzhen” campaign. While these events were often held during work hours when most of the tenants were not available, the organizers managed to use small gifts to attract dozens of audience members from the neighborhood, most of whom were retirees. Mr. Deng, the owner of WeHome, admitted that he is building a rather unconventional makerspace for “compelling reasons”. In a move to cool down the sizzling property market, the government has encouraged the development of the leasing market. To win a bid for land parcels, bidding developers have to meet the new land sale rules that require buyers to keep a certain proportion of the developments on any given site available for rental and not sale purposes. In order to win the land during the bidding process and have a foothold in “China’s hardware Silicon Valley”, Mr. Deng pledged 100% of his property for rental. Having to shift from a “build to sell” to a “build to rent” model, Mr. Deng struggles to sustain his project with limited revenue. He saw the governmental funds available for makerspaces as a way to make WeHome lucrative. The result is that Mr. Deng has been co-opted by the subdistrict office, which was looking for a venue to promote the “Make with Shenzhen” campaign. Similar to WeHome, many real-estate companies attempt to access funding by labeling themselves as makerspaces. In 2015, the number of makerspaces in China rose from around 70 to 16,000 [
44]. However, as Henk’s comments in the section above indicate, many of these lack adequate facilities to support real “maker” practice. According to Nesta [
17], only a small portion of spaces in China can be truly identified as makerspaces, while the rest are disingenuously labeled as “makerspaces” for other purposes.
This sudden surge in “makerspaces” has also led to intensified competition. Signs of the bubble bursting started to show in early 2016 when quite a few makerspaces closed, including Peacock Organization, the winner of China’s Top Ten Best Makerspaces Incubators contest in 2015. In 2016, around 55 percent of makerspaces were experiencing financial loss, and the average occupancy rate of makerspaces was 30 percent—well below the 60 percent many makerspaces need to break even [
45]. This competitive market results in entangled practices, making makerspaces a site of contestation where the original ethos of technical innovation and openness is intermingled with, if not compromised by, other motives. The cases of Litchee Lab and 3W Coffice described below illustrate the attempts that different makerspaces make to straddle the contradiction between financial sustainability and public interest.
Litchee Lab, founded in 2014 at the location of a deserted canteen, was one of the very first makerspaces in Shenzhen. With an aim to promote DIY culture in the local community, the original Litchee Lab prioritized affordable access to analogue and digital design and aimed to provide facilities and space for both adult and teenage makers. Whereas adults paid a monthly fee of CNY 700 for 24/7 access to Litchee’s equipment, students could enroll in training programs and workshops to study maker skills. The vibrant and collaborative vibe of Litchee Lab made it one of the international maker community’s preferred makerspaces in Shenzhen, and it has been widely covered by international media publications such as Wired, Make Magazine and Forbes. Despite its rising global reputation, Litchee Lab found it hard to maintain focus on both its membership system and its educational programs and had to make up the financial losses of the former through the latter. Since 2017, it has concentrated on STEM education by offering paid courses and training. This transformation has helped Litchee Lab survive the “makerspace winter”. Meanwhile, these readjustments, according to its founder Lit Liao, have also changed the nature of Litchee Lab:
“What matters about makerspaces is their open and sharing atmosphere. Litchee Lab used to be open to anyone, but at this stage, we’ve decided to focus on providing STEM education to school-aged children. We are transforming Litchee Lab into a STEM service provider.”
Similar to Litchee Lab, some internationally recognized makerspaces in Shenzhen have to limit their membership and focus on providing value-added services to sustain themselves. Makerspaces relying primarily on rental income aim to boost their revenues by being all-inclusive, which paradoxically makes them fit into Lit’s definition of a makerspace. Renting out each desk for CNY 800 to CNY 1500 (115–216 USD) per month without a membership requirement for eligibility, these makerspaces provide small-scale start-ups and entrepreneurial individuals with a low-threshold doorway into the makerspace communities. 3W Coffice is a case in point. Located at Shenzhen Bay Start-up Plaza, 3W Coffice hosts a diverse group of companies and start-ups at various life stages. Like many other “unorthodox” makerspaces in China, 3W Coffice does not provide technical facilities, and it mainly relies on office rental fees to remain solvent. The frequent and dynamic social events it organizes make it popular; these include lectures, meetings and training. The group also actively promotes networking events and informal exchange between members at events such as happy hours, meetups and cocktail parties. “We welcome anyone who wants to rent a desk here”, the business manager of 3W Coffice said, “Everyone has the potential to make, and they can always find a way to make”. The affordable rent and communal atmosphere at 3W Coffice open opportunities for those who are eager to make, although what they make may be distant from the original purpose of the government’s campaign, as is shown in the following section.
3.2.3. Making with Different Ends
Jenny joined 3W Coffice without a team or a plan for what to make. As a “one-man band”, she nevertheless did not keep a low profile at her office desk. With a fragrance diffuser, a vintage box for cosmetics and several cartoon figurines, Jenny’s desk looked distinctively feminine. On the wall opposite her desk hung two images, a wall of screens displaying Nasdaq stock quotes and a family portrait of four. “These are magazine photos that I’ve collected”, Jenny explained, “and they represent my life dreams—to have my company go IPO and to find a husband and have two babies.” While starting a family might be easier than launching an IPO, Jenny found that in her previous job she did not have the time to look for a boyfriend. She previously worked as a software engineer at a Chinese transnational telecommunication company. The company’s infamous “9-9-6” work culture, which expected employees to be in the office from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week, together with the mundane and repetitive nature of the work, left her exhausted and frustrated. Finally, she quit her job and joined 3W Coffice in hope of starting her own business. When asked about her experience at 3W Coffice, Jenny said:
“The members of the 3W community have shared a lot of their thoughts and experiences with me, and I love the feeling of meeting new people and learning new things. I haven’t made a business plan yet, but at least I am making a lifestyle change for myself.”
Similar to Jenny, many informants joined makerspaces in Shenzhen to make changes. in their lives more than to make things; these changes might include “making more money”, “working for myself”, “having more free time”, “meeting more likeminded people”, or “exploring new possibilities in life”. Most of these people were in their 20s and 30s, well-educated and at least temporarily with a certain degree of economic security. The economic slowdown in recent years has resulted in increasing layoffs and excessive overtime in the tech sector [
46]. While recent graduates struggle to find a satisfying job in the shrinking labor market, more experienced employees aspire to achieve a desirable life-work balance and the experience of self-realization. Coinciding with the rise of post-Mao professionals who, as Hoffman [
47] points out, embrace a “self-enterprising ethos”, the government’s promotion of the maker movement as “an opportunity to realize a lifelong dream” speaks to a cohort who hope to break free of a grueling and exploitative employment environment. With the potential to provide more freedom, power and reward, being an entrepreneurial maker appeals to these middle-class aspirants as “a line of flight” to distance themselves from their previous grueling work conditions and the routine and boredom with which they associate those environments [
48]. Not all of these entrepreneurial aspirants are eligible for government funding, and most are aware of the precarity and insecurity that can accompany self-employment. They nevertheless regard this risky stance as worth taking because of the hope that getting involved with the maker community will bring knowledge and resources that will allow for an alternative way of life that transcends the mundane nature of daily routine. As Monique Bolli [
49] (p. 73) succinctly points out, the autonomy of makerspaces is purposefully generated to enable people to choose what to learn, how and when.
For some of these young entrepreneurial aspirants, the changes they wanted to make were not only about their own lives but also about the larger society. Ni used to work as a business development manager at a makerspace, through which she developed an interest in the concept of “Business for Good”. She commented:
“I’ve seen many people come to Shenzhen to start their business. The lucky ones managed to increase the valuation of their start-ups, got acquired and left, while others are still hanging on. For many of them, Shenzhen is just a transient hub, and they are too busy to get to know the city, let alone to do anything to make it better.”
Aspiring to make “real change” in society, Ni nevertheless regarded her work at the makerspace as a necessary step to acquire entrepreneurial acumen and build networks to fulfil her ambition. In 2018, she left the makerspace and joined a social enterprise. The connections she built with the government and a design firm while working at the makerspace led to a government-funded joint project that aims to promote public awareness of issues of environmental protection through a gamified tour. “We are not building a unicorn, but we are definitely making changes to the city”, said Ni proudly. Ni was among an emerging group that I encountered in Shenzhen who identified as “change-makers”. Most were in their twenties or early thirties, with solid educational backgrounds and work experience. Different from the older generation of Chinese philanthropists who prized themselves on tackling social problems by taking an anti-entrepreneurial approach, this younger generation, nurtured under state innovation policies, takes a different approach to producing social good that blends the visionary and the practical [
16]. Since social innovation in China is heavily intertwined with changes in government regulation and politics, social entrepreneurs need to work strategically within the system (Zhao, 2012) [
49]. By tactically constructing “making change” as an alternative proposal to the ruling paradigm of “making enterprises”, these media-savvy, entrepreneurial change-makers align themselves with the maker movement in Shenzhen as a way to mobilize political, economic and social resources for social innovation in China.
Empowering individuals through innovative learning and independent thinking, “making” is often understood to have a psychologically transformative and liberating potential (Breaux, 2017) [
50]. While the democratic promise of “making” in the Chinese context is carefully channeled into economic discourses regarding the need to boost employment amid downward economic pressure, some individuals, as we have illustrated, have also attempted and managed to make changes, either for themselves or for the city. Their everyday practice generates new meanings of “making” that are different from its officially designated meaning.