Johnson Chang Tsong-Zung
1999
Chen Heng is sentimental towards the past, not just in a nostalgic yearning for its lost beauty, but for the sake of describing a purity that is yet uncontaminated by worldliness and experience. In his paintings he attempts to arrest the fleeting changes wrought by time and make permanent poignant moments, such as when sunlight gives life to a silent courtyard or falling footsteps make endless a winding alley. In their atmospheric imagery, Chen’s paintings bring to mind the work of Balthus, although Chen is less interested in a precocious sexual awakening than in the natural beauty of innocence.
Chang Tsong-Zung 張頌仁
A Blessed Life. The Art of Chu Hing Wah
Chang Tsong-Zung
Written in Hong Kong in December of the 68th year of the People’s Republic
Chu Hing Wah’s life story is neither dramatic nor extraordinary: rather, it is a story of ‘ordinary happiness’. For Chu Hing Wah, the way to happiness lies in finding contentment in the everyday, and in his own life he has mastered this principle. He is content with his lot in life, accepts things as they come, finds satisfaction in fulfilling his responsibilities, practices self-acceptance, and cherishes both people and things. Chu believes that the turns of fortune in his own life were gifts bestowed by heaven: winning a scholarship to study nursing in England, having the leisure time to discover the artistic riches of London’s museums, going on to a fulfilling career working in psychiatric hospitals, practicing art and becoming part of a lively circle of artistic friends, meeting fellow aficionados who share a love of Cantonese opera—for all of these things, Chu Hing Wah maintains a sense of fulfilment and gratitude. He values every experience, cares about every friend, respects others’ points of view, and appreciates every experience. In this way, Chu Hing Wah basks in the elements of quotidian life.
But does this mean that his art is also ‘ordinary’? To the contrary, it is just because of the way it illuminates the beauty and charm of the ordinary that Chu Hing Wah’s art is so extraordinarily captivating.
Whether or not one is aware of the calm and simplicity that characterize Chu Hing Wah’s life journey, when one views his art it requires no special filters or methodologies. The narrative elements in his compositions are straightforward and familiar: a mountain is a mountain, a person is a person. Yet, it is only because we are encountering Chu Hing Wah’s art that we chance to notice this particular mountain, or that particular person. It is as intuitively direct, as in the way a child finds pleasure in looking at the world. The simplicity of Chu’s painting technique is such that it is almost irrelevant to pass judgement on whether it is good or bad. His objective descriptions do not aim for accuracy of representation: rather, his forms are awkward and simplistic, and oddly static, as though the figures in his paintings were in a state of suspended animation. While they communicate the sense of a narrative moment, one feels that the plotline they are part of is neither unusual nor complicated: there is no intrigue, no mystery to unravel.
The compelling quality of Chu’s paintings lies neither in technique nor in narrative complexity, but rather in the way they draw us in. The more attentive we are to these roughly delineated figures and landscapes, the more deeply we look at them and ‘listen’ to their presence, the more we understand that their stories are endless.
Chu Hing Wah says, ‘Come look, here is a mountain, here is a person.’ But what kind of person is it that Chu Hing Wah is looking at, and what kind of landscape?
Chu Hing Wah’s paintings reveal a kind of timeless message to us. Although they are tranquil and intimate, they also contain a quality of serene melancholy. This is not the unchanging serenity of a utopia or a heavenly paradise, but rather the kind of profound calm that manifests in the wake of a great storm or tsunami; the deathly stillness that follows a period of cataclysmic violence. When people have survived an event in which the ordinary tenor of life has been completely turned upside down, they are no longer concerned with value judgments, but rather with trying to come to a new understanding of life and the world.
The quietude and stillness in Chu Hing Wah’s art is an expression of the understanding that comes in the aftermath of shared disaster; and it is this that sets his art apart from that of a child who sees a mountain as a mountain. His landscapes emerge from the mutual understanding that comes when one has survived a shattering change in one’s world. Rather than on the form of a person or a landscape, Chu Hing Wah’s vision is focused on the shared experience of being alive in this world at this moment.
Many people have wondered about the connection between Chu Hing Wah’s professional life as a psychiatric nurse and his artistic creation. For over 25 years, he spent days and nights caring for the mentally ill, becoming deeply familiar with his patients’ inner world—a world that exists outside the bounds of ‘normal’ society. Yet Chu has always strongly maintained that these patients, many of whom became his friends, are neither ‘abnormal’ nor ‘deficient’. He believes that their world is legitimate, whole and complete: the only difference is that their world does not share the same trajectory of language as that of normal society; yet it has its own logic and reason. Though the boundaries of their world are confined by this difference in language, yet within this separate system they can create a way of life that works for them.
Chu Hing Wah’s paintings depict both people who are a familiar part of our everyday social world, with whom we share the same social language, and patients who communicate differently, through their unique individual languages—but in Chu’s paintings, we cannot distinguish which is which. In Chu Hing Wah’s world, we all share the same right to exist on this earth, and each person has his or her own place. Finding one’s authentic place within this life is contingent on bringing a sense of love and compassion to one’s understanding of life’s purpose.
Chu Hing Wah’s message to us is that our greatest blessing is to be alive. For those who have survived calamity, the distinctions of fortune or status become irrelevant. The melancholic serenity which emanates from his paintings comes from a place of loving understanding. I cannot say exactly why his paintings bring to mind the idea of renewed life after a storm; maybe it is because their sense of a timeless quotidian serenity is never monotonous, but rather is always felt as a blessing.
Translation by Valerie C. Doran
汎愛人的赤子：朱興華的藝術人生
張頌仁
朱興華的生命故事平淡無奇，一句籠統的「幸福快樂」大概就離實況不遠。至於幸福快樂的道理，在於朱興華也是平淡無奇的， 他安於現狀，安於職守，樂天知命，愛人惜物。生命的每一個轉折點對他來說都是上天恩賜：受頒獎學金到英國學習護理，倫敦課閒發現藝術博物館的珍藏，在精神護理院的生涯，繪畫道路上認識藝術圈朋友，粵曲大戲找到同道，這一切朱興華都滿懷感激。他珍惜每段經歷，重視每位相知，尊重人人的立場，回味一切體驗。
他的繪畫特徵是否也在於平淡無奇？應該說正適其反，他的繪畫魅力在於平淡出奇。
無論知道不知道朱興華的簡單生平故事，看他的畫並不需要任何竅門。他作品的內容平鋪直述，看山是山，看人是人。不過，要不是朱興華畫出來，我們不見得看到這座山這個人。正如小孩見到事物會一下子歡喜：這兒看見有樹，這就是樹了，那邊看見有樓，那就是樓了。技巧單純到無法說好說壞，大家不會故意去評他繪畫的技術，因為他的客觀描述並不準確， 造型笨拙簡陋，又缺乏運動感。畫面的形體一個個掛在那裏，表示某些故事情節，但故事並不出奇，不會引人深究。但離奇的是，看畫人看著看著竟然會被迷住了。這些畫得不準確的人物樓房，沒有特別情節的故事，竟然越看越好看，不值得特別講的平淡故事，居然讓人很想聽下去，越聽越好像有說不盡的人生故事。
朱興華說這是一個人，這是一座山，你來看。他看到什麼樣的人，看到什麼樣的樓房山水呢？
朱興華的畫面透露一種永恆的訊息，寬容平正而容易親近，可是沈澱著一派安詳的沈鬱。 這裏的安詳沈鬱不是烏托邦或桃花源的永恆不變，而更像大風大浪之後的平靜，甚至亂世狂暴之後的死寂。經過人世秩序顛倒的時代，世道人心已不在乎好惡正邪之辨，而更在乎生命與世界的諒解。朱興華的平淡帶著患難與共的亂世後的諒解，所以他不像小孩直觀的看山是山。他的山水是經歷世變後才互相諒解的山水。不論山水或人物，朱興華感人的不是造型，而是共享此時此地的共存感。
很多人好奇朱興華的職業生涯對作品的影響。二十五年來，他跟精神科病人日夕共處，介入病人在社會生活以外的思維模式，不過他堅持他不認為這些人、這些跟他成為朋友的院友是不正常的或有毛病的。他認為他們有完整的世界，這世界跟社會上共通的世界不處在同一個語言軌跡上，可是完全有其邏輯與合理性。或許他們是被困在一個語言不通的國度，以致被局限在週圓侷促的地理環境，必須在這裡整理出一套自己的生活方式。
朱興華的繪畫描述了我們熟悉的社會人，也描述這些帶著個人語言來到世間的院友，可是在畫面上我們往往分不出誰是誰。在朱興華的世界裡每人都分享了共存的天地，而每人在此都有應該的位置。能夠在此找到自己的位置，是因為每人對生命和世界都帶著愛意的諒解。
朱興華似乎告訴我們：能夠經歷生命就是人生的慶幸，對於劫後餘生的人，所有幸運與不幸都是平等的。他的畫散發安詳的沈鬱，也充滿諒解的愛意。我不知道為什麼他的畫會引起劫後餘生的念頭，可能因為帶著永恆感的平淡絕對不會平淡無奇。而且，可以經歷一輩子的平淡絕對是個奇蹟。
序於人民共和六十八年十二月於香港
Sun Shanchun
2014
SHANSHUI: A VIEWAn Appreciation of Cao Xiaoyang’s Art
Sun Shanchun
‘Therefore observe it diligently, go by it and do not depart from nature arbitrarily, imagining to find the better by thyself, for thou wouldst be misled. For, verily, ‘art’ is embedded in nature; he who can extract it has it.’
—— Albrecht Dürer
The reason I’ve quoted Albrecht Dürer above is not so much that Cao Xiaoyang is also a printmaker, but rather on account of two grand words that Dürer mentions: ‘Art’ and ‘Nature’. Both are objects of human admiration and pursuit, by many different means and for many different reasons. The multiplicity of ways in which Art and Nature are discussed has in fact greatly enriched human culture. And then there is also the multiplicity of ways of making ‘Art’. But what about Nature itself? What do we ‘do’ with it? As the modern world becomes increasingly more ‘acculturated’ it seems natural for the word ‘nature’ to be applied to human beings. Art is a human activity — it is the ‘culture’ we impose on Nature. As the world’s population explodes, where has nature gone? Some philosophers say, nature has receded, just like a hermit retreating deep into the woods, making friends with the wild landscape and the creatures who inhabit it. Is it possible that ‘retiring’ Nature has already succeeded in covering its tracks and disappearing completely from our purview?
Scholars such as Alexander Wilson say that landscape is a complicated product of civilization, a way of perceiving the world, an imaginary of how humans and nature interact. Landscapes are the collective and societal thoughts and actions of people. This is not difficult to understand: for westerners, landscape is also a culture and a philosophy, even if their narratives of landscape do not seem to contain as many ‘principles’ as ours. Neither our ‘shanshui’, nor their landscapes, are merely mountains and rivers, landforms and water patterns; they represent a realm hidden deep within us, and deep within them, even though many are not conscious of this. Artists like Cao Xiaoyang use their own hands to engage in a kind of artisanship, and through action they bring the landscape directly into their own lives, so that it becomes part of their very being. That is at least how I understand it. In their paintings, one witnesses the subtle intricacy and the innate difficulty of the handmade creation.
Many of Cao Xiaoyang’s works are sketches from nature; one could say he takes Creation as his master. But while the things of Creation are active, changing in accord with the human affairs that impact them, Creation itself is hidden, unmanifested. There are theorists such as the painter Fu Baoshi who say that an ideal shanshui should accurately depict reality, which is in fact not possible. Yet this statement is worthy of consideration. This is how his argument ‘should’ be interpreted: If a painter can truly comprehend the creative function of nature and harness the power of its/her (should we call Nature ‘it’ or ‘her’? This small detail is a source of some anxiety for this writer) eternal Dao, then he could paint the ‘real’ landscape. But such ability belongs only to those enlightened few who have truly grasped the Dao. A painter, however, is only a mere mortal. He uses ‘human’ eyes to investigate, to feel, and to portray shanshui. There are many things he must study, and more than one path he must follow, in order to learn how to see, to feel, and to portray.
Here we are speaking about shanshui in the human context: and this is where we encounter the big question of tradition. Tradition can be described as people’s constant and diligent effort to establish an eternal, unchanging consistency: as such, it ‘should’ be to some degree in correspondence with, or in opposition to, the Dao of Nature. Therefore, tradition is also problematic: it cannot solve all difficulties at once. Tradition can convert people, but this conversion necessitates making a choice; it can give people a sense of belonging, but this belonging comes with a price. Tradition is in fact a living thing, because it lives on through those who believe in it — it dwells within the believers. Tradition is also a way of life; a way of life that becomes heavier and more complex the longer it endures through history. For a painter, tradition gives him ways of viewing the world, but never just one way.
To put it another way, all traditions require that you actively purse and painfully determine your choice: what to throw away and what to keep, whether to forge ahead without looking back or to linger and explore the territory: it is all up to you. Tradition is not an answer, just as life itself is not an answer. And it’s the same for those who paint shanshui, who seek to ‘learn from Nature how to reach the source within’: one must study, one must choose.
Tradition can also confuse people. Those who have seen Cao’s work often will start talking about the classical elegance of Song-dynasty shanshui paintings and mourn the loss of the ancient methods. Painters think about this too; it is an inescapable question. However, artists still must paint; and thus they must seek out the traditions that exist within their own minds and hearts, and harness the inner wellspring that connects them to the dao of Nature. These shanshui must be his own shanshui, must be his own tradition, must be his own self: his own present, in this moment and as it begins to move into the past.
It is my longstanding insecurity as a viewer that Cao Xiaoyang has touched: living in the modern world I, (and the ‘some people’ I mentioned before), must suffer this fracture: Tradition is majestic, shanshui is profound, but we can only view these things, engage with these things, from within our identity as contemporary people; and then we must make our own decisions and create our own methods accordingly. The artist is sincere and honest: he tells us frankly about his interactions with tradition and his yearning for shanshui. Yet neither the line, the ink nor the colour washes of traditional Chinese shanshui painting directly exist in his work; strictly speaking, from the point of view of tradition, his shanshui paintings cannot really even be called shanshui. To be frank, what he creates is really a contemporary artist’s ‘interpretation’ of traditional Chinese shanshui painting. So, where, then, is shanshui? Where is tradition? Standing in front of Cao’s work, these are the fundamental questions that materialize before us, channeled through the medium of charcoal on paper and tinged with an edge of loneliness, of quietude.
People have always yearned to return to Nature, to ‘become’ Nature. An admirer of the 19th-century painter George Inness once commented: ‘He himself is nature.’ For me, at a time when civilization has developed to such a point, and culture has matured to such a point — or rather has over-matured and decayed into such violence — attempting to think about concepts like ‘style’ and ‘method’ gives me the shivers, never mind thinking about ‘nature’. Our bodies are infiltrated with myriad uncertainties and deep-rooted anxieties; and culture grows and emanates from the body — perhaps it has always been this way. As Buffon said, ‘Style is the man himself.’
I am going to take a risk here and say that Cao Xiaoyang, himself, wants to ‘become Nature.’ Or to put it another way, he wants to ‘make’ Nature, to enact Nature. If such longing did not exist, then why would we have concepts such as ‘soothing the spirit in Nature’ (changsheng) or ‘Man and Nature are One’ (tian ren he yi)? If this kind of longing did not exist, there would be no poetic connections between men and mountains, and all the poems celebrating these connections would not exist. This is why the shanshui that Cao Xiaoyang so lovingly brings to life on paper has such power to move us: it allows us to travel through many different trajectories, to encounter the ‘obscure and indistinct’ nature of the dao, and to dissolve time — wandering freely through time present and time past.
February 2013, at the Erji Studio, Hangzhou
(Translation by Felix Chan Ho Yuen and Valerie C. Doran)
(Note: This text is excerpted from Sun Shanchun’s original Chinese essay)
山水•觀：
──寫在曹曉陽的“所謂”山水面前
孫善春
不要依靠你自己的觀念而背離大自然，更不要以為你能夠創造出更美的圖畫……因為藝術深深地植根於大自然；只有在大自然中發現了藝術，才能真正地擁有。
──丟勒
引用丟勒，並非由於這裡的曹曉陽是版畫家；真正的原因是他話中的兩個大詞：“藝術”與“大自然”，而且二者都是令人景仰追慕的，以不同的方式與理由。事實上，談論藝術，談論大自然，走近藝術，走近大自然，都有太多的路徑可選，這是人類文化的豐富饋贈。而且，“做藝術”，大家都真地看到或知道，也是千姿百態的；可是，拿“大自然”我們能“做什麼”？“自然”這兩個字，對文化人來說是相當玄妙的。加上個“大”字，更讓人有距離感。不管怎麼說，“自然”已經自然而然地也可以拿來說人類了，因為世界越來越文化了：藝術是人為之物，是人對世界自然的“文化”。比如，人類的數目越來越多了。大自然到哪裡去了？有哲學家說，自然隱去了，退隱了。像人一樣，歸隱山林，退居林下，與山林野物為友去了。不知道，這“身退”的自然是否已經“功成”方才隱跡？
誠實地說，對有些人來說，如今不得不在這樣的背景下來說話，也不得不在這樣的幾句前提下來說畫了。面對曹曉陽的作品，許多人會脫口而出：山水。有藝術史知識的觀眾，當能聯想到荷蘭英語德國俄羅斯乃至美國等所在的風景畫。這並非諷刺：我們擁有許多的知識，但我們如今並非擁有滿意數量的與土地相關的山水或風景經驗；於是，旅游成了全地球的大問題，它成了生活方式。天下一家，環球同此涼熱，我們的“山水”與別人家的“風景”只是一個LANDSCAPE，原來跟土地離分不開；而這個LAND十分稀缺，也只有越來越人化，越來越不自然了。此外，我們想自然而然地以我們中國人的方式來山水生活，也不得不日益受到煩擾；雖然，你仍然可以選擇“臥游”，“神游”，有你自己心中的“山水”，都市叢林的“風景”。
學者如亞歷山大•威爾遜說，風景乃是一種復雜的人類文明的產物，是一種看待這個世界與想像人們與自然之關係的方式，是人們社會性和集體性的所思所想和所作所為。這並不難於理解：西方人那裡的風景也是一種文化與哲學，儘管他們的關於風景的論述中仿佛沒有我們那麼多的道理。我們的山水，他們的風景，原來並非只是山與水，地質與水文等；它們也就在我們與他們的人那裡藏著，許多人甚至並非怎麼明了。現在，我們知道得較多了；畫家，更會困惑得較多。因為他們要做，要動手，要幹“手藝活”：對這裡的畫家曹曉陽來說，他們要“動手為藝，讓山水進入他們的生活”。至少筆者正是這麼理解。從他們的畫裡，可以看到手藝的精微與艱難。
因為山水是難的。
就中國而論，山水起於人物之後，原來只是配景，後來漸漸獨立，演變，一至成為高深難測的高級藝術形態。說它“難測”，實是因為“天心難測”，“天道無情”之類的語言；而且我們看到山水時實在難以不作如是想了：我們“太文化了”，像尼采所說。山水，於是仿佛處於人間與天道之間的中介位置，煙雲神秘，引人入勝。但“天地無言”，內中奧秘，唯有能者得之。對於畫有志於山水者，古人的教誨是“外師造化，中得心源”，這話可說是總結性的，其中當然有太多的問題，尤其要擺在畫家跟前。外師造化如何師，中得心源如何得，而且，這“外”與“中”如何能打通一體，實在是難而又難。因為千萬不要忘記：造化是天地之功，非人類努力所成。而藝術，永遠是人的事情。
曹曉陽的許多作品是寫生的，可以說是師造化；但造化之物是動的，與人事俱變的，而那造化是隱而不彰的。有論者，如畫家傅抱石，說理想的山水，當然應該是要畫的和真的一模一樣，而這是辦不到的。這話很值得思索。或者“應該”這麼理解他的論點：如果畫者能夠看穿領會大自然的造化之功，捕捉到了它/她（稱大自然為“它”還是“它”？這細節令筆者感情上出現波動）的恆常之“道”，那就能畫出真的山水了。這是得道之人的功夫。而畫家非至人神人完人等，他會以“人”的眼睛來看山水，來感受，來傳達，而且他還要學習，學習來看，來感受，來傳達；而學習的材料是複數的，道路是並非唯一的。這裡即是關涉人事的山水，這裡的大問題是傳統。傳統，或者可以說是人持續努力而設定維持的恆常不變，它與天道，“應該”有著相當的對應，或者對抗。
所以傳統也是難的。它並不能一勞永逸的解決所有難題。它可以讓人皈依，但這皈依需要選擇；它可以讓人有歸屬感，但這歸屬感需要代價。傳統其實是活的，因為它必要借助相信這傳統的人而活，它要活在這人身上；它通過這人的活而活成傳統。傳統，就是一種生活；這生活因為綿長的歷史而深重復雜。對於畫者而言，傳統給予其觀望世界的樣式，但這樣式從來不是單一。換句話說，所有的“傳統”都是要你去主動追求且痛下決心進行抉擇的；放棄與堅守，直行不顧還是左右周游，都取決於你。傳統不是答案，也如人生沒有答案。畫山水者，欲“外師造化，中得心源”者，也是一樣，有待學習，有待選擇。
傳統讓人困惑。看到曹曉陽作品者，往往會說起宋畫山水之高古，繼而慨嘆古法之不復，風雅久不作。畫家自己也會念叨念叨，不會逃出這樣的問題，只是他還要畫：尋找他們心中的傳統，把握自己“心源”中接通的“造化”的天道。這些山水，必須是他的山水，是他的傳統，他自己：他自己的現在，正在走過去的現在。
於是，曹曉陽觸動我的，正是長久存在我這樣的觀者心底的不安：身為現代人，或者如前面說的“有些人”，不得不經受著分裂：傳統是偉大的，山水是高遠的，但我們只能以一個現代人的樣式來觀望，來看待，進而進行自己的擷取，採摘，選擇與創造。這畫家的努力，真誠而坦白，用自己的的方式，訴說著與傳統的交往與對山水的渴望。傳統中國山水畫，線，墨，色，在他們這裡都不是直接存在的；從傳統的約束性一面來說，他的山水都稱不得“山水”二字。他們的努力，直白講來，可謂現代藝術家對中國傳統山水的“翻譯”：山水在哪裡？傳統在哪裡？這樣的根本問題，就通過他們的紙上炭筆作品，帶著孤寂與寧靜，現身於觀者面前了。
於是，我看曹曉陽這裡的山水/風景，常感孤寂。“以其境過清，不可久居，乃記之而去。”這樣的古人語自動般地跳了出來。西方藝術史家談風景畫，常追溯古羅馬詩人維吉爾之“阿卡迪亞”，那四時如春的完美田園，堪比我們的桃花源。在歷史中，它成為平靜的鄉村。康斯坦布爾曾說“風景的本質”乃是“人對鄉村生活的情感”，並在致戀人的信中引用了英語詩人湯姆森的詩《四季》：優雅而充實，心滿意足，隱居的生活，線材的靜寂，友誼和書籍，勞逸有序的生活……而這些，更多地已經化作了理想與追憶。風景與山水，與現今時代就有了各自的距離。
“我也曾在阿卡迪亞。”這句雋語曾因引起多少西方人的感觸傷情！曹曉陽的作品裡，多見的是克制。這克制，或可以說是來自西方風景畫的孤寂理想，也來自於中國古代山水傳統中求道的高標。中國人的理想，是不是可以說不單是成為可以欣賞洋洋之山與浩浩之水的人，成為兼有“仁愛”的愛山水的人，甚或具備山水獨立無言超脫人世意味的人？對一個現代人來說，對不一定具有末世情懷的文化人來說，這樣的人可謂一種“超人”：超人，是通向未來的道路。
人，總有著重歸自然的渴望，成為自然的渴望吧。“他自己就是自然。”當年，有位崇拜者這麼評價19世紀的風景畫家喬治•英尼斯。在文明如此發達文化如此成熟或過度成熟到暴力的時節，身為一位閱讀者，想到風格、手法等語詞都不由心裡發怵，難得“自然”。在我們自己身上，內嵌著或被植入了許多的不確定與深深的不安分，文化就生長在我們身上，可能很早以來就是如此。“風格即人”，當年的布封先生這麼說。說到這裡，不禁冒昧一言：畫家曹曉陽，如果可以這麼說，也是渴望成為自然的吧；換言之，他要“做”自然。若非如此，如何暢神，如何天人合一？若沒有這渴望，也就不會有“相看兩不厭，唯有敬亭山”的意思。於是畫家曹曉陽的一種山水，這眼前紙上的努力之功，令人感動──感動的意思是：令人聯想多方，恍兮忽兮，暫不知今夕何夕。
2014年2月30日，於古武林二集軒
Jiang Jun
2014
SHANSHUI + LANDSCAPE:A Third Path?
Jiang Jun
I.
After many years under Xiaoyang’s tutelage, it never occurred to me that I would be asked to write about his art, and I must confess that the thought of it makes me a little uneasy. I am more of a theorist: I have never undertaken any formal study of Chinese art in the academy, and have only had opportunity to study the fundamentals of Western art. So before elaborating on Xiaoyang’s work, I would like to begin my discussion with a more theoretical overview of some of the cultural differences between the concepts of Chinese shanshui and Western landscape painting.
Though Xiaoyang has been clearly influenced by Northern Song painters, people often describe his art as evincing a constant conflict between the stylistic elements of fengjing (or landscape in the Western sense) and shanshui (or landscape in the Chinese sense; lit. ‘mountains and water’). Although Xiaoyang professes little interest in the problematics of this issue, he does address it from the angle of the practicing artist.
Looking at the evolution of the term ‘landscape’, we must begin with Old English from which the term originally derived. Like German, Old English is Proto-Germanic in origin. In German, the word for scenery is Landschaft, composed of the word Land (Earth, Country) and the suffix schaft, which comes from the German word schaffen (to create). Thus the literal meaning of this word in Proto-Germanic is the creation of a piece of land. Its construction is similar to that of another German word, Freundschaft (Friendship)—the creation of friends (Freund-schaffen). In twelfth-century Middle High German, Landschaft meant life on a piece of land, or a group of people indigenous to a particular location. It was not until the Renaissance that this term came to mean a fragment of land extracted from Nature. During the sixteenth century Landschaft gradually expanded to encompass the meaning of Landscape in English (Landshap in Dutch). Within these words we can undoubtedly see traces of creationism in the language, regardless of its Christian, Hellenistic or Nordic roots. Landscape is the piece of land that mankind salvaged from the chaos, and it exists within a framework of objective rules and order.
In Chinese, the term shanshui is a combination of, and interaction between, the words mountains (shan) and water (shui). Mountains are associated with yang, and the water with yin. It is from the interaction between yin and yang that all the things of creation comes into being. The interaction between mountains and water creates myriad different, possible landscapes. In the Chinese worldview, the beginning of life did not occur on a tempestuous night with an active god and a passive world suddenly coming into being, but rather emerged gradually through the silent interaction between yin and yang. Because the Chinese view of creation is not predicated on a conflict between man as subject and world as object, China never developed a creation myth in the grand manner of the Homeric epics of Ancient Greece.
In the aftermath of World War II, the philosopher Martin Heidegger was banned from teaching in his native Germany for several years. In the interim, he and the Chinese academic Xiao Shiyi translated the Laozi together in a small house in Todtnauberg. From that moment onwards, we can see Laozi’s Heaven, Earth, Sky and the ever-changing Dao emerge within Heidegger’s ‘fourfold’ unity of Earth, Sky, Divinities and Mortals.
In Heidegger’s schema, in the moment when Earth, Sky, Divinities and Mortals come together in a ‘gathering’, the myriad things of the world are illuminated and revealed to us; and man exists within a ‘poetic dwelling’. This is a classic example of what Heidegger described in later years as not only the pursuit of an ideal poetic life, but as a serious response to and revolt against increasing technologization, and the ‘flattening’ of the world brought about by modernization, industrialization and capitalism. Heidegger differentiates between ‘producing’ (Hervorbringen, literally ‘bringing forth into being’) and ‘happening’ (Geschehen). In analyzing the alienation caused by modern technology, Heidegger traces its roots to the early years when philosophy was just being formed in Ancient Greece.
When the world was understood by Plato as a binary of form and sense-perception, and sense-perception was viewed as a mimesis of form; when the idealized Republic was set up as the model of utopia (a theoretically perfect nation), the brutalization of the world by the tools of modernity was already implicit. The most crucial thing is that it established a relationship between the creation or production of an object (Hervorbringen) and the passive material; and science was founded upon this principle. Conversely, Geschehen (happening) does not distinguish between the active and the passive, and does not attempt to clarify the meaning of the world. Rather, it encompasses a multidimensional understanding and interpretation, allowing different components to resonate with each other. It is constantly at work in our relationships, and you can neither extract nor conceptualize it. In China, we call this principle qi, and it is the action of qi that gives impetus to the interaction between yin and yang. Therefore, our Western concept of landscape (Landschaft) and the intentionality of the Chinese concept of shanshui make evident that there are two fundamentally different understandings of the world: Was the world created? Or did it silently come into being/happen?
The concept of creating (manufacturing) form has developed alongside the Cartesian notion of the subject-object dichotomy and the formation of human subjectivity, which perceives the world as an objective image external to man, a passive object-material that can be moulded and dominated by active man; and it is within these conditions that our contemporary technology and tools came into being. Technology attempts to simplify the world’s many dimensions and meanings, to judge everything through one single standard of rationality, and has refuted everything that does not fall within the boundaries of its universe as falsehoods and superstition. At last the technological mentality has become a living creature in itself, and has come to determine the logic of our lives alongside capitalism, suppressing our humanity within the cogs of its machinery. We live in an age of artificial autonomy, where our physical selves have gradually detached themselves from nature, detached themselves from the difference between dawn and dusk, from the change in the seasons, and from a life rooted in nature. We live in an artificial arena of isolation, where production and endless consumerism determines our existence.
The act of viewing a Western-style landscape painting is unquestionably predicated on the audience’s role as subject. On one level, the audience acquires a kind of control over a unified space, and as such is in the secure position of self (the subject) external to the painting. Yet, on another level, the audience’s position is fixed at a point in which things happened in the past, such that the past is forever left open in the present. My personal experience of viewing Chinese shanshui painting, however, is completely different. Rather than being in a fixed, external position, I find my ‘self’ dissolving into the composition of black and white as my eyes follow the pathways created by the unrolling and closing of the scroll. I finally understand the ‘happy sojourn’ that Zhuangzi spoke of, and feel myself suddenly liberated from status, responsibilities, and personal relationships in the mundane world. In viewing, I am able to free myself from space’s rigid fixity and to sojourn (you) freely, leaving time behind. ‘Sojourning’ in the Chinese sense is a kind of repeated alternation between external and internal: it opens up a portal into untrammelled freedom, towards a transcendent state where one forgets both self and the object.
Ever since the rules of perspective were first established, European art has attempted to unite both space and time within the frame. The segments of sequential time that are made manifest through the application of perspective are expressions of the subjective gaze and the control of time. The past becomes forever frozen in the continuous present, trying to break through to the audience. Time in German is ‘Zeit’, originating in the Old German word ‘zît’: the original meaning is ‘to cut off’ (Abgeteilt). The English word ‘time’ originated in Proto-Germanic ‘timon-’, meaning ‘division’. This cannot but remind us of the European attitude towards the problem of time: using the different stages of past, present and future to describe the temporal structure of narrative. In Chinese, the compound word for time (shijian) was adopted from the Japanese translation of the English word, which first appeared in Asano Shinbun in 1874. In 1907 China imported this newly created word from Japan: Prior to this, East Asian philosophy contained no theoretical division of time and space. The eighteenth-century German art critic Lessing emphasized ‘the purity of time’ as a standard for art in his essay ‘Laocoön: An Essay Upon the Limits of Poetry and Painting’ (1776). In this work, he argues against the tendency to take Horace‘s ut pictura poesis (as painting, so poetry) as a prescriptive for literature. In other words, he objected to trying to write poetry using the same devices as one would in painting. Instead, poetry and painting each has its character (the former is extended in time; the latter is extended in space).
He believed that paintings and sculptures were both spatial forms of art, in which a moment in time becomes solidified. Conversely, literature and music are temporal forms of art, because they unfold over the course of reading. Anything that goes beyond the main point of the piece of artwork becomes transgressive, because it interrupts the purity of the art experience. Because a painter can only capture one moment in time, Lessing advises to ‘choose the significant moment wisely’ as that moment will allow the viewer to guess the events prior to and following it. European languages historically differentiate between the verb ‘to watch’ and the verb ‘to read’ and this conceptual difference is clear in the academic theories of art of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, just as it is in Lessing’s idea. The same is true of the Impressionist art that followed, where the theme of the instantaneity of the moment is clearly expressed.
In Chinese, however, there is no distinction between viewing and reading, since both are a form of active movement. Reading calligraphy is an action that unfolds in time. Similarly, surveying a shanshui painting is like becoming a traveller, wandering among the alternating ink trails of black and white, admiring the abstract beauty created by brush and ink. Later shanshui paintings often had accompanying poetic inscriptions, which exemplifies the idea that looking and reading are similarly structured. Tenses do not exist in Chinese, so time as we observe it is not truncated, but continuous. We do not stop in the present, for it is in the never-ending ebb and flow of dynamic change, the constant interactions between the object and the subject, in which we see the workings of objects in development, observing and creating a subtle, quiescent atmosphere. The Western understanding of the present in English, the verb ‘to exist’, is attributed to the noun form of the verb ‘to be’, and can also be understood to mean that ‘beingness’ is conducted in the present moment. Since ‘existing’ is the same thing as ‘being present’ or the now, because it is in the theatre of the present, therefore it has been affirmed as existing. In Chinese ‘to be present’ (zai or zaichang) is simultaneously a term for the present itself.
The Chinese conception of the world neither rests on the objective physics of Aristotle physics nor the subjective psychology of Augustine, but in a commonality of subject, object, Heaven, and Earth. Time does not exist in a neutral, objective manner, nor is it a subjective sense/understanding: it is a cycle of exchange between the four seasons, between yin and yang. Time is present in the changes in the weather, and in the cycle of seasons celebrated by every agricultural festival; it is present also in the continual interchange between yin and yang. Agriculture, nature and human activity are developed in accordance with both human relations and heavenly will. The subject in this way is integrated with the constant flux of the objective world, constantly interacting with the object.
When my understanding of the art of painting was still very superficial, I had the good fortune of being mentored by Mr. and Mrs. Cao once or twice a week in private sessions that I still cannot forget. They helped nurture in me a more genuine understanding of how to observe the world, so that my later theoretical studies could be founded on a more direct and authentic knowledge; at the same time these sessions allowed me to develop a deeper understanding of Xiaoyang’s artistic methodology and thought processes. Consequently, my comparative discussion of shanshui and landscape takes place on a historical, cultural and physical level.
When an artist sketches a landscape (fengjing) and composes his picture according to the method of Western perspective, is he merely turning his subject into an object? Is he not also enveloped in the scents of nature, the humidity of the air, the sensation of a breeze wafting by, and the warmth of the sun? Can it be that he is simply laboring to express his control over nature? Or has he forgotten that he is just one small part of the vastness of Creation? In seeking to learn from nature, the artist shares something important in common with every Song-dynasty shanshui artist who strove to attain the state of oneness with Nature, and also with any Renaissance painter who strove to understand God’s plan through his close observation of Nature. Just as we exclaim over the uncanny ability of the Song painter to understand the true nature and pattern of things and to capture the minutiae of creation, and his ability to wield his man-made implements to recreate the acts of Creation, we can also marvel at the humanistic approach of the Rennaissance artist, the meticulous and conscientious way in which he seeks to understand and capture the cosmic design through his careful sketches from Nature. In Florence they called this ‘disegno’— sketching as a means of approaching the ideal form (logos) of the objects of the world. We cannot say that the Renaissance artist did not share the Song painter’s exquisite awareness of Man’s place in the universe between Heaven and Earth: compared to both, those of us living in the modern world inhabit an artificial greenhouse isolated from the changes in season and the patterns of the crops. Equally, we cannot say that because the Song painter was unaware of Plato’s Theory of Forms, that he lacked the Renaissance artist’s powers of observation vis a vis the external world; for the Song artist was not only following the metaphysical Dao, he also was seeking to capture the forms of the observable world.
Xiaoyang was born into the world of the print artist, the world of Western painting, but in the end he has returned to a deep awareness of the Chinese shanshui tradition. Pastoral paintings and landscapes flourished in Europe in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as seen in the eternal cycle of seasons depicted in the rural countryside of Jean-François Millet’s work, and the sacred solemnity found in the scenery of German romantic painter Johann Friedrich Overbeck. These paintings found an enthusiastic reception in a Europe that was in the throes of industrialization—a Europe that was in fact similar to China today, in the throes of a rapid and ubiquitous process of modernization and industrialization. Whether it was a French pastoral painting or a German Romantic landscape, all were responses to and reactions against the social unrest and alienation brought about by industrialization and capitalism.
Pre-modern Chinese lived with a different system, a more authentic system of shanshui, which the literati termed a ‘cultivated shanshui’: the shanshui garden created by the symbolism of artificial mountains, or the shanshui painted on screens; framed within a hanging scroll; contained within the handscroll shelved amidst scrolls of poetry and calligraphy; residing in the pengjing (basin landscape) placed upon the scholar’s desk. People of the time did not only sojourn through cityscapes and physical landscapes, but also undertook spiritual sojourns through the shanshui constructed by poetry and calligraphy, gardens and paintings. When I walked among the misty paths of Huang Shan mountain, encountering the exhilaration on the faces of the other hikers there, and following the undulations of the meandering mountain paths, I suddenly understood the unique cultural significance of the Chinese concept of you (to sojourn, roam, wander)—people in movement situated within the turning of all creation, and the presence of the heavenly principle (tianli) reflected in human activity.
We live in an age of Le Corbusier’s La Ville Radieuse (The Radiant City), and continue our quest for development in big cities (in addition to the wide highways in new cities for cars). The culture of you/sojourning is absorbed into our new modes of living, to the extent it that becomes a fictitious, virtual wandering. For Xiaoyang, the intentionality of his paintings is not so much to provide the viewer with the experience of sojourn, but rather to engage in a process of self-cultivation. Through the intensity with which he creates his marks on the paper’s surface, Xiaoyang seeks to discover a spiritual detachment from an increasingly fast-paced world, a kind of personal, contemporary vision of Shangri-la. Art today is created and self-defined in an active mode of capitalistic production; Xiaoyang’s passivity towards the market has effectively opened up for him an alternative aesthetic existence.
A few years ago Xiaoyang and I were discussing where creative inspiration comes from, and he posed a question to me: ‘Is the subject more important, or the image?’ I said the ‘image’, whereas Xiaoyang was of the opinion that the subject was more important. Although he patiently explained his viewpoint to me, at the time I did not really grasp the true significance of his words. For contemporary artists, the subject is merely an insignificant point of reference: what is most important is that an artist has a uniquely individual form of expression. This has been the case since the mid-nineteenth century emphasis on ‘art for art’s sake’. The subject is an intermediary; no one cares if it is correct or realistic—it could simply be a collage of photographs that has been offhandedly combined and put together. Since the advent of early twentieth-century avant-garde abstraction, we have become accustomed to discussing art as being composed of abstract dots, lines, surfaces, and overlooking our experience of the actuality of the object. On the other hand, the Chinese literati tradition has produced an appreciation for the abstract beauty of brush and ink and a high regard for the inherent allusiveness of brush-play. Xiaoyang once expressed his doubts about this tendency towards symbolism, since his extemporaneous shanshui paintings do not share the referential character of traditional guohua brush painting, where every stroke has its own provenance.
This kind of disciplined, referential system in fact gradually moves further away from Nature: as per the theory of modular systems proposed by art historian Lothar Ledderose, is this not a kind of split between culture and nature? The materials of brush and ink constitute a module that was freely assembled and recomposed by literati artists, to take form as myriad shanshui paintings of all types. Even though they have maintained the concreteness of a landscape perspective, there is little difference in their internal logic and that of the composite photographic image of contemporary art. Xiaoyang’s control of charcoal as an artistic medium, his physical engagement with nature, his comprehensive training in and refinement of Western painting techniques, all combine to create a fluid form-memory, so that his sketchbooks are full of myriad expository visual expressions. He says that this constitutes a return to the methodology of the Northern Song; but I think that this is a methodology that allows the vitality of life to emerge, engendering not only intellectual pleasure but also an emotional reaction that you can feel coursing through your veins!
Unlike the majority of artists in today’s technology-saturated society, for whom Photoshop has become their ‘best friend’, Xiaoyang does not emphasize complete control over the image. Even as many contemporary artists use the excuse of being inspired by Richter’s concept of the photographic duplicate to create innumerable non-originals, Xiaoyang has never leaned towards a superficial posturing of ‘What is art?’, pretending to be immersed in questions of ontology, but rather has always maintained an incomparable humility, retreating into the divine spirituality of his object. I am often surprised by how knowledgeable he is about the different forms of trees — where they begin to split into branches, how long each branch and leaf is, where the markings of elm trees come from. He has almost become a plant morphologist, a process inseparable from the long periods of life sketching outdoors in Nature. This is what he means by ‘the importance of the subject’. For me, this is embodied in the humility and gentleness with which he faces Nature, as he attempts to become one with Heaven and Earth.
In this sense, Xiaoyang is an extremely traditional artist, continuing to use the ancient (pre-modern) methods to comprehend the world and to paint his shanshui and landscapes. At the same time, compared with the majority of contemporary artists, he is also a true iconoclast, embracing and insisting on his own alternative path. Perhaps we could say that contemporary artists living in an age of digital copying have changed the conditions of the question ‘what is painting’ from within: On one hand, they have accepted the many conveniences that technology gives to visual expression, constantly mediating between the various intermediaries of the image. On the other hand they also remain fixated on creating the appearance of the hand-made painting. When compared with Song-period shanshui paintings or Renaissance landscape paintings, the contemporary use of photographs as intermediaries in the painting process appears to be precisely what Heidegger described as ‘technological alienation’.
Given the contemporary condition, we can say that the traditional distinction between shanshui and landscape painting grows ever more insignificant.
(Translation by Fernanda Lai Oon Kei and Valerie C. Doran)
(Note: This text is excerpted from Jiang Jun’s original Chinese essay)
風景和山水
繪畫的第三條路？
姜俊
一 、
師從曹公多年，萬沒料到今天要對他的畫寫點東西，內心不免忐忑不安。 我沒經過什麼國學訓練，只是胡亂讀了點西學，他的畫又一派北宋氣象，確實在這個脈絡中掏不出什麼真知灼見，也只能在粗淺的文化比較上談談曹公的畫了。
據說，關於他的畫有過“山水”和“風景”的範疇之爭，多少簡單地可以歸結為中國式風景和西式風景的區分。雖然曹公對於正名問題興趣缺缺，他更多地是以一個實踐者的角度切入，但俗語說“名正言順”，我也就以這個由頭牽條線來談談他的作品，從山水和Landscape之文化異同開始來順一下言。
古英語和德語一樣，都屬於日爾曼語支。在德語中風景為Landschaft，它由Land（土地，國家）和一個尾碼schaft組成。 而schaft又源自德文詞schaffen（創造），這個詞在古日爾曼人的理解中是對一塊土地的創造。也就如他們的另一個詞一樣，Freundschaft（友誼）——朋友的創造（Freund-schaffen）。在12世紀的古德語中，Landschaft一詞是指生活在一塊土地或地域中居民的總稱，直到文藝復興，這個詞才變成自然空間中一個片段的截取，到16世紀這個詞才擴展到英文中成為Landscape、荷蘭文中Landshap。 在其中我們不難看出世界神創論在語言中的體現，它無論是基督教式的、希臘神話式的，還是北歐神話式的，風景都是被人從混沌的世界中解救出來的那一片土地，這個風景多少存在於那個客觀的規劃和秩序之中。
中文中，山水則是山和水之組合、交融。山為陽，水為陰，陰陽互動，則萬物生。因而山和水的互動也構成了成千上萬種風景的可能之形態。在此，生命的起點不是在一個雷電交加的夜晚由那位主動的創世主和被動的世界（被造物）突然構成的，而是在無聲無息的陰陽互動和交合中慢慢展開。它也不涉及主體的人和客體的世界之間的對立，因此，中國從來沒有可以和古希臘媲美的創世神話也沒有荷馬史詩般恢弘的英雄傳奇。
二戰後海德格爾被禁止授課，其間他和中國學者蕭師毅在托特瑙堡(Todtnauberg)的小屋中試譯了《道德經》。而其後我們仿佛也可以在他那四位一體的構造中（天、地、終有一死者、神）看到老子的天、地、人，以及其間運轉不息的大道。
“當天、地、人、神聚集在一起，萬物就向我們敞開在澄明之中；人在詩意中棲居而存在著”，這些晚期典型的海德格爾式描述不是純粹的對詩意生活的美好追求、對世外桃源的嚮往，而是有一個對世界技術工具理性化的嚴肅回應和抵抗，也就是對現代化，工業化，資本主義化所造成的世界扁平化的反抗。海德格爾區分了“製作型”（hervorbringen）和“發生型”（geschehen），他在分析現代技術工具之異化的問題時，把病症推演到最早古希臘時期哲學的形成。當世界被柏拉圖理解為理念和表像的二元對立時、當表像被認為是對理念的模仿時、當理想國被設置為一個烏托邦的典範時（一個理念完美的國度），現代化中對世界粗暴的工具技術化就已經潛伏其中。而最關鍵的就是設立了創造或製作的主體和被動的材料之間的關係，科學就是奠基在這樣的基礎之上。而相反，“發生型”不區分主動和被動，不試圖明確世界的意義，它包涵了多維度的理解和詮釋，讓各自不同的因素共振。它生生不息地在關係網絡中運動，它無法被抽取、被概念化。在中國，我們把它喻為氣，它似乎就是推動著陰陽互動的那股勁道。
因此，我們在西方風景概念(Landschaft)和中國充滿意向性的山水一詞中看到了本質上對世界不同的兩種理解——世界是被創造的？還是悄無聲息地生成。創造（製作型）發展到現代，伴隨著笛卡爾主客體的劃分和人之主體性的形成，它把世界看作一個外在於人的客體圖像，一個可以被主動的人所征服和改造的客觀材料，當今的工具技術就是在此誕生。它試圖簡化世界的多樣性，試圖通過單一的理性標準衡量一切，它把一切不符合它規範的世界想像駁斥為謬誤和迷信。 最後它成為了活物，和資本主義生產邏輯一起規劃著我們的日常生活，把我們的人性擠壓到他工具理性生產的模件中。我們生活在人工自動化的時代，我們的身體逐漸脫離自然、脫離日常晝夜的差別、脫離了四季的更替，我們五穀不分、四肢不勤，我們生活在一個由生產和無止境消費所主導的人工化隔離區域。
柄谷行人在《日本現代文學的起源》中追述了這個從明治維新開始的現代化過程，也就是海德格爾所批判的——把周遭世界客體化，物件化的過程。他稱之為“風景的發現” （風景の発見）和伴隨而至的“內面的發現”（主體性的發現）。這個從在山水中游觀到觀察外在風景的過程不只是一種文學風格或圖像風格的轉變，而更是一種世界觀的轉變。用海德格爾的話說，是一種從“發生型”轉向“製作型”的過程，是一種從陰陽生萬物的體認，天地人合一的追求過渡到唯物質的理性生產邏輯的過程。人不再從天地流變中、世代更替中；不再從追求人倫和天理合一中去描寫周遭，來生產出山水畫這樣的表現方式，而是從定點、運用焦點透視，以我為尊地把周遭看成靜態的客觀現象，並加以描繪（文藝復興發明的焦點透視）。
在中國，人倫和天理一致性框架的分崩離析伴隨著對儒教的批判、新文化運動的興起，以及整個中國現代化的風起雲湧。 它的起點不在於對西方科學和技術學習，而是首先出於語言、文學改革和藝術觀察中視角的轉換。 我們不再是那個在天地間和萬物共在的此在（Dasein）、那一隨著各種不同情景而不穩定著的可變之存在、敬畏著天地諸神的終有一死者，而是“我思故我在”的主體（Subjektum——認識世界的基點），萬物因我的觀看而成為在定點透視線上各就各位的客體（Objektum——對立著的透射）。主體性的現代小說和白話文的一起確立，使人們突然間發現自己自立於世界，成為了一個自由之主體。只有語言和感知發生轉變，才會在意識層面上接受西方的自然科學和技術理性（自然科學正是奠基在主體和客體之分裂中），從而被拖入資本主義和現代化新的規劃中不能自拔，他又成為了新形式的奴隸。
在觀風景畫中，雖然毫無疑問地賦予了觀眾絕對的主體地位。觀眾在一個層面上獲得了對統一空間的把握，從而找到了自己外在於畫面的那個安全位置（主體）；另一層面上，也被固定在過去發生的那個時間點上，似乎這個過去將永遠在當下敞開著。
在觀山水畫時，我消融在黑白構成的山水之間，和眼光的移動、和卷軸的打開閉合一起獲得了莊子所說的逍遙遊。我突然從俗世的身份、責任，以及人際網路中解放出來。在觀中，我既擺脫了空間的定位，也游離出了時間。“游”是一種外在和內在的反復，它開啟了進入逍遙的門徑，達到物我兩忘。
在西畫史上，直到17世紀，早期風景也只是作為背景出現在繪畫中，之後普桑和洛林被認為是第一批從事風景畫的歐洲畫家。他們的繪畫大都呈現懷舊的古代建築和神話人物，以及聖經世界，並嚴格地繼承了文藝復興流傳下來的透視法則。相比歷史畫、靜物和肖像畫，風景畫並沒有絕對地恪守焦點透視，空間和時間多少處於一個曖昧的狀態。 而直到塞尚的風景畫，才被認為是打破了時間和空間的統一，形成了多維度的視角。
從透視法開始確立起的歐洲繪畫就逐漸試圖在一個畫面中統一時間和空間。在透視主導下的空間彰顯了時間的切片，與主體視線對空間的把握。因此，過去片刻將永久地凝固在延續的當下，向觀眾們敞開。“時間”的德文“Zeit”源於古德文“zît”，原是切掉（Abgeteilt）的意思。英語的“time”源自於古日爾曼語“timon-”，意思是分裂。 這不得不讓我們思考歐洲語言的時態問題，它不正是時間即切割的含義——過去、現在、將來的分段式敘述結構嗎？“時間”這一詞的漢字組合來自於日本對英語time的翻譯，第一次出現在1874年的《朝野新聞》，中國直到1907年才從日本引入這一新造詞。之前東亞並沒有時間和空間分割的理論認識。
為了讓我們更好地瞭解西方焦點透視中時間和空間的統一，以及其思想源流，這裡我簡述一下西方時間概念的兩種理解。無論哪一種都強調當下（Gegewart）——也可以認為是時態中對現在時的執著。
首先是亞里斯多德對時間的描述：他把時間解釋成為“當下”、“此刻”或“現在”構成的連續系列。時間是由無數個同質性的“當下點”按照先後次序依次排列。當這個當下轉成了過去，那個未來立刻變成當下，以此類推。因此，時間在這樣的意義上是一種無數個當下的連續發生。亞里斯多德把時間定義為“依先後而定的運動的數目”（亞里斯多德《物理學》）。“依先後而定”指均勻計數的方式，“運動的數目”指按此方式衡量運動所得到的一個個數目，即“現在”或“當下”的系列。按照這個定義，時間是間斷性和連續性的統一。時間的間斷性表現在“現在”或 “當下”的前後之分，連續性表現為 “現在”或 “當下”的均勻延續。他說“現在就是能被計數的先後數目，無論在先還是在後，現在作為存在是同一的，但又不是同一的，因為現在在計數過程中有先後之分。”（同上《物理学》）
這裡要注意的是，對時間和現在的描述是出自《物理學》一書，因此亞里斯多德所開創的西方形而上學（metaphysic，即物理之後的意思）是在物理的基礎上把世界理解為運動式的。
在神學傳統中，教父學哲學家奥古斯丁在其《懺悔錄》中有其對語言結構和時間的反思。他對過去——現在——將來的表述和亞里斯多德不同，也是反亞里斯多德的。書中說時間不是物理運動，也不是客觀存在，而是意識的運動，時間是被感知到的。他認為“過去是現在對流逝的追憶，現在是現在對當下的感知，將來是現在對未來的期待。” 亞里斯多德對當下的討論是物理學式的、客體本位式的，而基督教教父學對當下的討論是從心理學主體本位切入。這兩個對時間的理解預示著文藝復興以降歐洲繪畫的一種努力：把已經消失的過去留存在當下，讓過去時變成永久的現在時， 這正是通過焦點透視的法則來達到的。
1766年德國藝評家萊辛在《拉奧孔》一文中強調了畫作中“時刻的純粹性”成為繪畫作品的一個標準。他認為繪畫和雕塑是空間的藝術，因此時間只是對片刻的凝固；相反，文學和音樂是時間的藝術，因為它們在閱讀中展開。任何超出畫作要旨的東西都不合法，干擾了畫面經驗的純粹性。他建議畫家應該“選擇最意味深長的時刻，由此可以容易地猜測出此前和此後的事情”。歐洲的語言往往區分觀看（watch）和閱讀（read），這一思想在18、19世紀的學院藝術理論上如同萊辛所提出的那樣非常明確。 我們在之後的印象派藝術中也可以更鮮明地看到繪畫對瞬間片刻的表現這一主題。
中文中沒有區別觀看和閱讀的差異，觀和閱都是一種運動的過程。對書法的閱讀，需要用時間一點點展開；同樣，對山水畫的觀看，也往往是如同旅人一樣，游走於黑白交替的墨蹟之中，欣賞筆墨造成的抽象美。晚期山水畫中都會題上文字，正體現了這一理念——觀看和閱讀的同構。中文中也不存在時態，所以對時間的觀察並非切斷式的，而是連綿式的。我們不停留在當下，而在於周而復始之變動、主客交互，就是在發展中去看到事物之運作，體察和營造那隱而不顯的氣和勢，並非在當下的時間切片中看某一個客體的在場之顯現。西方對當下的迷思來自於對形而上學之存在（das Sein）問題的執著。在英文中“存在”歸於系動詞be的名詞化形式，也可以認為是be的現在進行時。因此存在就等於“在場性”，而且是在當下，因為它在場了，所以被確定為存在。“在場性”（present）一詞同時又是語法中對現在時的稱謂。因此海德格爾對於形而上學的批判都歸結為對在場性的迷思，以及對本質（Sein）和在場性（Abwesenheit）互相等同的批判。古希臘人在無意識的狀況下把對本質的確立作為在場性去理解，這一傾向導致了現代性的生成——世界的客體化。因為它把當下從時間流中隔斷出來，單獨的物也就此在時間的片段中被隔離出來成為客體，喪失了它和世界（Welt）的聯繫。今天的技術理性就是奠基在這樣的一種世界觀上的。
中國人對世界的理解既非亞里斯多德的物理學式（客體視角），也非奥古斯丁的心理學式（主體視角），而是一種主客間性的天、地、人共行。萬物流變於蒼天之下。時間是非客體的存在，也非主觀的感知，而是四季陰陽的更替迴圈和人事轉變。它伴隨著每一個節氣中的對天氣的經驗，配合這樣的天氣和陰陽更替，農業勞作也相應地展開，自然和人事一一對應，人倫和天理同構。順應自然，就是讓主體融入到客觀世界的變遷中，形成主客交互型。
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當我還對繪畫處於懵懂期時，就有幸師從曹公夫婦，每星期一到兩次的單獨輔導讓我至今難以忘懷。他培養了我觀察世界的方法，也為我之後的理論學習同樣打下了知性上的基礎，同時也讓我更多地瞭解了他作為一個畫家工作的方式和思考的路徑。以上，我在歷史文化和哲學理論的層面上展開了對於山水和Landscape（風景畫）異同的討論。這些零零總總對於一個投身於感性實踐的畫家不免多餘，在這個維度我非常同意曹公對於此討論的輕視，就如同英國畫家培根把法國哲學家德勒茲對他繪畫的書寫《感覺的邏輯》視為無物，以及不知所云地過度發揮。
當一個畫家在寫生中面對一片風景時，用西方的透視法構圖時，他難道只是把對象設置成為客體嗎？他感受不到自然氣味的籠罩、空氣的濕度、風拂過肌膚帶來對空曠的體估，以及陽光的溫度？他難道只是專心致志地通過他的辛勞來彰顯主體對自然的征服？還是他忘記了他是和天地共存的那千萬億渺小中的微不足道？他師法自然就如同宋代的任何一位追求天人一體的山水畫家，也如同文藝復興試圖通過對自然的觀察理解上帝之真理的每一位藝術家。當我們驚歎於北宋畫家格物致知的能力，對萬物造化細緻入微地體察，對人造器具巧奪天工的再現；同時我們也能看到文藝復興的一代人文藝術家們如何兢兢業業試圖盡力通過他們的素描接近世界的真理。在佛羅倫斯他們稱其為“disegno”——意為對世界理念（logos）的逼近。我們不能說那一代的歐洲藝人們沒有宋人那樣意識到自己是處於天地之間開放性的存在，和他們二者相比，我們卻五穀不分，四體不勤，被隔離在四季恒溫的現代化溫室中，早已忘記了什麼是自然的樣貌；我們也不能說宋人由於不知道柏拉圖的模仿說而缺乏了文藝復興藝人們對外在世界的觀察，他們並不是只是在跟隨形而上的道，也追逐那可見的表像。
曹公版畫出生，西畫一圈，最後還是回歸中國傳統山水的遊觀。在18世紀末到19世紀的歐洲，也出現過風景畫和田園畫的熱潮，比如米勒的鄉村田園中那靜穆永恆的四季迴圈，比如德國浪漫派弗裡德里希神聖肅穆的奇異風光。這些繪畫在當時歐洲工業化城市中獲得了非常好的市。當時的歐洲如同當今的中國，正處於如火如荼的現代化和工業化時期。無論是法國的鄉村田園畫還是德國浪漫派風景，都是對工業化和資本主義化導致的社會動盪、人與自然的疏離等狀態的回應和反抗。前現代的中國人生活在不同的山水系統中，真實的山水系統、被文人墨客所命名的文化的山水、假山所營造的符號化的山水園林、屏風上所描繪的山水、牆上掛著的立軸山水，和詩文書法一起放在架上的卷軸山水、擺在案頭微型的盆景山水。人不只是在城市空間中和真實山水中游走，而且還在詩文、園林、圖像組成的山水中精神性地遊走。當我在黃山霧靄中看到興致勃勃的遊人和沿山而建的山道起伏蜿蜒時，突然意識到“游”在中華文化中獨特的意義——行動中的人處於天地萬物運轉之間——人事和天理的交相輝映。 我們在今天柯布西耶“明日之城”式的、並繼續在空間向上發展的中國各大城市中（況且新城中的寬闊公路只適合汽車行駛），讓“游”的文化也產生了新的形態，甚至成為一種虛擬的網遊。對於曹公來說，他繪畫中的位置經營並非刻意為了提供觀者一種意向上的遊，他更多的是一種自我修行，從紙上的勞作中尋求精神上脫離今天在加速度中的俗世，仿佛一種今天意義上個人虛幻的世外桃源。當今的藝術品是在一種資本主義的生產方式中定義自我，而曹公對市場的消極回應也為他打開了另一種美學的生存形態。
生活在今天這樣一個數位複製圖像蔓延的時代，人的視覺通過攝影來感知世界，我們總是傾心於早期文藝復興畫家，如Piero della Francesca的迥異造型 ，或者南宋梁楷介於人和怪之間的高僧形象。在一個沒有攝影作為一切視覺經驗參照的年代裡，我們的視覺感知到底是如何的呢？ 如今，眼睛早已經不只被攝影技術同化，當今的繪畫區別於前現代繪畫，它不再是對自然的模仿，而是對作為仲介的照片的模仿——照片成為畫家的唯一對象早已經不是秘密。
幾年前，當曹公談到寫生感悟時，問我，對於繪畫來說“是物件重要，還是畫面重要” ，我選擇了“畫面”，他認為“物件重要”，並不厭其煩地論證了其看法，描述了他畫畫中的感悟，但那時我並沒有明白其深意。對於今天的畫家來說，物件物早就是無足輕重的參考，更重要的是我們作為畫家那獨裁式的個人性表達，這也一直是19世紀中葉“藝術為藝術”以來的看法。物件只是仲介，沒有人關心他是否看上去正確或真實，所有的物件可能只是照片的隨意組合和拼貼。從20世紀早期先鋒派抽象藝術以來，我們已經習慣了只討論畫面中抽象的點、線、面、構成，而忽視了現實中我們對物的真實感知。另一方面，從中國文人畫的傳統以來出現了一種對筆墨抽象性的審美和對筆墨本身典故遊戲的推崇。曹公曾表達過對這一符號化傾向的懷疑，他默寫的山水並非如同傳統國畫那樣來自於前人的總結（每一筆都有出處）。因為這樣自律的典故系統和自然漸行漸遠，按照德國東亞藝術史家雷德侯模組化的說法，何嘗不是一種文化和自然的分裂呢？筆墨材料作為模組被業餘文人畫家們自由組合和再構，形成了無數大同小異的山水圖像。他們雖然保持了山水畫視覺的具象性，但內在邏輯上並不會和當代的圖像拼貼有太大的不同。 在曹公那裡，對繪畫材料木炭的把握、對自然身體力行的感知、常年精湛的各種西畫技巧的修行，共同在記憶中打開了造像的流淌，構成了他本冊中默寫山水的萬千姿態。他說，那是對北宋的回歸，我覺得，那是帶著氣動的生命湧現，不只是知性的，而更是毛細管中的感性！
正是在這樣的一個數位技術橫行的時代，除了照片，PS成為每個當代畫家必不可少的“好朋友”時，曹公並沒有如同今天大多數畫家那樣強調自己對畫面絕對的主權；當無數個基於裡希特的觀念影像繪畫不斷批量重複時，他也沒有把繪畫本身推向“何為繪畫”這樣貌似深刻的本體論問答中，而是帶著無比謙和，隱退在物的靈光之後。我常常驚訝於他對各種不同樹種形態的瞭若指掌——從哪裡開始分叉，枝葉是如何長的，榆樹的節從何而來。他幾乎成為了半個植物形態學家，這些都離不開長期的戶外寫生實踐，那便是他所謂的“物件的重要”，對我來說，就是面對自然的謙遜和平和，試圖把自己融入到天地之中。在這樣的意義上來說，他是最傳統的畫家，繼續用前現代的方式體悟世界，畫著山水和風景。同時，和眾多的當代畫家相比，他又最具差異性，堅持著自己的另類與不群。或者說當代的畫家們，他們與時俱進地在數位複製時代下從內部改變了“何為繪畫”的條件：一方面，他們接受了科學技術為視覺表達帶來的各種便利，在圖像的仲介中不斷的仲介著；另一方面卻始終停留在貌似手工藝形態的繪畫上。因此面對宋人山水和文藝復興風景繪畫，當代以照片作為仲介的繪畫工作方式本身就是海德格爾所謂“技術異化”。 面對今天的情態，在歷史傳統中的山水和風景的區別也就顯得無足輕重了。
Gao Shiming
2014
SHARING SILENT SECRETS: Cao Xiaoyang’s Way of Shanshui
Gao Shiming
Xiaoyang once said: ‘All my exhibitions have one single theme: shanshui.’
Xiaoyang has devoted himself exclusively to shanshui art (Literally, ‘mountains and water’; the Chinese concept of brush-and-ink landscape painting.) for over ten years. And through all these years, each time Xiaoyang paints, it seems that he is seeking to evoke the archetypal shanshui scroll: the scroll that has endured through thousands of years, through the ravages of time, the invasions of insects, the turmoil of war, and that retains faint, misty traces still discernible on its surface. This scroll, in itself, is shanshui.
How, then, to define shanshui? It is more than the physical scenery that appears before our eyes. It transcends the forests, springs, hills and valleys we have travelled through in our lifetimes. Shanshui is a perfect oneness, an organic amalgamation of mountains, rivers, roads and paths, cliffs and rocks, trees and groves. In a shanshui painting, all things appear before us in a balanced equality. Its form can change in a single breath, as the myriad elements of nature shift and emerge, and the mountains and rivers coalesce. It is an endless series of images, wherein all that is above and below, in foreground and background, appears in a vast continuity, without breaks or borders, a single broad perspective without end or vanishing point.
Scrolls of this nature play no role in the art-historical debate between the ‘subjective expressiveness’ of the brush and ‘real landscape’. There is a deeper meaning here, but it is difficult to convey in words. Here, in this scroll, the artist’s skill is in the ability to master the gestural movements of the Creator, to capture the links that lead back to the source of life in the universe, and the way in which the myriad things of the universe manifest into form. When sketching in nature, the artist stands amidst the mountains. When painting in the studio, the scenery reappears in the artist’s mind, and materializes through the movements of his body: the painter and his subject matter become as one, bonded together in a process of mutual cultivation, like polishing a piece of jade. This process of cultivation or ‘polishing’ also reveals a worldview. In this scroll the secrets of nature are made visible through the aggregation and elaboration of myriad images and forms.
Xiaoyang executes his shanshui paintings with charcoal, eschewing the unique expressive charm and myriad other seductions of brush and ink. Charcoal enables the artist to attain greater intimacy with the physicality of the objects themselves, evoking a line from Jing Hao’s (855-915 CE 980) Notes on Brushwork (Bifa ji): that qiyun — ‘rhythmic vitality’ or ‘spirit resonance’ — must be realized through form and concept.
In making charcoal by burning wood, one is creating an artist’s material from the very substance of trees. When this dead material comes back to life under the control of the artist, it once again attains the form of rivers, mountains ranges and valleys. Xiaoyang manipulates this basic, elemental material with extraordinary virtuosity, creating his own subversive method of dots and strokes, wash and texture. Not only does his charcoal painting dispense with overelaboration and superficiality, and grasp what is essential, he is able to go beyond the power of the brush and create works of remarkable subtlety.
Using charcoal as his ‘brush’, the artist not only paints in black– he also paints in white. The moment the charcoal touches the paper, the painting surface immediately ceases being a void, and when the painting is finished there is no part of the surface that is ‘empty’, that is not part of the painting. The dazzling white ground that the charcoal struggles to carve out is not a void, but rather a presence. ‘Knowing what is white, but embracing what is black, and thus providing a model for the world’. Xiaoyang’s shanshui art has its origins in his experience with woodcut prints, with their strong chiaroscuro quality. This is not the traditional Chinese approach of ‘measuring the white space as if it were black’ [i.e. treating the background as if it were the subject matter]. In his works, black trumps white, and the white reinforces the black; black and white reflect each other’s light and shadows, like heaven and earth in primeval chaos.
When painting with charcoal, creating wash effects is extremely challenging. But such effects do not rely so much on mastery of brush and ink techniques, but rather depend on the artist’s qiyun, rhythmic vitality or spirit resonance, which is expressed through acts of concealing and revealing. The role of the artist is simply to render visible the materiality of both darkness and void. This process is not to be compared to the uncanny science of developing photographic prints in a darkroom, but is more evanescent, like carving or taking a rubbing from something formless and shapeless, teasing out threads of thought from the tapestry of the ineffable darkness. At the moment the glimmering dawn separates the world from the night, the face of creation gradually takes form, emerging from a multitude of subtle, infinitesimal details.
The Way of Painting comes down to the process of revelation and concealment. The painter problematizes process: he repeatedly transforms substance into nothingness, presence into absence, and then reverses the process by restoring emptiness to substance; in the continual interchange between what is visible and what is not, the images are mutable, lacking any fixed form. Void reverts to substance, substance returns to void. These continuous cycles of shifting between illusion and reality are a paradox of appearance and disappearance. The artist attempts to delineate in his work what cannot be outlined in words; to illuminate situations that defy definition. The artist is attuned to subtle, mysterious changes and disturbances; from these illusive sources he creates works of art, just as the myriad transformations are uninterruptedly taking place in nature. Among these transformations, the artist seeks out a process of externalization and effusion. He attends to the infinitesimal, not only to panoramic vistas and viewpoints, concentrating on the inner workings of things. Embodied in form and concentrated in spirit, the hand of the painter guides and directs the eye in its observation of objects; the artist’s perceptions are at once physical, and intellectual; this is called ‘investigating the nature of things by means of the self’. As if blind and deaf, the artist becomes indistinguishable from nature, and unconstrained by emotions, only the paper in his hand can reawaken him, at a point when the entire phenomenal universe is transformed into the patterns of clouds and mist emitted from his brush, and are manifested on the surface of the painting. Emotions never cease changing, ultimate wisdom is attained through external objects; this is called ‘understanding the self through the medium of external things’. Between the self and external objects, where Heaven and mankind intersect, there is only disappearance and reappearance, sinking and resurfacing.
From ancient times, painting has been a conceptual and spiritual practice. Rare are the individuals who can hear the sounds in the remote silence. Xiaoyang has only shown his shanshui paintings to a small circle of friends and disciples. We can go so far as to say that Xiaoyang has been working on these shanshuis in secret for the past ten years. This work is secret not only because so few people are aware of it, but even more because what these works strive for is the secret of nature’s creation. Sunlight and clouds fill the sky, dragons and snakes inhabit the land; there are endless spiritual transformations, but their mystery and subtlety defies ready understanding. ‘Standing at the center and encompassing the entire universe’, the artist can share the abstruse overtones of these hidden sounds; slowly over time, he seeks out their subtle mysteries. Xiaoyang’s approach to shanshui is perhaps best reflected in a concept contained in the ancient text Guicang: the idea of ‘returning to the mystical storehouse’ from whence all things emerge.
The above is little more than the ranting and raving of an admirer. Among a handful of friends, perhaps these words can serve as a source of inspiration.
(Translated by Don J. Cohn and Valerie C. Doran)
秘響旁通
曹曉陽的“山水”工作
高士明
曉陽說，此生辦展覽，只有一個題目，就是“山水”。
曉陽畫山水已有十年。十年來，他的畫也唯有山水這一個主題。甚或說，這些年他只在追摹那同一幅畫卷。這幅畫卷，歷經千古，於歲月輪轉中損蝕磨礪，於變亂漶漫中有跡可察。這幅畫卷，就是山水。
何為山水？非獨眼前所見之景物，亦不止吾輩登臨之林泉丘壑；山水者，山川道路、丘石林木俱為一體，眼前世界俱平等相。一氣化形，萬物成象，山水渾然一體，物象連綿不斷，上下前後廣延不可分割，無分無界亦無限。
如此畫卷，無關畫史中所謂“得意筆”與“真山水”之辯詰。此中真意，欲辨忘言。當此畫卷，畫者之能，僅在於能夠把握造物者的手勢，捕捉到萬物生發、自然化育的蛛絲馬跡。師法造化，在臨在摹。臨者山在眼前，身居其中；摹者以思御景，身與境化，要在畫者與物象之間如膠似漆，如琢如磨。琢磨而出乎其中者，乃是一種世界觀的展示——當此畫卷，造化之秘在無數物象的集聚與鋪陳中變現而出。
曉陽作畫，以木炭為筆，擺脫了毫管筆墨獨有之意趣，拋卻水暈墨章的萬千魅惑，反而更切近於事物本身，更加應和著荊浩《筆法記》中所言，將氣和韻，落實為景與思。燃木為炭，這畫材脫胎於林木之身體，此刻又躍然於紙上，在畫者指掌的運作中使山川巒壑成形顯象。曉陽用這最簡單直接的畫材，於筆墨混融間點劃涂抹，無所不用其極；不惟“去其繁華，採其大要”，更是竭其所能，盡其微妙。
燃木為筆，畫者不但畫黑，而且畫白。一旦動筆，畫面就不再是空白，畫竟之時，畫面上更無一空處，那炭筆刻劃爭戰出的耀眼的白地，亦不是空，而是有。“知其白，守其黑，為天下式”。曉陽之山水畫源出黑白分明之木刻經驗，並非中國傳統所謂“計白當黑”，而是以黑御白，以白養黑，黑白輝映，天地渾茫。
木炭為筆，滋潤最難。滋潤之意，不在筆精墨妙，而在氣韻。氣韻在乎隱現。畫者所為，無非是讓沉默之世界從暗夜虛無中有所顯現，其過程卻並非如暗房顯影般奇妙從容，而是取視成灰，於一片漫漶中摹刻拓印，於無盡幽暗中抽思織錦——世界之夜破曉的晨光離合間，造物之面容從無數精微細節中漸次顯影而出。
畫之道，顯隱爾。畫者無是生非，嘗於實中化虛，又復運虛於實；顯隱生化，惟恍惟惚；返虛入實，因實轉虛；似非而是，由是而非；返轉變幻，全在顯隱之間。畫者欲彰顯不可言詮之象，煥發難以名狀之境；於風雲際會中領悟神變幽微；於無跡可尋中成就氣象萬千；於萬千氣象中追索大衍運行。其關竅處，不惟觀覽之法，更在運作之妙。體物凝神，繪畫之手牽引觀物之眼，以體察之，以心審之，所謂以我格物。收視返聽，觀者化入自然，忘情其中，唯手中片紙將之重新喚起，森羅萬象化作筆底煙雲在畫面上展開之際，緣情隨化，因物知幾，此是以物格我。物我之間，人天之際，或隱或現，載沉載浮。
繪事自古為心印，幽音渺渺幾人知？曉陽的山水，除寥寥幾位好友和弟子外，從不示人。山水可以說是曉陽十年來的一項秘密工作。這份工作之所以秘密，不獨因其不為人所知，而且由於它所欲趨向者，乃造化之秘藏。天光雲影，龍蛇起陸，神變無窮，幽微難測。畫者“佇中區以玄覽”，因秘響而旁通，於歲月遙永間探其幽微，由是此山水工作亦可為歸藏之道也。
以上所論，皆屬狂悖之言。三五同好之間，或可為共勉之辭。
在印度尼西亞的鄉村裡有一種被稱為「lumbung」的公共糧倉，村民們會將每家盈餘的收成存入其中，共同來決定該怎樣分配，使這些收成能更好地助益於整個鄉村社群的未來。這一另類的公共治理方法被印度尼西亞的藝術團體朗魯帕（ruangrupa）選作他們策劃第15屆卡塞爾文獻展（documenta fifteen，6月18日至9月25日）的理念基礎，並延伸到當代世界的各種資源、觀念與知識的共享模式，特別強調通過群體實踐，深入對生態、社會與經濟的可持續性等緊迫議題的思考與探索。
本屆文獻展的參展藝術家以行動者團體為主，大多來自「全球南方」（Global South）國家。「全球南方」一詞源起於上世紀60年代，用於指代亞、非、拉美、大洋洲等經濟發展水平與政治及文化地位相對落後的國家，它們的地理位置大多在昔日殖民主義與帝國主義的力量中心以南。近年隨著西方發達國家主導的世界秩序日陷危機，「全球南方」的概念愈發頻繁地見於國際問題的研究與報道，在藝術領域亦釋放出一股來自邊緣地帶的活力，動搖已然板結的西方中心話語。而在中文語境中，處於內陸邊緣的「南方」在自然生態、社群形態、人文脈絡、交流互通等方面也蘊藏著別樣的生機與變革之勢。「南方」不只是一個地緣與身份的範疇，更代表諸多富於流動性、聯通性與再生力量的實踐方法和精神資源，既活潑有力，又洞幽燭微。
「始終處於生成狀態的合作」
本屆卡塞爾文獻展的參展藝術家曹明浩和陳建軍生活在成都，兩人的「水系」計劃從2015年持續至今，圍繞著在中國西南地區的岷江流域的一系列實地行走和沿途合作展開，從考察這一水系的歷史流變與現實狀態開始，進入不同的現場去搭建地方生活環境各個系統的新關係網絡，其中涉及當地居民、不同學科的研究者、其他物種及非生命物質的參與，他們稱之為一種「始終處於生成狀態的合作」。曹明浩和陳建軍主張通過一種在邊緣的、小範圍內的生態實踐，慢慢脫離受系統控制的生態敘事，進而確認其創作研究的具體場景與工作基礎。2019年的《水系避難所#1》和《水系避難所#2》以反思2008年四川地震後的政策和災後重建計劃對岷江水系的影響為起點，通過與羌族居民、建築師、地質和植物學者、乃至土壤等非人類主體的合作，探索地方傳統、古代智慧和超越人類的智能對這些影響的緩解和回應方式。參與本屆文獻展的《水系避難所#3》（2022）則去到岷江上游橫斷山脈及其源頭區域，那裡是許多遠古存留下來的物種和物質的避難所，亦有幾乎處在現代性之外的生態牧區，他們嘗試用「去人類中心」的視角觀察、理解當地的生態智慧及人與其他物種、物質之間的關係，從中尋求對於避難與共生的啓示。
《水系避難所#3》在文獻展上的呈現超越了對於水系源頭的地理學定位，以與之相同海拔的若爾蓋草原的牧民用氂牛毛編制的黑帳篷為主要形態。帳篷中展示的視頻、檔案與出版物中包含大量對當地環境問題、生態變遷、牧民的自然知識及應對草場退化的植草實踐的考察，還包括當地環保人士扎瓊巴讓的《格爾登噶曲喀的情器繪畫》——以28幅唐卡繪制的草原修復故事，揭示在脆弱生態系統中的牧民、草、氂牛、鼠兔、黑頸鶴、黑土灘、沙、水之間的依附與轉化過程。曹明浩和陳建軍還會邀請其長期合作者、文獻展的其他藝術家、卡塞爾當地的社群及研究者在黑帳篷中舉辦一系列演講和工作坊活動。文獻展結束後，製作帳篷的材料將以生態友好的方式被回收利用，或在卡塞爾當地降解。
本屆文獻展的另一參展團體菠蘿核（BOLOHO）是一個位於廣州的空間，也是一個基於友誼的經濟實體，由BUBU與CAT兩位家庭職業女性發起於2019年，馮偉敬、李致恿、朱建林陸續加入成為正式成員。基於對人際關係、家庭結構和社會角色的反思，既作為一個以自律、平等、互助為原則的「公司」平台為無法只靠藝術謀生的自己和同伴們提供各種工作，也邀請彼此欣賞的朋友和組織一起工作、學習、分享和成長。菠蘿核應本屆文獻展之邀發起的新項目《BOLOHOPE》通過迷你情景劇，繪畫，縫紉，文本，物料設計等媒介，嘗試在種種日常生活的災難性現場中，用集體性的創作掙脫系統與體制的裹挾，去描述那些從未停止顯現、卻未必會化作現實的「HOPE」（希望）。
在廣州務實而多元的藝術氛圍中，菠蘿核的創作不以展覽和藝術體制為目標，並認為日常生活中的許多實踐都是被低估了的「藝術」，比如煮飯、種植、縫紉、家務勞動和養育孩子。其成員中有廣府人、潮汕人和客家人，自小都曾將港台電視劇作為瞭解世界、想象未來的窗口，從其中學到的橋段和幽默也被用於本次《BOLOHOPE》的表演之中，成為一種糅合現實與想象、表達苦樂的直接方式。菠蘿核的成員早在2010年的學生時代就開始自發組織集體項目，在過去的十多年中經歷過許多不同空間和形態的集體實踐，這些集體有些是臨時的、有些仍在持續。在一次採訪中，菠蘿核成員認為集體有各自的生命和活力，不會勉強維持一個集體存續的時間——「它跟具體參與的人的能量有關，像潮汐一樣，既激發人協作的潛力，也需要照料彼此的疲憊。」潮汐般的變動或許也意味著不停地生成。
在全球化與地方性之間
自2010年開館以來，廣東時代美術館一直致力於在全球化的背景下探索珠三角地區藝術實踐呈現的獨特視野。2017年，該館進一步提出「一路向南」的行動面向，主動將自身置於充滿複雜性和豐富性的「全球南方」敘事和想象之中。這種自覺向南的離散態度既可以追溯到19世紀西方殖民貿易時期廣東沿海華工向南洋以至古巴等地的移民潮，也可在近十年製造業和基建投資向東南亞、非洲和拉美的南移趨勢中找到回應。「一路向南」貫穿於廣東時代美術館近年的一系列策展、研究、駐地、行走、論壇、播客及出版項目，特別關注作為文化生產者的藝術家、電影人、作者、各學科研究者和自我組織活動在全球化和地方性之間的調停作用。廣東時代美術館學術副館長及首席策展人蔡影茜在接受《藝術新聞/中文版》採訪時表示，最初提出「一路向南」是嘗試在「逆全球化」的浪潮中重尋「全球南方」團結和交流的動能，但隨著近年的研究和不同項目的展開，「我們開始意識到這裡面有很多相互糾纏的路徑、很多結構性的嵌套和位移，使我們幾乎無法單向度地思考南方。」而在藝術家的實踐中，這些嵌套和位移恰可為我們打通繁多的支脈，比如該館2021年春季的展覽「林從欣：豬仔嘆和毒物賦」從藝術家對致癮植物、病毒、勞工移民和殖民商品歷史的長期研究出發，既指向諸多「全球南方」歷史經驗的勾連，又聯結起今日全球資本主義廢墟和疫情之下生命體與非生命體的關係秩序。
「一路向南」借用不同的地理修辭和製圖方式，不斷對「南方」的坐標進行重置，例如2019-2020年與古巴和越南藝術機構合作的駐地交換項目試圖在廣州與「全球南方」城市之間建立藝術實踐的聯結，2020年「運動中的泛策展」之「口岸聯盟」聚焦於對海上絲綢之路位於中國東南沿海的四座口岸城市的實地考察，近期開幕的展覽「「河流脈搏——穿越邊界交疊的世界」（7月2日至8月28日）則從連接中國西南地區與東南亞多國的四條河流開啓追問，線上期刊第一期《南方以南》與播客「生滾粥」亦在通過與每位作者和嘉賓的對話，推進著「南方」想象的參照點和網絡聯結點的不斷重置。位於重慶的器·Haus空間由藝術家楊述和策展人倪昆於2006年發起，一直通過青年藝術家實驗項目、國際藝術家駐地以及一系列與國內外藝術機構的合作保持著同中國西南及國際藝術現場的交流。從與西方機構建立長期合作，到近年愈發重視與亞洲國家的互動，倪昆對《藝術新聞/中文版》稱這是一個自然的成長和找尋過程：「藝術在西方的文化系統中非常重要，而在中國的文化現場，我們只能選擇一種自我邊緣化的路徑，才能找到獨立表達的土壤，我們與西方的對話通常總會陷入一個他者與中心的對話，不是我們需要的。而通過器·Haus空間的國際藝術家駐地網絡和我在福岡亞洲美術館的客座研究，亞洲呈現出的路徑的豐富性給我的啓發特別大。」器·Haus空間自2012年持續參與的「亞洲酒店計劃」一直通過在亞洲城市之間的行走搭建一個流動中的藝術網絡，與日本以及泰國、印尼、新加坡等「全球南方」國家的互訪帶給倪昆很多啓示：「從表象來看，整個東亞和東南亞的都市化帶來的景觀是比較接近的，但大家到對方生活的環境裡頭去，更深入地在藝術家的作品和平常的聊天互動中，你會發現大家的出發點和關注的對象還是有巨大的差異，大家會把激發出的一些想法帶到後續的工作里。」今年初，倪昆在成都時代美術館策劃了「亞洲酒店計劃」在中國的首次全面展示，以「人造風景」為題，逐步遠離曾經宏大的世界圖景，關注人的主觀意志和行為選擇。
南方作為靈性資源
自古以來，南方以其幽潤叢深的自然地貌和僻遠於權力話語中心的自治狀態，孕生出形貌紛繁、纏結蔓生的本土文化，亦形成消弭人與自然、神靈、不同物種、物質之間的理性邊界、探入神秘未知領域的豐饒靈性資源。許多藝術家從中汲取養料，並通過在不同地緣文化之間的流動與聯通，應對後疫情時代的停滯與孤絕。
生活在佛山的雙胞胎藝術家黃山、黃河組成的山河跳！擅長在日常語境中對問卜、神話和儀式進行創造性演繹，深入當代議題和人的心理現狀。她們對《藝術新聞/中文版》笑稱，從幼年在深圳民俗文化村體驗西南少數民族的泛靈儀式表演，到成長過程中熟悉香港TVB影視劇中求籤問卜的場景，以及近年在南方多地對神秘文化的考察，南方的靈性資源一直撞擊著她們的心靈和藝術實踐。今年春夏，山河跳！參加瑞士文化基金會的駐留項目，考察了瑞士西南部瓦萊州的Herens鬥牛節，這一以母牛為主角的鬥牛活動毫無血腥殺戮，卻充滿原始陰性力量的對峙。山河跳！將其與瑞士榮格心理學派提出的「大母神」原型、以及嶺南的明遺民畫家張穆《牧牛圖冊》中將控制心性比作牧牛的禪宗譬喻融合進她們6月下旬在蘇黎世Nuemarkt劇場的表演。山河跳！還在駐留期間走訪了國際心理分析學院（ISAP）、榮格故居及其晚年隱居的波林根塔樓，榮格書房中收藏的大量東方文獻以及他對西方人可通過易經、禪修、西藏密宗等方式獲得「內向心靈的自性解脫」的主張，亦在山河跳！此番的行走和交流中持續地回響。
同在今年春夏，越南藝術家潘濤阮（Thao Nguyen Phan）在英國泰特聖艾夫斯美術館（Tate St Ives）的同名個展、泰國藝術家寇拉克里·阿讓諾度才（Korakrit Arunanondchai）在新加坡藝術博物館的個展「向宇宙傳輸能量的機器」和泰國導演阿彼察邦·韋拉斯哈古（Apichatpong Weerasethakul）在巴塞羅那當代藝術中心Fabra i Coats的個展「夜之邊緣」，也都運用「全球南方」靈性資源中人與宇宙自然的關係、與未知世界的溝通、轉世、重生等元素，在充滿僵化與斷裂的當代世界復活交流與聯結的希望。
#關於作者#
申舶良
申舶良，獨立策展人、寫作者，現居上海。紐約大學博物館學文學碩士，修習過光州雙年展國際策展人課程、阿姆斯特丹大學西方神秘學課程。曾獲羅伯特·博世基金會「華德無界行者」寫作獎金。他的策展關注展覽與文學空間的關聯，最近的創作型策展項目為2017年在UCCA尤倫斯當代藝術中心策劃的「寒夜」。
來自中國廣州的藝術團體菠蘿核（BOLOHO），在第十五屆卡塞爾文獻展打造了一間「工廠食堂」。觀眾們可以在這裡一邊享用亞洲菜餚，一邊觀看電視屏幕上由BOLOHO創作的系列情景喜劇BOLOHOPE。他們所在的Hübner Areal展區原是卡塞爾東部的一座工廠，此番空間中的牆紙和桌布上鋪滿文字宣言和可愛圖案，幾扇屏風以照料和縫紉為主題——正是以”共同勞作”為實踐中心的BOLOHO，在輕鬆幽默的態度中回應了當代藝術所面臨的矛盾機制。
本期推送中，我們對話了正在卡塞爾的菠蘿核（BOLOHO），詳細介紹他們基於友誼的運作分配模式，如何在互助中去確認自己的勞動價值，以及本次參展作品BOLOHOPE的創作始末，並分享了未來與文獻展「閱覽室」合作的更多出版計劃。
卷宗書店：請談談你們緣何決定建立這個自我組織!
菠蘿核：BOLOHO是菠蘿核的諧音，是大樹菠蘿的種子。習慣了食用果肉而將菠蘿核扔掉的人們，常常不知道或忘記了它也是一道別具風味的美食。BOLOHO一開始是BUBU（劉嘉雯）與CAT（黃婉珊）兩個家庭職業女性的創業計劃，也是在家之外的一處透氣的地方，在這裡希望能把生活和工作的頭緒理一理。經過這幾年的時間，其他成員陸續加入，例如朱建林、李致恿、馮偉敬。而後，創業的部分逐漸形成了一個」公司”平台，在給無法只靠藝術謀生的大家”接單”的同時，也給大家提供了去思考、辨析和解決一些現實問題的契機。
菠蘿核：其實自2010年起，當BOLOHO主要成員們還是學生時，就開始陸續發起了一些自組織的集體項目。在十多年間，大家各自參與了種種形態的集體實踐與項目，也經歷了不同性質的職業和工作。這些經驗使我們體認到各種機制的失靈（從學校、機構到城市與社會層面）對創作者的生存和發展帶來的具體影響。或許，BOLOHO也是我們漫長集體實踐歷程中的一次新的行動。在個體支持體系和可持續發展框架極度匱乏的現狀下，我們想嘗試主動地與各種社會資源交往和對話，同時又不被完全捲入到任何機制的現有邏輯中，以此來探索一點其他選擇的空間。
卷宗書店：在廣州，菠蘿核的實體空間場所是固定的嗎，是否在城市建設過程中經歷過變遷?
菠蘿核：BOLOHO的空間位於一個廣州老城區的居民樓中，生活交通也挺方便的，周圍都是老房子。外地過來的朋友也常驚訝於菠蘿核附近房子跟其他一線城市相比，租金的性價比之高。興許「城市建設」的龐大機器也不是無所不能的，也有它力所不逮的地帶?廣州老城區土地的複雜構成作為一種掩護，讓我們有了相對固定的空間。
卷宗書店：成員在平時線下的聚會頻率如何?會開展哪些活動?對你們來說，共同勞作是最重要的嗎?
菠蘿核：我們幾乎每天都會見面，一起工作，做做飯、種種菜和帶孩子。共同勞作對BOLOHO的狀態而言，似乎不是需要特別去發起和安排的”事件”，而是隨時都在發生著的日常對話。例如，BOLOHO作為一個空間，大家對它的維護是在不同的時間，以各自的習慣和愛好去共同付出的：你經常會發現客廳多了新作的二手物料的盆景插花，或是撿來修好的”新”傢具，陽台又多種了一盆番茄，牆上可能會多出幾張手稿，等等。
菠蘿核：我們也更注重”共同勞作”中身體經驗和情感緯度。比如，平時工作的兩餐是大家工作後所必需的營養補充和身體需求。除了食物本身，一起烹飪和用餐逐漸成為了BOLOHO成員們去理解彼此和建構信任的重要時刻。
我們在此基礎上發起的”永遠十八廚房”（Forever 18 Kitchen），邀請長輩們、朋友們不定期地來主理或即興參與，這些通過食物所分享的記憶、知識，以及彼此的具身感受，拉近了不同代際和不同價值之間的距離，也充實了在異鄉生活和相處的意義。
菠蘿核：可能相較於”共同勞作”這個概念，我們更願意去思考和探索什麼是我們的”共同需要”，什麼樣的”基建”才能夠為可持續的共處與協作提供支持?
在BOLOHO，”基建”本身不只是空間性的，比如一起承擔維繫這個空間和平台所需的資金、成本與勞動等;它也很強調時間性，在更穩定的集體生活敘事中實現持續的自我認知。它促使著我們盡可能去真實地理解自身和彼此的基本生活所需為何，以及各自對同一項目或事件的理解處於怎樣的狀態和感覺，在此基礎上盡量平衡節奏和彼此接近可能是更重要也更困難
的事情，而不是完全地依靠和輕信一套看似公道的程序以其結論。在我們的經驗中，在組織內部消除了層級和權威的平等程序，也可能因為忽略了人們在資源、能力和狀態上的差異，而導致新的集中，它更為隱蔽，也更為”正確”，卻激發著集體內在的焦慮與競爭。
卷宗書店：在第十五屆卡塞爾文獻展上將”工廠食堂”作為展廳，這個空間是如何選擇和佈置的?
菠蘿核：應第十五屆卡塞爾文獻展之邀，BOLOHO發起了《BOLOHOPE》項目，其中包括了迷你情景喜劇，繪畫與縫紉，創意文本及空間裝置設計等集體的創作與實踐。在情景喜劇的部分，《BOLOHOPE》的故事本身是圍繞著一個開餐廳的計劃來推進的。因此，策展團隊也呼應了我們的提議，將Hübner Areal 展區的「工廠食堂」提供給我們作為整個項目的「展廳」，並為我們推薦了當地有經驗的中餐館來運營它，為展覽期間的到訪者提供一個休憩和用餐的空間。
菠蘿核：與糅合了現實與想象的《BOLOHOPE》劇情一樣，餐廳與展廳的重疊，也折射著我們想與人們分享的那些多重的經驗與記憶。BOLOHO成員有廣府人、潮汕人、客家人，選擇以情景劇作為創作框架，跟我們小時候都有與家人一邊吃飯一邊收看港台電視的經驗有關，那是我們曾經瞭解世界的一個窗口。也許，當年在小小的屏幕里耳濡目染的幽默，正是表達我們時下苦樂的最自然和最熟悉的方式。劇中會出現一些港台電視劇的經典橋段、令人印象深刻的「迎客松」畫面;我們主題曲的前奏是TVB新聞節目的音樂和六合彩的背景聲。同時，我們用集體繪畫和縫紉創作的屏風將整個餐廳劃分成了四個用餐（影像）的空間，依照故事線索每個空間播放一集情景劇。
菠蘿核：在《BOLOHOPE》劇集的每一集劇情中，都插播了四個菠蘿核與閱覽室（李筱天、劉菂、謝思堰主持）合作製作的「廣告」。這些廣告採集了我們不同朋友們的句子，我們為這些句子設計了一個看似商業品牌的logo，並與菠蘿核平時即興記錄和創作的影像片段呼應呈現。這些句子與logo也應用到展覽現場空間的牆壁與桌面上。
菠蘿核：在創作《BOLOHOPE》的一整年里，我們所面臨的整個環境在激烈的變化，不管是我們生活的周遭還是世界的各地，不安與不確定感日益增長，也許HOPE這個詞語已被宣傳濫用，但在我們而言，HOPE是在種種日常生活的災難性現場中，我們試著用集體性的創作去窺測那些可以掙脫各種系統與體制裹挾的機會，去描述那些從未停止折磨著我們的慾望、困境與願景。來到文獻展的觀眾們，將在Hübner Areal一樓的餐廳中目睹菠蘿核大家庭的一次集體逃逸。它也極有可能是我們又一次」失敗」的行動和嘗試。
卷宗書店：根據你們的觀察，現場觀眾是如何反應的?BOLOHO收到了哪些反饋呢?
菠蘿核：這個餐廳是個放鬆休閒同時也可以辦公的地方。除了前來就餐的人，其他觀眾也可以在這裡小憩，約人見面，或者坐下來使用電腦，還有一批批暑假期間從全球趕來觀摩文獻展的學生群體在這裡開展小組討論。而BOLOHO的情景劇就提供了這樣一個輕鬆愉快的背景環境。世界各地的觀眾都是比較自在地在使用這個空間。與此同時，我們也會在展覽期間用餐廳舉行不同主題的活動。
之前我們也擔心不同文化背景的觀眾能不能理解情景劇裡面的梗，但我們目前所收到的反饋都是比較積極和鼓勵的，有一些特別契合BOLOHO的笑點節奏或者美學風格的朋友笑的格外開心。還有其他參展藝術家告訴我們，他們想念這個餐廳了，要帶不同的朋友回去繼續吃。和菠蘿核同一個迷你小組（mini majelis）的柬埔寨藝術家Khvay Samnang，他已經參加過了上一屆文獻展，這屆和Sa Sa Art Project 一起參展，和我們在同一個展場。他和家人在開幕前兩周就已經到達卡塞爾，布展期間時常跑上樓去看我們的展布得怎麼樣了，我們還沒到的時候他就拍了很多照片，直到最後所有繪畫屏風、影像和桌布都擺放完畢，開幕見面時他才告訴我們，你們的作品真的很棒，我們很感念這些鼓勵。當然，可能也有不喜歡或者持批評意見的人，但他們沒有告訴我們。
卷宗書店：作為一個基於友誼的經濟實體，菠蘿核的勞動分工及分配方式是如何約定的?
菠蘿核：BOLOHO一開始就希望通過接活來自給自足，我們的經濟來源主要是設計，策劃，藝術製作之類的項目收入。我們是以按勞分配的方式和參與者合作的。在我們接到一個單的時候，我們會發起一個項目，邀請不同能力的朋友參與，製作一個分配表，表格里會按不同的工種做一個大致的預分配。其中裡面有一部分比例（20%）我們會投入在「基建」，即用以維持菠蘿核空間正常運作的租金、稅務及維護成本。在最後的項目結束後會根據實際情況做調整，每個項目參與者會給出自己的分配比例，通過參與者一同商討得到最終結果。
◉關於分工及分配方式的手稿
卷宗書店：在當下日趨原子化與物理隔離加劇的社會中，彼此信任、團結工作的藝術創作集體（collective）越來越難?可否舉例說明你們如何應對外在的隔閡壓力?
菠蘿核：對於「當下日趨原子化與物理隔離加劇」，每一個人都感同身受。但相比「外在的隔閡壓力」，我們可能更在意如何能「彼此信任、團結工作」。BOLOHO的日常決策是由5位成員共同商討的，卻也比較鬆散，很多時候每個人要負責和面對不同的事務，遇到需要立刻決策的情況，可以與協同工作的相應夥伴溝通，甚至負責此事的成員個人也可以迅速做決定，沒有特別要走的「程序」。例如，情景劇在籌備時其實有兩個名字備選，一個是bolohope，一個是boloho_lol。給出boloho_lol建議的朋友說，我們的劇是一部喜劇，lol是笑的意思，更可愛一些。兩個名字大家都很喜歡，於是就決定讓鯉魚（CAT與李致恿的孩子）選，鯉魚選了bolohope，所以就這麼定了，而boloho_lol被用作了我們Instagram帳號的名字。
菠蘿核：這種非程序的信任與默契，成為了我們協同工作的重要基礎，它有時候可以跳過很多不必要的步驟，讓決策的程序更靈活，也讓項目更容易被推進。當然，「信任」聽起來好像很簡單和輕鬆，但其實我們成員都是認識多年、經歷過不同集體/團體的實踐的老朋友，磨合得比較徹底。
另外，我們也的確希望做決定的時候能夠相對簡單和輕鬆，一來是我們比較在意時間的效率，希望可以盡快完成工作給大家留出更多自由的時間;第二是我們強調共同承擔所有決定的後果。尤其是當事情出現「意外/問題/錯漏」時，正是最需要團結和協作的時刻，只讓做出決策的人承擔後果是過於沈重的。每當這個時候，我們也會召集所有的成員一起開會趕工，來溝通善後，但處理的原則是：大家協商一致，共同決定，共同承擔。
在組織結構上，我們沒有「領導」，沒有層級，每位成員都是平等的，照料彼此是我們最珍視的練習，雖然沒那麼簡單輕鬆，重要是要把自己感受不適的部分說出來，彼此分擔。因此我們所理解的集體，不是一種和「個人主義」相對立的東西，不是講求「投票」、「議程」的團體，而是一種可以允許個人探索自我、包容彼此並共同承擔的友愛空間。
卷宗書店：針對屬於自己的創作，和作為外包而完成的「接活」，會有不同的風格清晰區分嗎?
菠蘿核：我們經常開玩笑說，「接活，就是接著活下去。」接活對於我們而言，一方面是維繫大家生活基本所需的主要經濟來源，另一方面接活的過程也是我們創作的田野。我們在藝術創作的很多辦法可以應用到接活上，同樣，接活的很多經驗也可以轉化到創作表達中。例如，這次《BOLOHOPE》的劇情中很多情節都是來自接活中的經歷，而接活過程中積累的不同技能（例如平面設計、影像、動畫）也充實了我們的創作語言。也許，一開始接活的確更多是我們應對資源和分配問題的生存策略。但過程中，它也逐漸打破了許多那種封閉的藝術家式的自我想象，在與種種具體問題的辨析與周旋中，賦予了創作者主體新的視角和流動性。至於風格，我們在接活或創作上都不是最在意的，我們更在意生產過程人與人的交往，不管是甲方與乙方還是策展人與藝術家，發展真實而彼此尊重的關係是我們實踐中最為投入的。
卷宗書店：本屆文獻展與「閱覽室」合作的出版計劃，可以具體和我們談一下會有哪些出版物嗎?作為「最不以物為本」的一屆文獻展，實體書對你們來說是什麼角色呢?「閱覽室」也包括視頻、縫紉、烹飪等形式嗎?
菠蘿核：與本屆文獻展有關的出版計劃，除了已經編譯完畢的《米倉》小冊子，閱覽室還有一個和菠蘿核所在的「迷你小組」（mini majelis）合作的出版物，內容為來自各成員家鄉（孟買，台灣，柬埔寨，廣東等地）的食譜，目前正在製作中。此外，閱覽室也將和亞洲藝術文獻庫開展一些共同出版項目，記錄本屆文獻展的內容。實體書對我們來說不只是一個物件，一個媒介，一個熟悉的對話者，更是一份歷史的見證。
菠蘿核：《米倉》中文版的編輯工作主要是於今年2月至5月進行的。當時劉菂在香港，謝思堰在深圳，李筱天在廣州。然而香港從今年2月起，深圳從3月，廣州從4月起，陸續開始出現與疫情相關的不同程度的封控。因此，這個編輯的過程進行地較緩慢，也是我們互相吐嘈互相提供情感支持的過程。自《米倉》英文版小冊子於2020年2月完成後，糟糕的新聞一件接一件，整個世界都改變了。做為譯者和編者的我們，在認真讀了米倉的故事和願景之後，感到很唏噓。那是一個關於這個世界曾經擁有過，或者至少本來可以擁有的更好的可能的故事。
卷宗書店：除了內部的互相支撐，菠蘿核如何「向外」去踐行「公共性」?換句話說，你們具體如何理解公共性?在獲得文獻展種子基金後，可以談談未來將如何使用這筆經費嗎?
菠蘿核：與單一個體與公共性內外之分的區別略有不同，BOLOHO本身是一個協作集體，在相互照料和相互支撐的過程中，需要我們不斷去辨析彼此的需要和關切，持續地去建構和修復集體之間的信任和基建。它本身就考驗著我們對自我、他者等公共性關鍵的概念，以及對其基礎價值與關係的理解力和行動力。這些所謂”內部”的日常練習，是幫助我們每一個成員去理解和體認”公共性”具體為何的重要過程。對於我們來說，公共性並非只是抽象的概念和律令，而是需要各自在日常中具體展開的共同想象與敘事。
菠蘿核：此次文獻展的種子基金，正是將”藝術家費”這一刻板的概念轉變成一種充滿想象的敘事。我們理解種子基金的提法是嘗試將創作者從”藝術家”的身份桎梏中釋放，使大家獲得更多的自由度和可能性，這背後的基礎依舊是某種對信任的理解。這筆費用已經融入到我們與米倉近一年的項目合作和未來可能的協作之中。我們期待著在此次文獻展工作框架與米倉網絡資源的支持下，在更廣闊的公共性領域去學習與練習，更多具體的工作還有待時間來慢慢展開。
卷宗書店：菠蘿核廣州空間的書架，也是你們共同佈置的嗎?可以從中選出三本能夠代表你們的書，推薦給卷宗書店的讀者嗎?
《別殺我，我還在愛!——向黃小鵬致敬》， 2021
《馮火月刊》 109 期，2022
《米倉》，2022
Kunstforum International
2022
Heinz-Norbert Jocks: Can you describe your two-part “BOLOHOPE” project as much as possible?
BOLOHO: We have created a sitcom and anime series that refers to BOLOHOPE’s daily environment, our body experience, our plight, our dilemmas and visions. In addition to the main actors, played by the members of our collective, we also invited friends to play various roles in the play. The scripts are based on our everyday experiences and become part of our daily lives. The sitcoms are a mixture of live action, animation and games, interspersed with commercials created in collaboration with The Reading Room (moderated by Li Xiaotian, Liu Gene and Swallow). These capture sentences from different friends and create a commercial logo for the sentences, which are also used on the walls and tables of the showroom. With the help of collectively created sewing, painting, design, text and other elements, we have transformed Hubner’s restaurant into an installation and a space where the audience can read our Boloho story.
We believe that food can connect people more than art, and look forward to talking to visitors while eating.
The place of our exhibition is a real restaurant in which we have embedded our works, tablecloths, glass tables, tapestries, wallpaper, restaurant screens. Hoping to boost business. We believe that food can connect people more than art, and look forward to talking to visitors while eating.
How did you come up with the idea?
Our group includes cantons, chaosans and hakkas, but we have in common that we have been influenced by the culture of Hong Kong and Taiwan since our youth. The choice of sitcoms as a framework for our work is also related to our experiences of Hong Kong and Taiwanese television, which served as a window to the world. Our show shows some classic scenes from television dramas, including the impressive “Welcome Pine” scene. The intro to our theme song are the music from the “6:30 news” of Hong Kong TVB and the background music of the Hong Kong Lottery. Through this small TV window, we were exposed to the “future” at the end of the last century, and its gradual collapse makes us think about the relationship between the idea at the time and today’s reality. The comedy “BOLOHOPE” combines our reality and our imagination. Sometimes we joke that documenta 15 is “just another job we accept” and “accepting a job means earning the necessary living”. Perhaps the humor that the little TV box taught us is the best way to express our joy, worries and grief.
When we talk about art, we should focus on the underestimated arts of life, such as housework and childcare.
What is your intention?
We are now based in Guangzhou, and most artists there are not aimed at the art system or art institutions. The artists are more pragmatic and diverse in terms of the political and artistic atmosphere. The creative direction of BOLOHO is also not geared towards the exhibition mechanism. Whether we write columns for our own magazine, organize an interesting event or cook a delicious dinner – all this could be our creative ideal. In today’s situation, we think that there are many things we can do that do not necessarily have anything to do with “exhibitions” or are “artistic”. When we talk about art, we should focus on the underestimated arts of life, such as housework and childcare.
Why did you develop exactly this project for documenta?
In the year we designed it, the entire environment has changed drastically, in our lives and in the world. The feeling of discomfort and uncertainty has grown.
Perhaps the term “HOPE” was abused by the hypocritical and hollow propaganda of the government or institutions. For us, “HOPE” is a collective creation to meet the catastrophic sides of daily life, where we try to guess the possibilities and break out of the “cap” of the different systems and institutions to describe the desires, dilemmas and visions. The documenta visitors witness the mass exodus of the BOLOHO family in the restaurant in the 1. Floor of the Hübner area. It is also very likely that it will be another “failed” action. Who knows?
Painting at the Edge of Visibility: The Art of Qiu Shihua
Chang Tsong-Zung
At the edge of visibility a view becomes a vision. Qiu Shihua’s paintings endeavour to bring the viewer back to the starting point at which sight begins to differentiate forms, and the mind constitutes a visual world.
Qiu’s artistic journey has been a pursuit of the limits of painting. He does not go beyond those limits; he stays within the parameters of perspective, colour, and shape. He does not transgress. What he does, however, is to challenge the conventional concept of visibility. By taking us to the outer reaches of visibility, he transforms both painting and viewing into a spiritual exercise.
One enters Qiu’s paintings as if slipping into the morning mist. Whiteness dominates, shifting in a variety of shades. Gradually the eyes make out the view: the vague fold of trees, and fainter woods afar. Eventually one seems to see, or sense, every detail, down to the play of light on the tufts of grassy fodder. Most of Qiu’s paintings give the impression of entering the world at a moment of fullness when its mysteries are about to be revealed: light at daybreak, first darkness at dusk, the moment when sound breaks the fullness of silence.
After graduating from the Xi’an Art Academy in 1962, Qiu took menial jobs and survived the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) as a sign painter for a cinema. He remained in Xi’an until 1984. Throughout those twenty-two years Qiu lived on the expansive yellow loess plains of China’s northwest, on the edge of remote deserts. His view was little more than earth and sky, yet he perceived a wealth of variations in them. He discovered that when the mind is completely quiet, to degree zero, the senses become fully alert, capable of celebrating the slightest sensation and feasting on the flat taste of water. Qiu’s art seeks to bring the same sensitivity to the viewer’s mind. “My previous paintings were mostly concerned with emotions, so they were rich with moods. Now I am more concerned with the ‘origin’, the genesis of experience,” says Qiu.
For Qiu, the fullness of experience arrives at the moment before form appears; a painting must capture the spirit of this moment. What comes before form is ‘spirit’ and ‘rhythm’, which make harmonious energy. This instant, when energy and life have yet to split into specific forms, contains all kind of possibilities and is therefore the source of life. This is the moment of creativity sought by Qiu. The creative mind arrives at this state through contemplation, and the path followed by Qiu is Taoist meditation. In mediation, the cosmos appears like a white mist, and one finds oneself in a world of white light. In such a state, time and space become immaterial; human passions have no place. Here the mind finds refuge, seeking neither vision nor imagination.
Qiu Shihua’s first contact with Taoism was through his father, a laconic man, who took him to temples that survived the ravages of the Communist revolution. In these deserted temples, they would do nothing but sit in silence for hours. Qiu remembers being puzzled but impressed with the serene atmosphere.
Qiu Shihua approximates the state of quietude in painting by reducing the picture’s sensory agitation. All elements of contrast, such as light, colour and shape, are reduced to the minimum. The eyes are forced to distinguish between shades of white upon white. Within the subtle gradations of tones, form is defined by the faintest differentiation. Qiu works with an axiom of economy, aiming to capture the fullest substantial content in the paintings with minimal material painterly touches.
When the mind is tempted to respond to the slightest quiver of suggestion, sight and imagination come together to enhance vision. The viewer is able to see an even sharper reality than what the artist may have intended. As a result, the experience of seeing is paradoxically enriched by the elimination of visual information.
Qiu’s pictorial world is a weightless realm of light and energy. Its substance lies not in physical bodies but in presences. By broaching formlessness, the artist achieves the fullness of form. Lao Zi said: “The more knowledge one sheds, the more Tao one gains.” From the perspective of Chinese art, Qiu Shihua’s quest seems to be a rediscovery of the fountain of its tradition, in which the art of the mind is created in the glory of nature.
The tradition of Western art, particularly oil painting, has a relatively short history in China. But its doctrines of realism have become the norm of art education under the Communist system. The art of Qiu Shihua is born out of this background, but has shifted to merge with the great tradition of Chinese landscape painting. For Chinese classical art, nature is the idealized realm in which the world-weary mind seeks repose. Without discarding his received training in oil painting, Qiu has transformed oil painting into a contemporary voice of the Chinese tradition, to remind us that the currency of art transcends cultural boundaries by speaking directly to our souls.
The faith in sublimity in nature held by Qiu Shihua finds the closest Western parallel in the Romantic artists. It is no accident that Qiu holds artists like Friedrich, Constable and Turner in high esteem. But perhaps a more fruitful comparison would be with contemporaries whose Romantic heritage leads to artworks that show a kindred sensibility as Qiu’s. The blurred landscapes of Gerhard Richter come naturally to mind. Richter had said: “I believe quite simply that we have not yet gone beyond Romanticism. The paintings of that era are still a part of our sensibility.” (Catalogue, Centre Pompidou, Paris 1977) Although he champions diverse styles, his attitude toward artistic creation as a force of nature – that art creates as nature creates – adds meaning to his figurative landscapes. “You cannot represent reality. What you make only represents itself; in other words, it is itself reality.” (Richter, 1972) The seductive quality of Richter’s paintings lies in the longing for an undefinable, enigmatic vision. While Romantic nature opens man to the unfathomable, with intimation of a tragic vision, the realm of the formless in Taoist nature encompasses both chaos and pristine origin. The enigma which Qiu investigates in his paintings is the spiritual centre of the human being, which lies at the heart of mystery of this Taoist nature. The realm of formlessness also points to the mental state preceding thought and vision, in which wisdom and intuition reside. If Qiu’s art has a purpose, it would be as inspiration for the meditative mind, leading the viewer to his own nature.
1996