2013年2月17日 星期日

宋冬Song Dong 《三十六歷》36 Calendars 香港

《三十六歷》,既是個人史也是國史

Song Dong and the Asia Art Archive
中國藝術家宋冬和他的志願者在香港《三十六歷》的開幕式上。

香港——這從一開始就是有史以來最令人緊張不安的自發運動。宋冬的《三十六歷》被認為是群眾性的集體創作,將有幾百名普通市民參與其中。
宋先生作為香港亞洲藝術文獻庫的駐場藝術家,用了一年的時間創作了432幅素描,描述過去36年里他人生中的每一個月,每幅畫配有一篇短文。這些鉛 筆畫被複製成數碼印刷品,做成36個日曆,懸掛在空曠的ArtisTree展覽館牆上。場地中央的432張桌子上分別放着每幅畫的複製品,展覽期間公眾可 以在上面隨意添加內容。
這個項目在本質上具有自由精神。但是這裡是香港,這個商業之都正憑藉著堅定的決心和雄厚的資金努力把自己變成全球“藝術中心”。結果就是如今的藝術活動有太多政府機構和公司參與,幾乎榨乾了其中的樂趣。
在1月21日的開幕式上,貴賓們品着葡萄酒,幾百個志願者在外面等候,其中包括很多中小學生。為了安撫他們,工作人員分發巧克力棒和加糖的檸檬味飲料,這個方法很受歡迎,但是並不能有效地讓孩子們保持安靜。一些上了年紀的志願者站不動了,被帶到附近的座位上。
差不多一小時後,志願者被天鵝絨圍欄圍了起來,一個組織者站在椅子上,用頭戴式麥克風向他們喊話:“從最後一排開始,按次序走到座位上。所有的書包必須放在書桌下面或後面。在右上角工整地寫下你的名字。”這場面像參加高考。
《三十六歷》可以被看作是一個明證,證明了香港作為一個中國城市,卻具有獨特的定位,這裡的公眾可以對一件藝術作品自由地發表評論,即使作品中提到 了1989年天安門廣場鎮壓事件或者諾貝爾和平獎獲得者,比如達賴喇嘛或劉曉波。但是在活動進行的此時此刻,最能證明的還是香港人耐心排隊等候的能力。
這432個低矮的黑色書桌配有黑色墊子,供人跪坐在地上,有亞洲古代書房的感覺。看起來別緻,坐着可不太舒服。年紀最大的一些參與者得到一些木凳子,凳子面也就比紙巾盒大一點。
然後就是各種發言——每個發言都相應地被翻譯成英文或中文——在發言中,贊助商們再次相互感謝。身體僵硬的觀眾開始活動雙腿。失去耐心的觀眾開始往素描上塗顏色。
宋先生出場時,觀眾的注意力被調動了起來。宋是中國最著名的概念藝術家之一。他說觀眾可以做任何事情。他們可以開心地玩,把紙撕掉,把他的心愛的作品毀掉或者扔掉。“我們開始吧!”他說這句話的時候,引發了當晚第一次真誠的掌聲。
場地上終於響起了幾百人同時工作時發出的自然的嗡嗡聲。
年輕的藝術家們在iPhone上查資料,尋找靈感,用笑臉和彩虹裝飾他們的頁面。年長的人則在上面展示自己漂亮的傳統書法。有些人不理會宋先生的素 描,另起爐灶。也有些人把他的素描完全擦去,畫上自己的作品——宋兒睿就是這麼做的,她是宋冬的女兒,很年輕,坐在後排。有些人只留下了一大堆灰色的橡皮 屑。也有人祈求耶穌基督,發表政治評論或者寫些奇怪的猥褻的話。公眾的作品是顏色的大爆炸,與宋先生的極簡主義黑白素描形成對比。
香港畫廊總監凱蒂·德·蒂莉(Katie de Tilly)在一幅畫著犯人的素描上潦草地寫道:“我想……我想……讓這個結束。”
克萊爾·莫林(Clare Morin)是緬因州波特蘭市的一位作家,她曾在香港居住過,這次是回來訪問。她畫的是被卡在高樓大廈之間的小小的抗議者。她寫下了對2003年的印象,那是黑暗的一年,香港經歷着SARS的考驗,還爆發了要求言論自由的大規模抗議。
艾未未一直是中國政府的眼中釘。他的畫像被改成了一個黑臉的惡魔在割他的喉嚨。艾先生的嘴裡冒出了一個卡通對話框,裡面寫道:“我愛中國。”在達賴喇嘛的素描上方,有人寫道:“如果你想要和平,那麼先予人和平。”
1989年6月的那一頁,也就是北京鎮壓事件的那一頁,被分配給了夏佳理(Ronald Arculli)。他是香港的一位政治、文化人物。他把6月4日的方框塗成了黑色,在6月5日的方框里用紅字寫道:“我們會記住。”
宋先生原來的素描是個頗令人意外的發現,不是因為他畫的是“坦克人”,這個是可以預見的,而是因為畫中的“坦克人”出現在中國的電視上——這種情況 在如今絕不會發生。“我當時在北京的家中,在電視上看到了這個人和坦克,”他在採訪中說,“那是在電視上。他們播放這個畫面,意思是:‘看看西方人報道的 都是些什麼’,而且對此極力譴責。”
2009年,宋先生在紐約現代藝術博物館展示了他的裝置作品《物盡其用》,他在其中展示了他過世的母親家裡的每一樣東西,從木製傢具、兩個灶眼的爐子到舊鞋子和用了一半的高露潔牙膏。
那次他是把另一個人的生活完全展示給世人,現在他是把自己的生活完全展示給世人。
《三十六歷》是對“一位年輕藝術家”的中國式“描述”。這個故事始於1978年,那時宋先生是個貧困的12歲男孩,一直講到他與藝術家尹秀珍結婚, 女兒誕生、父母去世。他特別提到20世紀80年代他初次看到波拉克和畢加索的作品,講述了他的藝術歷程,從在中國邊遠地區給購物中心繪製壁畫,到仔細研究 泰特現代美術館的每個展品。2013年,他已經是一位週遊世界的著名藝術家了,但是他仍然思慕北京的胡同,這種傳統的窄巷現在幾乎都被毀了。
讓人意外的一點是,其中的文化參照讓在西方長大的人看來也有些熟悉。20世紀70年代末四四方方的電視機,80年代的日本漫畫,90年代的大哥大。多虧了香港電視里的片段,宋先生還發現了一些奇怪的新潮流,比如“喇叭褲、超大墨鏡、長發和科幻小說”。
這個作品還帶着點幽默感。他回顧了與西式快餐漫長而不愉快的關係:他喝的第一杯可樂(後來發現是中國仿製的假貨),必勝客的至尊披薩(他覺得吃起來 “很噁心”),以及肯德基(他只在特別款待客戶時才買)。與此同時,其中還夾雜着現在看來像古代歷史般的中國現代歷史片段,比如“外匯券”,這種東西出現 在普通中國百姓不能購買外國商品的年代。
融合在這些個人記憶里的,是塑造了他這一代人的重大政治、文化事件:柏林牆的倒塌、克隆羊多麗、“9/11事件”、網絡的興起和四川地震。宋先生仔 細追溯了中國在世界上的許多“第一次”:奧林匹克獎牌、在電影節上獲獎,以及《時代》雜誌的封面。《三十六歷》既是個人歷史,也是國家歷史,追溯了中國從 文化大革命的苦難中走出來,崛起為世界強國的歷程。
《三十六歷》是否會在其他地方展出,尚未可知。當被問及是否會在中國大陸展出時,宋先生聳了聳肩,說道:“我不確定。嗯,你知道——審查制度。”亞洲藝術文獻庫將把宋先生和公眾的圖畫以及譯成英文的全部文本上傳到網站上。
這些圖像放在一起形成了一個4萬字的作品,你可以把它當成短篇小說來讀,或者作為一本圖解小說出版。當組織者被問及是否會出版時,他們警惕地回答說,假如有人把英文譯本帶出了場地,那必須儘快寄回來。
《三十六歷》。香港ArtisTree展覽館。2月8日結束。
翻譯:王艷


Chinese Artist Crosses a Line


HONG KONG — It began as the most uptight spontaneous event ever. Song Dong’s “36 Calendars” was conceived as a mass collaborative work that would include the contributions of hundreds of ordinary citizens.
Mr. Song spent a year as the artist-in-residence at the Asia Art Archive in Hong Kong creating 432 illustrations depicting every month of his life for the past 36 years, each accompanied by a short essay. The pencil drawings were copied as digital prints and made into 36 calendars, which were hung on the walls of the cavernous ArtisTree exhibition space. In the middle of the room, copies of the pages were placed on 432 desks, where the public could add anything they wanted during the opening.


The project was free-spirited at heart. But this is Hong Kong, a business city trying to turn itself into a global “art hub” with a steely determination and large amounts of cash. The result is that art events now involve so many government and corporate entities that it almost squeezes the fun out of it.
As V.I.P.’s sipped wine during the opening on Jan. 21, hundreds of volunteers, including many schoolchildren, waited outside. To appease them, staff members handed out chocolate bars and sugary lemon-flavored drinks — a welcome, if inefficient, method of making young children keep still. Some elderly participants who could stand no longer were taken to nearby seats.
After nearly an hour, the volunteers were corralled behind a velvet rope as an organizer stood on a chair and regaled them through a headset microphone: “Proceed to the desks in an orderly fashion, filing in first at the back. All school backpacks must be stored under or behind the desk. Clearly print your name in the upper right-hand corner.” It was like taking a university entrance examination.
“36 Calendars” can be seen as a testament to Hong Kong’s unique placement as a Chinese city, where the public can comment freely on an artwork that refers to events like the 1989 Tiananmen Square crackdown or to Nobel Peace Prize laureates like the Dalai Lama or Liu Xiaobo. But at this point in the proceedings, it was mostly a testament to Hong Kongers’ ability to wait patiently in line.
The 432 low black desks, with matching black mats for kneeling on the floor, invoked the feel of an ancient Asian scholar’s study. It was visually striking, if not very comfortable. The oldest participants were given wooden stools with seats that measured slightly larger than a tissue box.
Then there were speeches — each translated between English and Chinese — in which the sponsors, who had already thanked each other, thanked each other again. The less flexible shifted their legs. The less patient started coloring things in.
Their attention was piqued when they saw Mr. Song, one of China’s best-known conceptual artists. He said they could do anything. They could have fun, tear up the paper, destroy his work or throw it away for all he cared. “Let’s begin!” he said, to the first real applause of the evening.
Finally, the room settled into the natural buzz of hundreds of people working.
Younger artists consulted iPhones for inspiration and decorated their pages with smiley faces and rainbows. Older ones practiced beautiful traditional calligraphy. Some worked off of Mr. Song’s sketches. Others erased them entirely and painted their own works — as Song Er Rui, the artist’s young daughter did, sitting in the back row. Some left mountains of grey eraser shavings and nothing else. There were appeals to Jesus Christ, political commentary and the odd obscenity. The public’s works were an explosion of color compared with Mr. Song’s minimalist black-and-white sketches.
The Hong Kong gallery owner Katie de Tilly scrawled “I want ... I want ... it to be over” on the drawing of a prisoner.
Clare Morin, a writer in Portland, Maine, who once lived in Hong Kong and was back for a visit, drew tiny protesters stuck between high-rises. She wrote about her impressions of 2003, a dark year in which Hong Kong faced both the SARS epidemic and mass demonstrations over free speech.
A picture of Ai Weiwei, an artist who has long been a thorn in the sides of the Chinese authorities, was amended to show a black-faced demon slitting his throat. Coming out of Mr. Ai’s mouth was a cartoon bubble that read “I Love China.” Above a sketch of the Dalai Lama, someone wrote, “If you wish to experience peace, provide peace.”
The page for June 1989, the month of the Beijing crackdown, was assigned to Ronald Arculli, a political and cultural figure in Hong Kong. He filled in the square of June 4 in black, and on June 5 wrote, “We will remember” in red.
Mr. Song’s original drawing is a revelation, not because it predictably depicted the “tank man,” but because it showed him on Chinese television — something that would not happen today. “I was home in Beijing and I saw the man and the tank as it appeared on television,” he said in an interview. “It was on TV. They showed it as a statement of, ‘Look what the Western reported showed’ and tried to rebuke it.”
In 2009, Mr. Song presented his installation “Waste Not” at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, where he displayed every single item of his late mother’s home, from wooden furniture and a two-burner stove to old shoes and half-used tubes of Colgate.
He turned someone else’s life inside out for the world to see, and now he has done the same to himself.
“36 Calendars” is something of a Chinese “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” The story begins in 1978 with Mr. Song as an impoverished 12-year-old, and continues through his marriage to the artist Yin Xiuzhen, the birth of their daughter and the deaths of his parents. He marks the first time he sees works by Pollack and Picasso in the 1980s, and recounts his own journey from painting shopping mall murals in provincial China to minutely studying every exhibit at the Tate Modern. By 2013, he is a famous artist who has traveled all over the world, but he still pines for Beijing’s hutongs, the traditional narrow alleyways that are now all but destroyed.
One surprising element is how familiar the cultural references would be to someone growing up in the West. There is a blocky television from the late 1970s, Japanese cartoons of the ’80s and enormous cellphones of the ’90s. Thanks to snippets of Hong Kong television, Mr. Song discovered strange new trends like “bell-bottomed pants, huge sunglasses, long hair and science fiction.”
The work is not without humor. He traces his long and unhappy relationship with Western fast food: His first Coca-Cola (which turned out to be a Chinese fake), the Pizza Hut Supreme (which he found “disgusting”) and KFC (which he bought only for clients as a special foreign treat). At the same time, there are glimpses of Chinese life that seem like ancient history now, like “Foreign Exchange Certificates,” from when ordinary Chinese could not buy foreign products.
Woven into these personal memories are the major political and cultural events that shaped his generation: The fall of the Berlin Wall, Dolly the cloned sheep, the Sept. 11 attacks, the rise of the Internet and the Sichuan earthquake. Mr. Song carefully tracks Chinese firsts in the world: Olympic medals, film festival honors and Time magazine covers. “36 calendars” is both a personal history and a national one, tracing China’s path from the misery of the Cultural Revolution to its rise as a global superpower.
It is unknown whether “36 Calendars” will be shown anywhere else. When asked if it would travel to the mainland, Mr. Song shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. Well, you know — censorship.” The Asia Art Archive will upload Mr. Song’s and the public’s images, as well as the full text translated into English, onto its Web site.
Taken together, the images add up to a 40,000-word work that could be read as a short novel or published as graphic novel. When the organizers were asked if that might happen, they responded in alarm that, if one of the English translations had been taken off the premises, it had to be mailed back immediately.
36 Calendars. ArtisTree, Hong Kong. Through Feb. 8.

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