The Next Level /

Mark Chung’s exhibitions often feature opposites and duality. Objects are intentionally broken or deconstructed alongside ones that are carefully built. Claustrophobic installations are created in which settings, artwork and videos offer freedom and space, depicting or alluding to grids-as-cages set against free-floating-clouds. There are intense, blinding light and spots of darkness; technical skill and analogue craft-worship. Objects used for one purpose are skilfully reobjectified. At times, there are moments of anger and then great empathy, often sudden. 

Everything in Mark’s exhibitions is considered and holistic, his efforts often a balance of raw individuality and boyish camaraderie with friends who have assisted. There is considerable thought and a striving-for-better anxiety: to remain genuine and true, and not to be a slacker. That motivation is familial, a matter of working as his paternal Hong Kong Chinese and maternal Austrian families would expect: striving for the next level.

For a time, after his Wheezing exhibition in September 2020, and before he began studying in Amsterdam in late 2022, we would meet for lunch or coffee to chat. Our conversations were just conversations. A simple chat, unrecorded and unheard by others, not filed in an archive or quoted in a book with footnotes about time and place. Like most worldly interactions, they are just the unmentioned minutiae of time. Not to be dismissed, however, chats with friends and fellow travellers are purposeful for being mutually supportive and giving room, in this case, for an artist to consider ideas. 

Wheezing was a pivotal exhibition. It visually tackled his own and others’ perception of the mixed and changing emotions associated with the optimism, the violence, the chaos and then the deflation of Hong Kong’s 2019 protests; and later, disquiet after the enactment of Hong Kong’s National Security Law. So, changing my mind, I did write something, because it was then unusual for an artist to visually consider the aftermath of the protests. Let me quote, again, from that Ming Pao Weekly article:

“Although I first met artist Mark Chung when he was a graduating fine art student at Baptist University’s Academy of Visual Art and have seen his art over the years in group exhibitions and often met him at Tai Kwun, where he works as a senior technician, we hardly knew each other. So we arranged to meet, and over the last three weeks we have had three long conversations discussing his life and art; and as it was a conversation, it included mine. The motivation to meet was Chung’s just-completed residency and resulting exhibition, Wheezing, at de Sarthe Gallery in Wong Chuk Hang, but that isn’t quite correct. What really jolted me was a piece of remarkably honest writing of Chung’s that I picked up at the closing performance on the final day of the exhibition.

“Here are some excerpts:

‘The apartment on the 4/F in my walk-up building always smells of old people slowly dying alone in the 2 subdivided flats in that apartment. Through the disorganized pipes buried under the floors, hidden behind the walls, tangled outside the building, I can vaguely smell their flats from the shower drainage in my flat … (later) I came home to realize that the toilet door was left open. The smell of rotting instant noodles, hair and excrement clogged-up in the sewerage, filled-up the house … There is no escape, the corruption of the city is in the air, the air is in your home … They weaponize light in the dark, where everyone is panting, surrounded by confusion and overwhelmed with anger … We can only wheeze under this mode of governance. It is almost impossible to see an end to this perpetual anguish that we have endured in the past 12 months … It was unthinkable that light could blind, air could scorch, water could burn, simple unquestionable morals vanish.’

“The gallery is inside a regular office building with central air-conditioning and a glazed, mirrored exterior. Chung’s intentions for the space were planned and discussed with gallery director Willem Molesworth. The gallery was completely transformed into a large whole installation. Chung ripped out the air-conditioning ducting, arranged it, serpent-like, hanging down and around the floor. He newly built a separate room with one long wall of strengthened glass. This he carefully smashed, fracturing it into veins of shattered shards; the smashing had to be precise: too hard and the glass would crash to the floor. It had to be damaged but kept intact. He fabricated a sculpture replicating Hong Kong buildings’ tangled plumbing, then set it – the opposite of on a plinth – into the gallery floor. False wooden walls were built in different spots around the gallery, and some were punched through as if an angry fist had let fly. Then the air-conditioning was intentionally mucked up by opening the exterior windows, allowing the hot summer air to be inhaled. One room was unbearably hot, the other uncomfortably cold. A bit like Hong Kong’s homes.

“Chung filmed the nightly ‘Symphony of Lights’ by drone, but instead of directly filming the display, the drone captured the lights caught in the mirrored facades of high-rise office buildings that ring Victoria Harbour. This video was prominently projected onto the smashed window and into the small room. The gallery was unlit, relying on natural light from a few distant windows. Anyone walking in front of the video’s projection was captured, hazy, shadow-like.

“The gallery was transformed into a muted, darkly lit, hot and cold place. Was I inside or outside? It could be a stuffy Hong Kong flat or on the streets during one of those (too) many nights of protests with the air filled with flashlights and tear gas.

“The space had been completely upended. It was no longer an upmarket art salesroom. The gallery and its commercial intentions were subsumed by Chung’s intervention. I liked that …(Chung) brilliantly juxtaposed Hong Kong’s recent political upheavals, worries, outrage and difficult living conditions into a beautifully pristine gallery space – that was now no longer a gallery space.”

Wheezing was the first of a trio of exhibitions, followed by Dead End (2022) and the current Splinter at Rossi & Rossi, in which each exhibition is specifically constructed in, around and from an already built space. Within these spaces, Mark constructs a new interior of walls, other elements and a scattering of static artwork, invariably focused around a dominant video and/or light installation, often intense and periodically pulsating. 

Artwork seen in one exhibition might reappear in different forms in another exhibition. Volvulus, seen among the wreckage of Wheezing’s collapsed air-conditioning ducts, adopts the medical term for when the intestine twists, causing a potentially serious blockage. Mark visually depicts the imagined appearance of his apartment’s twisted drains by constructing a tight, labyrinthine collection of plastic drainage pipes. He first makes a mould, then injects it with polyurethane to produce a surreal spaghetti sculpture of entangled pipes, not unlike the actual drainage systems of the city’s residential buildings. As a metaphor, is he also evoking the arguments, discussions, accusations, debate and endless talk, equally passionate and convoluted, heard during the 2019 protests? Continuing Mark’s social observation and political commentary, a much stripped-down version of Volvulus reappears in Splinter as Torsion #1. The artwork has changed, as has the metaphor: Has Hong Kong’s previous openness to discussion now been blocked; is open debate now stifled by newspaper and online media closures, arrests, and the real and perceived intimidation of people and institutions seen to be disparaging Hong Kong’s government?  

Dead End, exhibited in September 2022 in ACO’s Foo Tak Building, was set up in a small, 400-square-foot room, repurposed as a gallery but retaining the ambience of its origins as a residential flat. The tightness of space was emphasised by Mark creating an even tighter and intensely uncomfortable physical environment. Taking inspiration from Bruce Nauman’s similarly uncomfortable narrow corridors (for example Changing Light Corridor with Rooms, 1971), his creation of a narrow entrance, now almost a leitmotif, is experienced by visitors to each of his solo exhibitions. In this iteration, Mark forces the audience to enter by squeezing past a long section of galvanised wire-mesh fencing, the type unrolled around the perimeter of construction sites. Titled Scoliosis – again employing medical terminology, this time for the unfortunate condition where a person’s spine has a sideways curve – this fence has been attacked with a metal bar: pulled, contorted sideways, kicked with heavy boots, the tight mesh formation now batted and destroyed, holed, hurt and abused as if it’s the aftermath of an innocent bystander having been caught in the fishing net of a riot. 

Just past Scoliosis are the austere back panels of a large LED screen; after turning right, visitors encounter the display view of Dead End. Projected on the screen’s front panels, this video tracks down the sunny exterior of a mirrored office building’s curtain-wall, giving the impression that the building is continually ascending. Dominating the video loop are the moments when the sun’s intense light is caught angled on and reflecting back from the wall, its brightness in synergy with the hot temperatures of the room – or mimicking hot 2019 summer nights – with the heat generated from the source of the image: the LED screen itself. In this room’s unrelenting bright ferocity, the scene is a film-within-a-film of the artist’s  drone video camera tracking the exterior wall, the scene reflected back and spotted in the dazzling equivalent of security or police torchlight.

The preparation for Splinter at Rossi & Rossi was briefer than previous exhibitions. Mark’s studies in Amsterdam and other commitments shortened the time he had to become familiar with the space before installing the exhibition. One advantage of this curtailed knowledge is he has not overthought what he could do: the exhibition’s spareness gives the newly constructed interior architecture great presence. His initial impression was that the gallery had too many edges, with two boxes (the staff/reception office and the director’s office) within a larger gallery box. However, visitors will see the gallery’s original interior had curved panels partially covering external windows. He has unconsciously echoed these curves with a makeover that radically subverts the gallery, adding a tight, curled entrance corridor and new interior viewing areas camouflaging the original boxed interior with added curves. He explains that these additions are like splinters, foreign bodies inside the gallery. Like all splinters, they agitate and are painful, until absorbed or expelled by the body.

For years, Mark and his brother made regular visits to their grandmother in the alpine Vorarlberg region of Austria. These visits ensured they remained intimate with their mother’s family after her death; their family is close and on these visits Mark also acquired woodworking and other practical skills working alongside his uncles. His video Rupture, which he describes as “more poetic and intimate” than the previous fireworks videos that he has filmed and exhibited, is a tribute to his grandmother, who recently died. During countless previous Christmas and New Year celebrations, he would always be at home with her while neighbours let off celebratory fireworks; however, this past New Year was the first time his grandmother was not at home, and Mark filmed the celebrations from high ground.  

The letting off of fireworks is integral to Chinese cultural celebrations. However, its close (real, aural and visual) associations with gunpowder, homemade bombs and tear gas have long seen fireworks banned in Hong Kong. Mark believes official attitudes towards fireworks, mapped out in the city’s policies and laws, are a bellwether of Hong Kong’s social and political rhythms. Following the lead of British colonial administrators (for example, after the Cultural Revolution-inspired 1967 riots in the city), the Hong Kong SAR government, more than ever after the 2019 protests, remains wary of even officially organised public firework displays.

Previously titled Erasing Hong Kong, the renamed video Phantom Pain takes centre stage in the exhibition – with the exhibition’s design culminating in the room showing this video. It features footage of cleaners cleaning the granite surface of the prominent old Bank of China building after protesters had again spray-painted graffiti on its facade in 2019. Graffiti is being cleaned off, but the video concentrates exclusively on the physical removal of the word “Hong Kong”. It is a powerful action, knowing now the full aftermath of events since the enactment of the National Security Law; and, for many Hong Kong residents, it’s painful, like rubbing salt into a wound. Since 2019, that pain has lingered and, as Mark suggests in the video’s title, is similar to an amputee who has the common experiences of still feeling pain in the limb that has been removed.

After viewing Phantom Pain, the large panel of stencilled images of clouds, Loanword (dimensions variable), can be seen again as visitors exit the exhibition. Possibly considered innocuous on first sighting, the work now takes on a more powerful presence. Clouds, fluffy and vigorous like these, indicate possibilities for a future: we must go on. If, simply put, Wheezing focused on destruction and the moment’s nihilism, and Dead End depicted discomfort and a world upended by heat and near destruction, then Splinter has an atmosphere of dogged determination.

This catalogue essay was published by Rossi and Rossi for Mark Chung’s Splinter exhibition at Rossi and Rossi, Hong Kong, July 29 to September 16, 2023.

Featured image: Installation view (detail) of Befuddled by Mark Chung, Video projection on laminated tempered glass, dimension variable, Ed. 1+1 AP, 2020. Courtesy the artist and DE SARTHE.

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層層遞進

鍾正的展覽充斥著矛盾與二元性。精心建成的結構旁邊放置刻意破壞的物件；場地、作品、錄像本令人聯想起自由與空間，他卻在其中設計誘發幽閉恐懼症的裝置：如同鐵籠般的方格上框住本應隨風飄流的雲朵；強烈而刺眼的燈光與黑暗處處；技術應用對照傳統工藝崇拜；擁有單一且特定功能的物件被改造成另一樣物品；又在洶湧的憤怒中，忽然釋出同情心。

鍾正的展覽中所展出的一切都經過他深思熟慮，而設置展覽的過程揉合了他原始的個性，以及他與一眾幫手之間男孩子氣的情誼。當中帶有反覆的思量與求進的焦慮，又要保持真誠、遏止惰性——這種動力源自他的香港華人父親與奧地利母親，雙方的家庭文化都期望子女不停努力，求臻新的境界。

在2020年9月「不宜呼吸」展期結束，直至2022年年底阿姆斯特丹學期開始前的一段時間，我與鍾正會偶爾相約午飯或喝咖啡聊天。那些簡單的對話沒有議程，未被旁人記錄或聽見，不屬於任何檔案文件，也沒有在腳註寫明時間地點，引用在書中。它們是時間裏未被提及的細節，如同世上任何瑣碎的互動一樣。當然，我們也不可以忽略與朋友或其他旅人談天時的目的：對話中兩者互相給予支持，而對藝術家來說，更劃出了一個思考想法的空間。

2020年的個人展覽對鍾正來說尤為關鍵。2019年，香港一連串的抗議先後帶來樂觀、暴力、混亂、沉寂，及後因國安法的頒佈而趨向不安。這種處境營造出複雜而多變的情緒，而「不宜呼吸」在視覺上解構了鍾正自己和其他人對這種心理的看法。當時，藝術家以視覺去考慮抗議後果的做法是不尋常的。我亦因此改變想法，寫下了以下刊登在明報周刊的內容：

第一次與藝術家鍾正見面時，他還是浸會大學視覺藝術院的準畢業生。這些年來在多場群展中看過不少他的作品，也不時會在大館碰到他，他現時是大館的高級技術員，我們不算相識。我們安排了見面，過去三星期便詳談了三遍，討論他的生命和藝術；因為是對談，我也談到自己。與鍾氏見面的動機，來自他剛剛完成了黃竹坑德薩畫廊的藝術駐留項目，還有項目的句點展覽「不宜呼吸」，但這樣說也不完全正確。真正觸動了我的，是我在展覽最後一天的閉幕表演中看到鍾氏一篇誠實的文章。

部份內容節錄如下：

「我居住的唐樓四樓住宅一劏為二，常常都有一股獨居老人慢慢逝去的氣味。經過雜亂無章地藏在地面、躲在牆後和在大廈外牆糾纏不清的管道，我隱隱可以從自己單位淋浴間的去水處嗅到他們的住處……（不久之後）我回家時看到洗手間的門沒有關上，整個房子於是充斥著壞掉的即食麵、頭髮和排洩物堵寒了污水渠的氣味……根本無處可逃，城內的腐敗都在空氣中，空氣就在你家裡……他們在黑暗中把光變成武器，所有人都在喘氣、被混亂包圍，內心充滿憤怒……在這種管治下，我們只能喘息。這種我們已忍受了12個月、永無休止的苦悶似乎不可能看到盡頭……難以想像光能致盲、空氣能把人灼傷、水會令人燒傷，簡單，毋庸置疑的道德已告消失……」

畫廊所在的常規商業大樓設有中央冷氣和玻璃幕牆。鍾氏曾與畫廊總監毛育新規劃和討論過他對空間的想法，畫廊最後完全轉化成大型而全面的裝置。鍾氏拆開了冷氣的喉管，重新編排出像蛇一樣從天花垂下來和滿佈地上的樣子。他新建了一個獨立房間，較長的牆身以強化玻璃作間隔。他小心地打破這塊玻璃，表面形成了網狀的碎痕；爆破需要精準進行，太用力的話，玻璃只會被撞至粉碎掉落地上。它需要被破壞，但同時要保持原狀。他以雕塑複製了香港大廈錯綜複雜的水喉管道，然後反裝在底座上，再放於畫廊地地面。畫廊多處建有假木牆，部份牆身有被出拳打穿的情況，就像被憤怒的一拳打中一樣。為令冷氣失效，藝術家刻意把向街的窗戶打開，讓參觀者吸入街上炎熱的夏日空氣。兩個房間一冷一熱，同樣叫人難以忍受，有點像香港的住宅。

鍾氏以無人機拍低了香港定期上演、喜氣洋洋的幻彩詠香江，但卻沒有直接拍下燈光表演，而是讓無人機捕捉圍繞維港摩天辦公大樓玻璃幕牆上的倒影。這些片段被投射到滿布裂紋的玻璃上，再進入小房間內。畫廊沒有亮燈，只依靠幾隻相隔甚遠的窗提供天然光。每位走到投影前的人士都會被拍下如霧一般的身影。

畫廊化身默然不語、暗黑、炎熱和寒冷的地方。我到底身在室還是室內？它可以是一間空氣不流通的香港住宅，也可以是街上，在（太多晚）示威出現時的某夜，空氣中充滿著閃燈和催淚氣體。

整個空間被徹底逆轉。它不再是高端的藝術展銷廳。鍾氏的介入佔據了整個畫廊和它的商業意圖。我喜歡……他漂亮地把香港近日的政治風波、憂慮 、痛恨和生活艱難的情況並列於優美純樸的畫廊空間內——那裡現在已不再是畫廊。

「不宜呼吸」（2020年）、「思想是負擔」（2022年）、「異夢」（2023年）都根據早已建成的空間去加以想像、構造、搭建展覽。以大型影像或燈光裝置為中心概念，鍾正在這些場地加建新的內牆，增添新的元素，在強烈且有規律脈動的主要作品四周嵌入靜態的作品。

作品會以新的形式出現在不同的展覽中。「不宜呼吸」中的冷氣喉管散落滿地，遍地殘骸中的《紐結》（Volvulus）取名自醫學名詞「腸扭轉」，指因腸道打結而造成的嚴重腸阻塞。在鍾正的想像中，家裏的渠道扭作一團，所以他將塑料排水管組成緊緊纏繞的模樣，再以其形態造模，倒入聚胺酯，待其硬化。蜿蜒曲折的雕塑外觀，其實與城市住宅的排水系統差異不大。我們可以將這個狀態理解成2019年抗議時的嘈雜聲音嗎？其時的各種討論與辯論充滿激情而又錯綜複雜。在「異夢」中，《紐結》簡化為《破散 #1》，延續鍾正的社會觀察與政治評論，但作品形態與它所比喻的事情都改變了。曾經開放的討論態度如今充滿窒礙：公開的辯論難以再實現，是因為報紙與網媒接連倒閉、日常耳聞的逮捕、還是要歸咎於人們因貶低香港政府而必然受到的恐嚇？

2022年9月，「思想是負擔」於灣仔富德樓艺鵠進行。展覽場地前身是個住宅單位，四百尺的狹小空間仍保有其前身的氛圍。鍾正在本來就擠擁的空間內創造一個更顯限制和不適的環境。他的靈感來源是Bruce Nauman同樣地使人不自在的狹窄長廊（例如《Changing Light Corridor with Rooms》（1971年）），這些狹窄的入口也成為了Nauman個人展覽共通的主題。在鍾正的版本中，他以工地外圍常見的鐵絲網圍欄拉出一條通道，空位僅足夠讓觀眾擦身而過。作品《肩脊扭曲》的標題再度取名於醫學名詞，即脊柱側向彎曲的情況。鐵欄經鐵鎚重擊、拉扯、側向扭動、又被穿著厚重的靴子踩踏，本來細密的結構潰不成形，有如一個無辜的路人被牽連進暴力的騷亂中，纏在漁網𡚒力掙扎的結果。

橫過《肩脊扭曲》，即見一大片不加修飾的LED屏幕背板；向右轉，迎面的是《驅動未來》的影像。《驅動未來》的鏡頭持續往下，拍攝大廈外牆所折射出的陽光（亦因而製造大廈持續往上攀升的印象）。錄像循環播放，當片段內的陽光折射到房內的牆上，光綫與房內本身的高溫結合，再現了2019年夏夜的炙熱。空間的熱能產自影像的來源，即LED屏幕本身。在不停歇的猛烈光源之中，展場與藝術家以無人機所拍下的建築外牆相對，場景與影像構成了一場戲中戲，互相反射，像是守衛或警察晃動的手電筒一般令人眼花繚亂。

相較前兩次展覽，在Rossi & Rossi舉行的「異夢」前期準備時間更為簡短。由於鍾正在阿姆斯特丹讀書，再加上其他日程，他在佈展前熟悉空間的時間有限。這種限制也有其好處：他無法過度思考他能對空間做的事情，而展覽的空曠恰好讓人無法忽略新建成的室內結構。初訪畫廊，鍾正留意到大量的邊角，以及廊內分開的兩個四方盒子（員工及總監辦公室）。事實上，在畫廊原先的設計，大部份的窗戶被切割出弧度的面板遮擋，而鍾正也無意識地呼應了這些曲線。他增加了一條狹窄彎曲的迴廊和新的展覽區域，並指出這些新增的結構有如畫廊內的碎片與「異物」。

多年來，鍾正與他的弟弟會定期探望居住在奧地利阿爾卑斯福拉爾貝格州的祖母。這些探訪使得他們在母親逝世以後仍能與她的家人維繫親密的關係，而鍾正也向他的叔父們習得木工與其他實用的技能。比起以往曾拍攝及展出過的煙花影像，《斷章》更為親密及具有詩意，他也藉以對他剛剛逝世的祖母致意。以往多次聖誕及新年期間，當鄰居燃放煙花慶祝時，鍾正都會留在家中陪伴祖母；但在最近一次的除夕，他的祖母首次未有在家，而他則到高處拍下節慶的情況。

燃放煙花是中國文化慶祝活動中重要的一環。然而，它與火藥、自製炸彈、催淚彈有著（事實、聽覺、視覺上）密切的關聯，也使得煙花在香港長期被禁。鍾正相信，官方透過政策與法律對煙花所顯示的態度，是一種香港社會和政治節奏的風向標。1967年文化大革命在香港引發暴動後，英國殖民統治者先行其道，對煙花萬分警戒，而在2019年後的一連串抗議後，香港特區政府就連為公眾籌辦的演花匯演也充滿防備。

更名為《撕裂》（《Phantom Pain》）的《Erasing Hong Kong》為展覽的主要作品——投射此影像的房間也被設計成展覽的重點。片段拍攝於2019年，舊中銀大樓又再次被示威者畫上塗鴉，而清潔工則在洗刷花崗岩外牆。影像集中於「香港」二字實體被刪去的過程，而在國安法施行一段時日的現在，抹去「香港」的行為更像是一種強硬的手段。對許多香港居民來說，這無疑是在傷口上灑鹽。這種痛楚自2019年就揮之不去，有如鍾正在作品名稱中所借喻的肢幻覺痛：「幻肢痛來自已截除的肢體部分。肢體不再存在，但疼痛是真實的。」

觀看完《撕裂》，觀眾在離場前又再次與《語碼轉換》（尺寸可變）中巨大的絲印雲層板塊迎面碰上。乍看之下，作品是無害的，但在其他內容烘托後，《語碼轉換》的存在感放大了。蓬勃的雲層為我們指示了一個必須向前邁進的未來。若可簡而言之，「不宜呼吸」集中在虛無與當刻的覆滅；「思想是負擔」營造了不適，呈現一個因炎熱而幾近滅亡的世界；「異夢」則展現了一種頑強的意志。