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Yin Xiuzhen 尹秀珍

Sky Patch / CHAT / Hong Kong / Oct 31– Feb 28 / Ysabelle Cheung /

There were multiple entryways into Yin Xiuzhen’s solo show Sky Patch at the Centre for Heritage, Arts and Textile, but the timeliest introduction was situated at the main atrium of the building. Here, diaphanous suitcases, stitched together by the artist and her volunteers using recycled clothing, hung like gliders above a facsimile airport check-in, complete with a conveyer belt, luggage carts and attendants. In an era of empty airports and isolation, the work felt especially haunted, the sheer cloth pieced together by collective memory, the futility of the eerie simulacrum evident in the absence of a destination.

As a sensitive observer to the socioeconomic developments that shaped post-1989 China and the ensuing struggles for personal identity, Yin Xiuzhen oscillates between homogeneity and individuality in her works, identifying cohesive patterns of loss and intimacy through her use of vintage textiles. However, the assembly of old and new works in Sky Patch often lacked connection, instead confusing subtlety with grand gesture.

The traditional entrance to the exhibition featured two diametrically opposed works, Prajnaparamita (2019) and Fashion Terrorism (2020). The former is a sculpture comprising dozens of plush ivory cotton tubes shaped to resemble the soundwave of a Buddhist sutra read aloud. The wall text described how each piece should be given to a different visitor via a lucky draw – to disseminate the sutra’s teachings around the “perfection of transcendent wisdom” – but there were no further instructions how to participate. A docent informed us the draw was not yet organised, and to follow updates on social media. 

Fashion Terrorism 6 (Detail) by Yin Xiuzhen, 2020.
Courtesy the artist and CHAT Centre for Heritage, Arts and Textile.

This incomplete work was awkwardly paired with Fashion Terrorism, a sculpture and photo series showcasing ill-fitting clothing resembling weapons, specifically AK-47 rifles, correlating fashion with violence. 

Separately, these works mine the artist’s interests in the personal and the global, hinting at collective practices that wield power. Unfortunately, together they promoted a discombobulating message, the binary themes of material terror and spiritual purity more distracting than generative.

The rooms that followed then abruptly pivoted to Yin’s reflections on personal memory and cultural identity, presenting the strongest curation in the exhibition. In particular, a recreation of an old industrial fabric workshop, plucked from her mother’s memories, merged seamlessly with a reproduction of her own current studio space via 16 vintage sewing machines used by the two women.

This theme of intergenerational dependence and heritage through textiles flowed into an older series, Dress Box Photo (1995), in the next room. The work features photographs of second-hand clothing that Yin had folded, sewn together and then fossilised in concrete. Printed anecdotes written by the artist reveal each object’s significance, such as a school dress sewn by her mother from rationed scraps, and a pair of denim jeans worn religiously in her youth (an unorthodox item of clothing in China in the 1980s), tracing the histories of China’s poverty and garment industry, and the artist’s own era of rebellion and individualism through fashion.

After these two exhibits, however, the show’s thematic strength seemed to dissipate. A large hall showed Portable City (2001-), miniature cityscapes assembled from fabrics collected on the artist’s travels; large industrial wall sculptures that hint at the infinite cosmos; and a photo series featuring Yin’s daughter, Song Errui. A nod back to the hanging skylit suitcases in the atrium, the soft landscapes in Portable City connote place as a malleable, tactile experience comprising personal narratives, yet the work was reduced to a conversation about earthly currencies when paired with the cosmos sculptures. Additionally, Song Errui’s soft, inquisitive face, partially obscured by a round fan, seemed anachronistic – not the artist’s intent, I imagined – in juxtaposition with the suitcases and jet-black surfaces of the metallic sculptures. The combination of so many themes diluted the complexities of each work and instead forced one-dimensional readings – for how else are we supposed to interpret these works, if not for their sweeping statements about the Earth and cosmos, the collective and the individual?

The show’s final chapter hosted a collection of newly commissioned videos. In one room, dedicated to the artist’s daughter, we see videos of Song typing, playing and relaxing, the occasional peal of laughter underscored by a moving orchestral track. Although a highly cinematic installation, the works lack context – it is unclear whether they were created in collaboration or not, and as such, Song appears more as a passive object rather than active subject. In an online walkthrough by curator Wang Weiwei, she reveals that the visitor is meant to interpret these videos to form their own narratives of adolescence and growth, but the instruction was discomfiting. Shouldn’t Song possess agency over her own body and story, even in these ambiguous, cinematic flashes?

A second, longer video was more conceptually sound, presenting a portrait of Yin’s family in their day-to-day lives, but presented major technical and accessibility issues. Played without subtitles or a translation, the Mandarin-language video automatically excludes visitors who only understand Cantonese (still the principal language of Hong Kong) or English. Additionally, for those with hearing impairments (myself included), the video’s audio was almost completely obfuscated by overlapping ambient noise, a problem usually resolved with closed captions. 

Prainaparamita by Yin Xiuzhen, 2019.
Courtesy the artist and CHAT Centre for Heritage, Arts and Textile.

Sky Patch fell short on several curatorial levels, even for a long-time admirer of Yin’s work like me. The show’s material connection to CHAT was often overemphasised – for example, the artist’s addition of red pennants to a permanent exhibition on Hong Kong’s textile history seemed forced, almost aggressively so. More context could have been provided for other nuanced, complex relationships, such as between Yin and her daughter, and between transnational, globalising processes and singular cultural identities. While it can be tempting to present disparate samples of an artist’s practice, especially one as illustrious and wide-ranging as Yin, it would have been wise to pick one theme and expand on it.

Featured image: Installation view of Sky Patch at CHAT (Centre for Heritage, Arts and Textile), Hong Kong, 2020. Courtesy the artist and CHAT Centre for Heritage, Arts and Textile.

補天 / CHAT六廠 / 香港 / 10月31日至2月28日 / Ysabelle Cheung /



展覽的傳統入口處有兩對截然對立的作品,《Prajnaparamita》(2019年)和《 Fashion Terrorism》(2020年)。前者是一個雕塑,其中包括數十根毛絨的象牙棉質管,其形狀類似於大聲朗讀的佛經的聲波。牆上的文字描述如何通過幸運抽獎將每件作品贈送給不同的訪客,以傳播有關「超越智慧的完美」的佛經教義,但沒有進一步說明如何參加。一位導賞員說抽獎尚未安排好,告訴我們要關注社交媒體的最新動態。 

這項殘缺不全的作品與《Fashion Terrorism》格格不入地聯繫一起。該雕塑和照片系列展示了類似武器的不合身服裝,特別是AK-47步槍,將時尚與暴力聯繫在一起。這些作品分別挖掘了藝術家對個人和全球的興趣,暗示了集體實踐的力量。不幸的是,他們共同推動了令人混亂的信息,物質恐怖和精神純潔的二元主題比生成更令人分心。







Lau Hok Shing, So Wing Po, Zhang Ruyi 劉學成、蘇詠寶、張如怡

Amid columns of art books at Blindspot Gallery’s Wong Chuk Hang office is what looks like an object belonging in a Chinese scholar’s study. But stare at it a bit longer and an image of a tear gas cloud – a common sight on Hong Kong streets in the second half of 2019 – comes to mind. Suddenly, an object that supposedly inspires turns into one that muddles and impedes. This ambiguity threads through most of the works at The Palm at the End of the Mind, a group show by three artists, Lau Hok Shing, So Wing Po and Zhang Ruyi. The title, lifted from the first line of Wallace Stevens’ poem Of Mere Being, is something of a riddle.

Which palm does Stevens refer to here – the palm of a hand or a palm tree? (It turns out to be the latter.) And never mind what lies at the end of mind – what, precisely, is the end of the mind? Despite the mind being human, the poem appears to be reaching for something beyond the limit of human consciousness. 

Ewha in the Storm by Zhang Ruyi, Wall tiles, floor drain, cement, electrical wires, wood, steel rods, 71 x 84 x 84 cm, 2020. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

“There’s something in the art that you don’t quite understand. It looks familiar but there’s also distance between the work and the audience,” says Lau, who created the aforementioned work, Fence of Cloud I (2020), when asked how he interprets the exhibition title. 

The artist’s pièce de résistance in the exhibition is Remote Islands (2020), a composed installation of wooden globes, cubes and rocks atop a polished acrylic table. It looks like a traditional Chinese garden but there is also something off about it – in the specks of black dust that adorn the wooden globes and cubes. The artist says that the ink has been mixed with dirt and dust collected from various parts of the city, including protest sites. “I’d originally intended it as documentation of sorts, but later I realised I wanted to include it in the work.” Lau pauses, before adding: “There are probably remnants of teargas canisters. There must be. Given how many were fired off.” The wooden globes and cubes sit on top of glass slats which are inked with images of the city, including Victoria Harbour, protest graffiti and the sky above the government offices in Admiralty. Irregularly shaped rocks, beautiful in their ruggedness, are stuck precariously onto the top of the globes and cubes, completing a composition of so much beauty yet also unspeakable anguish. “You have got this elegant fixture, but within the context of the piece, they’re like monsters – crushing whatever is underneath.” 

While Lau’s work plays with different temporalities and the idea of beauty, So’s works destabilise the line between human and nature. They continue the artist’s investigation into the human ear, but also allow her to excavate intersections between the human body, nature and science. Earth Battery (2020) is constructed to simulate how we receive and perceive sound. At one end of gigantic installation made of transparent globes is a sound receiver; at the other end, a dead cicada. Chinese spices and herbs fill the globes, a nod to So’s family’s business. “These Chinese spices and herbs are rich in mineral ions, which provide that transmitting power,” she says. When someone speaks into the receiver, sound waves pass through the system until they reach the cicada, which glows to indicate that sound has been transmitted. So says she wants to draw parallels between the system within an ear and that of our bodies, society and the universe. Amplifying the different elements of the structure also exposes its fragility: it only takes the wires that link the globes to be cut for the entire system to collapse.

Remote Island 1 by Lau Hok Shing, Wood, ink, acrylic, saw dust, dust, sand, debris found on the streets, 45.4 x 40 x 30.2 cm, 2020. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

There is also a wax sculpture of an ear lying atop a hand installed on the wall. The bizarre-looking yet memorable piece is a misinterpretation of Stevens’ poem, which the gallery and artist had thought referred to the palm of a hand. “If we imagine the ear to be its own mini universe … to think that you can hold the universe in your hand,” she says.

On the floor are about a dozen abalone shells that open and close, each at its own pace. Some are quieter, others louder; some are slower, others faster, as if they are clamouring to be heard. So lifts one of them to reveal a tiny motor nestled within it. “I had this idea of turning them into cyborgs,” she says. “I don’t know why, but some of them have edged away from their original positions.” As the two halves of the shells knock together, lulling us with their hypnotic chorus, the visitor suddenly becomes aware of a greater sound coming from the dimmer end of the gallery. Is it the construction upstairs or does the sound come from within the gallery itself?

The work, Domestic Wasteland (2020), features four metal sheets that look like commemorative plaques placed against the wall. Behind them are tucked loudspeakers projecting sounds recorded at a construction site in mainland China. The idea was to pluck something one encounters in a construction site, whether metal sheets or sound, and re-situate it in a commercial gallery, Zhang says. The irony, of course, is that the piece is embedded within a space that is in turn embedded within a construction site.

Sea Ear Hi-hat (Detail) by So Wing Po, Abalone shells, motors, brass, size variable, 2020. Next spread: Cicada Sound Collector by So Wing Po, Herbs, microphone, cicada shell, LED light, size variable, 2020. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

Zhang’s Ewha in the Storm (2020) plays with different temporalities and the dichotomy of human and nature. Made of cement, electrical wires, steel rods and wood, it takes the form of a cactus which, upon closer inspection, plays host to tiny sprouts of bronze wire. It’s plopped atop a ceramic tile that is equipped with a drain – a cheeky oxymoron, given that the plant lives in extremely dry conditions.

“The cactus is a very old plant that is usually found in the desert,” says the artist. “Putting it in a modern, commercial setting, I find that contrast quite interesting. There is also that visual parallel between the cactus column and the gallery columns.”

This is nowhere more apparent than in Matte Substance-12 (2020). Installed against a gallery column, it is big and monstrous-looking, and has as its pedestal a bulbous rock that the artist excavated from a construction site. Wires extend from the cactus to fasten it to the rock, recalling retro androids from 80s Japanese animations. Visually, it is a foe of sorts to Lau’s Remote Islands. Where the latter masks disturbances with beauty, Matte Substance-12 is bulging, its protrusions out there for all to see, a succinct commentary on the hybrid, messy and disorienting nature of our urban landscape. 

The exhibition is a tribute to various objects that make up our landscape and our existence. As So says: “It’s amazing how one material can be broken down and, when one of these broken pieces is infused with another, become a completely different object.”

Yet there is also a gap in understanding, an ambiguity in the agency inherent in these objects – are they man-made constructs through and through, or is the artist’s job merely to tease out tremors and codes intrinsic to them? We, as humans, will never know.


史蒂文斯詩句中的「Palm」是指掌心或是棕櫚樹 ?(結果是後者)到底在意識的盡頭有著什麼?這亦不重要了。什麼是意識盡頭?縱使這關乎人類的意識,但這首詩要說的卻是超乎人類意識所理解。


Domestic Wasteland by Zhang Ruyi, Metal plates, sound, size variable Edition of 3 + AP, 2020. 
Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.





Planter-4 by Zhang Ruyi, Rock fragment, cactus spikes, acrylic, plastic, 
17 x 16 x 11 cm, 2020.

那是作品《室內荒原》(2020年) ,當中四塊看似紀念碑的金屬板靠在牆上,每塊板後置有揚聲器,播放著在中國大陸的建築工地收錄的聲音。作品的概念是使用工地的元素,無論是金屬板或錄取的聲音,再放置在一個商業畫廊裡,從而再製造另一情景。藝術家張如怡指出,這部作品的矛盾是在一個空間播放的聲音,原來是來自一個建築工地。



藝術家指的相比,在她的《暗色之物 no.12》(2020年)更能彰顯出來。這件巨大、看來駭人的作品靠著畫廊的一根柱子,它的底座是一顆球根狀的石頭,是她從一個建築工地撿拾的。仙人掌上的電綫,嫁接到底下的石頭,令人想起八十年代日本動畫內的懷舊機器人。視覺上,這部作品與劉學成的《離嶼》可謂是對手,《離嶼》用美感來隱藏不安感,而尖突和鼓脹的《暗色之物 no.12》較搶眼,簡潔有力地評論我們城市現時的混雜和令人迷失的狀況。



Raoul De Keyser at David Zwirner, Hong Kong

Raoul De Keyser
Jan 15 – Mar 6

David Zwirner Hong Kong
5-6/F, H Queen’s, 80 Queen’s Road Central, 
Central, Hong Kong
Schedule Your Visit

David Zwirner is pleased to present Raoul De Keyser, on view at the gallery’s Hong Kong location. The first solo show of the artist’s work in Greater China, the exhibition will feature paintings from the last twenty-five years of De Keyser’s five-decade career, illustrating his intuitive—yet rigorous—facility with his medium. Complementing the presentation in Hong Kong will be an online exhibition, New Visions: After De Keyser, that situates the late Belgian painter in dialogue with contemporary painters whose art continues to relate to or be informed by his pioneering compositions.

Image: Passage by Raoul De Keyser, Oil on canvas, 34.3 x 44.1 cm, 2010. © Raoul De Keyser / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / SABAM, Belgium. Courtesy Family Raoul De Keyser and David Zwirner.

Kim Young-Hun 金永憲

Diamond Mountain – Electronic Nostalgia / Soluna Fine Art / Hong Kong / Apr 3 – Aug 1, 2020 / Valencia Tong /

With potted plants at the entrance and green chequered tiles on the second storey, the gallery space at Soluna Fine Art exuded an aura of playfulness. On view at the gallery was Korean artist Kim Young-Hun’s solo show Diamond Mountain – Electronic Nostalgia. The artist’s colour-saturated paintings blend the aesthetics of the analogue and the digital, the philosophical and the technological, and the historical and the futuristic. His abstract canvases explore the disorientation brought about by the blurred boundaries between the virtual, digital world and our real lives. The result is a mishmash of traditional Korean landscapes, glitchy geometrical patterns and Van Gogh-like oscillating lines, which recall interference on television screens.

Although the paintings in the artist’s oeuvre allude to forms of technology that are ubiquitous in our lives, the artist also pays tribute to history, citing the Buddhist Diamond Sutra as his inspiration. To achieve enlightenment, one has to shatter illusions and free oneself from attachment, but the artist’s nostalgia for the past is expressed in his Electronic Nostalgia series, which he has built on for over 10 years, celebrating the vitality of life while feeling sentimental about the analogue world. This emphasis on spirituality is further echoed by his inclusion of traditional symbols such as mountains, adapted to create a new visual language for today, in works like p2012-Electronic Nostalgia. Situated among radiating webs of pink, purple and grey curved lines, juxtaposed against vertical rectangular tubes in gradients in the background, the mountains are painted as if they were melting soundwaves. They are depicted in layers using the traditional Korean painting technique hyukpil. 

Gazing at the pulsating brushstrokes created by the artist becomes a sensory experience reminiscent of synesthesia as much as a liberation of the mind from altered perceptions. In Cloud Map-p1315r, Kim portrays a landscape scenery in a dreamlike manner using a pastel colour palette. Liquid clouds flow downwards in surreal ways among mountains hovering in mid-air. Some paintings on display at the exhibition have reached a higher level of abstraction, notable for the absence of any recognisable symbols. p2022-Electronic Nostalgia features blocks of patterns collaged together, with each area showing different textures. Alternating bands of neon pink and green, in a variety of thicknesses, draw the eye with contrasting colours. The uneven, hand-drawn curved lines which divide each section give the tech-themed work a human touch: something that the 1s and 0s of binary codes cannot replace.

In a world where rapid development has left us with no choice but to embrace technology, it is more important than ever to retrace our roots and contemplate our place in the world. By referencing the Diamond Mountain, an important Korean cultural symbol, the artist leaves his mark in his work and tells the story of the experiences that shape who he is today. While the future is certainly going to be digital, knowledge of the past enriches our lives.

Image: Cloud Map-p1315r by Kim Young-Hun. Oil on linen, 112 x 162 cm, 2013. Courtesy the artist and Soluna Fine Art.

Soluna Fine Art.的入口處放置的盆栽,再加上二樓的綠色方格瓷磚地板,使整個展覽空間玩味濃厚,展出的是韓國藝術家金永憲的個人展覽「金剛山:電子鄉愁」。金氏飽含色彩的油畫,混合模擬和數碼、哲學和科技,及歷史和未來主義的美學。他抽象的畫作探索一份迷失感,那是由虛擬和數碼世界、及我們的真實生活之間的模糊界線所帶來。在畫布上交織出韓國傳統山水、振動的幾何圖案、及如梵高畫筆下的富動感線條,令人想起昔日電視熒幕受干擾時的畫面。

雖然藝術家的畫作蘊含著我們生活中無所不在的科技形態,但他亦透過佛教金剛經為靈感來源來向歷史致敬。人要達到開悟的境界,必須打破幻象,才能夠脫離枷鎖;可是,藝術家創作逾十年的《電子鄉愁》 系列作品中,卻流露他對昔日的追懷;即使對類比世界有所懷緬,但作品亦讚頌生命的活力。金氏運用傳統象徵符號,例如山脈,進一步探索心靈境界,這些符號經調整後,建構出一套適合現今的視覺語言,就如在作品《p2012-Electronic Nostalgia》。置於由粉紅、紫和灰色曲線形成的網,與背景中多個不同坡度的縱向矩形狀的管塊並置,多座山以韓國傳統的繪畫技術「革筆畫」(Hyukpil) 分層描繪,彷彿是一堆正在融化的聲波條紋。

凝視著藝術家的脈動筆觸是一趟能激起藝術聯覺的感官體驗,同樣亦透過已改變的感知中得到思想上的解脫。在作品《Cloud Map-p1315r》,金氏以柔和的色調繪畫出如夢似幻的景色,如流水的雲朵在山脈之間,半空之中,以超現實的形態往下流動。展覽中的一些畫作達至更深層的抽象意境,值得注意的是它們沒帶有任何可識別的象徵。《p2022-Electronic Nostalgia》展現多塊拼湊在一起的圖案,每個部份卻有著不同的質感。霓虹粉紅色和綠色的交替地帶,以多種厚度突出對比色彩。不整齊的手繪曲線把每個層面劃分起來,讓以科技為主題的作品帶有人性化的一面:這是二元碼中的 「1」 和「0」 無法取代。



By Chihoi /
Published by nos:books, 2019 /
Ysabelle Cheung /

The day I visited Chihoi’s exhibition at ACO Art Space in Wanchai, it was strangely quiet. Both the security guard and docent were absent; I stood alone with the drawings and comic panels, which were pinned to soft fabric boards in pastel hues. After a while, a woman arrived and asked if I wanted to visit “the reading room” for a fee of HK$10. I agreed and was handed a key, which unlocked a small closet near the entrance. Inside I found a small school desk, a vintage lamp and a chair. There was a womb-like, conspirational feeling to the cabinet, augmented by the room’s central object: an unpublished, hidden chapter from Chihoi’s latest book, Library.

Chihoi, a Hong Kong-born artist, has been publishing fictional comics since 1996. Rendering his figures and landscapes in soft graphite tones – blacks rubbed silver from shading, the pages suffused with a sooty pallor – he has often referenced literature in his work, from his debut book, The Writer (1997), about a female author grappling with ambition, to an adaptation of Taiwanese writer Hung Hung’s short fiction piece The Train (2007).

Library contains five chapters, excluding the unpublished one, featuring a cast of characters linked to a fictional library in Hong Kong. Libraries are mythologised in popular culture, often presented as sacrosanct forums for philosophy and knowledge. However, in Chihoi’s one – a sculpted, tensile building with arched entrances – this trope is subverted. It is less a portal for knowledge, more a space of ambiguity and loss, reflecting our desperate and often futile search for truth and meaning in text. For example, in Borrowed Books, an elderly grandfather burns library books once read by his deceased wife, consumed by his grief. In the book’s titular chapter, a man enters the library but, instead of finding the text he came for, is given a key that unlocks a series of linked underground chambers. We see people rifling through ceiling-high filing cabinets and crushed under reams of paper and bookshelves. In the very last chamber, the skeletal remains of past visitors portend a morbid fate, which the protagonist ignores. Instead, he begins to read a book titled The Lost City.

The meaning of Library is layered and abstract. But there are clues: the presence of Hong Kong history books and fables throughout hint at an identity crisis connected to the city’s vanishing culture. In his afterword, Chihoi writes of how he has collected similar books onhis travels, creating an itinerant bookshelf that pays homage to a place on the edge of erasure. “Borrowed books, borrowed life,” the elderly grandfather laments, echoing a well-known term used to describe Hong Kong – as a “borrowed place on borrowed time”. Even the small cabinet in the exhibition was a space of borrowing; in it, you could read the unpublished chapter for as long as you wanted, but you could not take photographs or remove anything from the room.

In the penultimate chapter, The Book Inferno, a group of students visit a literature-themed park based on Dante’s visions of hell, which illustrate grotesque punishments for perceived criminals, including those who “steal or borrow books and fail to return them”. Although written in a facetious tone, the scene presents a sobering metaphor for authoritarian control and ownership. If books are our histories and we are the borrowers, who doles out these punishments? Who controls the library? Chihoi leaves this open to interpretation, only warning us that although we can rent our own narratives and stories, we must eventually return them.


智海是一位出生於香港的藝術家。他自1996年起發表漫畫創作。他筆下的人物及風景是柔和的石墨色,在白紙上用灰黑色繪畫,作品的色彩灰暗蒼白。智海的創作時常會引用其他文學作品,如他的處女作《The Writer》(1997年)及短篇漫畫《灰掐》(2007年)。前者是一個描繪一位掙扎著追尋夢想的女作家的故事,後者則是以台灣作家鴻鴻的小說為藍本進行創作。





Takis at White Cube Hong Kong

Takis /
Nov 21 – Feb 27 /

White Cube Hong Kong /
1/F, 50 Connaught Road, Central /
Tuesday – Saturday, 11am – 7pm /

White Cube Hong Kong is pleased to present an exhibition of works by the late Greek artist Takis (1925–2019). This first presentation in Asia follows his last major solo exhibition as a living artist at the Tate Modern.

Featuring sculptures drawn from a thirty-year period – from the end of the 1960s to the 1990s – it showcases the artist’s committed exploration of art and science. 

Born in Athens, Takis took art into realms that were previously considered the domain of physicists and engineers. Describing himself as an ‘instinctive scientist’, Takis carved out a new aesthetic territory, incorporating invisible forms of energy such as magnetic, acoustic or light waves as the fourth dimension of his work.

View full exhibition details online.

Francis Alÿs and Mika Rottenberg at Tai Kwun Contemporary

Now till February 2021 /

Tai Kwun Contemporary, Hong Kong / 
10 Hollywood Road / 
Central, Hong Kong /
Tuesday to Sunday, 11am – 7pm /

Wet feet __ dry feet: borders and games
Solo exhibition by Francis Alÿs

Curators: Xue Tan, Sunjung Kim
Co-presented with Art Sonje Seoul

Wet feet __ dry feet: borders and games gathers for the first time in Hong Kong important recent works by Francis Alÿs, one of the most influential conceptual artists of our time. Structured around the artist’s interest in migration, borders, and his fascination with children’s games from around the world, this solo exhibition highlights Francis Alÿs’s poetic, imaginative sensibility, anchored by geopolitical concerns and individual will while being grounded in everyday life.

The title of the exhibition was the spark to Alÿs’s works in this exhibition: “Wet Feet, Dry Feet” refers to the US policy on Cuban refugees in 1995. Under this policy, Cuban migrants headed for the United States faced vastly different treatment depending on whether they were intercepted at sea or on land, on US soil. If intercepted at sea (“wet feet”), they would be repatriated back to Cuba; if intercepted on land (“dry feet”), they would be allowed to stay in the United States. For a Hong Kong audience, this might sound uncannily familiar: the “Touch Base” policy in 1970s Hong Kong meant that Mainland Chinese migrants would be sent back to the Mainland if intercepted at sea or in the New Territories; only if they reached south of Boundary Street—the formal boundary between Kowloon and the New Territories—were migrants allowed to stay legally in the territory (in the quirky British sports reference, “touch base”).

The connection between borders and games in Francis Alÿs’s artistic practice lies at the heart of the exhibition. After his quixotic attempt to connect Havana and Florida through lines of boats volunteered by fishing communities and private boat owners in Bridge/Puente (2006), the artist shifted his attention to the narrower Strait of Gibraltar, a waterway 13 km wide, with the imaginative impulse of connecting Northern Africa and Southern Europe with lines of fishing boats—which were later enacted metaphorically by groups of children departing from the shores with “shoe boats”, tiny boats made with babouches and flip-flop sandals. In a process that took two years of preparation, the artist evaded interference and interest from various parties, and filmed the final performance as a utopian endeavour. Presented alongside the video installation Don’t Cross the Bridge Before You Get to the River (2008) are over 100 paintings and drawings, as well as notes drafted along the production of the project. While working with these children, Alÿs was reminded of his long-time observation of children at play, particularly their appropriation of public spaces for play and their strong sense of moving freely within “rules”.

His latest on-going project, Children’s Games (1999–present), consists of more than 20 documentary videos of children at play in various locations; some were filmed in countries that have suffered from ongoing war and conflicts, such as Afghanistan and Iraq, as well as other places such as Nepal, Jordan, Mexico, France, and Hong Kong—the last featuring newly commissioned videos by Tai Kwun Contemporary. Without ever becoming directly involved, the artist documents children moving in their own ways and playing their games—games which also echo the rituals, symbols, insights, superstitions and events of the specific society, culture, and locality. Children’s Games is in the vein of his artistic practice—touching poetically on conceptual displacement and alluding lightly, whimsically on politics and social engagement. Viewers can observe a poignant sense of innocence and the redemptive power of play—universal and transcending conventions, boundaries, and borders.

For more details, click here

Solo exhibition by Mika Rottenberg

Curator: Tobias Berger
Presenter: Tai Kwun Contemporary

SNEEZE, Mika Rottenberg’s first solo exhibition in Hong Kong, ushers in surreal alternative worlds of everyday life with video installations. With an engaging yet rigorous artistic practice combining film, architectural installation and sculpture, Mika Rottenberg is fascinated by processes of labour and the production of value in our contemporary world.

For more details, click here

Bouie Choi Yuk Kuen 蔡鈺娟

By John Batten /

Bouie Choi Yuk Kuen reminded me that we first met when she and fellow Chinese University of Hong Kong fine arts students were invited to use empty units of the former Police Married Quarters in 2008 to show their work before its closure for renovation into PMQ. This was a touching memory; the battle to save the historic PMQ was one of many campaigns to save Central Hong Kong’s heritage buildings in which I was involved. After its closure as residential quarters for the police, the PMQ units were decrepit and had seen no paint or repair for decades: perfect for artists to use and fill with sound, lights, videos and found objects for their installations – or, as Choi did, hang paintings on dusty walls of ripped wallpaper. Hong Kong’s old colonial city also plays an underpinning role in Choi’s recent work, the physical remains of the past under attack.

Bouie Choi face-masked during Covid-19 social restrictions, Pottinger Street, Central, Hong Kong, 29 September 2020. Photo: John Batten

After Choi’s early experiences with the unrenovated PMQ, and later seeing that site and its modernist buildings conserved, she was a community worker for six years for local charity St James’ Settlement on a similar heritage preservation project: the historic Blue House, a rare colonial-era terrace building in Wan Chai. Choi mixed with the local community and businesses, many of them car repair shops, and organised community activities with local kaifong and community associations, drawing on her art skills, friendly personality and calm understanding of others.

The Blue House adopted a classic community work approach: Choi and her colleagues facilitated events and activities together with the local community. These years were a defining time and Choi understood that she wished “to give to society” and that “I needed to be good to myself, to be able to give back”. She broadened her knowledge of Hong Kong history, its diverse present and unique culture. She was personally enriched hearing residents’ stories and becoming close to the local community. Especially happy were sessions with young mothers and their children organised by Choi, which also included anyone else visiting the Blue House at the time.

Before that solid stint of full-time work and after graduating from CUHK in 2009, she completed graduate studies in London in 2012. She recalls: “That time was all white, a blur. I did public performances: a waste of time – it confirmed for me that I wanted to be a painter.”

The fallen petals by Bouie Choi, Hong Kong orchid in acrylic clip, 2019. Courtesy the artist and Grotto Fine Art.

As a painter, she has exhibited at Grotto Fine Art on average once every five years. Always prepared around her other work, her art has evolved over these years. Known in the past for carefully beautiful paintingsdepicting animals and insects, often in symmetrical formations with a fantasy-like ambience, her current work is “multiple 

layers of me; violent and tender”. She particularly has put into practice the advice of her former CUHK teacher Chan Yuk Keung that art should have “physicality, cultural significance and spirituality – to ensure that art is differentiated from, say, design”.

Her latest exhibition at Grotto, borrowed space _ borrowed time, takes its title from the book published in 1978 by the ebullient Australian journalist Richard Hughes, The Times of London’s long-time Hong Kong correspondent, whose sculpted bust stands sentry in Hong Kong’s Foreign Correspondents’ Club and who is immortalised as the doughty journalist Craw in John le Carré’s spy thriller The Honourable Schoolboy. Hughes wrote: “Hong Kong is a borrowed place living on borrowed time … [and] is an impudent rambunctious free-booting colony, naked and unashamed, devoid of self-pity, regrets or fear of the future.” Hughes describes the city’s gritty, indomitable spirit, popularly known as the Lion Rock spirit, of business savviness, an ability for hard work and long hours, in an anything-goes capitalist economy.

By 2019, many living in Hong Kong were missing out on the opportunities offered by the city’s relentless free-wheeling economy. Generations of the elderly, disabled, sick, new immigrants, and the city’s many low-skilled, low-paid workers have been overlooked by success. The government’s Hong Kong Poverty Situation Report 2018 indicated that 20 per cent of the city’s population, or 1.5 million people, live below the poverty line. The Hong Kong spirit, evolved under British colonial rule, now also embraces greater political and social awareness. The drive for self-betterment remains strong, but now understood are the inequalities between rich and poor, government protection of business monopolies and anger about the lack of real universal suffrage guaranteed under the Basic Law and an unelected, executive-led government.

Choi’s careful planning for this exhibition took an unexpected trajectory. After leaving her job at the Blue House, the second half of 2019 was to be devoted to full-time painting. However, amid controversial extradition legislation and public demands for the government to deal with a host of domestic economic and political issues, Hong Kong imploded with increasingly fractious anti-government protests and violence. The city also became caught in international geopolitics and escalating trade tensions between China and the US.

It was an unprecedented and highly charged time. Every corner of Hong Kong was hit by the tension and drama of months of protests. It felt as if daily life was on hold. Choi says she was “paralysed” during these months. She had no ideas for new paintings. She did not paint.

The mountain city by Bouie Choi, Acrylic on wood with vintage frame 41 x 32 cm, 2019. 
Courtesy the artist and Grotto Fine Art.

Except for preparing The Fallen Petals and painting The mountain city in November and December 2019 as an immediate reaction to events, she did not paint until after February 2020. Then, she “tried to fix [herself] through painting”. Covid-19 had begun to spread and Hong Kong’s weekly anti-government protests had trailed off as awareness of the virus grew and social distancing restrictions were introduced. Choi’s imagery in the exhibition is dragged from the depths of those tortured, anguished months. Her emotions, however, are in a higher place. She says: “Let me explain before I start murmuring something incomprehensible: this is an exhibition about my beloved homeland; this is about the remained, the authentic, the precious.”

Setting the tone of the exhibition at the gallery entrance is The Fallen Petals, a pressed bauhinia flower, still holding its distinctive purple colour and displayed between two transparent acrylic panels angled out from the wall. The city’s flower emblem casts a shadow, like a sad, out-of-focus photograph, as if Hong Kong is a shadow of its former self. This sets a tone, but the ambience of the exhibition is better felt a few further steps in, when surrounded entirely by Choi’s paintings. The exhibition comprises paintings with thinly applied acrylic – a watercolour impression – on paper. These contrast with the major work of the exhibition, Choi’s ‘black’ paintings: waves of ominous black-indigo applied on golden-hued, varnished wooden panels. Emerging between blotches of paint, mountains and valleys is a dystopian maelstrom. Hong Kong is hit by a tidal wave, engulfing buildings, objects, lives, emotions and good sense.

The work A borrowed place on borrowed time is Choi’s largest ever painting, a six-panel landscape of the city. Bathed in shadows and light, Hong Kong’s government headquarters, the Central Government Offices, stands intact (just), but the rest of the city is threatened by the long claw of demolition. 

The city and its unique street ambience – for example street markets, low-rise tong lau buildings and neon signs – have long been threatened with physical redevelopment. Hong Kong people are accustomed to their city being a property developer’s marketplace, with their lives upended by noise, dust, inconvenience and possible compulsory acquisition. Choi’s claw is depicted physically, but its demolition is also a prelude to possible fundamental cultural changes: the city’s Cantonese language subsumed by Mandarin; a free press replaced with media restrictions; schools with an increasingly controlled curriculum.

The mountain city depicts The Chinese University of Hong Kong under siege. In mid-November 2019, all of Hong Kong’s universities experienced seriously violent clashes between police and protesters. The most serious were at CUHK and The Polytechnic University of Hong Kong, which both saw pitched battles with police firing thousands of rounds of tear gas, water cannon volleys and rubber bullets as protesters built barricades and returned fire with Molotov cocktails, stones and, at PolyU, arrows. Choi’s pall of smoke and tear gas above CUHK’s hillside, seen from Tolo Harbour, is a dramatically iconic and poignant depiction of that month’s messy confrontations.

The surf watcher personifies the challenge that Hong Kong protesters repeatedly threw at local governance, police authority and government sovereignty. Is the flaying octopus with its akimbo tentacles depicting Hong Kong people or the government during the protests? Whoever it is, a mutually destructive denouement is taking place before our eyes.

A borrowed place on borrowed time by Bouie Choi, Acrylic on wood, 122 x 274.5 cm, set of 6 wooden panels,
each of 61 x 91.5 cm, 2020.Courtesy the artist and Grotto Fine Art.

Choi’s work on paper is a counterpoint to the ‘black’ paintings. The wood-panelled paintings give a broader-brush view of the protest era, whereas the works on paper give a focused photographic intimacy and are stripped-back studies for the larger paintings. Single trees, often fallen, and groups of pot plants feature in the smaller work. Hong Kong’s trees and pot plants have a precarious existence: the wind, heavy rain, typhoons and the city’s concrete streets are tough on plants, but they are resourceful and hardy. Just like the people.

Embedded in all of Choi’s paintings are small painted details significant during the protests: a protester in an athlete-like throwing pose; stacks of ‘iron horse’ barricades; safety tape criss-crossing a painting; a figure lying on the ground; figures in windows; a fire; witches’ hats; roadside figures; two striding figures carrying a flag; silhouetted figures, actually shop mannequins, standing outside a possibly just trashed bank. There are hanging hillside trees; more pot plants; balconies; distant housing estates. The city has tunnels and hillsides and views onto rooftops and into windows and along streets and inside carparks and a glimpse of beloved Lion Rock. The details are psychotropic in their flashed-vision variety.

The exhibition’s final painting, Retournées, dating from 2017, is an almost traditional scroll painting employing Choi’s careful earlier painting style. Depicted are two boats, each holding a windswept tree, with the horizon splitting the painting into two. In its top half are wispy banyan tree roots attached to a wall; below is a calm sea. Anyone who has ever chosen to live in Hong Kong, or who arrived from mainland China during its many 20th-century upheavals, will see the city’s past hope and fragility. Hong Kong’s own upheavals and future uncertainty are reprised in this painting. This is Bouie Choi’s “beloved homeland”.



















Artist Talk Elisa Sighicelli: Stone Talk at Rossi & Rossi

Elisa Sighicelli and HKU art history professor Dr Susanna McFadden in conversation on Roman art and culture /

Saturday, Nov 7, 2020 /
4pm – 5pm (coinciding with Southside Saturday) 

In gallery and zoom (details as below) 
Zoom ID: 968 493 7982 / Password: talkstone

Rossi & Rossi
3/F Yally Industrial Building
6 Yip Fat Street, Wong Chuk Hang
Tuesday to Saturday, 11am – 6pm
+852 3575 9417

Co-presented in partnership with the Italian Cultural Institute in Hong Kong.

On the occasion of Elisa Sighicelli’s exhibition Stone Talk at Rossi & Rossiplease join the artist in conversation with Hong Kong University art history professor Dr Susanna McFadden, as they discuss their views on Roman art and culture. 

Together they will explore the idea of beauty in relation to the body in the Graeco-Roman world, as well as the materials used in ancient times and parallels with the contemporary works of Sighicelli.

Roman artists often employed techniques such as trompe l’oeil to deceive the viewer concerning the material reality of the object. This same idea can be applied to the works of Sighicelli; her experimental approach to photography often probes into the materiality of photos and its effect on our way of seeing, printing her work on varied materials including satin, travertine, plasterboard and marble, depending on the subject matter.

Sighicelli is known for her installation-based studies of objects and their relationship to space. She has exhibited internationally, and her works can be seen in notable institutional collections. Based in her hometown of Turin, she studied textile design in Florence before finishing her undergraduate degree at Kingston University in London, and later received her Master of Arts at the Slade School of Fine Art.

Dr Susanna McFadden is a specialist in the art, architecture and archaeology of the Greco-Roman and late antique Mediterranean, with a particular emphasis on the medium of wall painting. Before joining the faculty of The University of Hong Kong, she taught art and archaeology in the US at Bryn Mawr College, Fordham University and the University of Pennsylvania. Dr McFadden has authored several articles and book chapters on late Roman wall painting in Rome and Egypt. Her current book project focuses on the visual culture of late Roman Egypt and explores the spatial, ritual and material dynamics of wall paintings in the ancient Mediterranean at large.

Further information at

Household Gods 「駐家寧神」

By Aaina Bhargava /

Protests and pandemics have relegated us to the domestic sphere, where we’ve been forced to confront the anxiety and fear induced by the past year’s events. In addition to political, economic and social disruptions of unprecedented proportions, we’re experiencing emotional and psychological upheavals specifically reactive to this point in time.

Articulating and reflecting on this complex state of being, Hong Kong artists Shane Aspegren, Nadim Abbas, Tap Chan and Wu Jiaru have come together to stage Household Gods, an exhibition curated by Ying Kwok, on view at Hart Hall in H Queens. Lifted from writer and occultist Aleister Crowley’s early 20th-century play Household Gods, the title of the show explicitly outlines its objective: to question our relationship with the supernatural through our “most intimate setting”, the home. 

Wu Jiaru. Installation view.

The four artists conceived of the exhibition while working alongside each other at Hart Haus’ sprawling 10,000 sq ft Hart Social Studio in November 2019, before the advent of Covid-19. Despite their seemingly disparate practices, the artists find common ground in using domestic objects, exploring how they serve as channels to activate the unknown or uncanny.

Kwok describes this collaboration as one that distinguishes the exhibition from others, as “the subject was not given to the artists as it usually is, but directly emerged from their mutual interests”. In their own distinct ways, they strive to harness this abstract feeling, one that particularly resonates in the current climate of uncertainty.

“The content has to carry emotion,” says Kwok. “We’re trying to explore or understand the supernatural – something we don’t have an answer to. The best way to do that is through emotion. It’s about the psychological status and evoking a feeling we carry. Oftentimes a divine, supernatural being or power provides guidance when we can’t understand something. The spiritual realm is unexplored and represents a big unknown; there’s an abstract quality to it that we want to explore.”

Tap Chan. Installation view.

Abbas’s drive to address this theme stems from trying to “capture something that is slippery and elusive”, and perhaps even non-existent, as “belief is creating significance out of nothing”, says the artist, broaching the topic of faith and the sacred. It’s fitting that the first piece viewers encounter is Abbas’s Homeless Forms for Formless Homes (2020), a striking installation resembling a totemic shrine, encasing goods stockpiled against the apocalypse, such as spam and toilet paper, which is also evocative of the South Korean blockbuster Parasite.

Apocalyptic scenes and dystopian realms from sci-fi and horror films have long fuelled Abbas’s conceptual practice. In 2014, in partnership with Absolut Vodka during Art Basel, the artist created Apocalypse Postponed (2014), an immersive, multisensory installation in a bar, like a post-apocalyptic bunker, through a collaboration in which Aspergen also took part. Continuing the theme of apocalyptic preparation, in the current exhibition Abbas invokes the notion of the supernatural directly through ordinary household objects.

“It brings to mind when something as ordinary as a piece of furniture, like a chair, is no longer just that, but is charged with something electric,” he says. “It changes your perspective on that object.”

Inspired by modular furniture, specifically Ikea’s DIY variety, Abbas constructed the two structures from plywood, scouring pads, dish sponges and cardboard. Using repetition and symmetry as formal techniques to assemble them, he reinforces a totemic visual quality while simultaneously referencing the practice of both domestic and spiritual rituals.

Domestic rituals are integral to Chan’s Threshold Field (2020), a “domestic altar” made from melted polyurethane, on the surface of which she created two round depressions, containing blue and purple mouthwash.

“I’m thinking of daily cleansing rituals,” she explains, “particularly those we perform now and are obsessed with during Covid-19.”

Her choice of material invokes a sense of ambiguity, the melting texture denoting an ephemerality and a dreamlike aesthetic, which Chan attributes to her ongoing inquisition into perception and the dynamic between reality and fiction. 

“It’s wax-like,” she says of the material. “It gives it a sense of impermanence, like a candle. It forms this skeletal aesthetic; it’s very unfinished and not fully functional, as if it were something encountered in a dream or a virtual game.” 

Fascinated with the liminal space between the real and unreal, Chan weaves this blurry aesthetic into the rug on which the “skeletal shelf” stands. Made from common packaging string, from afar the rug appears to be deceptively fuzzy in texture. The liminality is enhanced in Twofold Consciousness (2020), consisting of two white headboards that appear to be deceptively lit by neon halos, hovering on the walls.

Aspegren incorporates reflective, spiritually linked rituals in his work. With his self-styled “abstract” meditative sound piece We may believe the words are not what we may believe (I) (2020), the artist continues his ongoing exploration of the healing properties of sonic frequencies.

Nadim Abbas. Installation view.

A series of small sculptures akin to decorative ceramics accompany his sound installation. Hand-dripped white plaster shrouds deity-like figurines, bestowing them with a mystical quality – literal household gods. The ceramics, while crafted by Aspegren, also consist of found organic material such as coral and rocks. Each one grows out of the other, peeking through dripping plaster, combined by the artist in what he calls a “spontaneous ritual”.

“I like to have a sense of improvisation in my work,” says Aspegren. “I like to make things without thinking about them. I work on these slowly for months, sometimes five at the same time. Even when I’m making them, they’re transforming. They start off as one thing and become something else; they’re transient in that sense, ephemeral.”

Highly improvisational, Wu’s creative process is physically embodied in her paintings, a medium which allows the artist the “fastest expressive release”. Yielding bursts of colour and a fervent energy, door_god I & ii (2020) convey a softer take on the traditionally masculine protective door gods, statues which mark the entrances of many institutions and homes in Hong Kong. The painting depicts two pink-hued nude men “guarding” the entrance of the exhibition. 

Proceeding further into the domestic space, Wu additionally created sculptural collages, beige_objects (2020), from items she uses on an everyday basis, essentially documenting her daily home rituals. Old phone cases, mascara, lipstick, shoes and old toys from McDonald’s happy meals are clustered together with spray foam. Over this she has sprayed a reflective silver, cementing the sculpture in a grey hue, visually evoking a futuristic, dystopian aesthetic. “I made these objects into a sculpture for future use,” she says. “They’ll be relics for future archaeologists.”

When photographed with a flash, the surfaces of the pieces become incredibly shiny, glittering under concentrated light. While this could be perceived as a gimmick, it underlines the artist’s intent to present the possibility of a multitude of perspectives. For Wu, this becomes symbolic of the ambiguity of human memory, and indicative of the fact that nothing is ever what it appears to be or how we remember it. 

“Lights compose everything, and when you shine a light on something it either blurs the details or reveals what is actually there. It questions what is real and what isn’t; it’s like how memories work for humans,” says Wu.

She further contemplates the uncertainties and possibilities of the future by situating humans in the role of creator.

“I’m interested in how we were created and in our relationship with our creator – or God. It’ll be the same in the future with AI; they might have their own thinking about us, as we created them. I want to create data for the future that will help understand this time.”

At this critical juncture, wrought with conflict and tension, we have inevitably turned towards introspection, both spatially and spiritually. The works in the exhibition serve as powerful extensions of each of the artists’ individual practices, exploring their unique takes on the relationship between humans and the supernatural by engaging with domestic objects. Household Gods is a welcome point of reflection, addressing and rethinking ways of perception and living in this moment.


為了表達和反思這種複雜狀態,香港藝術家Shane Aspegren、唐納天、陳沁昕和吳佳儒聯手創作聯展「駐家寧神」,由郭瑛擔任策展人,於中環 H Queen’s 地下 HART Hall展出。展覽取材於作家兼神秘學家阿萊斯特.克勞利二十世紀初的劇作《駐家寧神》,作品名字直截了當地概括了該劇的目的:通過我們 「最親密的環境」——家,来叩問我們與超自然事物的關係。


Wu Jiaru. Installation view.



驅使唐納天探討這個主題的原因,是他試圖「捕捉一樣難以捉摸的東西」,或者它甚至並不存在,正如藝術家所說:「信仰是從虛無中創造出意義」,這正正打開了信仰和神聖的主題。因此,觀眾看到的第一件作品是唐納天的《屋即是空 空即是屋》(2020年),是很恰當的。這件裝置藝術引人注目,像是一個圖騰神社,儲存了用來應對末日的貨品,例如午餐肉罐頭和廁紙等,令人聯想到南韓賣座電影《上流寄生族》。

科幻和恐怖電影中的末日場景和反烏托邦國度,一直推動唐納天實踐他的創作概念。2014年,他和品牌Absolut Vodka 於.Art Basel.合作,創作了《末日延遲》(2014年),一件置於一間酒吧的沉浸式、具多感官功能的裝置藝術品,酒吧彷似末日過後的防空洞,藝術家Shane Aspegren.也參與其中。在是次展覽中,唐納天繼續以為末日作準備為主題,透過日常家用物品帶出超自然的概念。 



家庭儀式在陳沁昕的《絕對領惑》(2020年) 是不可或缺的,這個由熔化了的聚氨酯製成的「家庭祭壇」,藝術家在其表面製作了兩個圓形凹槽,盛著藍色和紫色的漱口水。 


Shane Aspegren. Installation view.



陳沁昕對虛實之間的模糊地帶感到著迷,她把這份模糊的美感編織到地毯裡去,並在地毯上放置「骨架架子」。這張地毯由普通的紡織線織成,從遠處看,它好像帶有毛茸茸的質感。《對摺》 (2020年)昇華這份模稜兩可的狀態,作品由兩塊白色床頭板組成,看似被兩個懸浮在牆上的霓虹燈光環照亮。 

Aspegren則在他的作品中,融入一份深思的、連繫精神層面的儀式感。在他自成風格的冥想聲音作品《We may believe the words are not what we may believe (I) 》 (2020年) 中,藝術家繼續探索聲音頻率的療癒特性。


Aspegren 說:「我想在作品中流露一份即興感,我喜歡不假思索地創作,我花好幾個月的時間慢慢創作它們,有時更同時創作五件作品。即使在我創作的同時,它們也在轉變,從原本的東西變成另一種東西,從這個意義上來說,它們是短暫的。」

吳佳儒即興性強的創作過程,具體地體現在她的畫作裡,繪畫是一種讓她得以釋放出「最即時的表達」的媒介。《門神I & II》(2020年) 展現出具爆發力的色彩和強烈的力量,但對傳統的男性守護門神卻作出較陰柔的詮釋,這些神像置於香港許多機構或住宅的大門;是次畫作以粉紅色調描繪兩個裸露的男人「鎮守」著展覽的入口。

為了更深入私人領域,吳佳儒把她日常生活的物件拼貼成雕塑品《beige_objects》(2020年) ,主要記錄自己每天在家裡的生活儀式。她用噴霧法泡沫膠,把舊手機套、睫毛液、唇膏、鞋子和麥當勞開心樂園







Featured image: Shane Aspegren. Installation view.