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Leung Chi Wo 梁志和

Published by Caroline Ha Thuc

For decades, Leung Chi Wo has been exploring the history and historical sites of Hong Kong, mixing archival material with photographs, videos, texts and multimedia installations. While his research-based practice brings forth the contradictions and complexities of historiography, it also injects fantasies, intimacy and emotion into collective narratives. Time, and how to embody its multiple dimensions, is the artist’s main subject, reflected in the title of his new solo exhibition, Past-Future Tense, opening in May 2023 at Blindspot Gallery.

Caroline Ha Thuc: You have recently been to London to look for archives dealing with British plans for the future of Hong Kong after World War Two. What drove you to do so? Leung Chi Wo: I don’t really know why, but I always feel dragged to stories which read unreal but are true, or vice versa. And historical subjects are mostly such: they always claim to be real. They’re sort of far away and so close at the same time. And supposedly, I am part of a colonial history which has been erased and rewritten, and now denied as well. It is a contest and perhaps it is also a self-searching process.

CHT: For a long time, the history of Hong Kong tended to be neglected, but things have changed. Which erasure are you referring to? LCW: Since the 90s, Hong Kong studies have really developed a lot, but there is still plenty of room for historical exploration. However, I’m interested in it not simply because there is not enough work done, and neither can I make many contributions anyway. Rather, it is the subject being just around and so close to me that makes my engagement possible, sometimes even through physical experiences like visiting a site. From there, I can develop personal involvement, memory and projection.

Of course, I am sceptical about the official version of history. We may be more liberal with the premodern part, which feels more remote and less personal. More recent parts, particularly those that may be at variance with our own memory, will prompt more critical perspectives, sometimes emotional and sentimental, though. For example, the official views of the Hong Kong government on the 1967 riots before the handover now have shifted drastically. 

CHT: It seems that now you are looking at history from a fresh perspective, choosing to focus on the British side. Why this shift? LCW: I don’t see it as a shift. It’s more of a pragmatic and convenient approach. I wish China and its Hong Kong government would have archives with similar transparency and accessibility. Anyway, I work with what is available to me. I’m not very determined and very often find something interesting totally by chance.

CHT: Archives can be dry and investigations burdensome. After so many years looking into archives, have you developed your own methodology of approaching and working with them? LCW: I find myself exploring, side-tracking and shifting my attention all the time during research. My artwork reflects this trajectory and, sometimes, people complain that it is evading any conclusion. Working with textual material, for me, is no different from dealing with ready-mades—my arbitrary transformation, perhaps, saves me from tedious research. 

For my new exhibition at Blindspot Gallery, I have had several conversations with the new in-house curator Jims Lam. He introduced to me the term “seminaut”, coined by Nicolas Bourriaud for those artists who surf between times and signifiers. I didn’t know about that, but somehow I feel it is familiar.

ENEMY BOMBING by Leung Chi Wo, 12 marble sculptures, dimensions variable,
each element approx. 30 x 30 x 30cm, 2011. Courtesy the artist.

CHT: You work from different types of archives, images and texts. You especially like scrutinising texts and questioning their consistency. In We must construct as well as destroy (2010-12), for instance, you played with the ambiguities of the word “enemy” used in monuments, and verbal communication has always occupied an important part of your work. LCW: I like to draw an analogy with cooking. You have the ingredients but no less important – actually, the most important for art – is the approach. It is both technical and creative, rational and emotional. I am that kind of cook who prepares his own meals: “enemy bombing” [the work originates in repaired bullet holes in Hong Kong’s Legislative Council Building, which are said to have been created by an unknown enemy] is the egg, and I wanted to transform the egg so it no longer looks like an egg but remains an egg by nature or taste and smell. It becomes “MMONEY BBEING”, “BIG B MONEY MEN,” “BINGO BE MY MEN,” or anything you can turn to. It is a letter arrangement game, down to earth and banal while made of marble. I played on the paradox. It is actually a very formal approach—my artistic articulation can be fed back into the concept; perhaps that is surfing between ideas and realisations too.

CHT: On the other hand, photographic archives led you to develop many series and works about the anonymous people who make history without ever being recognised. Do you treat these sources differently? LCW: I think they are similar. It is a radical thought, but possible. The unknown passer-by in a photo remains unknown for a very long time until one day we recognise we are actually the unknown person in the background in each other’s photos. Once in a while, you hear this kind of true story. And [the fact that people believe something to be true] is a very important element of storytelling. This is why I like to see and employ photos and relics in my work. We all have goodwill to believe and we like to explore anonymity. That keeps the myth rolling and triggers our imagination: this can be me, you or anyone. Keeping the text away – only for a while; those who want to read will read – is just a trick to allow different interpretations. 

Frater by Leung Chi Wo, Sewing machine, black & white negative film, 1967 Hong Kong 50-cent coins, low speed-motor and steel frame, 55 x 65 x 146.5cm, 2015. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

CHT: In parallel to your research on archives, you keep looking for old, mundane objects that embody the past, such as the sewing machine that you used for Frater (2015). How do you identify the right ambassadors for your time travel? LCW: So much is by chance. I allow the objects to find me, but I do spend time exploring the interpretations of an object. Of course, there are hints too. In Frater, I had some parameters, such as the 1967 riots and my family story. Sufficient time is also a crucial factor: you can leave an object for some time and see how more research can give it a chance [at being used].  

CHT: How much do aesthetics matter in this process? LCW: A lot, as in the surfing experience I mentioned before. But aesthetics are not only about looking good. They are about the judgement that you feel right: something makes you happy after you made that decision.

Shenzhen Mine 1973 by Leung Chi Wo, Video projection, photographs, sound, found objects, electric fan, press button switch, dimensions variable, 2015. Courtesy of the artist.

CHT: More generally, how do you look at objects, beyond the historical narratives they carry? LCW: I work on the narratives with some arguments and ideas. That brings me a whole bunch of materials – text, objects, photos – but it doesn’t guarantee to make any sense. That’s the moment when I must work as an artist. Indeed, sometimes, I get stuck as I find it does not work, even when I try. Then, I have to go back to look for additional materials. In Shenzhen Mine 1973 (2015), a vintage domestic fan blows a magazine cover out of the way of a projector, allowing video to be projected onto a wall when the audience presses the button. In the beginning, it didn’t work. The wind didn’t go in the right direction. A simple act would have been to add a card to channel the wind in the right direction. But I felt: no, it’s so ugly to have this only for this reason. It’s too practical and rough. So I looked for a small book published in the same year [depicted in the piece]. And I was lucky and happy to find a little primary school art textbook that did the work.

A Countess From Hong Kong by Leung Chi Wo, Belilios Public School uniform, cloth hanger, 1967 Hong Kong 50-cent coins, vinyl record This Is My Song by Petula Clark (1967), motor system, 19 x 68 x 134cm (still), 2016. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

CHT: I remember being confused when I saw the installation A Countess from Hong Kong (2016), consisting of a vinyl disc spinning so that a schoolgirl’s uniform that hangs from it is swung from side to side. It linked the theme song of Charlie Chaplin’s last film A Countess from Hong Kong (1967), featuring Sophia Loren, with a student leaving Hong Kong, arguing that both had to escape the city: one for immigration purposes, the other because of her involvement in the 1967 riots. How much do you wish to make these connections visible? LCW: I think I like to build layers of reading and the structure grows along with the search for materials and stories. I was just looking for anything that happened in Hong Kong in 1967 apart from the riots, which were regarded as the main narrative of the time. I wanted to seek parallel worlds between politics and everyday life. And that Chaplin movie popped up. After all, the connection is interpretative, not assigned. I work on things available to me. That schoolgirl is actually the sister of one of the most powerful pro-China political figures in Hong Kong. I just made a pun from the title of the movie and created a piece of sculpture that connects everything by means of physical transformation. 

CHT: For that exhibition, Something There and Never There (2018), you did not add any wall label, avoiding a contextual reading of your work. You were also the curator, just like for this new solo show. Is this the best possible way to display your research? LCW: I am not always sure that people really know what I intend to do in my art; most know what I do, though. Besides, I came from a time when a curator was a rare species in Hong Kong. I have to self-curate very often: that’s the reality and spirit of artist-run space—the origin of Para Site. I always say I know how to switch to energy-saving mode when resources are very limited. After all, I’m not a researcher in the conventional sense of the term, and I know the audience will spend less time perceiving my work when the source text is beside them. That said, the text is reincarnated in different materials like wall labels for the Museum of the Lost.

CHT: Overall, would you say that your work aims at generating knowledge, in that case knowledge about the 1967 context of the riots? LCW: I think I am more conscious and hope to raise questions about the available knowledge.

CHT: Sound is important in your practice. In your series This is My Song (2016), the song of the same name by Petula Clark seems to embody a specific period. Is this a way to trigger collective memory? LCW: I always compare sound recording to photography. It brings the absent back to the present. I am unsure if I want to hit on the collective memory, but I like to see it as a piece of time. Actually, I didn’t know this song before I worked on it. I have no memory of it. I think music and vinyl records are very common [ways of measuring time] today.

CHT: These installations are often dynamic, built on repetitive mechanics. It seems that the action is trapped in the past, in never-ending, sometimes violent movement. What are you suggesting with these repetitions? LCW: I think I began to consider the relationship between destruction and construction from the project. We must construct as well as destroy. The notion of violence has gained a place in my artistic agenda. It took a couple of years for me to elaborate on it in the work, and it was Untitled (Love for Sale) (2014) that allowed me to deal with the complexity, both technically and conceptually. In this piece, the audience would press a button to hear but not see a pile of newspaper fall, as their view of it was blocked, and I really enjoyed that. Mechanical repetition, at a certain point, puts you into a state of contemplation. It can feel very creepy, yet sometimes therapeutic too.

CHT: At the same time, by displaying these repetitive actions today, you create a bridge between the past and the present. What is your conception of time? LCW: I used to think it was linear, but now it is getting more circular—things can repeat, return or reincarnate. Maybe it’s an age issue.

CHT: Would you say that we are stuck in this repetitive process? LCW: It looks like history really repeats itself. Most humans don’t learn any lessons, and recent events such as the war in Ukraine have impacted me a lot as they keep rolling in. I am not sure if we are stuck, but the sense of helplessness is unprecedented.

Opening of the Kam Ngan (Gold and Silver) Stock Exchange, March 15, 1971 by Leung Chi Wo, Archival inkjet print, 52 x 82cm, 2021. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

CHT: I am thinking of your ongoing series of photographs of clouds, which also features in your new exhibition. Is it time that you’re looking to capture, as a metaphor for purity?LCW: The Date Series (2017-) are photos taken at the sites of violence. It represents a dilemma. What you see seems nothing but actually it is everything if you consider what is under it. 

I began photographing the sky more than 25 years ago. It was a time when I looked at the urban skyline and found myself greatly alienated. I didn’t realise the city had changed so much high up there while I had mostly spent my time with my eyes on the street level. Further development happened when we [Leung and his partner Sara Wong] lived in New York in 1999 and 2000: the famous landmarks didn’t impress me but their negative space did. I started to transform such spaces. Now the world has changed drastically, and maybe only the sky remains the same. It is this sense of purity that creates the dilemma. We hope nothing happens when we look at the sky. It looks beautiful, but I feel sorrow looking around, especially when we are pushed to forget things that happened a few years ago. 

CHT: This series is a good example of the issue of contextualising a conceptual work: how much do you say about the story behind it? LCW: This series draws on two extreme aspects: very abstract beautiful images on the one hand, and a random collection of violence in the city on the other hand. The only connection is me physically visiting sites of violence half a century later on the same day, capturing these beautiful skies. For me, it’s a very strong framework, almost self-justifying. What I need to do is to search for violence, match the date and visit the site. It’s like a ritual. 

CHT: Are you here influenced by conceptual artists like On Kawara? LCW: I hated his work when I was young; it’s so boring. But I found many years later that it is such an amazing thing to be able to focus on something simple. Obviously, it is also an age issue.

CHT: Are there any artists who deeply influenced your practice? LCW: Not many, but I always think artists from the Arte Povera movement informed my aesthetics. 

CHT: Humour is important in your practice. Why? LCW: I always thought that the political cartoon is one of the most powerful art forms. When the most horrible thing happens, the artist can still resort to humour. When the reader really laughs, it’s the saddest moment. It’s the absurdity. It’s almost like an explosion.

Berlin by Leung Chi Wo, Boiler, book, crystal, coin, postcard, stuffed toy, steel frame, 138.5 x 64 x 56cm, 2023. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

CHT: For Past-Future Tense, you have said you want to “project the future in the present past”. What do you mean? LCW: I have been thinking about the past future lately. How did people in the past think about today, which was their future? There are so many what-ifs. It’s fascinating or unbelievable to think: what if my father had empathy with the leftists at the beginning of the riots on the same street where he went to work? My father was born in South America; what if he didn’t return to China? These are all tales now. 

This exhibition covers different subject matter, from personal recollection and the history of violence to the coincidences of politics, but all relate to my subjective perception of my immediate surroundings—the city of Hong Kong and its people in the past looking at their future, sometimes passively. I have tried to focus on tangible objects and to exhibit sculptures and collages on the future in the past tense. There are also extended Date Series and My Random Diary. The latter is very much about anxiety: sometimes you try to live your life as normally as possible, but you know it’s no longer the same.

Featured image: Gather The Tears (detail) by Leung Chi Wo, Aluminum alloy, glass, craft knives, book, music stand, 137 x 62 x 62 cm, 2023. Courtesy the artist and Blindspot Gallery.

幾十年來，梁志和一直致力探索香港的歷史和古蹟，將檔案資料與照片、影片、文字及多媒體裝置互相融合。他不但運用這種研究式創作闡述歷史學的矛盾和複雜性，他也為集體敘述加入了幻想、親密感及情感。梁志和於2023年5月在刺點畫廊舉辦了他最新的展覽「過去的未來」。是次展覽他展示了時光的流逝中和如何拼湊起不同的時間線。

Caroline Ha Thuc: 你最近曾到倫敦搜集關於第二次世界大戰後英國對香港未來發展規劃的料。是甚麼驅使你這麼做？Leung Chi Wo: 我也不知道自己為什麼會這樣做，但是我常常受到這種看似虛構的真實故事吸引，反之亦然。人們常聲稱歷史故事都是真實的，而歷史距離我們既遠又近。事實上，在那段被抹去及重寫，現在甚至被否定的殖民歷史裡，我自己都是其中的一部分。這不但是一場爭議，亦是我自我探索的過程。

CHT: 在一段很長的時間，香港歷史一直都為人所忽略，但現在情況已經變得不一樣。你所指被抹去的歷史是指甚麼？LCW: 從90年代開始，香港史已經進步了很多，但仍然有很多可以探索歷史的空間。可是，我對香港歷史感興趣並不是因為我覺得發展不足，反正我都幫不了多少。我會感興趣是因為歷史隨處可見，與我的距離那麼近令我覺得自己可以參與其中，有時甚至可以真實接觸，如到歷史地點實地視察。這樣我就可以建立個人經歷、回憶和投射。

當然，我對所有官方版本的歷史都抱持著懷疑的態度。對於早期的歷史，我們也許會比較寬容，因為它們年代久遠，與我們的關係不大。可是對於近史，尤其是那麼與我們的記憶不符的部分，我們會更謹嚴認真看待，雖然有時會投射了個人情緒和感情。香港政府在主權移交前後對六七暴動完全不同的論調就是其中一個例子。

CHT: 似乎你現在從一個全新的角度審視歷史，傾向從英國的角度看。為甚麼會有這樣的轉變？LCW: 我不認為這是轉變。這是一種更務實和方便的做法。我也希望中國和香港政府會用同樣的透明度與開放度存檔資料。總之，我只是物盡其用。我不是常常找到自己會感到有趣和會堅持的事物。

CHT: 資料檔有時非常枯燥，而深入調查過程很繁重。經過多年經驗，你是否有一套自己處理與運用檔案資料的方法？LCW: 在研究的時候，我常常會分心探查其他事。我的作品也反映了這樣的痕跡，所以有時候人們會說我的作品沒有結論。對我而言，處理文本材料和處理現成物並無分別 ── 也許我的隨心所欲讓我避開了煩悶的研究過程。

關於我在刺點畫廊舉辦的新展覽，我與新來的策展人林志恒談過幾次。他告訴了我一個Nicolas Bourriaud創造的詞彙「seminaut」，意指在時間和象徵之間遊走的藝術家。我之前不知道這個詞彙，但我覺得與我所做的事很類似。

CHT: 你研究各式檔案、影像和文本，尤其喜歡細閱文本和質疑它們的合理性。例如在展覽「我們必須構建以及毀滅」（2010-12年）中，你利用了石碑上「敵軍」一詞的曖昧性，而且語言溝通在你的作品中佔有重要的地位。LCW: 我喜歡用烹飪來作比喻。你有了食材，但同樣重要──甚至可以說更重要的──是做法。烹飪既需要技術又需要創意，需要理性又需要感性。我是那種會為自己做飯的廚師：《敵軍轟炸》（作品源自立法會大廈上已修補的彈孔，彈孔據說是由不知名的敵軍造成）是一顆雞蛋，而我想將雞蛋轉化令其外型不再像雞蛋，但本質上、味道上和氣味上仍是一顆雞蛋。作品可以拼湊成「MMONEY BBEING」 ，「BIG B MONEY MEN」，「BINGO BE MY MEN」，或任何你想要的詞語。這是一個字母排列遊戲，樸實簡單，但作品是用大理石製成。我利用了這種矛盾感。這其實是一個非 常認真的設計──我的藝術表達方式與作品概念互相呼應，這也許亦是思想和實現的展現。

CHT: 另一方面，你也利用攝像檔案資料創作了很多關於被歷史忽略的不知名人物的藝術系列和作品。你會否會用不同的方法處理這些資料？LCW: 我覺得它們很相似。這是一個相當進取的想法，但的確是有可能的。我們可能一直都不知道照片中那些不知名路人的身份，直到有一天我們發現原來自己就是別人照片中的不知名路人。每隔一段時間我們都會聽到類似的現實故事。而且這種事〔即人們相信某件事是真實〕亦是說故事一個非常重要的元素。這就是我喜歡觀看和在作品中加入和用照片及歷史象徵物的原因。我們都希望去相信和喜歡探索身份不明的事物，因為這樣可以讓故事繼續傳下去和刺激我們的想像力：照片中的人可能是我，可能是你，亦可能是任何一個人。暫時先將文本放一邊──畢竟想看的人還是會看──是讓人從不同角度詮釋攝像的機會。

CHT: 在研究檔案資料的同時，你亦一直尋找有歷史痕跡的老舊平民物品，如你在《弟兄》（2015年）用到的衣車。你是如何決定選取甚麼物品為你時光旅行的代表物？LCW: 通常是隨機。我靜待物品找到我，但是我會花時間研究物品的意義。當然，會有提示。在《弟兄》，我有大概的創作範圍，如六七暴動和我的家庭故事。充足的時間亦是另一個要素：你可以先把物品放著一段時間，研究看看是否可用。

CHT: 在創作過程中，藝術美學有多重要？LCW: 非常重要，在我上述的探索過程中美學也很重要。但是美學不單是指好看，它亦是指作出自己舒服的決定：一個會令自己開心的決定。

CHT: 一般來說，除了物品本身的歷史價值，你會怎樣看待它們？LCW: 我對物品的故事有時會有些爭論和構想，那會為我帶來一大堆材料──文本、物品、照片──但它們不一定有意義。這就是我必須以藝術家身份思考的時候了。事實上，有時我也會陷入困境，因為即使我嘗試了仍是不行。那我就只好回頭再找更多的資料。在《我的深圳礦藏1973》（2015年），一把舊式家用風扇吹起雜誌的封面，讓投影機不再被遮蓋，觀者按下按鈕時投影機就可以在牆上放映影片。剛開始時，這件作品並不成功。風吹的方向不對。最簡單的方法就是加一張卡調整風吹向正確的方向，但是我覺得：不要，只為了這個原因加一張卡太醜了。這太現實和粗糙。所以我開始找在同年出版的小書〔就是後來作品中所用的書〕 ，我非常幸運找到一本適合的小學美術書。

CHT: 我記得看到裝置《香港女伯爵》（2016年）時我很困惑。它是由一張黑膠唱片和一套女子校服組成，黑膠唱片轉動時，掛著的校服會隨著搖擺。這件作品與卓別靈的最後一齣電影《香港女伯爵》（1967年）的主題曲相關。該電影中蘇菲亞羅蘭和一個學生都要逃離香港：一個是為移民，另一個是因為參與了六七暴動。你有多希望人們看到其中的連結？LCW: 我想我喜歡建立閱讀的層次，作品的結構亦隨著我尋找到的材料和故事加深。我只是在找1967年除了暴動這件重點事件外在香港發生過的事。我想建構出政治和日常生活的平行世界，這時卓別靈的電影就在我腦海中出現。總而言之，它們之間都連結是觀者的主觀詮釋，並沒有標準解釋。我只是物盡其用。那個女學生其實是一個在香港很有影響力的親中政治人物的妹妹。我只是利用了電影的名稱和創作了一件作品藉由實體轉型連繫起所有事。

CHT: 之前的展覽「那是有又沒有」（2018年），為了避免觀者由文字去理解作品，你沒有在牆上貼上任何作品介紹。那次的展覽你也是策展人，和這次的新個展一樣。你覺得這是不是展示你研究結果最好的方法？LCW: 我常常懷疑觀者是否真的明白我通過作品想表達的訊息，雖然他們大多都知道我在做甚麼。加上我成為策展人的時候這個職業在香港相當罕見。我常常要自己策劃展覽：這就是藝術家營運的藝術空間的現實和精神──也是Para Site的起源。我常說在資源有限的情況下，我會開啟省電模式。始終，我不是傳統意義上的研究員，而且我知道如果作品旁邊有文字介紹，觀者便會減少感受和體會作品的時間。話雖如此，我還是以不同的形式展示了文字，像是在《遺失博物館》裡用了壁藝貼。

CHT: 整體而言，你會否說你的作品的目的是帶來知識，如六七暴動的示威目的？LCW: 我想我是比較在意和希望能引起觀者對現有資訊的思考。

CHT: 聲音在你的作品中非常重要。你的《This is My Song》（2016年）系列中，由Petula Clark 演唱的同名歌曲似乎代表了一段特定的時光。這是不是你引發集體記憶的方法？LCW: 我常常比較錄音和照片。錄音可以把我們不曾參與的過去帶到現在。我不確定自己是否想觸發集體記憶，但是我認為聲音代表了一節時間。其實在創作這系列的作品前我並不認識這首歌，我與它沒有建立過任何回憶。我覺得今時今日，音樂同黑膠唱片都很常見〔於量度時間〕。

CHT: 你的部分裝置是動態的，會重複動作，彷彿代表了被困在過去，不斷重複有時激烈的動作。你想通過這些重複的動作表達甚麼？LCW: 我想我是從這次的項目開始思考破壞和建設的關係。我們在建設的同時也在破壞。暴力在我的藝術計劃中佔有一席位。我花了幾年時間在作品中敘述暴力的概念，直到《Untitled (Love for Sale) 》（2014年）我終於可以在技術和概念上處理暴力這個課題。這件作品讓觀者可以按下按鈕，然後在看不到的情況下聆聽一疊報紙倒下的聲音，他們的視線會被阻擋，我真的很喜歡這件作品的設計。機械性重複在某一刻會把你帶進的冥想的狀態。這感覺有時很詭異，但有時又很治癒。

與此同時，你利用重複性動作建立了過去與現在的橋樑。你同時間有甚麼看法？

我以前覺得時間是線性的，但現在覺得它是環行的──事物可以重複、回轉和轉化。也許是年齡改變了我的看法。

CHT: 你是否認為我們被困在重複的過程中？LCW: 歷史好像真的會重演。大多數的人不會學取教訓，最近的事件像是烏克蘭的戰爭影響了我很多，因為事件不斷在發大。我不知道我們是否被困，但這種無力感是前所未有的。

CHT: 我在想關於你仍在持續創作的雲照片系列，你的新展覽亦有展出相關的作品。你是否想用這些照片紀錄時間，用作比喻純粹？LCW: 《日誌系列》（2017-）的照片都是我到訪曾發生暴力的現場時所攝。它們代表了矛盾。你好像沒有看見甚麼，但只要想想在同一片天空下曾發生過的事又覺得它代表了很多。我從25年前就在拍攝天空，當時我看著天際線覺得自己不屬於這個地方。我不知道原來從上俯視這座城市時會發現它改變了那麼多，畢竟我多數是站在街頭看。在1999和2000年時，我們〔梁志和與他的拍檔黃志恆〕在紐約繼續發展這個系列：那些著名的地標並不能觸動我，但它們的負空間可以，所以我開始轉化那些空間。現在的世界改變了很多，可能只有天空沒有變，就是這種純粹帶來矛盾感。當看著天空時，我們希望甚麼都沒有發生。天空看起來如此美麗，但當我看到自己的周圍卻只覺得悲哀，尤其是當我們被迫著忘記幾年前發 生的事。

CHT: 這個系列是把概念實體化的好例子：對於背後的故事你有甚麼想說？LCW: 這個系列連結了兩個極端：一邊是非常抽象漂亮的圖像，一邊是城市中的暴力意像。它們之間唯一的聯繫就是我曾到訪這些在半個世紀前的同一天發生過暴力的地點，拍攝它們的天空。對我而言，這是非常強烈的創作框架，幾乎是自我論證。我需要做的就是尋找暴力、對上日期、然後去該地點，就像是一種儀式。

CHT: 你有否受到概念藝術家如河原温的影響？LCW: 年輕的時候我很討厭他的作品，但是經過這麼多年，我發現可以專注於簡單的事是非常的美好。這顯然也是年齡改變了我的看法。

CHT: 你的風格還有沒有受到其他藝術家的深刻影響？LCW: 不多，但我覺得自己的美學有受到參與貧困藝術運動的藝術家影響。

CHT: 幽默感在你的作品中很重要。為甚麼？LCW: 我覺得政治漫畫是其中一種最強大的藝術形式。當發生可怕的事時，藝術家仍可利用幽默。當讀者真的笑出來時，就是最悲哀的時刻了。這樣的荒謬，幾乎是情感爆發。

CHT: 關於「過去的未來」，你曾說你想「預想現時過去的未來」。這是甚麼意思？LCW: 我最近一直在思考過去的未來。以前的人對未來，即今日，是怎麼想的？有很多的如果。我覺得這樣的想法很有趣甚至不可思議：如果我的父親在上班路上經過暴動地點並在暴動剛開始時與左翼人士產生共鳴會怎樣？我的父親生於南美，如果他沒有回中國又會怎樣？不過現在我都只能想像了。

這次的展覽包涵了各式主題，由個人回憶、暴力歷史到政治的巧合都有，但全部都與我對自己周圍的主觀看法有關──香港這座城市和過去的人是如何看待自己的未來，他們有時是被動的。我盡力集中於具體的事物和展出關於過去的未來的雕塑及拼貼畫。展覽亦有新的《日誌系列》和《我的混亂日記》系列作品，後者主要是關於 焦慮：有時你想讓自己的生活正正常常，但是你知道已經回不到過去的生活。

Katherine Bernhardt at David Zwirner Hong Kong

Published by Artomity Magazine

Katherine Bernhardt /
Dummy doll jealous eyes ditto pikachu beefy mimikyu rough play Galarian rapid dash libra horn HP 270 Vmax full art /
May 20 – Aug 5, 2023 /

David Zwirner /
5-6/F, H Queen’s / 
80 Queen’s Road Central /
Central, Hong Kong
Tuesday – Saturday, 11am – 7pm
+852 21195900

davidzwirner.com

David Zwirner is pleased to announce an exhibition of new paintings by American artist Katherine Bernhardt (b. 1975) that will take place at the gallery’s location in Hong Kong. The works in this presentation continue to expand Bernhardt’s unique visual lexicon, which culls from an irreverent pop vernacular as well as her own life and the broader culture. With her signature, lively brushwork, and vibrant color palette, the artist here will focus on characters from the Japanese media franchise and global game sensation Pokémon. This will be Bernhardt’s first solo exhibition in Hong Kong and her second with David Zwirner.

Liste Art Fair Basel

Published by Artomity Magazine

Jun 12 – 18, 2023

Messe Basel, Hall 1.1 
Maulbeerstrasse / corner Riehenring 
113 4058 Basel

liste.ch

Founded in 1996, Liste Art Fair Basel is the international fair for discoveries in contemporary art. Every year in Basel, a younger generation of galleries shows artists who are outstanding representatives of the latest developments and trends in contemporary art. Many of today’s most significant galleries for contemporary art laid their foundations at Liste. 

This year, 88 galleries from 35 countries will welcome visitors from 12–18 June in Hall 1.1 at Messe Basel. With artworks by over 100 artists, 66 solo and 18 group presentations, and two joint stands, the galleries will present the latest voices in contemporary art. 

Since 2021, Liste has consisted of three formats: Liste Art Fair Basel, Liste Showtime Online and Liste Expedition Online. Liste Showtime, the digital edition of the fair, launches this year with a preview from 7–11 June and runs until 25 June. With media-rich presentations, our gal- leries not only offer works for sale on the platform but also provide deeper insights into the practices of one artist who they are presenting at the fair.

Tromarama, Lai Chih-Sheng at Kiang Malingue

Published by Artomity Magazine

Tromarama /
Contraflow /
May 23 – Jun 30, 2023 /
Opening: Saturday, May 20, 3pm – 6pm /
Tin Wan Studio /

Lai Chih-Sheng /
It’s a quiet thing /
May 27 – Jul 8, 2023 /
Opening: Thursday, May 25, 6pm – 8pm /
Wan Chai Gallery /

Kiang Malingue 
10 Sik On Street, Wan Chai, Hong Kong
Tuesday – Saturday, 12 – 6pm 
12 & 13/F Blue Box Factory Building
25 Hing Wo Street, Aberdeen, Hong Kong 
Tuesday – Saturday, 11am – 7pm
+852 2810 0317

kiangmalingue.com

Kiang Malingue is pleased to present at its Tin Wan studio spaces Contraflow, showcasing recent paintings, lenticular prints, performative sculptures, installations and videos by Tromarama. The artist collective continues exploring the significance of the digital economy, the intersection of play and labour, retrieving traces of the personal and the intimate amidst data and statistics, as they reveal the infrastructures of social media, the production of happiness and simulated joy.

At it’s Sik On street space is It’s a quiet thing, Lai Chih-Sheng’s exhibition that directly negotiates with the architecture of the space. By presenting a series of site-specific installations and interventions, the exhibition in its totality examines Kiang Malingue’s headquarters opened in the second half of 2022, configuring an environment that is ephemeral and poetic. It emphasises the confrontational relationship between the actor, the observer and the architecture, while reflecting upon the physical and ideological limitations and potentials of an exhibition. Lai freely applies a singular perception of space that he has developed over the last three decades, expressing by staging seemingly barren scenes conceptual generosity, in relation to urban, architectural and human conditions today.

Read more here: Tromarama; Lai Chih-Sheng
For enquires, please contact Kiang Malingue at office@kiangmalingue.com

Images: Contraflow by Tromarama, Himalayan salt lamp, custom computer program, dimensions variable, 2023. Courtesy the artist and Kiang Malingue. Daze by Lai Chih-Sheng, Still, single channel video, 7 min 15 sec, 2023. Courtesy the artist and Kiang Malingue.

Shubigi Rao 舒比吉·拉奧 

Published by Caroline Ha Thuc

Eating One’s Tail / Rossi & Rossi / Hong Kong / Mar 18 – May 13, 2023 /

Eating One’s Tail, the title of Shubigi Rao exhibition at Rossi & Rossi, conjures up an image of a self-ingesting creature. As a metaphor, it questions human beings’ tendency to destroy, transform and reappropriate their own creations – and, more generally, it suggests the limits of self-reference. Rao’s artistic practice, in contrast, is an invitation to discover and experiment with multiple ways to inhabit and connect to the world. More subtly, perhaps, the title humorously evokes the artist’s attempt to reflect on her own practice and her claim to subjectivity. As this is her first exhibition in Hong Kong, the whole scope of her practice is presented, with selected artworks from different series. This eclecticism appropriately reflects Rao’s multidisciplinary, encyclopedic working process, which aims to resist any kind of linear, authoritarian mode of thinking.   

Dead Duck (2013) is the first artwork that attracts the attention when entering the gallery. The large ink drawing features a hanging piece of red meat, which immediately evokes Rembrandt’s Slaughtered Ox. Here, Rao represents a duck whose inner, open spine is made from a series of clothes hangers. For her, it portrays the figure of women. Its blood spills over the paper and over the handwritten caption which says, among other things, “Everyone loves a good barbecue”. It announces, from the start, the tonality of the artist’s practice, loaded with contained violence but always witty and deliberately ambiguous. 

Dead Duck by Shubigi Rao, Ink on Tiepolo paper, 100 x 70 cm, 2013. Courtesy the artist and Rossi & Rossi.

This work stands out against the backdrop of the setting of the main gallery room, which is arranged like a cosy library with plants, a table and chairs, and shelves loaded with books. On the surface, everything looks quiet and studious – also a characteristic of books, which remain innocent until you open them. Rao is a passionate reader and writer. One of her research topics is the history of libraries, our relationship with books and access to and the preservation of knowledge. In 2013, she started a long-term project, Pulp: A short biography of the banished book, which includes the publication of a book every two years. So far, there are four volumes of Pulp, each one unique and impossible to categorise. Their contents, which include multiple forms of essay, fictional or pseudoscientific texts, drawings and autobiographical elements, could be seen as a call to treasure, share and preserve all kinds of knowledge.

Rao’s investigation of banned books and library destruction works only as an entry point to this encyclopedic compilation. The whole enterprise expresses the need to resist isolation, embrace differences and sustain kinship. Books embody a form of resistance, yet she does not display fetishism with regard to them as objects. She is too aware of their power, which can be hijacked to justify violence or despotic ideologies. To restrain herself from any temptation to regard them as sacred, she displayed alongside the books tiny elements from her series The Study of Leftovers (2013), which are in fact pieces of rubbish that she collected when she first arrived from India to settle in Singapore.

Pulp, the generic title of the project, refers to the cyclical process of producing books – from the pulping of tree to printed paper, then back to ashes and into trees again. The tree is a recurring figure in her work. Here, a series of three ink drawings feature her typical phylogenetic tree, similar to the large one that she created for the Singapore pavilion at the 59th Venice Biennale in 2022. These fanciful modes of mapping human beings’ characteristics and cultures mimic the old tradition of representing knowledge as a tree. On the multiple branches of the Tree of Life in the Anthropocene (2016), for instance, are such stereotyped captions as “Roots as history,” “Forest as clearable,” “Trees as useful”. It is not surprising that Rao’s first tree was called the Tree of Lies (2013), as she relentlessly revolts against fixed taxonomies, pseudo-objectivity and all forms of -ism that tend to paralyse knowledge, which must remain dynamic and non-dogmatic.

Tree of Life in the Anthropocene by Shubigi Rao, Ink on Fabriano Rosaspina fine art paper, 109 x 79 cm, 2016. Courtesy the artist and Rossi & Rossi.

Most of her drawings include displays of the artist’s own delicate handwriting: she draws and writes simultaneously, often so quickly that she says she sometimes cannot decipher her own words. Her creative process is well exemplified in The Mirror of Ink, Or, a Guide to the Four Pillars (2016), a series of five ink drawings on paper that evoke ancient cosmological diagrams. We can follow how she builds her own system of knowledge according to her personal, intuitive logic, linking for instance the tower of Babel, Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges and German polymath Athanasius Kircher. There is something of Aby Warburg’s Mnemosyne Atlas here.

“Every language is a library” writes Rao in Pulp Volume I, and her investigation does not limit itself to human modes of communication. The name “Shubigi” was invented by her mother and mimics a bird’s song. A Small Study of Silence (2021) relates how the members of her family, scattered across the world, record the chirping of birds to communicate via WhatsApp, unable as they are to verbalise their emotions. From quarantine confinement to the extinction of species and manicured parks, the video proposes a puzzling vision of our contradictory relationships with nature. Above all, knowledge and languages are our ways to interact with others and with our environment.

Nature, its beauty, destruction, instrumentalisation and multiple representations are pervasive in Rao’s practice. Her recent series of dual photographs, juxtaposing close-ups of plants with photographs, offer moments to breathe in this dense, multilayered exhibition. For the artist, who describes herself as a naive idealist, it also constitutes an inexhaustible source of vitality and inspiration. In her curatorial statement for the Kochi Biennale (2022-23), she wrote that “Perhaps all that is required for an impossible ideal to exist is for enough people to live, think and work as if it already does”. Despite its underlying violence and its scepticism, this show is imbued with the artist’s own passionate yearning for human culture that is strongly communicative.

Featured image: Film still from A Small Study of Silence, dir. Shubigi Rao, single channel, digital HD, colour, 4 channel sound, 2021. Duration 29:36 mins. Courtesy the artist.

舒比吉·拉奧在Rossi & Rossi呈現的個展名為「Eating One’s Tail」（吃自己的尾巴），讓人聯想到某個正在吞噬自己的生物。作為隱喻，它質疑了人類正趨向於毀滅、改造然後再次侵吞自己所創造的事物。而更廣泛來看，它令人想到自我參照的局限性。相比之下，拉奧的藝術實踐像是一份邀請，讓大家去探索和嘗試不同的方式在世界棲息並與之聯繫。或許，更含蓄地，這個題目以幽默的口吻召喚藝術家去反思她的藝術實踐和對主體性的主張。是次是她在香港的首次個展，從各個系列中精選出作品，從而全面呈現其藝術實踐。這種折衷主義恰當地反映了拉奧跨越多學科、百科全書式的創作過程，旨在抵抗任何線性、專制的思維模式。

走進畫廊，首先惹人注目的是作品《Dead Duck》（2013年）。這幅大型水墨畫描繪了一塊掛起的紅肉，讓人即刻想到倫勃朗的畫作《Slaughtered Ox》。拉奧描繪了一隻鴨子，其體內開放的脊椎是由一系列衣架製成的。拉奧認為這刻畫了女性的形象。它的血灑在紙上和手書的說明上，上面寫著：「每個人都喜歡美味的燒烤」。作品從一開始就昭告了拉奧的藝術基調——滿載著克制的暴力，卻總是幽默詼諧、蓄意地含糊。

主畫廊空間佈置得像一個舒適的圖書館，放著植物、桌椅和裝滿書籍的書架，因而在此大背景下這件作品顯得尤為突出。表面上看，一切看起來都安靜而好學，這也是書籍的特質——在你打開書本之前，它們都是清白的。拉奧是一位熱情的讀者和作家。她的研究主題包括圖書館的歷史、我們與書籍的關係以及獲取知識和保存它們的途徑等。2013年，她開展了一個長期專案，名為《紙漿：被放逐的書籍小傳》，其中包括每兩年出版一本新書。迄今為止，《紙漿》共有四卷，每一卷都是獨一無二的，無法分類。其內容涵蓋了多種形式的散文、虛構或偽科學文本、繪畫和自傳體元素，借此呼籲大家去珍惜、分享和保存各種各樣的知識。

拉奧對於禁書和毀壞圖書館的調查僅僅是這部百科全書的一個切入點。整個創作表達了我們有必要去反抗孤立、擁抱差異、維繫緊密關係。書籍體現了某種抵抗形式，但她並沒有表現出對它們的盲目崇拜。她太瞭解書籍的力量了，這些力量可以被劫持以把暴力或專制意識形態是合法化。為了不讓自己將之神聖化，她在書籍旁邊呈現了從系列作品《The Study of Leftovers》（2013 年）中提取的微小元素——她第一次從印度來到新加坡定居時所收集的垃圾。

此項目的通用名為「紙漿」，指的是生產書籍的迴圈過程——從將樹木制漿到印刷紙，然後再變成灰燼回到樹中。樹是她作品中反復出現的形象。一系列三幅水墨畫作品呈現其標誌性的進化樹，如她在 2022 年第 59 屆威尼斯雙年展上為新加坡館創作的大型進化樹。這些關於人類特徵和文化的奇特描繪模式仿照了我們的古老傳統，用樹代表知識。例如在《Tree of Life in the Anthropocene》（2016 年）的諸多樹枝上掛著諸如「根源為歷史」、「森林為可砍伐的」、「樹木為有用的」等刻板的說明文字。拉奧不懈地在反抗固定分類法、偽客觀性和所有的形式主義，它們會使知識僵化，而知識應始終是動態的、非教條的。因而毫不奇怪，她將自己的第一棵樹命名為《Tree of Lies》（2013年 ）。

她的大部分畫作中都展示了自己精美的書寫：她邊畫邊寫，速度之快有時候連她自己都無法解讀自己的文字。作品《The Mirror of Ink, Or, a Guide to the Four Pillars》（2016 年）全然展現了她的創作過程。這是由五幅作品構成的系列紙上水墨畫，讓人聯想到古代的宇宙圖。透過這個作品能理解她是如何根據個人的直覺邏輯來建立自己的知識體系，比如她將巴別塔、阿根廷作家豪爾赫·路易士·波赫士和德國博學家阿塔納奇歐斯·基爾學聯繫起來。頗有些阿比·沃伯格的《摩涅莫辛涅圖集》（Mnemosyne Atlas）的意味。

「每種語言都是一座圖書館」，拉奧在 《紙漿I》中寫道，她的研究並不局限於人類的交流方式。 「舒比吉」這個名字是她母親起的，模擬了鳥兒的歌聲。《關於沉默的微型研究》（A Small Study of Silence，2021年） 講述了她分散在世界各地的家人們通過WhatsApp 記錄並分享鳥鳴聲，因他們無法用語言表達自己的情緒。從檢疫隔離到物種滅絕再到修剪一新的公園，該錄像就我們與自然的矛盾關係提出了一個令人費解的展望。歸根究底，知識和語言是我們與他人和環境互動的方式。

自然之美和破壞，它的工具化和多面的表現形式在拉奧的藝術創作中隨處可見。她在最近的雙重攝影系列裡，將植物的特寫鏡頭與照片並置，為這個密集且多層次的展覽提供呼吸的片刻。對於這位自稱天真理想主義者的藝術家來說，這也成為取之不盡的活力和靈感源泉。在高知雙年展（2022-23）的策展聲明中，她寫道：「也許令一個不可能的理想存在所需要的，只是有足夠多的人假裝該理想已是現實般像生活、思考和工作。」除卻隱藏的暴力和懷疑，是次展覽依舊充滿了藝術家對具有高度交流性的人類文化的炙熱嚮往。

Bamberg Symphony

Published by Artomity Magazine

Concert Hall, Hong Kong Cultural Centre / Hong Kong / March 18, 2023 / Ernest Wan

Formed mainly by German orchestral musicians in Prague who were forced after the Second World War to leave Czechoslovakia and settle in the Bavarian town of Bamberg, the Bamberg Symphony, with its Czech chief conductor Jakub Hrůša, recently appeared at the Hong Kong Arts Festival. It performed a repertoire at which, with its history, audiences expect it to excel: symphonies by Antonín Dvořák and Johannes Brahms, as well as music by the Hungarian György Ligeti, whose 100th anniversary is celebrated this year.

The first of the orchestra’s two concerts began with Dvořák’s New World Symphony in E minor (1893), his ninth and last work in the genre. The lower strings’ doleful playing of the soft opening melody and the fierce, incisive fortissimoattacks soon after in the slow introduction were illustrative of the far-reaching emotional landscape to be traversed. While the Largo was scenic and deeply felt as expected, with characterful woodwind solos and delicate sustained string harmonies, even accompanying phrases in the fast movements turned out to be lovingly moulded and unusually expressive. Details like these made the performance of such a popular work stand out among the crowd.

Jakub Hrůša with one of the three groups of metronomes. Courtesy the Hong Kong Arts Festival.

Hrůša’s attention to detail was likewise evident in Brahms’s Fourth (1885), another E-minor last symphony: at the slow movement’s second theme, the first-violin descant on the cello melody has rarely sounded so exquisite. His rendition of the work was marked by austerity. While he often slackened the pace at the subordinate themes in the Dvořák, he resisted making tempo changes unspecified in the Brahms score, as if to avoid injecting unwelcome lyricism into this more tragic work. The darkness of the Bamberg orchestra’s timbre added much to this starkness.

The Brahms was prefaced by Ligeti’s Poème symphonique (1962), a performance of which consists simply of 100 mechanical metronomes ticking away at different speeds. Here the pyramidal devices were divided into three groups and set in motion one by one, rather than simultaneously as the composer instructs, by several musicians. As more and more metronomes ran down in the course of the 11-and-a-half-minute act, it gradually became clear to the ear that the maximally complex chaos near the start was merely the result of aggregating that which is the simplest and most orderly – the regular pulse.

What does all this have to do with the Romantic symphonies on the programme? Written at a time when Ligeti was associated with the Fluxus movement, the “poem”, notwithstanding its inherent musical interest, was in part meant to poke fun at formal concert life: it seems absurd that concertgoers have to hear and watch machines normally used only for musical practice exhaust themselves. The touring Bamberg Symphony’s presentation of a piece in which the performers do not get to display their skills to the world as expected, indeed have next to nothing to do, suggests that it either embraced all of its sarcasm or missed some of it, which has among its targets the stuffy concert tradition, as illustrated by the general conservatism of the orchestra’s own tour programmes. Programming the work alongside other avant-garde pieces, as is more often the case, would have diminished its delightful impertinence, in all senses of the word.

Featured image: Bamberg Symphony. Courtesy the Hong Kong Arts Festival.

Pierre Mon Frere

Published by Artomity Magazine

Pierre Mon Frere
Solo Exhibition
May 12 – 14, 2023
Opening: Friday, May 12, 6pm

G/F, 90 – 92 Hollywood Road
Central, Hong Kong

pierremonfrere.com

This is Pierre Mon Frere’s first solo exhibition in Hong Kong after moving to the city from Germany. On display are 12 recent abstract, colourful paintings in acrylic and mixed media, inspired by geometry and an exploration of realism.

Bouie Choi 蔡鈺娟 

Published by Caroline Ha Thuc

Crossing the nights Filling the lines / Grotto SKW / Mar 8 – Apr 1, 2023 /

With what she calls her “emotional landscapes”, Bouie Choi continues to portray Hong Kong as a city on fire, undergoing perpetual mutation. Large, watery flows of paint merge with finer architectural elements in dynamic, poetic compositions where human beings seem lost: in the shape of either tiny figures or giants, they keep searching for their place in a reality that has clearly outgrown them. Despite its apocalyptic atmosphere and the many clouds that threaten the city, the artist’s new solo exhibition at Grotto Fine Arts is not about despair; on the contrary, an extraordinary vitality arises from each painting. A time of change and uncertainty is also a time for potential regeneration.

Walking inside the exhibition space involves walking into darkness. The night seems to be total, just like during the blackout that happened in the western New Territories in June 2022. At that time, Bouie Choi was commuting back home, and was trapped in sudden obscurity. She filmed with her phone the uncanny images of the opaque city, and this incident inspired her works displayed at this exhibition. In the gallery, a few beams of light and scattered luminous points guide visitors’ footsteps. At the entrance, Choi has installed a white light projection system that marks the specific moment when light illuminates her working table in winter. Further on, a subtle shadow is cast on the floor of partition walls, traditional in Hong Kong apartments, featuring flowers. The other lights that accompany visitors are the multiple sparkling points painted on Choi’s wooden panels: eerie lights, headlights, torches, streetlights and all the flickering lights from the tiny windows of Hong Kong buildings. 

These lights not only guide the public in the exhibition space, but are also intended to guide the eyes inside each painted composition, while connecting and responding to each other through time and space. What kind of signals they send remains a mystery. 

Choi’s conception of a landscape is inspired by classical Chinese shan shui paintings, which reflect reality and cosmology as a whole. Like most traditional Chinese artists, Choi adopts what is often called “a floating perspective”, embracing and combining multiple standpoints. The triptych Crossing the nights Filling the lines (2022), for instance, features a giant man walking through the city and collecting streetlamps that he puts in the pocket of his raincoat. When he pulls them, their light seems to fade. At his feet, among sewers, canals and houses, workers are busy cutting trees and a shepherd is looking after his goats, all represented at various scales. From all sides, nature is spilling out, with water and forests invading the urban landscape. On the left, a sitting man perched on a railway bridge ponders these extraordinary phenomena, overlooking the oversized octopus that stretches across the panels. 

The large format of the triptych allows us to lose ourselves inside the composition, oblivious to the boundaries between reality and the painted landscape. Choi puts us in the same position as her figures, who can cross time as well as pedestrian gateways, being simultaneously inside, above and beneath the city while still surrounded by it. This permeability is perfectly expressed by the fluidity of colours that melt, overlap and dissolve. The circularity of the clouds also suggests a circularity of time, with urban ruins soon turning into forests, buildings into mountains or waterfalls, all in a continuous movement. The rhythm of her compositions evokes poetry, a balance between breathing spaces and highly dense areas.

The Bars by Bouie Choi, Acrylic on wood, 91.4 x 60,9 cm, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Grotto SKW.

Railings, balustrades, barriers, roadblocks – in urban spaces, our daily life is influenced by these elements of architecture that guide our bodies, conduct our movements and shape our mindset. Similarly, in Choi’s paintings, our gaze glides along the highways, arrested by buildings, oriented by the wind, constrained by lines. This theme of containment is pervasive throughout her work. The bars (2022) features a group of vertical pine trees that resemble the bars of a cage. A man crouching, barely visible, is hiding behind them, probably afraid of showing himself or to face social rules. Sometimes, she only paints limbs, the corresponding bodies having been perhaps swallowed by the landscape. In The red is too hot to stand (2022), it is the artist herself who is depicted as a giant, squeezed between two high buildings. We are left to wonder whether she is trying to hide herself or to fit in.

All the featured works are on wooden panels, most of them recycled from ancient floorboards or from the benches of an old church.  Choi favours this material because it requires a long preparation time and allows her to engage in a conversation with the matter itself and its history. Although photographs of scenes from the city are often the starting point of her compositions, Choi likes to begin a work by letting washed colours flow freely on her panel, following the veins of the wood, forming inspirational clouds, after which she will take over. In Dimpled (2023), for instance, the knots of the wooden panel are magnified by the paint and seem to open like scars. A lonely pig, standing on top of a rock that could represent the leftovers of civilisation, watches how flows of lava drip from a burning sky. The colour of the wood provides the dark brownish, autumnal hues that characterise Choi’s work. It also evokes the traditional Chinese landscapes painted on silk. Choi is mostly interested in negative spaces, and she often intervenes by erasing the paint to create her own shapes. For her detailed figures and outlines, she chose to work with black acrylic because of its precision and texture. Unlike ink, acrylic cannot be totally washed away and will resist, offering a strong contrast with the fluidity of her washed colour effects.

The Light Gatherer (Detail) by Bouie Choi, Acrylic on wood, 152 x 60,9 cm, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Grotto SKW.

Although influenced by Japanese manga and contemporary events, Choi maintains the essence of traditional shan shui paintings as depictions of landscapes from a very personal inner perspective. Her vision of Hong Kong is highly intimate, poetic and emotional. As a child, her dad had to face darkness at night to bring home water in a bucket from outside their village house. He is represented as the child in The light gatherer (2022) who tries to collect water, or a flow of light, running from a cliff. Just like him, as viewers, we collect from this bright exhibition the illuminating effects of poetry and imagination. 

Featured image: Crossing the night Filling the night by Bouie Choi, insallation view at Grotto SKW.

彼月此日 / Grotto SKW / 2023年3月8日至4月1日

蔡鈺娟繼續以她所稱的「情感風景」，將香港描繪成一座著火的城市，經歷著永恆的變遷。大幅顏料如水般流動與精緻的建築元素融合在充滿動感和詩意的構圖之中。人類似乎迷失了方向，無論是大小人物都一直尋找自己的位置，但四周現實已發展得他們不能觸及。儘管這座城市充斥著末日氣氛和一片愁雲慘霧，藝術家在嘉圖現代藝術的新個展並不是關於絕望，相反地，每一幅畫都散發出非凡的生命力，充滿變化和未知的年代也可以是浴火重生的時刻。

展覽空間一片黑暗，就如2022年6月新界西停電的那個晚上一樣暗無天日，那時正在回家路上的蔡鈺娟突然陷入了黑暗之中，她用手機拍攝了這座城市一片漆黑的詭異，啟發了她創作這次展覽的作品。畫廊內有幾道光束和零散的光點指引觀眾的腳步，蔡鈺娟在入口安裝了一個白光投影系統，紀錄寒冬裡光線照亮她工作台的時刻。往前走一點，觀眾可以隱約看到地板上有香港舊式唐樓通花隔牆的投影。其他陪伴觀眾參觀的光還有蔡鈺娟在木板上畫的多個光點，有詭異的燈光、車頭燈、電筒、街燈和從香港建築物的小窗所投射出、忽明忽暗的燈光。

這些燈光不單在展覽空間中引導觀眾，也刻意指引每幅畫作內的眼睛，同時在時空上互相連結和回應。他們到底發出了怎樣的訊號仍然是個謎。

Bouie Choi. Insallation view at Grotto SKW.

蔡鈺娟繪畫風景的概念靈感來自中國古典山水畫，反映出現實和宇宙觀。蔡鈺娟與大多數中國傳統藝術家一樣，採用一般稱為「散點透視」的方式，在畫中運用並結合多個視點。如在三聯畫《彼月此日》（2022年）中，一個巨人在城市中穿梭，將收集得來的街燈放在雨衣的口袋裡。當他拉動街燈時，光芒就會消失。在他的腳下，工人正在下水道、運河和房屋之間斬樹，而牧羊人就在照顧山羊，所有主體都以不同的比例呈現。大自然的元素從四面八方湧進，水和森林充斥了城市景觀。畫的左面有一個人坐在火車橋上，思考這些非凡的現象，俯瞰橫跨整幅畫作的大八爪魚。

巨大的三聯畫令我們沉浸在構圖中，忘記了現實與風景畫之間的界限。蔡鈺娟將我們與她的主體並排，他們可以穿越時間和行人路，同時處於城市的上下和裡面，而仍然被城市包圍。流動的色彩融化、重疊和消散，完美地表達了這種滲透性。雲的循環亦暗示了時間的循環，城市廢墟很快會變成森林，而建築物也會變成山脈或瀑布，一切都是個連續的進程。作品的節奏充滿詩意，平衡了喘息的空間和人口密集的地區。

在城市空間中，我們的日常生活會受到欄杆、扶手、欄河、路障這些建築元素的影響，它們帶領我們的身體、引導我們的動作並塑造我們的心態。同樣地在蔡鈺娟的畫中，我們的目光會沿著高速公路而看，給建築物攔住，受風所引導，被線條束縛，這種控制的主題貫穿在她的作品之中。在《鐵扇骨》（2022年）中，垂直的松樹就像是籠子的圍欄，一個若隱若現的男人蹲在後面，似乎是害怕曝露自己或面對社會規則。風景吞沒了人的身體，所以有時她只會畫手腳。在《The red is too hot to stand》（2022年）中，藝術家將自己描繪成一個擠在兩座高樓之間的巨人，不知道她到底是想隱藏自己還是融入其中。

展覽中所有作品都在木板上繪畫，其中大部分木板是從舊地板或舊教堂的長椅上回收得來。蔡鈺娟很喜歡在木板上畫畫，因為她需要花很長時間處理木板，讓她有時間與木板本身及其歷史對話。雖然蔡鈺娟的構圖通常都是以城市風景照片作為出發點，但她開始作畫前總是喜歡先讓水墨顏色在木板上自由流動，順著木頭的紋理，形成為她啟發靈感的雲彩。在《Dimpled》（2023年）中，顏料將木節放大了，張開的木節像疤痕一樣。一隻豬孤獨地站在一塊代表文明遺蹟的石上，看著熔岩從燃燒的天空滴落。木的顏色令蔡鈺娟的作品帶有獨特的深啡色、秋天色調，還讓人想起絲綢上的中國傳統山水畫。蔡鈺娟最喜歡的是負空間，她經常會擦除顏料，創造自己的形狀。她選擇用黑色的塑膠彩來繪畫細緻的人物和輪廓，因為它的精緻度和質地更合適。塑膠彩與墨水不同，不能完全被沖走，而且可以保護塗層，與她水墨效果的流動形成強烈的對比。

雖然蔡鈺娟受到了日本漫畫和當代事件的影響，但她仍然保留傳統山水畫的精髓，從非常個人的角度繪畫風景。從她眼中所看到的香港是個非常親密、充滿詩意和情感的地方。她爸爸小時候要在黑夜中從村屋外用桶裝水回家，爸爸就是《光明採集者》（2022年）中的孩子，收集水和光，從懸崖邊奔跑。而我們就像他一樣，從這個充滿希望的展覽中收集到無窮的詩意和想像。

Family having cake and coffee, overlooking a misty Victoria Harbour, from Rooftop Garden, M+, West Kowloon, Hong Kong, 12 February 2023.

Published by John Batten

After allowing free entry for the first year of its operation, M+ – Hong Kong’s new international museum – recently introduced admission charges. The museum has however maintained free access to the cinema and its outdoor areas, including the third floor rooftop garden. Positioned alongside the city’s West Kowloon harbourfront where this photograph was taken, the museum’s south elevation has uninterrupted views towards Hong Kong island and Lantau island. Recently installed moveable seating now allows visitors to flexibly find the best view and follow the sun in winter and shade in summer.

The north section of the rooftop garden with views over the adjacent Palace Museum, the West Kowloon ship mooring area, Stonecutters Island and the Kowloon hills, has a wonderfully interactive installation of ‘Playscape’ sculpture by the American-Japanese artist Isamu Noguchi. Particularly loved by children and as a location for wedding photos, the sculpture can be touched and climbed on.

This fundamental change in entry policy has never been openly debated. During its first year of free entry, the museum saw record numbers of visitors. Charging admission will undoubtedly impact visits made by Hong Kong residents, but overall museum visitor numbers should be supported by the increasing numbers of tourists coming to Hong Kong after the city’s post-Covid reopening. But can this entrance policy be

re-examined, at least to consider giving the city’s residents free entry on designated days in a month? The museum’s website could also better highlight free entry for its outdoor areas, including the rooftop garden – then scenes like the above will happily become more common.

香港新國際博物館M+營運的第一年免費開放，而最近向公眾收取入場費。然而，博物館維持讓公眾免費進入電影院及其戶外區域，包括三樓的天台花園。博物館位於香港西九龍的海濱，亦是這張照片的拍攝地，位於博物館的南面高地，可以一覽無餘地欣賞香港島和大嶼山的景色。最近安裝的可移動座椅讓遊客靈活地找到最佳角度，在冬季可沐浴於陽光，在夏季可享受陰涼。

天台花園的北段可以俯瞰相鄰的故宮博物院、西九龍船舶系泊區、昂船洲和九龍山，並展出美籍日本藝術家野口勇（Isamu Noguchi）的奇妙互動裝置“Playscape”雕塑。特別受小朋友喜愛，不少人在此拍攝婚禮照片，觸摸和攀爬雕塑。 入場費的根本性變化從未公開辯論過。在免費入場的第一年，博物館的參觀人數創下紀錄。收費無疑會影響香港居民的參觀人數，但整體博物館參觀人數應該因香港在疫情後通關，遊客有所增加而上升。但是，這項措施可以重新考慮嗎？至少考慮讓城居民在一個月的指定日子免費入場。博物館的網站應該強調其戶外區域可免費進入，包括天台花園，那麼，上述美好的景象可變得更加普遍。

mplus.org.hk/en/exhibitions/m-playscape/

Photo: John Batten

Luis Chan 陳福善

Published by Artomity Magazine

By Joyce Wong

All the World’s a ‘Gung zai soeng’: Modernity and Cultural Belonging in the Art of Luis Chan

In the whimsical, peculiar pictures of Luis Chan (1905-95), dancers, thespians, circus clowns and magicians brush shoulders with Hong Kong everymen like all the world’s a stage. It was not in Shakespeare, though, that he found inspiration for his paintings of modern life, but in television. After free-to-air TV became available in the British colony during the late 1960s, he tuned in his “gung zai soeng”, or “doll box”, as the TV was called in old Cantonese slang, every night until the last programme finished at 2am and he started to paint. He even commented once that watching TV was his way of doing life study in modern times. While he meant that as a joke, local television did become a powerful medium through which the people of post-war Hong Kong found representation and belonging in a rapidly modernising refugee society. His theatrical depiction of daily life gave expression to the hopes and struggles of people living in the flux of colonialism and modernisation, and resonated in an era when Hong Kong’s thriving popular culture became an emblem of its progress and identity.

Figure 1. Poster design with decorative lettering by Luis Chan for the silent films Everybody’s Acting (1926) and The Eagle of the Sea (1926). Reproduced from the artist’s publication Decorative Lettering, Ming Sheng Printing Company, 1956. Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

Born in Panama, Chan moved to Hong Kong at the age of five. His family ran a tea shop in Shau Kei Wan after relocating to the colony and were able to afford a decent education for him. After he joined Queen’s College, the first government-run secondary school in the colony, he received some lessons on Chinese art history but was not motivated to learn painting. Instead, he was more taken with decorative lettering as a teenager, from his love of movies. In his spare time, he would try to design his own film posters for fun (fig 1), and he got the chance to try his hand at professional design in 1925 when a friend referred him to create weekly advertisements for Star Ferry. As his interest in picture-making grew from the job, Chan began subscribing to foreign art magazines and also started sketching outdoors on his own. In 1927, he came across a correspondence course offered by the London Press Art School in The Studio magazine and decided to enrol. After eighteen months of learning, he acquired all the skills he needed to quickly gain a reputation in the local art scene as the “watercolour king” (fig 2).

His success as a young painter was unusual in many ways. There was first his exceptional mastery of a notoriously unpredictable and challenging medium without any formal training besides the instruction manuals mailed to him from London. Even more unusual than his self-taught talent was the fact that he won recognition from the western art circle at a time when colonial society was still very much racially segregated and racism was commonplace. Chan, however, was recognised for his talent and invited by Lady Shenton, wife of the English solicitor Sir William Shenton (1885-1967), to join the European-run Hong Kong Art Club (HKAC) in 1934. Although the HKAC did not prohibit non-European membership per se, like the Hong Kong Club or Jockey Club, he was one of only a very few Chinese members when he joined, and his entry was certainly aided by his fluency in English and affable personality. 

By hosting exhibitions at the club, he was able to interact with many wealthy members of society. Among his distinguished patrons were governors of Hong Kong; Alexander Grantham (1899-1978), who served from 1947 to 1957, was a particularly fond friend, who even penned a foreword for Chan’s publication How to Paint a Portrait in 1954 (fig 3). A legal stenographer by day, Chan would not have had the opportunity to interact with the leaders of colonial society had he been a run-of-the-mill white-collar worker.

Figure 3. Governor Alexander Grantham hosting the opening ceremony for a joint painting exhibition of 
Luis Chan, Yee Bon (1905-95) and Lee Byng (1903-94), late 1940s.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

After three decades of painting naturalistic watercolours, he started to experiment with abstraction in the late 1950s as he realised that he could only innovate so much as a realist painter.He dabbled in cubism, surrealism and op art, among other styles and techniques, and submitted his innovations to the newly established Hong Kong City Hall Museum and Art Gallery in 1962. To his shock, however, his works were deemed outdated and failed to gain entry into the museum’s inaugural exhibition Hong Kong Art Today. But he took the loss in his stride and continued to experiment until he finally saw a breakthrough on the horizon. The artist eventually discovered a new way of painting that first involved creating a random monotype print on paper, then allowing the abstract ink traces to suggest “illusory images” which could be further developed into a complete picture. 

Although he did not consider his works of the past as outdated, the paintings that he created using this new methodology reflect the life of a rapidly modernising metropolis in ways that his watercolours and abstracts did not. Hong Kong’s industrialisation was kickstarted after an exodus of Chinese entrepreneurs from the communist mainland relocated to the colony with their capital and technology in 1949. The century-old entrepot then further transitioned into an export-oriented industrial economy when its main source of trade was cut off by an international embargo on China upon the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950. By the 1960s, these unique post-war conditions had transformed Hong Kong into East Asia’s export centre for manufactured goods. As the city flourished under modernisation, the massive influx of mainland Chinese refugees and rapid industrialisation also created structural pressures, such as housing problems, healthcare and education shortages, and stark labour inequalities. The “illusory images” that Chan saw in his monotype traces are such real-life contradictions between prosperity and pandemonium in post-war Hong Kong. 

Pink Nude (1969), for instance, can be read as social commentary on the  dark side of modernisation (fig 4). Painted at the height of the so-called “Vietnam boom Years”, when the war in the Southeast Asian nation helped to stimulate Hong Kong’s economy, this scene of lurid revelry featuring two prominent female nudes takes a jab at the R&R haunts of US servicemen on holiday in Hong Kong. While R&R tourism became a major pillar of local livelihoods second only to manufacturing, the tidal waves of US GIs stomping the city with their reckless debauchery also incited immense social anxiety and problems. Chan’s Wan Chai home studio sat at the heart of the pleasure haven, above the topless bar Club Mermaid, and the exploits of US servicemen were a daily reality. This painting suggests that the influx and the riches it promised were more menacing than liberating. Not only is wealth personified as an avaricious God of Fortune deviously leering at a nude showgirl; two other vampiric figures are also skulking to prance on her body as soon as she decides to tempt fate.

Figure 5. Tragedy by Luis Chan, Acrylic on paper, 76.5 x 156 cm, 1968. LYC Collection.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

The social ills of post-war Hong Kong eventually came to a head in the 1967 riots. What began as a minor labour dispute at an artificial flower factory grew into a large-scale anti-government protests. Although Chan did not paint the violence of the riots, he sublimated real-life suffering into the dramatic paintings of Tragedy (1968; fig 5). It was as if reality were too harsh to depict in its actual ugliness, so he distanced it using a caricature of melodramatic representation. The parallel he drew between theatre and life not only speaks to the dramatic changes wrought on Hong Kong by modernisation, but also to a desire for catharsis by giving an inchoate society symbolic visual order. His carnivalesque paintings of urban life are a satirical mirror to the reality of Hong Kong’s rosy economic take-off.

It is often noted that a distinct sense of Hong Kong identity was born as a result of the 1967 riots, which were fuelled in part by the fervour of the Cultural Revolution spilling over from across the border. In the aftermath of this crippling watershed, the people of Hong Kong gained a newfound appreciation for the stability, progress and civility of their city, and a distinct awareness that they were different from the communist mainland. As the government implemented social reforms to alleviate social discontent, it also recognised a need to cultivate a sense of local belonging among Hong Kong people, and prevent similar destruction from happening again. A few months after the riots subsided, the first ever Hong Kong Week was launched as a festival of solidarity, including a pageant competition, fashion shows, sports events, music, film and art exhibitions. Most important of all, the first free-to-air television channel, Television Broadcasts Limited (TVB), was launched on November 19, 1967. 

Before locally produced television became available, the mass media in colonial Hong Kong did not reflect much local culture. English-language print media catered to a western expatriate audience, while Chinese newspapers were mostly run by mainland intellectuals whose cultural references were anchored in northern China. When it came to the cinema, besides imported western films, Mandarin films dominated the silver screen until the early 1970s, while the smaller output of Cantonese films only reflected either regional Southern Chinese culture or set Hong Kong as an abstract backdrop to general dramatic narratives. It was only with the launch of TVB that Hong Kong people started to receive daily media portraying local slices-of-life, whether in the form of news coverage or entertainment. TVB’s first self-produced variety programme opening the channel was Enjoy Yourself Tonight (EYT; 1967-94), an evening live show that included comedy, music, dance, celebrity interviews and short serial dramas. The show’s producer, Robert Chua (b.1946), first spent five months observing local life before creating the show, and its skits came to reflect the joys and woes of Hongkongers through local Cantonese wit. True to its name, EYT quickly became the city’s most popular TV show, as well as Chan’s favourite. 

During the golden age of Hong Kong popular culture in the 1980s, he painted a substantial amount of work featuring performative figures that reveal the influence of local television culture. One of the most interesting pictures from the period is Good Neighbours (1987), which represents public housing residents like actors on stage (fig 6). The circular interior depicted in this work inevitably suggests Lai Tak Tsuen, the only cylindrical public housing estate in Hong Kong, built in 1975. But apartment doors have been substituted for archways, creating a set-like space that resembles the structure of a traditional Chinese opera theatre with its pair of onstage entrance and exit doors (chujiang ruxiang). From the 1970s onwards, life in public housing was frequently portrayed on TV as modern urban bliss compared to the chaos of shanty towns and resettlement estates in the previous decades. And in fact, Hong Kong’s tumultuous process of post-war modernisation served as a through line to many well-loved melodramatic sagas, such as the classic Below the Lion Rock (1972-2022), A House is Not A Home (1977), The Brothers (1980) and Gone with the Wind (1980). The British colonial government remained aloof from this kind of cultural identity-building, and the vacuum of cultural identification was easily taken up by popular media, in particular television. When one’s sense of cultural belonging is shaped primarily by dramatic representation, it’s not difficult to see life and theatre as one and the same.

Figure 7. Carnival by Luis Chan, Ink and acrylic on paper, 136 x 207 cm, 1980. Private collection. 
 Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

While Chan painted a good number of theatrical figures in the 1980s, such as actors, Chinese opera singers and puppeteers, most of his performative figures are less clearly defined as entertainers. The joyous men and women in Carnival (1980), for instance, could be regular people having a good time, just as he himself also loved dancing (fig 7). The triumphant dancer who towers over her audience in Woman Dancing (1981) also seems less of a showgirl and more an individual owning her power by harnessing the strength of her body (fig 8). In a more cryptic picture, The Nude Woman (1981) looms over a nebulous mushrooming of faces that seem to be ogling and reaching for her naked body, but her composure and control over the phantasmagoria make her appear like some kind of peep-show sorceress commanding the attention she desires (fig 9). The celebration of self-performance in these pictures speaks to how post-war Hong Kong became a stage not only for Wan Chai showgirls but for everyone in the flux of modernisation trying to negotiate who they are through new appearances, new lifestyles and a new awareness that cultural identity can be constructed rather than assigned.

Figure 9. The Nude Woman by Luis Chan, Ink and acrylic on paper, 135 x 68.5 cm, 1981. Private collection. 
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

The theatre of life was all around, and Chan found it at every corner he looked. Across the street from his studio was once the New Asia Fish Restaurant, which had an aquarium on its facade with daily specials to attract customers. Chan would stop to visit these “friends” whenever he walked by, and watching fish inspired many paintings from the late 1970s onwards that were as much about aquatic life as urban life. In Aquarium & Viewers (1980), for instance, a boisterous crowd is separated from a fish tank only by a thin border, and the rainbow-coloured background underscores the people as a part of the aquatic spectacle they watch (fig 10). Chan’s tendency to treat figure and ground in uniform flatness creates a “doll box” effect in all his pictures that recalls televised images and frames metropolitan life as modern drama of the everyday.

The most interesting space of performance that Chan visualised in his paintings was, unsurprisingly, the exhibition. From his first solo show in 1935, he hosted a one-man exhibition for himself nearly every year until he retired from painting in 1987. In his late years, he painted many pictures of museum spaces, and Watermelon Eater (1984) is his largest composition that reflects on the nature of art and exhibitions (fig 11). In this whimsical scene, a watermelon rests atop a plinth like a museum exhibit, but vying for attention are a giant hanging jade ring, fantastical creatures that seem to be floating in space and, most of all, a room of exhibitionists. The only person who is looking at the watermelon is a man frowning at it from behind. Dressed in the shirt and tie so typical of Chan himself, the frowning man could be read as a disguised self-portrait reflecting on the place of artists in society: if life were no different from theatre, is there still the need to give it aesthetic representation? Against the drama of life, an artwork could be so dulled that it might as well be a bathetic watermelon; at least then it could still be savoured rather than ignored. Of course, this picture is far from existential gloom with its luminous palette and comedy. Chan never shied away from a bit of self-deprecating humour, and this painting seems rather a self-reflexive quip after five decades of art-making to keep himself on his toes. As the artist remarked in the year the picture was created, “Look out when you find things too easy; that’s when you start repeating yourself.”

Figure 11. Watermelon Eater by Luis Chan, Ink and acrylic on paper, 70 x 280 cm, 1984. 
Private collection. Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

In his final years, he grew too frail to keep painting like he had before, but the artist in him still could not quite let go of his pictures. He swapped his brush for a ballpoint pen and started to doodle on the beloved art books that he had collected throughout the years, his smaller paintings kept in photo albums and any other material that could pique the fancy of his imaginative eye, just as sharp as when he began painting half a century before. The illusory images that he saw were all heterogeneous faces and figures like those that populate his beloved gung zai seong and distinctive paintings of modern life. One of Chan’s last drawings was on a theatre illustration by the American painter Norman Rockwell (1894-1978) for Shakespeare’s comedy As You Like It (fig 12). All the world’s a stage, but the men and women under Chan’s scribble who defy the strings of the puppeteer are not merely players. Neither was the maverick of Hong Kong modern art who dared to see himself and the world as something more.  

This article is an adaptation of the essay written for the All the World’s A Stage: 
The Art of Luis Chan exhibition at Pao Galleries, Hong Kong Arts Centre 
from December 12, 2022 to January 18, 2023. 
hkac.org.hk

全世界是一個「公仔箱」：陳福善作品中的現代性和文化認同

在陳福善（1905-1995年）妙想天開、詼諧奇特的畫作中，舞者、演員、馬戲團小丑和魔術師等戲劇人物均穿梭於城市之中，與市井小民遊戲人間，就如「全世界是一個舞台，所有男男女女不過是演員」一般。然而，他的創作並非啟發自莎士比亞戲劇，而是從電視中獲得靈感。自從免費電視台於1960年代末在英屬香港開播後，陳福善每晚都會打開他的「公仔箱」（意指電視的舊式廣東話俚語），收看至凌晨2時最後一個節目結束後才開始畫畫。他甚至曾說看電視是現代式寫生，雖然只是說笑，但「公仔箱」的確成為了強大的媒介，讓香港人在戰後急劇現代化的難民社會裡找到身份認同與歸屬感。陳福善對日常生活戲劇化的刻畫，展現了香港社會在殖民統治和現代化巨輪下的希望與掙扎，更呼應了一個流行文化與身份認同相輔相成的年代。

陳福善生於巴拿馬，在5歲時移居香港。來港後，他的家人在筲箕灣經營茶居，雖然算不上富裕但亦有能力為他供書教學。陳福善在中學時期入讀第一所由港英政府成立的中學皇仁書院，教程雖然有中國藝術的課堂，但並沒有引起他學畫的興趣。他在青少年時期反而因愛看電影而迷上鑽研美術字，在閒時嘗試自己設計海報自娛自樂（圖一）。在1925年，他得到了一展所長的機會，得朋友介紹為天星小輪每周設計廣告。他對繪畫的興趣由此逐漸萌生，不但開始自行寫生、訂購外國藝術雜誌，還在1927年從《藝宮》雜誌中得知倫敦Press Art School的藝術函授課程並報讀學畫。經過18個月的課程後，陳福善不但打好了藝術基本功，還被本地藝術圈冠以「水彩大王」美譽（圖二）。

Figure 2. Midsea Temple by Luis Chan, Watercolour on paper, 26.8 x 37.4 cm, 1955. Private collection.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

水彩一直被公認為最變幻莫測、最有挑戰性的媒介，而陳福善在沒有正規訓練下卻完美駕馭，自學天賦令人刮目相看。而且他更於當時依然種族隔離、歧視司空見慣的殖民社會裡獲得洋人藝術圈認可，實屬罕見。他在1934年得到威廉·山頓爵士夫人（Lady Shenton）的青睞，獲引薦加入由歐洲人成立的香港美術會。該會雖然並沒有設立如香港會及賽馬會那樣拒收華人的不成文規條，但陳福善入會時的華人會員寥寥可數，而他被接納亦離不開他一口流利的英文以及善於交際的性格。

陳福善透過在美術會舉辦展覽得到結交社會名流的機會。他顯達的支持者中有不少都是港督，而其中與他最為交好的便是葛量洪爵士（1899-1978年；任期1947-1957年），其曾在1954年為陳福善的著作《怎樣繪人像》撰寫序言（圖三）。陳福善本在律師行當速記員維生，如果他沒有藝術家的身份而只是一名平庸無奇的白領，絕不會有機會結識殖民社會的達官顯貴。

在畫了寫實水彩畫30年後，陳福善意識到自己持續寫實風格已經難以再有突破，所以在1950年代後期開始嘗試抽象創作。在眾多風格之中，他嘗試了立體派、超現實派和歐普藝術，並在1962年把新創交予新建的香港大會堂博物美術館參展。可是他的作品出乎意料地被評為過時，被拒之門外，未能參與博物美術館的首個展覽《今日的香港藝術》。但他並沒有一蹶不振，在反覆實驗創新後，終於看見突破的曙光，發掘了一種新的繪畫方式，首先用鋅片在紙面上隨意塗些痕跡，然後再根據痕跡提示的「幻象」創作完整的繪畫。

陳福善雖則並不認為自己以前的創作過氣，但他以這種全新方式繪畫的作品，確實反映了其寫實水彩和抽象實驗所沒有刻畫的現代城市面貌。中國大陸在1949年政權更替後，數以萬計的難民因政治動盪湧入香港，其中大批企業家將資金和技術南遷，開啟了香港工業化的發展。在韓戰爆發後，聯合國向中國實施禁運，令香港失去主要轉口貿易市場，只能轉型為外向型工業經濟求存。到1960年代，這些特殊的戰後條件令香港成為了東亞的製造業出口中心。現代化經濟起飛雖則令香港日漸蓬勃，但大批難民湧入和急速工業化亦帶來了房屋短缺、醫療不足以及勞工保障等問題。陳福善在單刷版畫痕跡裡所看見的「幻象」，則是戰後香港在繁榮和混亂之間的社會矛盾。

《紅粉佳人》（1969年）一作就可被詮釋為藝術家對於香港在經濟起飛後歌舞昇平的諷刺（圖四）。這幅作品繪於越戰高峰，當時東南亞的戰事正刺激著香港的旅遊經濟，而畫中醉生夢死的景象無疑指向當年大批到港休整、尋歡作樂的美軍。香港的旅遊業在越戰年間成為了僅居製造業之後的第二經濟支柱，但美軍遍地撒金同時亦在城中放縱撒野，引起嚴重社會焦慮和問題。陳福善的家居畫室位於灣仔美人魚酒吧之上，正處酒池肉林中心，他的日常皆是美軍紙醉金迷的場面。這幅作品暗諷了當年五光十色背後實則暗藏危機，財富被擬人化成目光猥瑣、向裸女不懷好意的「財神」，而周邊還有兩個張開虎口的人物，迫不及待褻玩她的身體。

Figure 4. Pink Nude by Luis Chan, Acrylic on paper, 74.5 x 150.8 cm, 1969. Private collection.  
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

戰後香港的種種社會弊病最終釀成 1967 年的暴動。該次事件從一場人造花廠的勞資糾紛逐演化成大規模反政府示威。陳福善雖然沒有繪畫暴動的傷亡，但《悲劇》（1968年；圖五）等繪畫戲劇悲情的作品明顯以現實苦況入畫。或許只有透過誇張諷刺的手法，他才能面對現實的殘酷，而他將人生比作戲劇，不但呼應了現代巨輪下跌宕起伏的社會劇變，亦表達了渴望透過藝術為現實賦予象徵意義及秩序，從而得到心靈慰籍的願景。陳福善畫中的顛倒世界，就像一面諷刺繁榮背後代價的照妖鏡。

六七暴動常被認為誕生香港身份認同的分水嶺。這場社會動蕩當時受到中國大陸如火如荼的文化大革命影響加劇，而在一切塵埃落定後，港人都變得更加珍惜香港的繁榮安定，亦清晰地意識到自己與共產主義的中國大陸有所區別。港英政府及後實施改革改善民生， 同時亦著手為港人培育歸屬感，以防同樣的社會撕裂重演。暴動結束數月後，政府舉行了首個「香港週」，透過強調「香港精神」的選美、時裝秀、運動、音樂、電影及藝術展覽活動凝聚港人，慶祝社會渡過難關。其中的重頭戲就是1967年11月19日，香港首間免費電視台電視廣播有限公司（通稱無線電視）正式開台。

Figure 6. Good Neighbours by Luis Chan, Acrylic on paper, 82 x 157 cm, 1987. Private collection.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

在本地電視台創辦前，香港的大眾媒體都少有反映本土文化。英語印刷媒體大多只為服務西方讀者，而中文報紙則多數由南遷的內地知識分子營運，以北方的文化思維主導。至於電影，戲院除了播放西方電影外，直至1970年代初都主要放映國語片，而少量的粵語片只大概地反映華南文化或以香港為空乏的故事背景。無綫電視的創立讓港人開始每日接收到反映本地生活的新聞和娛樂節目。該台首個自製綜藝節目《歡樂今宵》（1967-1994年） 是一個晚間直播節目，內容包括趣劇、音樂、舞蹈、明星訪談及長篇短劇等等。在開播前，製作人蔡和平（1946年生）花了五個月時間觀察港人的生活文化，而節目最終以輕鬆詼諧的港式幽默諷刺時弊，反映小市民的哀樂，成為深得民心的下飯節目，陳福善當然亦是「擁躉」之一。

陳福善受到本土電視文化影響，在1980年代，則香港流行文化的黃金時期，繪畫了大量與表演人物相關的作品。其中一幅最有趣的便是《一梯兩伙》（1987年），把公屋住戶刻畫成舞台演員（圖六）。畫中圓形的空間無疑令人聯想起香港建於1975年，唯一圓柱形的公共房屋大坑勵德邨，但單位房門被拱形替代，頓時令空間變得不似屋邨，更像中國戲曲舞台的「出將入相」。從1970年代開始，公屋生活經常在電視上被刻畫成現代都市的小確幸，尤其是與戰後混亂的寮屋和徙置區相比。而事實上，戰後香港整個動蕩的現代化進程亦為不少劇集提供靈感，例如深受喜愛的經典《獅子山下》（1972-2022年）、《家變》（1977年）、《親情》（ 1980年）及《浮生六劫》（1980年）等。港英政府一直疏離身份認同政治，導致港人文化認同真空，輕易被本地大眾媒體填補，而當個人身份認同被戲劇化的媒體塑造、影響，自然難免令人深感人生如戲。

Figure 8. Woman Dancing by Luis Chan, Ink and acrylic on paper, 
134.5 x 68.5 cm, 1981. Private collection. 
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

陳福善縱使在1980年代繪畫了不少舞台演員、戲曲演員及操偶師等人物，但他畫筆下的大部分展演性人物都並非確切地刻畫成藝人。譬如《嘉年華》（1980年）中翩翩起舞的人物很可能只是正如陳福善一樣喜愛跳舞的男女（圖七）；《舞孃》（1981年）中看似用盡生命表演的人物亦不似風雨飄渺的舞女，更似透過自主身體、掙脫枷鎖的個體（圖八）。在另一幅較隱晦的《裸女》（1981年）中， 裸體的女人凌駕於一團鬼魅幻影之上，某些面孔雖然朝她的身體不懷好意，但她泰然自若地操控著幻影，就如神秘的巫女玩弄著他者的慾望一樣（圖九）。這些鼓舞自我展演的畫作都反映了香港八十年代「馬照跑、舞照跳」的精神，而現代都會成為了所有港人在大時代變幻下尋找新氣象、新生活、新自我的舞台，身份認同亦不再規限於與生俱來的既定角色，而是一種能被各人塑造追求的自我定位。

戲劇人生隨處可見，而陳福善在城中每個角落都找到值得玩味的情節。在他的家居畫室對面街曾有一間「新亞養魚酒家」，外牆有個大魚缸吸引食客，而他跟很多途人一樣，每每經過都會駐足探望他的水族「朋友」。自1970年代末，觀魚給陳福善帶來不少靈感，他以魚為題的作品在繪畫水底世界同時，更是繪畫人間百態。例如在《遊水族館》（1980年）中，魚龍混雜的人海與魚缸只隔有一綫之差，而畫家以彩虹顏色將背景分段，將人群無縫地連接水族館，把城市人刻畫成日常奇觀的一部分（圖十）。陳福善傾向以同樣平面化的手法描繪人物和背景，令所有畫作都有一種仿如電視影像一樣的「公仔箱」效果，流露出人生如戲的感悟。

Figure 10. Aquarium & Viewers by Luis Chan, Ink and colour on paper, 
68.5 x 135.8 cm, 1980. Private collection.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

陳福善畫筆下最耐人尋味的展演空間，毋庸置疑是藝術展覽。自他在1935年首次個展直至1987年停止創作為止，他幾乎每年都舉行個人展覽。在晚年時期，他繪畫了很多博物館及展覽空間，而《吃西瓜的人》（1984年）是最大型反思藝術與展覽本質的作品（圖十一）。在畫中詼諧的一幕裡，一個西瓜猶如展品一樣被安置於展示底座上，與之爭艷鬥麗的還有一個巨型翡翠吊環、在空中浮遊的奇珍異獸，以及一眾不是展品卻勝似展品的城市人。唯一真正端詳西瓜的觀眾，只有一位站在後方蹙眉的男人。他身穿襯衫領帶，與陳福善的日常打扮不謀而合，或許正是藝術家的化身，身處大地梨園而不禁反思藝術家的社會意義：若人生就是戲，還需要透過藝術表現生活嗎？與現實的酸甜苦辣、大起大落相比，藝術品或許會黯然失色得不如一個西瓜。當然，這幅畫用色明亮、人物活潑逗趣，絕非陷入虛無的反思。陳福善一直以來都不怕自嘲說笑，這幅作品更似是他在創作五十載後，警惕自己不要鬆懈的幽默自省。正如他於同年曾說：「不過你要注意，你開始覺得事情太容易的時候，便是開始重複自己了。」

Figure 12. Drawing by Luis Chan dated 1988 and 1991, on Norman Rockwell’s theatre illustration for Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Reproduced from Norman Rockwell, The Saturday Evening Post: Norman Rockwell, Bonanza Books, 1987.
Courtesy Hong Kong Arts Centre. 

陳福善在晚年健康日漸大不如前，令他無法繼續作畫，可是他依然心繫藝術。他放下畫筆又拾起圓珠筆，開始於不同激發他想像力的物料上繪畫，例如寶貴的藝術藏書、收於相簿裡的小型畫作，以及雜誌報紙等等。他所繪畫的幻象一如既往地「盞鬼」，依舊是「公仔箱」一般的現代都市男女，而其中最後一幅隨筆，繪於美國畫家諾曼·洛克威爾（Norman Rockwell；1894-1978年）為莎士比亞喜劇《皆大歡喜》創作的戲劇插畫上（圖十二）。全世界是一個舞台，可陳福善筆下跳脫操偶師扯線的男男女女不只是傀儡，而這位香港現代藝術先驅的精神在曲終人散後，依然常存畫中生生不息，歡樂今宵。

編者按：此文本為香港藝術中心包氏畫廊由2022年12月12日至2023年1月18日舉行的「歡樂今宵：陳福善的藝術」展覽著作。
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