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15/7/2005

Internal Injuries

Marella Gallery, Beijing

Curator Shu Yang

I have always thought that outstanding works of art are the best evidence on which to base an understanding of the life experiences of a generation. To be valuable in this sense, works of art must be truthful. Inferior artworks, that try hard to cover up this kind of truthfulness, can easily be used to illustrate the self-righteous excuse of bad artists, namely that 'art should show things that are positive or beautiful'. This is a rather splendid sounding theory, and one that immediately makes me think of Nazi art.

I remember that in Soviet director Mikhail Romm's 'Ordinary Fascism', a documentary compiled using photographic materials seized from archives in Nazi Germany, there was a section that focused on Nazi art and literature. The Nazis had a sculpture workshop dedicated to producing large-scale public sculptures, the majority of which were huge statues of so-called 'standard Aryan' soldiers wearing steel helmets and stern expressions. Nazi architecture also pursued a lofty and austere visual effect, and put great emphasis on classical and traditional architectural symbols. The Nazis liked to hold exhibitions of 'degenerate art', amassing works by the artists they most despised and putting them on display for the purpose of educating the public about correct aesthetic preferences. This approach is strikingly consistent with many political movements in China during the last half-century aimed at routing out 'poisonous weeds' from art and literature, and exposing and criticising 'ugly' artistic phenomena. The exhibitions organised by the Nazis contained a large proportion of Expressionist paintings, and were, at the time, the largest exhibitions of that genre of art to date. After being branded as 'degenerate', many Expressionist artists fled to other parts of Europe and America, and although the Nazis 'purified' their country, the majority of those artists lived to see the death of the regime. Looking at some of the Expressionist paintings from that time, distorted visions peopled with figures that look barely human, there is no need to research the artists' techniques or aesthetic concepts in order to get a sense of the kind of reality they lived in.

A good many artists in this world may be adept at presenting a false picture of peace and prosperity, but with a bit of earnest examination, it is usually easy to find the cracks in their works. Two years ago, the Mori Art Museum in Tokyo held its inaugural exhibition, 'Happiness', which included two works by artists from North Korea that I found very enlightening. One of the works was a half-figure sculpture, the other was a realistic oil painting, and both seemed to have been forged in the same kiln as the 'red bright and shining, lofty, big and perfect' painting style of the Cultural Revolution period. I suddenly felt as though time had been turned back 30 years. In both works, the most important props used to set off the figures were potatoes. The sculpture showed a happy, healthy young woman carrying a big bunch of potatoes with their vines still attached, while the oil painting depicted a group of cheerful and high-spirited young people crowding round a steelyard weighing large potatoes, almost as though the potatoes piled in front of them were priceless jewels. Faced with a country where the potato harvest has become such an important event, I felt a painful sting in my heart looking at these works even though the figures were all laughing and smiling. Later I read Chinese author Yang Xianhui's book 'Farewell to Jiabiangou', in which he relates how 'rightist' intellectuals starved to death in a labour camp in Gansu; the scenes he describes are literally a vision of hell on earth. These stories, based on interviews with survivors, left me scared and disturbed, and several friends of mine who also read the book were moved to tears.

Fortunately, our present reality seems to have left that kind of era behind. In recent years, Chinese cities have gone through a round of traumatic rebuilding, with their outward appearances being given a 'modernised' facelift, gradually becoming new and bright. However, when we look at the work of contemporary Chinese artists, we often find more depressing subject matter. Chen Qiulin's video work 'Farewell Poem' interweaves film taken in towns flooded as a result of the Three Gorges Dam project, including her hometown of Wanxian as well as Yunyang, Fengjie, Wushan and Dachang. Her footage includes the demolition of towns and the lives of their displaced inhabitants, records of cultural sites in the Three Gorges area that are about to be or have already been destroyed, excerpts from the Chinese Opera 'Farewell My Concubine' being performed at those sites, and a performance realised by the artist herself amid the ruins, expressing her grief at saying goodbye to all this. After the dam construction was completed, Chen Qiulin's home was eventually submerged by deep lake of jade green water, and her helplessness in the face of these changes will perhaps remain a faint source of pain for the rest of her life.

In Zhu Yu's large-scale painting 'Leftovers' (1.8 m x 1.8 m), there is no visible trace of the extreme tendencies of his earlier works. Zhu Yu has painted a detailed and delicate picture of a serving dish after the food has been eaten, attracting or even forcing us to stare at an image that is a common occurrence in our lives. Looking at these vestiges of a meal, most people will probably lose their appetites. Zhu Yu presents this extremely everyday but rather nauseating image like a geographical discovery, projecting a high precision mirror image that has something fin de siècle about it into the blind spot of the fairly utilitarian attention we pay to reality. The smooth refinement of the painting's surface and the ulcerous mess of the content it expresses make me feel as though I have suffered an internal injury. 'Leftovers' uses a seemingly everyday and rational image to convey a sort of concealed pathos and painfully moving power. Zhu Yu has exalted the 'weak' image of leftover food and made it the visual centre of the work, his intention being to reveal the murderous intentions hidden inside the banalities of everyday life. 'Leftovers' makes a sort of deliberate 'misuse' of technique, magnifying seemingly unimportant, everyday images to a supernormal scale, transforming them into important images that have a strong sense of ritual, and then using the 'nauseating' quality to subvert the resulting 'icons'. In this sense, the value of an artwork lies in discovering the powerful force of 'silence'.

Compared to the images of 'internal injury' presented in 'Leftovers', Shi Jinsong's installation '2004 Design No.1: Instruments of Torture' uses precise metalwork to directly reveal contemporary Chinese society's methods of 'internal injury'. Discussing this work, Shi Jinsong writes: 'As with some of my previous works, this work is concerned with the internal manifestations of the designed structure of our 'modern' lives; it is a conception and depiction of the everyday violence and power that lurks inside this structure, and is perhaps a kind of anatomical dissection.' During a century of anxious modernisation in China, utilitarian technology has become a standard for measuring value. Shi Jinsong 'misapplies' instruments of torture to modern office equipment, the modern designs and polished manufacture only increasing our internal anxiety. The design of '2004 Design No.1: Instruments of Torture' shows characteristics of 'modern paranoia', revealing the high degree of sadism and masochism present in China's modernisation process. In our efforts to fast-track to a 'modern paradise', we are often likely to put ourselves or other people into the chair designed by Shi Jinsong.

The inherent social reality of this sadism and masochism is also amply reflected in Zhou Yuechao's performance work 'Datong – Report on the Respiration Situation'. When Zhou Yuechao talks about his work, he emphasises that it is an exploration of mankind's spiritual problems, but what caught my interest was how the work reveals relationships between people in Chinese reality. Datong is one of China's major coal producing cities, and coalmine disasters are a problem that I have paid particular attention to during the last few years. On February 14th of this year there was a huge gas explosion at the Sunjiawan mine in which 200 lives were lost. It was only the 6th day after Lunar New Year, and officially people were not supposed to return to work until the 8th day. In other words, a great many mineworkers were still down going the shafts during the New Year's holiday period to do overtime. We take pride in the high-speed growth of the Chinese economy, but it comes at a cost, and a great many energy sources are being drained. For the manufacture of a similar quantity of products, China's energy consumption is more than 10 times that of developed countries. We only see that the economy is maintaining its high growth rate, and do not see the heavy cost in lives, environment and energy reserves that lies behind it. 'Datong – Report on the Respiration Situation' sensitively captures the dreadful environment and dangerous atmosphere of Chinese coal mines, using art to write a 'report on Datong's bleeding' (Zhou Yuechao's words).

An atmosphere of danger will bring psychological tension and distress to a society, but will also provide a route map for the betterment of that society. The photos Ma Yanling took of Tian'anmen during the SARS crisis two years ago inspired me to re-examine what happens during a sudden and unforeseen social crisis. Prior to this it was hard to imagine Tian'anmen Square almost devoid of people, because it has for so long been the most popular and important pilgrimage destination for Chinese people. But a tiny little SARS virus managed to make this sacred place as desolate as abandoned ruins, and also set off earthquakes in political circles that resulted in some senior officials falling from power. The sight of Tian'anmen during the SARS period proved the fragility and panicky disposition of Chinese society. SARS was originally just a natural disaster, the danger it posed only temporary; the most terrifying disasters are man-made.

I didn't ask Xu Ruotao the reason behind his graffiti work 'Mafia', but without doubt 'mafia' type gangs are also a man-made disaster running amok in society. These gangs are always caught up in private battles for unclear advantages, and violence is their way of life. I remember what a Nobel Prize winning economist said about the black market, that whenever a state's control of the market is too strict, a black market will emerge in response to the situation. Local mafia gangs apparently also follow this kind of logic, as they emerge whenever a state's control of society is too tight. It is rare in our society for anyone to acknowledge the rationality of the mafia, but everyone will tacitly acquiesce to the existence of hidden rules. This kind of attitude provides an effective opportunity for the local mafia to work in cahoots with the legitimate and supposedly honest authorities. This kind of conspiratorial relationship will lead society towards severe internal corruption and a steady decline. With his 'Mafia' series Xu Ruotao is not behaving like the man of Qi who worried constantly that the sky would fall on his head; rather, he is an artist using his small voice to send out an alarm call to society.

Liang Tao made her first foray into performance art at this year's 3rd DaDao Live Art Festival, and made a deep impression on me. The performance art plan she has provided for this exhibition, 'Madhouse in Paradise', concentrates her life experiences and hopes into the theme of psychological abnormality. Mental illness is often more frightening to people than viruses, as psychological abnormality can lead directly to behavioural abnormality. The mode of performance art itself presents performative behaviour or actions, an exhibition of the artist's individualised behaviour. If an artist's performance is hard to understand, people will easily come to the conclusion that the motive for this type of artistic creation is abnormal, and like mental illness it will be demonised by public opinion. Even though Liang Tao has relocated her mental hospital to paradise, this demonisation of mental illness is like the demonisation of performance art, and it is still hard to find an effective way of rectifying it. But no matter what, as soon as artists take action, they are providing the public with an opportunity for introspection, and the efforts an artist makes towards this end will also unfold many more of life's possibilities. The more possibilities that are achieved in reality, the more easily psychological abnormalities in society and individuals can be relieved.

Calling this exhibition 'Internal Injuries' was based on my feelings towards the work of these artists, and is also an analogy. These works refract reality in such a way that it takes on the characteristics of internal injuries. Those characteristics are that everything appears normal and fine on the surface, without any telltale signs of injury, but inside things are bad. Internal injuries and external injuries are both injuries, but internal injuries are more concealed and thus it is easy to misjudge their severity. Sometimes mortal wounds can be invisible, and lives are lost through an oversight. An artist is not someone who writes prescriptions to cure society's ills; artists are a group of people who are very sensitive and receptive to their living environments. When the three qualities of acute sensitivity, honestly facing up to reality and courage in expression are all present, works of art can become very valuable reference objects for society, and from them we can discover the true face of a society that has been covered up. Only because we have artists do we also have this opportunity to discover, through the eyes of art, many of the world's secrets.
Shu Yang, Beijing, July 9th 2005

Image: Zhu Yu, Leftovers, Oil Painting

Marella Gallery
4, Jiu Xian Qiao Road, Chao Yang District, Beijing
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