Art and China's Revolution

Home , 47th Venice Biennale, Chen Danqing, Chen Yifei, Fang Zengxian, Lin Fengmian

:      january / february 9 January/February 2009 | Volume 8, Number 1

Inside

Special Feature: The Phenomenon of Asian Biennials and Triennials

Artist Features: Yang Shaobin, Li Yifan

US$12.00 NT$350.00

VOLUME 8, NUMBER 1, JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2009

CONTENTS 2 Editor’s Note 32 4 Contributors Autumn 2008 Asian Biennials 6 Premature Farewell and Recycled Urbanism: Guangzhou Triennial and Shanghai Biennale in 2008 Hilary Tsiu 16 Post-West: Guangzhou Triennial, Taipei Biennial, and Singapore Biennale Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker Contemporary Asian Art and the Phenomenon of the Biennial 30 Introduction 54 Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen 32 Biennials and the Circulation of Contemporary Asian Art John Clark 41 Periodical Exhibitions in China: Diversity of Motivation and Format Britta Erickson 47 Who’s Speaking? Who’s Listening? The Post-colonial and the Transnational in Contestation and the Strategies of the Taipei Biennial and the Beijing International Art Biennale Kao Chien-hui 54 Contradictions, Violence, and Multiplicity in the Globalization of Culture: The Gwangju Biennale 78 Sohl Lee 61 The Imagined Trans-Asian Community and the Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen

Artist Features 67 Excerpts fom Yang Shaobin’s Notebook: A Textual Interpretation of X-Blind Spot Long March Writing Group 78 Li Yifan: From Social Archives to Social Project Bao Dong Art During the Cultural Revolution 94 84 Art and China’s Revolution Barbara Pollack 88 Zheng Shengtian and Hank Bull in Conversation about the Exhibition Art and China’s Revolution, Asia Society, New York 94 Red, Smooth, and Ethnically Unified: Ethnic Minorities in Propaganda Posters of the People’s Republic of China Micki McCoy Reviews 101 Chen Jiagang: The Great Third Front Jonathan Goodman 106 AAA Project: Review of A-Z, 26 Locations to Put Everything 101 Melissa Lam 109 Chinese Name Index

Yuan Goang-Ming, Floating, 2000, single-channel video, 3 mins. 50 secs. Courtesy of the artist and the Singapore Biennale. 1 Editors Note YISHU: Journal of Contemporary Chinese Art president Katy Hsiu-chih Chien While comments about biennial fatigue continued   Ken Lum to grow, the autumn of 2008 was a banner year in the Asia Pacific region, with no fewer than  Keith Wallace   Zheng Shengtian nine biennials/triennials opening within weeks   Julie Grundvig of each other. Yishu 30 presents two reviews Kate Steinmann examining four of these events and brings into editorial assistant Chunyee Li focus the impact of the curatorial propositions that circulation manager Larisa Broyde were intended to make each of them important   Joyce Lin web site  Chunyee Li and distinct within what is becoming a highly competitive arena. advisory  Judy Andrews, Ohio State University Taking the biennial/triennial discussion even Melissa Chiu, Asia Society Museum further, I thank Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen, who has John Clark, University of Sydney Lynne Cooke, Dia Art Foundation guest edited five texts by well-known and emerging Okwui Enwezor, San Francisco Art Institute scholars who explore the specific histories and Britta Erickson, Independent Scholar & Curator Fan Di’an, National Art Museum of China current standing of Asian biennials and triennials. Fei Dawei, Guy & Myriam Ullens Foundation Together, these texts embrace a pan-Asian Gao Minglu, University of Pittsburgh perspective and serve to begin the process Hou Hanru, San Francisco Art Institute Katie Hill, University of Westminster of identifying the role that Asian biennials and Claire Hsu, Asia Art Archive triennials hold within the global context. Martina Köppel-Yang, Independent Critic & Historian Sebastian Lopez, Institute of International Visual Arts Lu Jie, Independent Curator On a different note, Beijing did much to promote Charles Merewether, Critic & Curator Ni Tsaichin, Tunghai University an image of a stable and prosperous China during Apinan Poshyananda, Ministry of Culture, Thailand the Olympics. It was thus compelling to see two Chia Chi Jason Wang, Independent Critic & Curator Wu Hung, University of Chicago exhibitions, one with work by Yang Shaobin and Pauline J. Yao, Independent Scholar the other with Li Yifan, that gave homage to the people who have contributed to this prosperity  Art & Collection Group Ltd. but who have endured great sacrifice. These 6F. No.85, Section 1, two exhibitions, one of which had some of its Chungshan N. Road, Taipei, Taiwan 104 videos shut down by the authorities, brought to Phone: (886)2.2560.2220; light the social and medical consequences for Fax: (886)2.2542.0631 the labourers who are at the front line of China’s E-mail: [email protected] progress but who are too often disregarded for    Leap Creative Group the contributions they make.   Raymond Mah art Director Gavin Chow Yishu 30 also presents three texts discussing designer Philip Wong China’s art during the Cultural Revolution. Two focus on the ground-breaking exhibition, Art webmaster Website ARTCO, Taipei and China’s Revolution, held at Asia Society  Chong-yuan Image Ltd., Taipei in New York, while the other ventures into the  - little-explored territory of ethnic diversity as it was presented and promoted in posters from the Cultural Revolution. Yishu is published bi-monthly in Taipei, Taiwan, and edited in Vancouver, Canada. The publishing dates are January, March, May, July, September, and November. Keith Wallace All subscription, advertising, and submission inquiries may be sent to:

Yishu Office 200–1311 Howe Street Vancouver, BC, Canada V6Z 2P3 Phone: 1.604.649.8187; Fax: 1.604.591.6392 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.yishujournal.com

YISHU EDITIONS Subscription rates: Now available. Four limited edition prints 1 year (six issues): $84 USD (includes $24 for airmail postage); of artwork by some of the most important in Asia $78 USD (includes $18 for airmail postage). Chinese artists. 2 years (twelve issues): $158 USD (includes $48 for airmail postage); in Asia $146 USD (including $36 for airmail postage). Please see back cover for images and contact information. No part of this journal may be reprinted without the written permission from the publisher.

2 Yishu: Journal of Contemporary Chinese Art 典藏國際版‧第8卷第1期‧2009年1 - 2月

2 編者手記典藏國際版創刊於 2002年5月1日

4 作者小傳社長：簡秀枝總策劃：鄭勝天亞洲雙年展評述創刊編輯：林蔭庭（Ken Lum）

6 再見為時尚早、重返都市話題— 主編：華睿思 (Keith Wallace) 廣州三年展與上海雙年展副編輯：顧珠妮 (Julie Grundvig) 徐美華 (Hilary Tsui) 史楷迪 (Kate Steinmann) 編輯助理：黎俊儀 (Chunyee Li) 16 后西方時代— 廣州三年展、臺北雙年展和新加坡雙年展行政：藍立杉 (Larisa Broyde) Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker 網站編輯：黎俊儀 (Chunyee Li) 廣告：林素珍當代亞洲藝術與雙年展現象顧問：王嘉驥 30 引言安雅蘭 (Judy Andrews) 陳香君（Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen）巫鴻林似竹 (Britta Erickson) 32 雙年展機制與當代亞洲藝術的流通范迪安姜苦樂 ( John Clark) 招穎思 (Melissa Chiu) 洛柿田動機與形式的多元性： (Sebastian Lopez) 41 侯瀚如談中國定期性展覽的內涵徐文玠 (Claire Hsu) 林似竹（Britta Erickson）姜苦樂 (John Clark) 47 誰在講話？從後殖民到跨國際間的距離姚嘉善 (Pauline J. Yao) 倪再沁高千惠高名潞 54 文化全球化中矛盾、暴力和多樣性：費大爲光州雙年展楊天娜 (Martina Köppel-Yang) 盧杰 Sohl Lee Lynne Cooke 61 主體意識的游疑與認知： Okwui Enwezor 跨亞藝術社群與福岡亞洲藝術三年展 Katie Hill Charles Merewether 陳香君（Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen） Apinan Poshyananda

藝術家聚焦出版：典藏雜誌社 67 楊少斌筆記本摘錄：台灣臺北市中山北路一段85號6樓「X–後視盲區」的文本解讀電話: (886) 2.2560.2220 傳真：(886) 2.2542.0631 長征寫作組電子信箱：[email protected] 78 李一凡：從社會檔案到社會計劃編輯部： Yishu Office 鮑棟 200-1311 Howe Street, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6Z 2P3 文化大革命中的藝術電話: (1) 604.649.8187 82 藝術與中國革命傳真：(1) 604.591.6392 電子信箱: [email protected] Barbara Pollack 86 卜漢克（Hank Bull）與鄭勝天訂閱、投稿及廣告均請與編輯部聯系。關于紐約亞洲協會美術館「藝術與中國革命」展覽的對話設計： Leap Creative Group 印刷：中原造像股份有限公司 94 中華人民共和國政治宣傳畫中的少數民族：紅光亮和民族統一網址： www.yishujournal.com Micki McCoy 管理：典藏雜誌社

展評國際刊號: 1683-3082 101 陳家剛：大三線本刊在溫哥華編輯設計，臺北印刷出版發行。一年期。逢1、3、5、7、9、11月出版。 Jonathan Goodman 6 106 評亞洲藝術文獻庫項目：售價每本12美元。 A-Z，26種藝文獻裝置訂閲：一年84美元，兩年158美元（含航空林嘉敏（Melissa Lam）郵資）。亞洲地區一年78美元，兩年146美元（含航空郵資）。 109 中英人名對照訂閱單可從本刊網址下載。

3 Contributors

Bao Dong is a Beijing-based curator and John Clark, FAHA, CIHA, Ph.D., is Professor of currently Head of the Curatorial Department Asian Art History at the University of Sydney and of the Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Founding Director of the Australian Centre for Beijing. In 2000–03 he taught art at Chaohu Asian Art & Archaeology. Among his books are College, Anhui province. After his postgraduate Modern Asian Art (Sydney: Craftsman House and studies in the Art History Department of the Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), Sichuan Fine Arts Institute in 2006, he taught the co-edited Eye of the Beholder (Sydney: Wild at the Institute of Movie & Television Media Peony, 2006), Modernities Compared: Chinese and and Communications, Chongqing Normal Thai Art in the 1980s and 1990s (Sydney: Power University. Meanwhile, with others he created Publications, forthcoming 2009), and Modernities H2 Art Space at the Chongqing 501 Art Base. In of Chinese Art (in submission, 2008). From 2004 2007, he was appointed Academic Director of to 2006 he worked on the new biennales in Asia the Shanghai Duolun Museum of Modern Art. and drafted a book, Biennales and Contemporary His articles have appeared in many Chinese art Asian Art: Histories of the Asian “New,” which is magazines and catalogues. His recent curatorial also in submission. From 2008 to 2012 he will work includes Notes of Conception: A Local be working on a new comparative study of “The Narrative of Contemporary Chinese Painting at Asian Modern” under an Australian Research the Iberia Center for Contemporary Art. Council Professorial Fellowship.

Hank Bull is an artist based in Vancouver. Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker is Director Emeritus of He has been a member of the Western Front the Museum Villa Stück in Munich (1992–2007). Society, an artist-run centre, since 1973. He She has curated numerous exhibitions on both initiated and co-produced the exhibition contemporary and historical art, with a special Jiangnan: Modern and Contemporary Art emphasis on the history of the modern. In from South of the Yangtse River in 1998 and 2004–05, she was curator of Shanghai Modern is currently an executive director of Centre (with Ken Lum and Zheng Shengtian), and, in A, the Vancouver International Centre for 2005–06, curator of Art of Tomorrow: Hilla Contemporary Asian Art. von Rebay and Solomon R. Guggenheim (with Karole Vail and Brigitte Salmen). In 2001–02 she was exhibition director of The Short Century Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen is Assistant Professor at (curated by Okwui Enwezor). the Graduate Institute of Transdisciplinary Arts, National Kaohsiung Normal University, Taiwan. Her recent publications include The Margins Britta Erickson, Ph.D., is an independent of Becoming: Identity and Culture in Taiwan scholar and curator living in Palo Alto, (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006); and two California. Her doctoral dissertation monographs, Faces of Memory: The Issue of Self investigated patronage modes in the career of in Art (Taipei: Sanmin, 2005), and Translating the mid-nineteenth century Shanghai School Dialogue: Journeys Between Art and Social artist, Ren Xiong. She has taught at Stanford Contexts (Taipei: ArtCo, 2004). Her curatorial University and has curated major exhibitions project on transnational Asian migration in including: Word Play: Contemporary Art by Xu Taiwan/Asia, City of Swallows: Migration, Bing (Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Washington, Post/Colonial Memory, and New Taiwan Colour D.C.) and On the Edge: Contemporary Chinese (2006), was awarded 1st Prize among the Artists Encounter the West (Cantor Center for Production Grants to Independent Curators in Visual Arts, Stanford). She is on the advisory Visual Arts by the National Culture and Arts board for the Ink Society (Hong Kong), Asia Foundation in Taiwan in 2005. Art Archive (Hong Kong) and Three Shadows

4 Photography Art Centre (Beijing), as well as the worked at a New York-based arts management editorial board of Yishu and Art Asia Pacific. In consulting firm, as well as various cultural 2006 she was awarded a Fulbright Fellowship to organizations in Seoul, New York, and Paris. In conduct research in Beijing on the contemporary the summer of 2008, Lee coordinated the Global Chinese art market. She was co-curator of the Institute, an educational and academic program 2007 Chengdu Biennial. as part of the 7th Gwangju Biennale in South Korea. Her current research interests include institutional critique, contemporary art of East Jonathan Goodman studied literature at Asia, globalization, and feminist theory. Columbia University and the University of Pennsylvania before becoming an art writer specializing in contemporary Chinese art. Long March Writing Group consists of a He teaches at Pratt Institute and the Parsons number of “Long Marchers” who focus on School of Design, focusing on art criticism and interpreting, critiquing, and discussing issues contemporary culture. concerning contemporary art. Members of this group are not fixed or limited. The collective character and autonomous authorship of this Kao Chien-hui, a Chicago-based art critic, group reflects the working methodology of received her M.A. in Liberal Arts at the the Long March Project, which focuses on University of Chicago. She is a visiting scholar at sharing and exploring artistic experience and Montclair State University, New Jersey, a guest multidisciplinary art practices. associate professor in the graduate school at Tunghai University, and was guest curator for the Taipei Fine Art Museum’s Taiwan Pavilion at Micki McCoy is an M.A. student in the Art the 49th Venice Biennale. History program at the University of California, Davis. McCoy worked as an arts writer in Shanghai from 2004 to 2006 and last summer Melissa Lam is an independent art curator conducted research at sites including the and writer currently based in Hong Kong. She Dunhuang (Mogao) temple caves in Gansu and has been involved in many projects, among the Kizil and Bezeklik temple caves in Xinjiang. them the Hong Kong Equestrian Park project (2008), Beijing Olympics Sculpture Commission (2008), Vancouver Sculpture Biennale (2007), Barbara Pollack has been writing on and SCAPE Christchurch Biennial (2006). In contemporary Chinese art since 1997 for 2007 she curated a Madrid street show entitled Artnews, the New York Times, Vanity Fair, TeGustoLoQueVes meets HK (Spain) as well as Departures, Art and Auction, and other Dennis Oppenheim: 6 Models at Para/Site Art publications. She received a grant from Asian Space (Hong Kong). She is currently completing Cultural Council in 2006 and was awarded the a show with Beijing curator Chunchen Wang Andy Warhol arts writers grant for her research entitled Conveying the Marvelous: Chinese in China this year. She is currently writing a Contemporary Art and the Fantastic (2009). book on China’s contemporary art scene. Lam holds a lecturing position at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, teaching English Hilary Tsui is an independent curator and literature and art theory. cultural writer based in Vienna. She is the Founder of city transit Asia-Europe, an Sohl Lee is a Ph.D. student in the Visual and international platform for arts exchange, urban Cultural Studies Program at the University cultural discourse, and research cooperation of Rochester. Before joining the program, she between Asian and European cities.

5 Hilary Tsui Premature Farewell and Recycled Urbanism: Guangzhou Triennial and Shanghai Biennale in 2008

t was a busy beginning to the season in September 2008: in merely a week, there were openings for the Guangzhou Triennial, Shanghai Biennale, ShContemporary Art Fair, and Ithe Nanjing Triennial, while the Art Compass itinerary, a collaborative package promoting a number of Asian art events, reminded the international art world that there were many more Asian biennials outside mainland China, including those in Taipei, Singapore, Yokohama, Busan, Gwangju, and Seoul. To deal with this impossible schedule, much of the international audience missed Guangzhou (a site not quite on the Art Compass map) and headed directly to Shanghai. Regardless of whether the current biennial mania in Asia can actually nurture critical art discourse, lure in new cultural tourists, or contribute to local artistic development, this fall’s line up of exhibitions did help to draw the international art community into a wider range of Asian countries and, to a large degree, away from the once-ubiquitous China.

Restarting From Asia The third edition of the Guangzhou Triennial is among the most worthwhile sites on this Asian journey. It embarked on an attempt to move away from the promotion of contemporary Chinese art, and from the repetitive topics of urbanism and the changing society in China, to address a bigger issue, an issue that concerns the origin of art making from the perspective of knowledge production. With this premise, the triennial attempted to address the theoretical limitations imposed by Western theories on contemporary art practices.

The audacious title of the triennial, Farewell to Post-Colonialism, might have seemed perplexing at first: is this a negation of post-colonial theories or a further development of a post-colonial critique? Which schools of thought are the subjects of this critique? With a term as loaded as “post-colonialism” and with the various theoretical positions moving through different phases of interpretation and critique in different circles and geographical regions, isn’t this a daunting topic for a triennial to tackle? How can we have a meaningful discussion of real-life post-colonial conditions without a specific geographic context? Or, on Chinese soil? Are we heading into an intellectual cul-de-sac?

The key curators of the triennial, Gao Shiming, Johnson Tsong-Zung Chang, and Sarat Maharaj, were brought into the conception of the exhibition by Gao, Deputy Director of the Advanced School of Art and Humanities in the China Academy of Art, who has initiated the project. After the Hong Kong-born Chang, whose seminal exhibition, China’s New Art Post-1989, was a milestone in the presentation of Chinese experimental art overseas, and Maharaj, the influential curator and educator whose work focuses on cultural translation and difference, joined the project, the team was set to address the issues from multiple perspectives.

A conversation with Johnson Chang1 helped set the project goals on more pragmatic grounding. According to him, the Triennial was intended to reflect on curatorial discourse derived from post- colonial theory and to focus on its limitations, as well as to unravel the dominant discourses of the

6 West and non-West. He concedes that the post-colonial discourse encompassing powerful Western cultural theories has been influential in both curatorial practice and art making. In response, the main intention of the Triennial is to discover new methods with which to approach and support creativity and art making that fall outside dominant post-colonial discourse by presenting artworks that go beyond theoretical models of race, class, and hybridity.

Although the three curators agreed on the idea of a “return to creativity,” they took different approaches to the theme: Chang stressed the limitations of Western theory in helping to understand the artistic practice of Chinese artists, suggesting that a rediscovery of Chinese history was far more important. In contrast, Maharaj questioned the validity of Triennial’s premise— departing from post-colonial theories in contemporary art discourse—and carefully suggesting plausible alternatives. He contended that the ideological constructs of art practice should be “stripped bare.”2 He also put forward the “friendship model” as a strategy to approach the issue of multiculturalism—to engage with the Other through “a sense of companionship” and an auto- reflexive force emanating from the “self.”3

The curatorial team was further supported by a group of research curators covering regions including Europe, Africa, Middle East, China, Indonesia, Australia, North and South Americas. A series of “forums in motion” were also launched in which artists and critics were invited to reflect on various theoretical positions, especially multiculturalism and its limitations. The series began with the international symposium “Restarting from Asia—Art Museum Strategies and Curatorial Practices” at the Guangdong Museum of Art (November 19–20, 2007), gathering protagonists from greater China and international institutions. The symposium began a discussion on the limitation that multicultural approaches and post-colonial analysis impose on art making and curating. It also drew references from the 2002 documenta 11, which addressed the issues of identity politics and multiculturalism through its conscious and vast inclusion of African, Asian, and other artists of non-European descent. Yet, to the disappointment of some Triennial visitors, discussions of theoretical advances in art making and the exploration of possible paradigm shifts were notably absent during the opening week.

A Multitude of Invigorating Voices The unfinished construction of the Time Museum, a satellite site of the Triennial, and the torrential rain casted a shadow over the press conference and the opening in general. Yet, despite the reportedly anarchic opening, the Triennial proved to be distinct in its international nature and its discovery of invigorating artistic sources. It presented over three hundred pieces of artwork from all over the world, especially from regions rarely represented in such large-scale exhibitions. The attempt to provide more space for new blood was clear, as household names from the contemporary Chinese art scene seemed to have been intentionally kept to a minimum and included only Huang Yongping, Feng Mengbo, Lu Jie, Yang Fudong, Xu Zhen, and Liu Wei. The exhibition was organized under four themes: Projects in Progress, Thinking Room, Free Radicals, and Independent Projects. Yet work in each category was mixed and spread over different levels of the building, making groupings somewhat irrelevant or, at the very least, difficult to perceive. The substantial work carried out by the research curators was apparent in Independent Projects (a series of mini-exhibitions), especially the Middle East Channel and Mornings in Mexico, as well as in the Triennial’s Web site project Pool of Possibilities.

Upon entering the exhibition venue, the audience was confronted with Liu Dahong’s work Faith on a Horse, which took the form of a military tent and created a passageway to the rest of the exhibition. Liu created an environment of illusions and deceptions through mingling events

7 Liu Dahong, Faith on a Horse, 2008, installation. Lu Jie, No Foreigners Beyond This Point, 2008, installation. Photo: Hilary Tsui. Courtesy of the artist.

and images from the Cultural Revolution with Christian iconography. Through so doing, Liu also hinted at their ideological linkage and clearly challenged these two different belief systems. According to Chang, the Cultural Revolution is considered to be the beginning of Chinese modernity, “Liu did not use the post-colonial discourse to assert a local cultural position, but refers to the historical references that connect with China’s current predicament.”4 Chang suggested that the work can be read as a post-colonial critique arising from a local Chinese context in that Liu raises the question of whether we have moved beyond the project of modernity.

After this “Chinese” welcome, the multicultural discourse began to unfold, and Lu Jie’s installation was a quiet but strong remark. A revolving door, symbolizing a transit zone and with a sign warning “No Foreigners Beyond this Point,” prompted visitors to consider the meaning of foreign and local, and, in this context, questions of (national) border and identity. Who are the “foreigners” in this context? The artist’s intent was to confront visitors with an empty space, making the demarcation meaningless and thereby interrogating the process of identifying the “Other.” Yet the space was not empty—over thirty video works made by artists who have participated in the ongoing Long March Project, initiated in 2002 by Long March Space in Beijing and consisting of numerous off-site projects that directly engage the public, were installed at the end of the room—which unavoidably distracted the audience and diluted the work’s effects.

The satirical piece by Zhu Yu, 192 Proposals for Member Nations of the United Nations, was tailored to the theme of art’s engagement with politics but was not caught up in critical theory. Each of Zhu’s proposals is a simple formulation and sounds feasible: for example, “Title: Countryside. Concept: Take a draught-enduring crop from the Eritrean countryside. Plant the crop in every cement crack of big cities” or “Title: Foundation. Concept: Put a copy of the Bible, Quran, or Buddhist Scriptures (select one) into the cement foundation of the new World Trade Towers by bribing a construction worker.” The work used sharp, clever imagery and ideas: Mary, the mother of Jesus, holding a black baby and surrounded by a group of African children; Chinese street hawkers selling model weapons as a performance to celebrate Sino-African Cooperation. Through a play among multiple layers of cultural stereotypes, national and racial conflicts, and the iconography of popular culture, the 192 art project proposals offered mocking, ironic, and sometimes poignant remarks on current international political and socio-cultural situations. In this case, artistic creativity is indeed working in the political domain with little reference to any theoretical position.

8 Zhu Yu, 192 Proposals for Member Nations of the Wu Shanzhuan, The Yellow Flight, 1995–2008, installation. United Nations, 2008, photographs and text on paper. Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial. Photo: Hilary Tsui.

Using a similar conceptual strategy, The Yellow Flight, by Wu Shanzhuan, tells of the complexity of “borders” and “identities,” especially in its subtle suggestion of mainland China’s attitude towards Hong Kong’s identity. The concept dates back to 1995, when Hong Kong was still a British colony and was the “Other” in relation to mainland China. Wu’s proposal was to take a “yellow flight” that would depart from Beijing and have him transfer planes at every international airport before it finally landed in Hong Kong. The artist considers the international space of airports, which does not belong to any specific country or government, as providing an “open field of identity freedom.” And when the flight eventually arrives in Hong Kong after the handover in 1997, the original international journey would have become a domestic one. The work hints at the instability of identities, especially in the way that movement through time and space affects them. Disappointingly, the staging of this initially intriguing concept was turned into a static and literal simulation of an airport smoking room.

Another engaging conceptual piece that might have been missed by visitors due to its visual implementation was Maria Thereza Alves’s Wake in Guangzhou: The History of the Earth. The work begins with the idea of how seeds are carried around the world and replanted through the

Maria Thereza Alves, Wake in Guangzhou, 2008, installation. Photo: Hilary Tsui.

9 Christian Jankowski, China Painters series, 2007–08, oil and acrylic on canvas, various dimensions. Photo: Hilary Tsui.

movement of people and, therefore, the plants that grow from a mound of earth can reflect the history of a specific site. Starting from this concept, Alves recreated the history of Guangzhou in a large-scale wall drawing by charting the movement of actual individuals who, in one way or another, served as seed carriers. Augmented with archival photographs, text and drawings, this work links together simple, everyday life, as well as historical events and important figures, with the city of Guangzhou. Citing botanist Heli Jutila’s research that seeds could remain vital in soil for decades, Alves went even further in her research and removed a mound of earth from Huagui Lu, a street in the former merchant quarter of Guangzhou, along with the dormant seeds carried within it. This earth sample was then put in the courtyard of the Guangdong Art Museum so that the dormant seeds previously buried in deep layers could germinate when exposed.

The photo series China Painters by Christian Jankowski are also deceptive at first glance. Looking at his photographs of paintings with seemingly arbitrary motives—from family portraits to landscape paintings—viewers could be tricked into thinking the paintings were done by some new Chinese contemporary artist. The fact that the paintings depicted within the photographs were actually placed on display at the unfinished construction site of the Dafen Museum of Art suggests a different story: The thriving business of mass-produced and copied paintings in Dafen has literally transformed the village and attracted a migration of painters from all over China in the past two decades. Eventually, the government was prompted to invest in real estate development and the building of a new museum. Yet, these commercial painters, the main protagonists contributing to the transformation of Dafen village, were left out of this official Museum project. China Painters tells of a non-linear relationship between a private and public art economy in China and how the global art market intersects with the local.

In addition to the large number of conceptual works, there were also purely visual treats. For example, the multimedia installation by Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons presents a glass shelf filled with Chinese porcelain with a mysterious light that switches back and forth between projected images of Afro-Cubans and Chinese porcelain. This work references a historical loop extending from China to the Caribbean and Africa. Yi Zhou’s One of These Days, a fascinating

10 3D animation, shows a fictional but virtually realistic cityscape slowly destroying itself. Its series of elegant explosions offer viewers a breathtaking experience in which buildings and objects are destroyed from within, piece by piece, in slow motion.

Taiwan and Hong Kong Representation from Taiwan included Chieh-Jen Chen, Wei-Li Yeh, and Yu-Hsin Wu. Yeh and Wu presented photos taken during the last phase of their Treasure Hill Residency as posters stacked on Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons and Neil Leonard, Porcelana de China, 2008, video installation. Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial. tables and ready for sale. Wei-Li Yeh turned his artist residency at Treasure Hill (2004-08), located in a community in Taipei that was slated for redevelopment, into something unconventional, not only producing artwork but also pursuing an active social and spatial experiment. During the first phase of his residency, Yeh launched the Treasure Hill Tea + Photo Project with his artist

Organizing Mutation, curated by Para/Site, Hong Kong. friend, Hojang Liu. They opened Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial. their space as a teahouse and photo studio, invited Treasure Hill residents to have tea there and documented the process by making portraits of each visitor. Over a period of four years, with Wu joining in later, Wei-Li Yeh attempted to convert the slum-like area into a modest “art centre,” including an exhibition and performance space and a garden, while actively interacting with the community.

Hong Kong artists, including Amy Cheung, Tozer Pak, Yi Zhou, as well as the group show Organising Mutation, curated by Para/Site Art Space, had a fair share of exposure. Tozer Pak made his international debut with his Page 22 (Half Folded Library). In Hong Kong, Pak’s work is known for its relationship to his everyday life and the everyday culture of Hong Kong. In this piece, he combined elements of performance, site specificity, and institutional critique to develop a “site specific installation.” The work was done during Pak’s artist residency in New York in early 2008, where he spent more than a month in the New York Public Library to stage this obscure performance: folding books on the top corner of page 22 and putting them back on the shelf. In the end, he folded 15,500 books, almost half of the library collection. The original piece, or the documentation of the performance, is “on display” in the New York Public Library, and those who are interested in seeing the work have to pay a visit to the library. Pak admits in his artist statement that this is the fastest way to get his work “exhibited” in a major institution or “perhaps included in a collection.”

11 Jing Shijian, Express Train, 2008, model of train engine, rail, sleeper cars, and television. Courtesy of the Shanghai Biennale.

Potential Against Shortcomings If the Triennial can be faulted for a strategic mistake, it would be for its overly ambitious program, which exceeded the inadequate infrastructural resources and the limitations of the museum space. The exhibition might have been more persuasive if a portion had simply not been shown. The other obvious shortcoming of the Triennial was the arrangement of the artworks. The photo series China Painters by Christian Jankowski, for example, was jammed behind the military tent by Liu Dahong—an awkward spot to show any kind of work. The sculptural installation made from architectural books by Carlos Garaicoa Manso from Cuba, and the installation Herodote’s Vessel, by Michelle Heon, were placed inside a dark multi-media screening room and became almost invisible.

While the Triennial points to the dominance of Western art theories in the production, curation, and perception of contemporary art, and that a theoretical rethink is needed with respect to multifaceted art practices all over the world is valid, its critique of multiculturalism in the curatorial statement, where it is claimed that “major international contemporary exhibitions around the world have worked towards building up ‘discursive sites for a cacophony of voices,’ emphasizing ‘correctness’ in cultural politics,” and that “a multi-cultural ‘managerialism’ that has today turned into a new form of stereotyping and ‘political correctness at large’ is the result of the power play of multi-culturalism, identity politics, and post-colonial discourse,”5 is highly disputable. This generalized position disavows the attempts to address “multicultural” outside readymade Western theoretical constructs—practices that seek open dialogues, enhanced exchanges, and understanding of different art practices, through, using Maharaj’s term, the “friendship model.”

As an example, the recent exhibition, Eurasia: Geographic Cross-overs in Art, at the Museum of Modern Art, Rovereto, Italy, curated by Achille Bonito Oliva and a team of international young curators including Vitamin Creative Space’s Hu Fang, presented fifty young artists from China to Spain, from Kazakhstan to Italy. The title, Eurasia, refers to Eurasia Siberian Symphony 1963 (1966) by Joseph Beuys. According to Beuys, Eurasia is a geographical vision as well as an expression of a new, complex artistic identity that no longer serves the territorial and autarchic, but, instead, focuses on the world and on humankind. Eurasia, while covering only two continents, does share something with the current Guangzhou Triennial in its intention, namely, the search for a new paradigm and new interpretation of multicultural arts through the artworks themselves. The

12 Yue Minjun, Colorful Running Dinosaurs, 2008, stainless steel, copper, paint. Courtesy of the Shanghai Biennale.

primary distinction is that Eurasia was more concerned with finding a constructive way to cope with the symbiotic co-existence among the linguistic and anthropological differences in the art from these two continents. Obviously enough, the “friendship model” is at work here.

Shanghai Biennale: Translocalmotion Looking at the 2008 Shanghai Biennale was a rather disappointing experience, especially in its unwillingness to provoke and to experiment. The curatorial framework of Translocalmotion covered a vast socio-cultural domain and reflected on “socio-economic and cultural implications of urbanization on both the local and global levels, including the issues of migration and identity.”6 This thematic focus on urbanisation and Shanghai’s urban condition echoes previous editions going back to 2002 and 2000, giving visitors a sense of déjà vu. Despite an appreciably better space and infrastructure compared with the Guangzhou Triennial, and, also, given the team of experienced curators—Zhang Qing is the Deputy Director of the Shanghai Art Museum, Julian Heynen is Artistic Director of K21 in Dusseldorf, and Henk Slage is Professor of Artistic Research in Utrech and created major commissioned curatorial projects—the Shanghai Biennale seemed to draw a blank in terms of its artistic achievement and enhancement of intellectual discourse.

An uncountable number of artworks that only generally, or, sometimes, over-literally, touched upon the topic of urban Shanghai and migration were all lumped together in the exhibition hall and its exterior. Perhaps the most visible and disappointing examples, considering the topic at hand, were the big sculptural works. Express Train, by Jing Shijian, which was directly installed outside the entrance to the museum, simply recalled the forced migration of intellectuals to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution, and Chen Zhiguang’s Migration Times: Ant Paradise which took the form of gigantic ants symbolizing migrant workers and spread along the wall of the museum’s exterior, came across as a superficial way to deal with the subject of migration. Yue Minjun’s huge installation Colorful Dinosaurs created perhaps the most disbelief of the whole visit. Yue’s trademark face and smile were placed on the heads of dinosaurs of different sizes that were spread down a long hallway in the museum. The ugly and frightening appearance of the work was so overwhelming that it was almost impossible to apprehend the alleged message of the work—to advise leaders on current energy policies.

The inclusion of internationally renowned artists like Lawrence Weiner, Mike Kelly, and Thomas Ruff to “upgrade” the quality of the biennial seemed somewhat half-hearted. Consider Lawrence

13 Sang Gil Kim, Mode 1972/1999, 2006, C-print, 220 x 180 cm. Courtesy of PKM Gallery, Beijing/Seoul.

Tiong Ang, Buy African Goods, 2008, installation. Courtesy of the Shanghai Biennale.

Zhang Weijie, Ode to Joy, 2008, video. Courtesy of the Shanghai Biennale.

14 Lawrence Weiner, Scattered Matter, 2008, installed at the Shanghai Art Museum. Courtesy of the Shanghai Biennale.

Wiener’s piece Scattered Matter, which, though placed at the entrance on the pavement, was simply passed over by many visitors as they headed straight to the spectacular Express Train to take photos. However, there were a few highlights in the biennale. For example, the most critical statement in the exhibition might have been Buy African Goods, by Tiong Ang, which speaks to China’s charged neo-colonialist status in Africa. Sang Gil Kim’s photographs, which form an architectonic study of Shanghai, constructed new forms of identity through a consideration of the one-dimensional functionality of the cityscape. The documentary film Ode to Joy, by Zhang Weijie, shows China’s “Spring Rush,” in which over 200 million migrant workers flock to train stations and other transit points to go home for the annual Spring Festival. The film gives an honest account of the incredible human costs that lie behind Chinese economic reform that gave rise to the development of special economic zones and open coastal cities, both contributing to the extreme, uneven distribution of wealth inside China. Complementing this, Ursula Biemann used video and photography to document her elaborate field research into the African exodus to Europe in Sahara Chronicle. The work presented migration patterns in the Sahara desert and the large- scale geographic reconfiguration that has been taking place in that area due to illegal migration.

After reflecting on the Shanghai Biennale, the strengths of the Guangzhou Triennial with its desire to provoke an intellectual discourse become even more obvious. When Maharaj co-curated documenta 11, he suggested that art today should be conceived of as “knowledge production.” With his participation in this edition of the Guangzhou Triennial, the “farewell discourse” has naturally taken a constructive course, attempting to discover these new models of “knowledge production.” Despite the Triennial’s sometimes impudent formulation in its curatorial statement, and the title “Farewell to Post-Colonialism,” seemingly a wish to refute important critical theories and not offering plausible alternatives, the Triennial did showcase a vast number of refreshing, committed, and engaging voices. In the end, one of the important functions art biennials should strive to fulfil is to provide a discursive platform to experiment, to accommodate critical and discontented voices, and to allow the status quo be challenged. The question in this case is whether the international gatekeepers take the experiment seriously at all and join in the continuing search for a new paradigm.

Notes 1 Telephone interview with Johnson Chang conducted by Hilary Tsui, October 21, 2008. 2 Sarat Maharaj, “Sublimated with Mineral Fury: Prelim notes on sounding Pandemonium Asia,” in Farewell to Post-Colonialism-The Third Guangzhou Triennial (Hangzhou: China National Academy of Fine Arts), 53. 3 Ibid., 60. 4 Chang Tsong-Zung, “Chinese Modernity and Threshold of the Moment,” in Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 72. 5 Theme of the Guangzhou Triennial 2008. See http://www.gztriennial.org/zhanlan/threeyear/4/24/3/, accessed November 7, 2008. 6 Theme of the Shanghai Biennial 2008. See http://en.shanghaibiennale.org/content.php?nid=1, accessed November 7, 2008.

15 Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker Post-West: Guangzhou Triennial, Taipei Biennial, and Singapore Biennale

here was a long, uncomfortable pause in the translation, and an obvious discomfort in the room. I leant towards the interpreter and asked what had been said. Again, a pause. T“Please,” I insisted, “tell me exactly what he said.” She answered, “I am so fed up with having the West stuffed down my throat to the point where I want to puke.”

By now the symposium discussion I was attending was certainly more animated than before, and had long moved on to other speakers. I, however, was so surprised by the directness of the remark, by its sense of frustration, that I was no longer following the discussion. The colleague who had made the remark seemed spent by his anger and sat quietly opposite me. We have known one another for several years. I recalled our first meeting at documenta, in 2002, his youthfulness at that time, and his enthusiasm about being in Europe. What had happened in only six years that he was now so angry at the West? I wanted to ask him about his remark but, as is the way with symposia, the numerous speakers each needed their turn and suddenly the moderator announced that it was over. Everyone withdrew for the opening of the exhibition and I was left alone with my thoughts.

It was an exceedingly hot day, August 2, and only six days before the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing were about to start. The opening of the exhibition for which the symposium had been organized1 began shortly after, as did the star-studded inaugural exhibition of New York’s Pace Gallery in its vast, new space down the street in Beijing’s 798 Art District. My young colleague’s comments, however, would not leave me. He was certainly not alone in his sentiments. One was acutely aware of a deep disillusionment with the West at this time in China. The attack on the paralympian and Olympic torch bearer, Jin Jing, on April 7 in Paris had led to widespread calls in China to boycott French goods and the department store Carrefour. And, as the BBC reported, a musical retort against the perceived bias of the Western media with regard to China had quickly spread across Chinese blogs and chat rooms: “Don’t be too CNN.”2

Was this sentiment against the West a new form of nationalism or a deeply felt, legitimate desire for a new kind of recognition outside of the language of mutual propaganda? In conversations with Chinese colleagues and friends, any notion of a rising nationalism was quickly dismissed. One renowned Sinologist based in the West remarked that there was only a difference in the intensity of remarks at this time, not in their nature, and observed that I had probably not been aware of them previously because of my lack of Chinese language skills. A conversation with the Director of the Singapore Art Museum, Kwok Kian Chow, however, brought a new perspective. “One talks now,” he explained, “of a post-West period. It is not about nationalism; it is not even necessarily about the West. It is about the utopia of language in the context of globalization where there is optimism of a truly global forum. But in any linguistic situation it has to be contextualized in the realities of geopolitics. Take the use of English in international forums and the limitations that such linguistic

16 Opening of the Third Guangzhou Triennial, September 6, 2008. Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial.

use places on discussions. As a contrast, it is interesting to note that when the first modernists from China travelled to Europe, the ideas that influenced their thinking were not even in English—they were in French, or Russian, or German. The current situation is about identifying and using, specifically Chinese concepts—or non-Western concepts—to shape ideas and artistic practice. I do not think by invoking ‘Chinese’ concepts that nationalism is intended, rather it refers simply to ‘cultural characteristics’.”

Conversations in the recent past suddenly made extraordinary sense. I was, and have been for a long time, in a post-West world. I just didn’t know it!

GT2008: The Third Guangzhou Triennial and Its Farewell to Post-colonialism A long flight to Guangzhou a few weeks later gave me ample time to read the theoretical texts on the Third Guangzhou Triennial (GT2008) written by its curators Gao Shiming, Sarat Maharaj, and Chang Tsong-zung. On the night of September 5, only hours before the Triennial was to open, what began as an interview for the purposes of writing the present article became a fascinating, intense, two-hour long debate among the three curators as to what exactly the Triennial was about and whether in fact it was saying farewell to post-colonialism (Gao Shiming) or wishing that it would fare well (Sarat Maharaj). In his “Prelim notes on sounding Pandemonium Asia,” Sarat Maharaj raised the key question, or as he phrased it, the Triennial’s “core poser”: “Does it herald an alternative conceptual continent or simply the desire to step in the West’s shoes, to be its rivalrous look-alike—in Milton’s phrase, its ‘nether empire’?”3 Will our post-West world—does our post- West world—offer conceptual alternatives to those the West propagated?

Gao Shiming suggested in his catalogue text for GT2008, “Observations and Presentiments ‘after Post-colonialism’,” that in China the new emphasis is, and will be, on “indigenous, Chinese nature and modernity.” But in an extraordinary twist, this would not necessarily mean a return to the past, or even an interest in the origins of modernity in China in the early twentieth century. As an artist had pointed out to me only weeks earlier, he considers the early modernist discourse in China during the 1920s and 30s to be perhaps interesting but irrelevant to his own practice.4 Gao Shiming phrased it succinctly: “After post-colonialism, history is in the future. As long as we eradicate metaphysical pathos, we will no longer care about who we used to be, only who we will be. . . . We cannot and need not return.”5 The other key point raised by Gao Shiming was that

17 artists’ discontent with curatorial practice had reached an “intolerable capacity.” Each artist, Gao argued, “hoards a curator inside himself.”6 Or, as an artist from China recently expressed more bluntly, “we don’t need curators anymore.” Sarat Maharaj explained, “In the Chinese setting, it takes the form of concern over whether the artist’s work and thinking is shown on its own terms. How to escape the ‘curatorial turn’ that scripts them in advance—framing them as ‘Dissident Artist,’ ‘Post-Pop Pop Artist,’ ‘Merchant Conceptualist’ and the like?”7

The central dilemma for the three curators of the GT2008, and indeed for all the curators of the numerous biennials and triennials that took place in Asia in September 2008, was how to deal with the “queries and quandaries”8 that pockmark the idea of exhibitions or even curatorship at this time, and how to avoid the Isms that were imported from the West. Sarat Maharaj described a new, a-ideological stance that would bid farewell to Western Isms, citing Gao Xinjian, the French- Chinese Nobel Prize winner, and his influential The Case for Literature (2008):

Without Isms is neither nihilism nor eclecticism nor egotism or solipsism. . . . The idea behind Without Isms is that we need to bid goodbye to the twentieth century, and put a big question mark over those ‘Isms’ that dominated it.9

Certainly the discussion between Gao, Maharaj, and Chang prior to the opening of GT2008 was distinguished by an intense exchange about Isms. As the curators engaged in their at times very emotional debate, I asked myself what the consequences would be for the present article if I were to forgo the use of all Isms? What if I were to strip my text of the jargon of Western curatorial practice? What if I were not to use the word practice? Or criticism? Or modern? Where would a triennial or a biennial be without Isms, and, perhaps, without curators?

Following my meeting with Gao, Maharaj, and Chang, I wandered the rooms of the Triennial in search of the answers to exactly that question. My first impression of GT2008 was of its vertical density, layer upon layer, rather than a linear, choreographed “exhibition” that would have directed me through its spaces. Again Gao and Maharaj offered their differing interpretations. If each international exhibition promises to set up a platform for dialogue, Gao asked, “are we simply performing dialogue? Aside from the spectacle of discourse, what else does dialogue have to offer? A ruin of the Tower of Babel piled upon discourses?”10 Sarat Maharaj on the other hand spoke eloquently of Pandaemonium, a term denoting the capital of Hell coined by English poet John Milton (1608–1674) in his epic poem Paradise Lost. Maharaj wrote of the precipitous fall of Lucifer and his rebellious Band and their journey:

Through dementing zones of Disorder and Chaos. . . . The Band pass over sulphuric lakes, scurfy deposits, toxic fumes—not unlike the cratered, damaged environment of contemporary ‘Asia in development.’ . . . Pandemonium seethes with energies, a lab for alternative projects, uncreated worlds. The wild atmosphere of things on the boil visualizes a continent bristling with transformative, unknown potentials—Pandemonium Asia.11

In an act of extraordinary courage, the Director of GDMoA (Guangdong Museum of Art), Wang Huangsheng, turned over his institution and the GT2008 to a seething cauldron built on the metaphorical ruins of the Tower of Babel in which a “Pandemonium” world (not just Pandemonium Asia) could flourish. It is an exceptional accomplishment.

18 Yang Fudong, Cyan Kylin, 2007–08, installation. Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial.

Long March Project: Lu Jie, No Foreigners Beyond This Point, 2008, installation. Courtesy of the Guangzhou Triennial.

The means to interpret this “Pandemonium” world lie, according to Maharaj, not only in the codes of a rational diagnostic of the present (Zeitdiagnose) à la Max Weber but in Abhijnanasakuntalam, an ancient Sanskrit play that embodies “body-mind fill up and damp down—non-cognitive charges, feel-know indexical markers, affect traces, clouds, smudges.”12 For Gao Shiming, one of the nineteen projects in the Triennial’s category Thinking Room13 that can “help us unpack and decode” and provide an “arsenal of thinking tools”14 is The Yellow Flight by Wu Shanzhuan. At the Frankfurt International Airport in 1995, Wu Shanzhuan conceived of a “rhapsodic” flight departing from Beijing and arriving in Hong Kong in which one would transit at every international terminal. As the GT2008 catalogue points out, transit lounges—“situated in the aperture between nations”—are identity free and sans baggage.15 While this project had been conceived prior to the handover of Hong Kong to China, and in an era when Chinese artists were eagerly seeking “international experience,” The (post-West) Yellow Flight at the Guangzhou Triennial took the form of a transparent smoker’s lounge situated in a deep sky-blue transit zone with pithy statements on the wall such as “The moment we found out his identity he happened not to be with that identity.” Also on the wall was a map of the world titled THERE IS A FREEDOM CALLED IN-TRANSIT which has been “approved by others.”

Indeed, the entire GT2008 can be described as an aperture between nations, cultures, and identities. In its large waiting room, where loitering was mandatory, one could make the acquaintance of a stunning array of artists and artworks that may, or may not, be “with” their identities. Lu Jie ensured that there would be No Foreigners Beyond This Point in his installation of a similarly inscribed revolving door, while Yang Fudong’s large-scale tableau, Cyan Kylin, of a

19 sculpture manufacturing centre in northern China, posed the question as to how contemporary artists can break with art-historical traditions and established art practices and face the common man’s hardship and joy.16 The section of GT2008 that benefited the most from loitering was Independent Projects, which included Tea Pavilion, curated by Dorothee Albrecht, Organising Mutation, curated by Para/Site, and Pool of Possibilities: Mapping Currents, curated by Stina Edblom and the Asia Art Archive. For me, the most rewarding of the Independent Projects was Middle East Channel, curated by Khaled Ramadan, with its brilliant selection of works by leading artists from Bahrain, Denmark, Egypt, Germany, Iran, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine, and Turkey. Other Independent Projects were equally fascinating (Now in Coming, East-South: Out of Sight, and Mornings in Mexico) and exemplified the “lateral curating” mentioned by Sarat Maharaj at the opening press conference, that distinguished GT2008 and enabled dissonant and, at times, irreconcilable voices to cohabit in a harmony without compromise.

The second venue of GT2008 was the Times Museum of Art (TMoA) which is affiliated with the Guangdong Museum of Art. The first community arts museum in Guangzhou, it is located on different floors of an existing high-rise residential building in the Time Roses community on the outskirts of Guangzhou and was designed by the architect Rem Koolhaas. The vistas are stunning, the organization vertical, but it remains reminiscent of some imaginary, Babel-free Brave New World, somewhere on the outskirts of the DDR (the former East German “democratic” republic), designed to convince the Volk that modernity had arrived. I found it endearing that the concrete was still wet and that the GT2008 had come to “a vernacular block of flats in an unglamorous area” (Sir David Tang, Founder of Shanghai Tang),17 but I nevertheless longed for the dense, dementing zones of Disorder and Chaos that had consumed the Guangdong Museum of Art. I longed for the interminable chaos of the waiting rooms of the transit zone. I longed for the nomadic tent that Sarat Maharaj described to me the night before, where one could empty oneself of Isms and open up a civil space in which the self and alternative conceptual continents could flourish.

08 TB: The Taipei Biennial 2008 The flight from Shanghai to Taipei on September 11 (the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11) had all the characteristics of The Yellow Flight. The line between domestic and international was blurred, and it was impossible to “determine whether the travelers were in China or the world at large.”18 Following an agreement between Taiwan and China signed on June 13, 2008, “charter” flights were allowed to operate directly between China and Taiwan, but in September 2008 they were still required to fly through Hong Kong air space.19 While foreigners were asked to present exit cards to passport control on leaving Shanghai, those holding a Taiwanese passport were not. For them, the flight was domestic; for me, it was an international flight that took a curious, circuitous route. I was reminded of Wu Shanzhuan’s statement on the wall of The Yellow Flight transit lounge in Guangzhou: “The moment we found out his identity he happened not to be with that identity.”

The opening ceremony of the Taipei Biennial 2008 (08TB) at the Taipei Fine Arts Museum that evening was an elegant, outdoor affair, somewhat rain-swept as typhoon Sinlaku neared the island. Following a superb presentation by the indigenous rock stars Wild Fire Music and a performance by the German-Turkish artist Nevin Aladag, the distinguished guests who opened the Biennial under the glare of television cameras included not only the Mayor of Taipei, Hau Lung-bin, but also the Premier of Taiwan, Liu Chao-shiuan, and the President of Taiwan, Ma Ying-jeou, all of whom made exceptionally well-informed remarks on the Biennial. I was astonished by the degree of importance that the Taipei Biennial had been accorded by every level of government.

20 The two highly experienced curators who had been assigned responsibility for 08TB were Manray Hsu, from Taipei/Berlin, and Vasif Kortun, from Istanbul. Hsu had previously co-curated the 2000 Taipei Biennial with Jérôme Sans20 and was consulting curator of the Liverpool Biennial in 2006 together with Gerardo Mosquera.21 In 2001, Hsu served on the jury of the 49th Venice Biennale. Vasif Kortun, Director of Platform Garanti in Istanbul since 2001, was chief curator of the Istanbul Biennale in 1992 and co-curator in 2005. Among the numerous biennials in which he has participated are the 24th São Paulo Biennial (1998) and the Tirana Biennial (2003). Kortun was also responsible for the Turkish pavilions at the 1994 São Paulo Biennial and 2005 Venice Biennale and was advisor to the first Johannesburg Biennial. The first director of the museum of the Center for Curatorial Studies at Bard College, in the United States, from 1994 to 1997, Vasif Kortun has had a long and influential career, which was acknowledged when he was named the recipient of Bard’s ninth annual Award for Curatorial Excellence in 2006.

If in Guangzhou there had been concern about how to deal with the “queries and quandaries” of exhibition and curatorship, in Taipei that was not evident. On the contrary, at both a political and a community level, great expectations had been placed on the two curators. As was noted in the accompanying Guide Book, the Taipei Biennial has always been embraced and phenomenally well attended by the citizens of Taipei.22 The curators of 08TB were not likely candidates for abdicating their roles in orchestrating this important exhibition and, indeed, the 2008 Taipei Biennial was one of the finest choreographed exhibitions I have experienced. Nevertheless, there were a number of interesting correlations between the Guangzhou and Taipei Biennials that deserve closer examination.

As early as 2003, in a panel discussion at the California College of the Arts, in San Francisco,23 Manray Hsu described the urgent issue of an hierarchical structure by which non-Western artists were classified primarily as “ethnic” or “national” artists. Hsu concluded:

Particularly in North America, multiculturalism since the 1980s, while promoting diversity . . . ghettoized these artists and limited their aesthetic propositions. By confining the framework of interpretation to ethnic culture and history, curating exhibitions of “ethnic” artists actually reinforces the hierarchy of Western and non- Western contemporary art.24

Hsu noted that multicultural-Ism, neo-international-Ism, and cultural nomad-Ism tended to ignore “the specificity of localities [while] global curators . . . are eager to project a universal picture of the world culture.” Hsu therefore posed the question: can curating “break down the traditional nation-state structure and the newly formed global yet highly centralized cultural network?”25

What the curators of both the Guangzhou and Taipei Biennials succeeded in doing was to challenge the Isms that had cast non-Western artists in subsidiary roles in a conceptual script defined by Western “aesthetic propositions” (Hsu) and “curatorial turns” (Maharaj). Each biennial became a Transit Lounge where one could be identity- and ideology-free. If Guangzhou’s triennial had celebrated disorder, confusion, and uproar, Taipei’s biennial—situated in an “aperture between nations”—coolly eradicated pathos and, in a slight-of-hand, pretended to hold an identity at bay that, in truth, didn’t happen to be around.

If Guangzhou was a course designed for free runners and their extravagant, acrobatic maneuvers, the 08TB was the perfect, tightly choreographed parkour26 for traceurs and traceuses skilled at

21 Internacional Errorista, We are all Errorists, 2008, installation. Photo: Zheng Shengtian. Courtesy of Internacional Errorista.

overcoming obstacles (above all, ideology) in a time of emergency. Indeed, the very first artwork one encountered on entering the 2008 Taipei Biennial was an installation by the artists’ group Internacional Errorista from Argentina. Founded in 2005 in protest against the visit of U.S. President George W. Bush and the Summit of the Americas in Mar del Plata, the group advocates Errorism—a philosophy of life in which error is seen as a human condition in the capitalist world, and as the principle governing reality. “Failure as perfection, error as appropriate move.”27 The most outrageous non-analysis of ideology in 08TB was perpetrated by Chitka, an artists’ group formed by Anetta Mona Chisa and Lucia Tkacova from Prague and Bratislava. Their politically incorrect video, Dialectics of Subjection # 4, in which world leaders such as Vladimir Putin are “checked out” by the artists and rated on the basis of their sexual appeal, plays on recent headlines such as “Armed, Half-Naked Putin Excites Gays, Gun-Owners” and “Russian PM Putin Tames the Tiger.”28

There were many worthy highlights in 08TB but one work that was exceptional and, indeed, exemplary for the entire Biennial was Roderick Buchanan’s I Am Here (2007). Two video projections, separated by a wall at the request of the participants, showed two marching bands (the Parkhead Republican Flute Band, which actively campaigns for the “removal of the British presence in Ireland” and The Black Skull Corps of Fife and Drum, a loyalist/union-led flute band whose aim is “to celebrate and preserve the ‘proud British heritage’”). As the artist notes in the Guide Book to the Biennial, these bands are “an instrument for the encouragement of loathing and intolerance to invigorate men going into battle.” Completely unexpected was the fact that both bands originate from Scotland, its members Scots of Irish descent. I Am Here refers to one of the

Roderick Buchanan, I Am Here, 2007, film transferred to video, 50 mins. 23 secs. Courtesy of the artist.

22 Nevin Aladag, Familie Tezcan, 2001, video, 6 mins. 40 secs. Wei Liu, A Day to Remember, 2005, video,13 mins. Courtesy of the artist, Gitte Weise Gallery, and the Taipei Collection Centre Georges Pompidou. Courtesy of the Taipei Fine Arts Museum. Fine Arts Museum.

key themes of 08TB—divided states and micro-nations. It also goes to the heart of identity, as does another exemplary work in the Biennial, Nevin Aladag’s Familie Tezcan. This joyful, moving work showed an immigrant family living in Germany that negotiates both Turkish and Western culture with extraordinary grace. The father of the family is a professional breakdancer and dance teacher. We saw him and his family dancing and singing in Turkish, Arabic, and English, as the Guide Book to 08TB notes, “blissfully at ease with the cultures they breathe on a daily basis.”

Another convincing project in 08TB was IRWIN’s NSK Passport Office, where visitors to the Biennial could apply for a NSK (Neue Slowenische Kunst/New Slovenian Art) passport. A utopian “micro-nation” that has no physical territory, NSK offers an alternative identity to those “whose identity cannot be confined to or defined in terms of modern nation-statehood.” The project, according to the Biennial’s Guide Book, offers not only a form of belonging to the stateless, but also the potential to inspire those Taiwanese citizens who consider the lack of recognition of an independent Taiwan “as a limitation on the enjoyment of belonging to a nation-state.”29

A number of the artists chosen by Manray Hsu and Vasif Kortun to participate in 08TB— including Roderick Buchanan and Nevin Aladag—take on the role of the observer, the anthropologist, and the ethnographer. One of the most powerful works in the Taipei Biennial was Liu Wei’s video document A Day to Remember, filmed on the sixteenth anniversary of the Tian’anmen Square military crackdown on June 4, 1989. Next to Liu’s work, in a curious but effective tandem, was the installation Estimations, by the Danish artist Katya Sander. Four windows were set up next to one another, three with screens playing pre-taped video material, the fourth opening up to the view outside. A dubbed, taped conversation could be heard in which actuaries from Taiwanese insurance companies are asked about uncertainty, quantifying the unknown, risk management, and risk control.

The Taipei Biennial, like the Guangzhou Triennial, moved beyond the confines of the host museum, this time into the street, into the subway, and onto the premises of the first beer factory in Taiwan, built during the Japanese occupation. While the installation of Welfare State/Smashing the Ghetto, by the Spanish artists’ group Democracia, at the Taipei Brewery was particularly strong, I must confess to finding Wong Hoy Cheong’s installations in the Zhongxiao Xinsheng MRT (subway) station more subversive. Born in Malaysia but educated in the United States, Wong created a series of large-scale photographs titled Maid in Malaysia that slipped easily into

23 the exact format and style of subway advertising. Commissioned by the 2008 Taipei Biennial, the series shows maids working in Malaysia posing as different female icons from history, music, film, and television (Florence Nightingale, Jeannie, Mary Poppins, Madonna, Supergirl, Virgin Mary and Lara Croft).

Did the 2008 Taipei Biennial offer an alternative Democracia, Welfare State/Smashing the Ghetto, 2007, conceptual continent? Did it see itself as being four-channel video installation, 12 mins. 43 secs. Courtesy of the Taipei Fine Arts Museum. situated in a post-West world? In the political context of Taiwan, such questions sound distinctly ideological. The apparent dichotomy between West (or Other) and East (or Other) was in a slow fade in 08TB. Both Manray Hsu and Vasif Kortun, as well as many of the artists in 08TB, move easily among any number of conceptual, cultural, and political universes, living multilayered lives Wong Hoy Cheong, Maid in Malaysia Series: Lara Croft, with alternating identities and languages, not 2008, lightbox, 158 x 308 cm. Courtesy of the artist. necessarily sure which one they happen to have with them on any one day. Like the Tezcan family introduced to us by Nevin Aladag, they do so with great joy and with what the curators describe as do-it-yourself practices, humour, and idiosyncrasy.30 They are quite possibly all permanent residents of some transit lounge, somewhere, convinced that it is temporary.

SB2008: The Singapore Biennale 2008 and Wonder The day of my flight to Singapore, September 14, coincided with the Moon Festival (Zhongqui Jie) and the arrival of typhoon Sinlaku in Taiwan. All public buildings were closed, my hotel boarded up, the country whipped by torrential rains. Travelling from the centre of the island to the Taipei airport on a 300-kilometer-per-hour high-speed train that flew over rivers whose banks had broken was both dramatic and exhilarating. Neither my companion nor the many passengers trying to reach their families to celebrate the Moon Festival seemed perturbed by the typhoon or by standing in the aisles of the overcrowded train. On the contrary, there was an air of festivity. It was a perfect metaphor for the lessons of the 2008 Taipei Biennial, above all, that life is a parkour, an extreme sport, for those skilled at overcoming obstacles and danger. Travelling from the turmoil and devastation of typhoon Sinlaku to the perfumed stillness and tropical languor of the early morning hours in Singapore felt like waking up after an intense fever. SB2008, the Singapore Biennale 2008, would open its doors in a few hours, having warned Singaporeans and tourists alike that they would likely be “wondered” and should be “prepared to be awed” by the Biennale’s marvels, riddles, and illusions.31 One of the illusions on September 14, 2008, was that the world was in order.

Wonder, the second edition of the Singapore Biennale, followed the inaugural event in 2006, which had been dedicated to Belief. Both Biennales had been curated by the director of the Mori Art Museum, Fumio Nanjo. Like his colleagues in Taipei, Nanjo is highly experienced in the organization of large-scale international exhibitions, having been commissioner of the Japanese Pavilion at the 47th Venice Biennale in 1997, co-curator of the third Asia-Pacific Triennial of Contemporary Art in Brisbane, Australia, in 1999, and co-director of the Yokohama Triennale in 2001. Interestingly, Fumio Nanjo had also been the commissioner for the 1998 Taipei Biennial, Site

24 of Desire. In a commissioner’s statement for the 1998 Taipei Biennal, Nanjo described “a century of desire” and an Asia in which cities seek:

a new post-colonial identity as they sculpt modernity. Its economies have grown, heated up and contracted. Its politics are in turmoil and its democracies are beginning to take on unique shapes . . . . Tradition is being re-examined and reborn as well as being creatively transmitted. Western modernity is learned from, studied, copied, and denied. 32

Nanjo also noted in his 1998 Taipei statement that desire, from a religious perspective, represents worldly attachment, as well as karma.33 Indeed, if we examine the Taipei and Singaporean biennials curated by Fumio Nanjo, we find a theological and sociocultural trilogy dedicated to a passage from desire to belief to wonder. In his introduction to the Guide to the 2008 Singapore Biennale, Nanjo pointed out that one might expect that wonder would precede belief, but, he explained, “to engage in wonder after belief means that there is a re-confirmation, with conviction, of one’s position in the world.”34 Nevertheless, he warned, the real may be illusory, and the illusory may become real.35

Shigeru Ban, Containerart Pavilion, 2008, architectural installation, Marina Bay, Singapore. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

Spread over three venues (City Hall, South Beach Development, and Marina Bay), the SB2008 offered numerous ethereal installations where the boundaries between the real and the illusory dissolved. The most spectacular were found in the Containerart Pavilion, situated at the Central Promontory Site, which juts out into Marina Bay. Designed by the Japanese architect Shigeru Ban and occupying 3,200 square metres, the Containerart Pavilion was a transit lounge constructed out of stacked shipping containers and large scale paper tubes. The work, which most clearly offered a “mysterious, wondrous experience,” was Hans Op de Beeck’s Location (6), a circular observatory in a vast snowy landscape.36 While Anthony McCall’s solid-light film, Between You and I, and Ilya and Emilia Kabakov’s Manas (Utopian City) explored the sublime, the work inside the pavilion I found most compelling was Floating, by Yuan Goang-Ming, from Taiwan. A boat tosses in the waves until it tips over and plunges underwater before righting itself again. This simple video narrative, installed inside one of the containers, provided a claustrophobic metaphor for anxiety and, if one

25 Hans Op de Beeck, Location (6), 2008, sculptural installation, 18 metres. Courtesy of Xavier Hufkens, Brussels; Galleria Continua, San Gimignano-Beijing; Galerie Krinzinger, Vienna; Ron Mandos, Amsterdam-Rotterdam. Co-produced by the Holland Festival. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

Alfredo Juan Aquilizan and Maria Isabel Gaudinez-Aquilizan, Flight, 2004–08, installation, rubber thong slippers, bamboo, and wind harp. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

Chaw Ei Thein, Rich Streitmatter-Tran, Aung Ko, September Sweetness, 2008, sugar. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

Felice Varini, Drill Hall, 2008, installation. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

Dinh Q. Le, Quoc Hai Tran, Van Danh Le, The Farmers and the Helicopters, 2002–08, homemade full-sized helicopter. Courtesy of the Singapore Biennale.

26 could hold one’s breath long enough, for hope. Outside of the pavilion was one of the signature works of SB2008, Flight, by Alfredo Juan Aquilizan and Maria Isabel Gaudinez-Aquilizan. An homage to those who live in economic, political, and cultural exile and whose lives have been torn apart by relocation and dislocation, this work consisted of 4,000 rubber thongs and slippers perched on bamboo poles leading out to sea.

At the South Beach Development, a former ex-army camp built in the 1930s, a number of particularly strong works were presented. 37 Although installations such as Felice Varini’s Drill Hall remained loyal to the Biennale’s central theme of illusion, other works at this venue offered little respite from harsh realities. Two outdoor works at South Beach were among the strongest: September Sweetness, by Chaw Ei Thein, Rich Streitmatter-Tran, and Aung Ko, and The Farmers and the Helicopters, by Dinh Q. Le, Quoc Hai Tran, and Van Dinh Le. The latter consists of an operable helicopter built by Vietnamese farmers from scrap material and the remnants of abandoned machines. A videotape by Dinh Q. Le shown in the exhibition spaces documented the construction of the helicopter and combined disturbing memories by those who had lived through the Vietnam War with clips from blockbuster movies that had mythologized it. A video still of the reconstructed helicopter, published in the Guide to the Biennale, contained a statement that read: “We have to demonstrate our national identity, our capacity, our ability.”38

The installation September Sweetness, a Burmese pagoda constructed out of sugar, is, as the Biennale’s Guide tells us, a metaphor “for the slow loss of a systemic structure [in Burmese life] that has been in place for centuries.”39 Only days after the official opening of the Biennale, the pagoda had begun to crack and fall to the ground; ants had begun to dismantle the edifice while swarms of bees hovered above. A sign near the pagoda read: “Please note the presence of bees at this site. They are considered to be part of the artwork. Please be mindful of their presence.” Also at the South Beach Development was Isak Berbic’s The End of History (2007), a video assemblage of audio and visual news coverage of the Bosnian War (1992–95) interspersed with chilling audio clips taken from both personal and public archives. Another installation, by Aktan Abdykalykov of Kyrgyzstan, consisted of three films transferred to video: My little people, let’s live in peace! , Peace is a prerequisite for happiness, and Oh, my dears! Supported by the Soros Foundation, these films, designed to encourage social harmony, were made between 1995 and 1996 for broadcast on Kyrgyz national television.

While I was wandering through the various venues of the Singapore Biennale, the New York Times was preparing its September 15 edition. The headlines would read “Wall St.’s Turmoil Sends Stocks Reeling.”40 The global financial crisis of 2008 was about to unfold. On October 29, the Dean of the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy at the National University of Singapore, Kishore Mahbubani, would write an article in the Financial Times regretting that “in the thousands of words spun in the incestuous western discourse on this crisis, little attention has been paid to Asian views.” Nevertheless, he commented, the “really good news is that few Asians have lost their optimism about the future. They have no illusions about the crisis but are confident that they remain on the right trajectory to deliver the Asian century.”41

Will the Asian century, the post-West century, herald an alternative conceptual continent, as Sarat Maharaj asked, “or simply the desire to step in the West’s shoes, to be its rivalrous lookalike—in Milton’s phrase, its ‘nether empire’?”42 Did the Guangzhou Triennial, the Taipei Biennial, and the Singapore Biennale provide us with, or at least hint at, a set of new aesthetic propositions for the twenty-first century?

27 Yang Fudong, East of Que Village, 2007, six-screen video installation, 20 mins. 50 secs. Courtesy of ShanghART Gallery.

The Singapore Biennale’s “notions of wonder, mirari, to wonder at, to marvel, to miraculum”43 and its message of belief both past and present are fundaments of faith in the East and in the West rather than an alternative conceptual or spiritual proposition. Wonder and Belief will, no doubt, comfort many in this age of crisis, provide certainty and encourage optimism. For me, a child of a secular West steeped in the ideals (if not the reality) of humanism rather than faith, I am convinced that my future depends on my skill as a traceuse. The Taipei Biennial provided perfect training in l’art du déplacement and endurance, the Guangzhou Triennial offered expertise in extravagant, acrobatic maneuvers through dementing zones of disorder and chaos. But it was the artist Yang Fudong, who asked in the Guangzhou Triennial, and in a parallel and extraordinarily powerful exhibition in Shanghai, how each one of us can face the common man’s hardship and joy and not just our own. Yang’s six-channel work East of Que Village44 documented a world in which wild dogs and human beings battle for survival in a bitter and barren rural community only ninety kilometers north of Beijing. It was the world of Yang’s childhood; it is, and will be, the world of many.

Questions as to whether the Asian century, or a post-West world, will offer alternative conceptual propositions or new forms of vernacular cosmopolitanism distracts us from the reality (proposed in many different forms in the Taipei Biennial) that the inviolability of the nation-state has long been an illusion. New national narratives of culture, nostalgic and compelling as they are, preclude “error as an appropriate [and inevitable] move”45 and cast power in the leading role rather than our mutual interdependencies and shared responsibilities for the needy and the disenfranchised in a time of distress. What our post-West century does offer is an untamed, rhapsodic “Pandemonium” world seething with queries and quandaries and enriched by multifarious mutations of “cultural characteristics” and aesthetic propositions situated in the apertures between nations.

Notes 1 Accumulations: The Spirit of the East, curated by Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker and Yang Shinyi, Asia Art Center Beijing, 798 Art District, August 2–31, 2008. 2 BBC Report, “China online: Tibet and torch reaction,” April 17, 2008, http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/7347821.stm. According to the report a large number of blogs denounced the “Racist Western Conspiracy to Stop China From Being Successful.” 3 Sarat Maharaj, “Sublimated with Mineral Fury: prelim notes on sounding Pandemonium Asia,” Farewell to Post-Colonialism: The Third Guangzhou Triennial (Guangzhou: China Fine Art Academy Publishing House, 2008), 52. 4 Discussion among Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker, Yang Shinyi, and the artists Huang Gang, Lu Shengzhong, Qui Shihua, and Ye Yongqing, Asia Art Center Beijing, July 4, 2008. 5 Gao Shiming, “Observations and ‘Presentiments after Post-Colonialism’,“ Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 37. 6 Ibid., 39, 43. 7 Sarat Maharaj, “Sublimated with Mineral Fury: Prelim notes on sounding Pandemonium,” 54–55. 8 Ibid., 52. 9 Ibid., 53. 10 Gao Shiming, “Observations and ‘Presentiments after Post-Colonialism’,“ Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 39. 11 Sarat Marahaj, “Sublimated with Mineral Fury: prelim notes on sounding Pandemonium Asia,” 56. 12 Ibid., 56. 13 The four key sections of GT2008 were Projects in Progress, Thinking Room, Free Radicals, and Independent Projects.

28 14 “Thinking Room,” Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 166. 15 “Wu Shanzhuan, The Yellow Flight,” Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 241. 16 “Yang Fudong, Cyan Kylin,” Farewell to Post-Colonialism, 148. 17 Press Conference GT2008, September 6, 2008. Sir David Tang is Vice Chairman of the Organizing Committee of GT2008. At a press conference held at the Times Museum of Art, the co-designer of the museum, Alain Fouraux of the office of Rem Koolhaas, described the original building as “an example of the swamp of international buildings where people are forced to commute. We want to show that these buildings can avoid monotonous development on the periphery of the city and that these buildings can in fact support a variety of activities whether it is a museum or a massage parlour. This building was not made to be beautiful or to show our skills.” 18 For comments on The Yellow Flight and the status of Hong Kong in 1995, see Gao Shiming, “Observations and Presentiments ‘after Post-Colonialism’,” 39. 19 On November 4, 2008, a new agreement was signed that allowed Cross Straits flights to travel directly between China and Taiwan, resulting in shorter travel time and lower fuel costs. 20 Jérôme Sans was then at the Palais de Tokyo in Paris. He is presently Director of the Ullens Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing. 21 Gerardo Mosquera, an independent curator based in Havana, is Adjunct Curator at the New Museum of Contemporary Art, New York. He co-founded the Havana Biennial in 1984. 22 Manray Hsu and Vasif Kortun, “Curators‘ Statement,” 08TB Taipei Biennial Guide Book (Taipei: Taipei Fine Arts Museum, 2008), 7. 23 Manray Hsu, “On Global Curating,” Curating Now, public panel discussion organized by the MA in curatorial Practice, California College of the Arts in San Francisco, October 30, 2003, sites.cca.edu/curatingarchive/archives/CuratingNow02.doc. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 For information on parkour, see Ethan Todras-Whitehill, “Throwing Yourself Against the Wall,” New York Times, June 29, 2007, http:// travel.nytimes.com/2007/06/29/travel/escapes/29Parkour.html?pagewanted=1&8dpc, and “Parkour,” Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Parkour. 27 “Internacional Errorista,” 08TB Taipei Biennial Guide Book, 40. 28 See Spiegel Online International, August 31, 2007, http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,503248,00.html, and China Daily, September 1, 2008, http://english.sina.com/world/p/2008/0901/183123.html. See also, “Pictures of bare-chested Putin send straight women and gay men in ecstasy,” Pravda, August 23, 2007, http://english.pravda.ru/news/russia/23-08-2007/96270-bare- chested-putin-0. 29 “IRWIN,” 08TB Taipei Biennial Guide Book, 56. 30 ”Curators’ Statement,” 08TB Taipei Biennial Guide Book, 6. 31 Mel Lam, “Art Invades City Hall,” September 15, 2008, published on the Singapore government’s Youth.SG Web site, (http://www. youth.sg/content/view/5987/51/): “Be prepared to be awed at this year’s Biennale, and see three buildings transform into exhibition sites for a world of ‘marvels, riddles and illusions’ . . . Come and be wondered.” 32 Fumio Nanjo, “Commissioner’s Statement: A Century of Desire,” 1998 Taipei Biennial: Site of Desire (June 13–September 6, 1998), http://www.taipeibiennial.org/1998/PRESS.html. 33 Ibid. “Desire lies at the root of all things. The desires of human beings, state, and ethnic groups or races triggered major wars in the 20th century. Desire also led mankind to great inventions and discoveries. The collapse of communism and the prosperity brought by capitalism are also an inevitable result of human desire. Desire changes daily life, changes cities, and even changes economics and politics. From a religious perspective, it represents worldly attachment, as well as karma. But it is also a wellspring for human progress and potential.” 34 Fumio Nanjo, “Artistic Director on The Art of Wonder,” Guide: Singapore Biennale 2008: Wonder (Singapore: National Arts Council, 2008), 12. 35 Ibid., 12. 36 “Hans Op de Beeck,” Guide: Singapore Biennale 2008: Wonder, 168. 37 The Beach Road Camp was used for the greater part of the twentieth century as the headquarters of Singapore’s volunteer defence forces. The complex also includes the former Beach Road police station. 38 ”Dinh Q. Le, Quoc Hai Tran and Van Danh Le,” Guide: Singapore Biennale 2008: Wonder, 120. 39 “Chaw Ei Thein, Rich Streitmatter-Tran and Aung Ko,” Guide: Singapore Biennale 2008: Wonder, 140. 40 Alex Berenson, “Wall St.’s Turmoil Sends Stocks Reeling,” New York Times, September 15, 2008. 41 “Why Asia stays calm in the storm,” Financial Times, October 29, 2008, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/0015ba10-a4fb-11dd-b4f5- 000077b07658.html?nclick_check=1. The bitterness expressed by Mahbubani was also evident at a meeting of the Group of 20 finance ministers and central bankers on November 8, 2008, in Brazil, where the spread of financial calamity around the world was blamed on the United States and on the “excessive profits” of Wall Street. Alexei Barrionuevo, “Demand for a Say on a Way Out of Crisis,” New York Times, November 9, 2008. 42 Sarat Maharaj, “Sublimated with Mineral Fury,” 52. 43 Wall text, Singapore Biennale 2008. 44 Yang Fudong, East of Que Village, ShangART Gallery, Shanghai, September 7–October 12, 2008. 45 “Internacional Errorista,” 08TB Taipei Biennial Guide Book, 40.

29 Elsa Hsiang-Chun Chen Contemporary Asian Art and the Phenomenon of the Biennial

Introduction For Asia, what has been the impact of the flourishing of biennials? Before the mid 1990s, with the exception of Japanese artists, contemporary Asian artists were rarely invited to participate in established exhibitions such as the Venice Biennale, documenta, or the Biennale of Sydney. After the mid 1990s, the visibility of Chinese and other Asian artists in the aforementioned exhibitions greatly increased, and national pavilions for Taiwan and Korea were (once in the former case) established at Venice. In succession, East Asian cities started establishing their own biennials. The Asia-Pacific region also has the Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale, in Japan, and the Asia-Pacific Triennial of Contemporary Art, in Brisbane, in Australia, both of which focus on the research and display of contemporary art from this region.

Biennials have a history of over one hundred years dating back to the first, the Venice Biennale. Since the 1990s, biennials increasingly have become an alternate means, outside of galleries and museums, of showcasing global contemporary art. At the same time, biennials seem to have become a progressive way for contemporary Asian art to gain greater recognition in a Eurocentric or U.S.-centric world of art while bringing together different voices across various countries. In both Western Europe and North America, the work of artists from various ethnic backgrounds has gradually been integrated into exhibitions of all sizes. “contemporary Chinese art” or “contemporary Asian art” have become noted cultural, ethnic, commercial, or discursive fields, and British and American art academies have begun to re-orient themselves by putting more emphasis on these areas of study. Newly established biennials in Asia have been striving to connect themselves with European and American art circles while coveting a leading position, and usually with less enthusiasm, for equal and productive collaborations and dialogues with other Asian regions. Art Compass 2008, a transnational partnership of the Biennale of Sydney, Shanghai Biennale, Gwangju Biennale, Singapore Biennale, and the Yokohama Triennial, is worthy of a close study.

Amidst all the hype about contemporary Asian art and Asian biennials and other forms of mega- exhibitions, the following texts take a step back to scrutinize East Asian biennials in relation to a global capitalist economy, the contemporary art system and its institutions, and the specific histories and cultures of the East Asian countries in question. How, or to what extent, can East Asian biennials realize the progressive objective of intervention?

In this special feature, John Clark presents a specific examination of how contemporary Asian art has been circulated within biennials worldwide based on his years of insightful studies on this subject. Britta Erickson neatly maps out the schemes of the biennials in China and astutely analyzes the different stances and attitudes held by their organizers toward China and

30 its relationship to the rest of Asia, and the international art world. Departing from Gayatri Spivak’s renowned notion of “strategic essentialism,” Kao Chien-hui provides an illuminating comparative analysis of how the Beijing Biennale and the Taipei Biennale have operated. She also discusses how both biennales situate and define themselves in the discursive midst of nationalism, internationalism, and transnationalism. Sohl Lee closely reads the Gwangju Biennale and argues compellingly that it has ignored the historical significance of the Gwangju Democratization Movement for the purpose of catering to globalization and enhancing local tourism. Last, I will discuss the discursive formation and transformation of such notions and practices as “contemporary Asian art,” trans-Asian networks, and the dialogic relations of trans-Asian communities by exploring the Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale, which was estabished in 1999.

This project was instigated as a result of a two day conference session organized in collaboration with Royce Smith, Assistant Professor at the Wichita State University; Multiculturalism, Migration, and the Mega-Exhibition: Considering the Impacts of Contemporary Festivals, Biennales, and Documentas. I worked then at the University of California, Los Angeles, as an Andrew W. Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow under the program Cultures in Transnational Perspective. Through the process, I benefitted greatly from the invaluable research of John Clark, Shu-mei Shih, and Françoise Lionnet.

Royce and I organized the session at the 2008 Association of Art Historians (AAH) Annual Conference organized by the Tate Britain, Tate Modern, and the Chelsea College of Art and Design, to explore the phenomenon brought about by bourgeoning biennials around the world. The scope of the papers for the session covered Australia, New Zealand, Asia, Europe, and Latin America, if we look crudely from a geographical perspective. The texts included here were selected from those conference papers that had a special focus on East Asian biennials. Contributors then included Britta Erickson, Kao Chien-hui, Kuiyi Shen, Sohl Lee, and myself. As the papers were both solicited and unsolicited with the limitations required by the conference, various perspectives on biennials and contemporary East Asian art are proposed here. John Clark’s article was invited after the conference to provide readers with further insight. It comes from a chapter in his forthcoming book Biennales and Contemporary Asian Art: Histories of the Asian “New” and has been specially revised by the author for Yishu.

English is the language used in this project, since the papers were collected for the 2008 AAH Conference. Authors of the articles have long been based in Australia, Britain, and the United States. Readers may see a difference in style from researchers who have resided in Asia. Asian biennials have continued to develop, and more in-depth research on this subject has yet to come. It is hoped that there will soon be more diverse discourses on transnational relations and dialogic exchange in contemporary Asian art that reach beyond accounts that reduce Western, Euro- America, or Asian countries to an empty and abstract concept (especially to be appropriated for nationalist purposes). I would like to apologize for not being able to include here the article by Kuiyi Shen, Associate Professor of the University of California, San Diego, due to time constraints. At the conference, Shen offered insightful observations on the long-neglected medium of ink painting and how it has been made “contemporary” and “international” through editions of the Chengdu Biennale, and the Guangzhou Biennale of Ink Painting.

31 John Clark Biennials and the Circulation of Contemporary Asian Art

his essay1 looks at the ways the circulation of contemporary Asian artworks, artists, and curators has been fostered by the biennial system. This question firstly applies to Tcontemporary art within the existing biennial system since 1993, and, secondly, and in some ways dependently, it applies to the new biennials that largely have emerged in Asia. Asian biennials began in Delhi in 1968, and were marked by the broad inclusion of contemporary Asian art at the 1st Sydney Biennale in 1973, and have grown with developments in Dacca (1981), Fukuoka (four Asian Art Shows since 1989, three Asian Art Triennales since 1999), Taipei (since 1998 as one that exhibited both international and domestic artists), Brisbane (1993), Gwangju (1995), Shanghai (1996), Busan (1998), Echigo-Tsumari (2000), Yokohama (2001), Auckland (2001), Guangzhou (1992, 2002), Beijing (1993, 2003), Jakarta (2003), and Singapore (2006). One should also note regional exhibitions in the Association of South East Asian Nations since 1968 and many bilateral exhibitions between different parts of Asia, especially China, Japan, and Korea. I have written “in some ways dependently” above because the incorporation of contemporary Asian art at biennials is a complex phenomenon, sited at the intersections of many different currents within the world of modern art or its other avatar, transnational art.

There have been three main issues in the relationship of Asian art modernities to modernities in art elsewhere, and in particular to those of Euramerican modernity and its hegemonies. First is the broad historical question of different kinds of art modernities in non-Euramerican parts of the world that also include Central and South America as well as Africa. Since developments have been as easily noticed by those in Asia as they have been ignored in Euramerica, these Asian modernities might best be understood as parallel or “other” modernities. In large part, their advent precedes the great integrations of economic markets and cultural representations in the 1990s and create a level of transnational art discourse, mostly articulated through and by biennials, within the economic and cultural processes called globalization. That art representations were transnationally articulated, or even integrated, did not mean the same thing in all Asian cultures. For many such cultures there was also a simultaneous localization of global or transnational art tendencies. This was counterposed with many formal analogies and close homologies of taste that could be found between, say, the propaganda use of leadership portraits in China and those of the kings of Thailand or Cambodia, or between Thai and Korean television game shows.

A second issue was that because those modernities were differently articulated by, but still in part appropriated from, the cultural and specifically artistic forms of Euramerica, their presence as parallel modernities in the Asian or immigrant settler cultures could be ignored as derivative of Euramerica or as still dependent on a colonial pattern of cultural hegemony. Colonial art ceased to be colonial when its forms were used for purposes other than those of the colonial ruler, when its hegemony declined or came to an end and took different forms in different conditions. Counter-appropriation can be found in the visualizing of an Indian nation within the academic

32 codes and forms of Victorian realism by Ravi Varma in India during the 1890s, in Australian settler nationalist representations of landscape in the Heidelberg school of the 1890s, or, even much later, in the exploration of non-duality through the rhetoric of the minimalist mark in many types of modern installation and painting by the Korean artist Lee U-fan in Japan of the 1990s.

A third issue was not simply that the institutional pattern of the biennial exhibition in Asia was applied from its predecessors at Venice, São Paolo, and documenta. The Asian biennials were integrated into a Euramerican system that already existed, and so works and artists would be circulated between the new Asian biennials and their predecessors, although the modalities and causal links for this circulation were not transparent. It was this systemic inter-linkage, right from their outset, that characterized a type of Asian modernity in the 1990s that was different in both degree and kind from the relatively less dependent and parallel modernities in Asia earlier, even as late as the 1970s.

Some Models for Understanding Circulation We should look at some models from art history and beyond to help explain this circulation and to see what types of tools might be applied to the material that follows. An initial survey of some models is available via papers from a Sydney workshop held in 2005.2 It is significant how directly some features of these models may be exemplified in some of the Asian contemporary art appearing at biennials.

Some models derived from studies of European art in the eighteenth century include those of restricted circulation due to guild structures, alongside of which may be noted the international circulation of journeymen and court artists moving between different cities. In these, one figure arises much earlier and is most vividly seen in the European renaissance: that of the artist moving Subodh Gupta, Very Hungry God, 2006, shown between courts as a kind of cultural currency for mutual outside Francois Pinault Collection at Palazzo Grassi, Grand Canal, Venice, 2007. Photo: John recognition of prestige and cultural prominence. This Clark. also occurs with the advent of Asian superstar artists such as Xu Bing and Cai Guo-Qiang in the 1990s,3 or, more recently, in the patronage by French collector Francois Pinault of Subodh Gupta, whose skull composed from Indian culinary utensils dominated the Grand Canal in Venice at the time of the 2007 Biennale.

Artists often also acted as purchasing agents for princes. The eighteenth century, and even earlier periods, provide many examples of artworks being circulated as part of a gift economy to stage or signal personal ties, with the ability to secure the movement of artworks considered a sign of wealth, and, sometimes, through gift-giving or conspicuously disinterested patronage, as a kind of philanthropy. But the eighteenth century also provides different models of anonymous consumption of art through the rise of collectors who bought from a market because of the currency of prestige of given artworks or of artists they knew of but did not personally know, because of the rise of social institutions like their dealer agents, as well as the specialized audiences in salons, academies, and early museums. In some ways the multiples now produced by famous early contemporary Chinese artists like Fang Lijun—he now produces very large prints in multiples of five—may also have the function of providing the opportunity for an anonymous category of patrons to consume the same work, because it is a multiple, at sites geographically separate and distant from one another.

33 Fang Lijun, Print No.1, 1996, woodcut, 488 x 366 cm.

Under the situation of a generalized art market distribution, rather than eighteenth century aristocratic patronage, the circulation of artwork is not dependent on a personal, direct relationship between the buyers and makers of the art. A kind of time-lapse circulation took place in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century European art market between the sites where art was located, which had no temporal relation to the finder, and where it was preserved in collectors’ stores or in museums. This happened with the display of war booty, the preservation of archeological discoveries, and the forced shift of private collections into a public arena. It can also be seen in art fairs and in the illusion of immediate contact provided by the Asian Contemporary Art week in New York in March 2008, which could not conceal its function as an expensive street market delocalized from the artwork’s original site of production.

Circulation functioned by the mid-nineteenth and early twentieth century not merely as market transfer, but also as the preservation of valued art objects themselves. It was sometimes allied with

34 national claims of representing the ancient glories of other civilizations, such as the British acquisition of the Parthenon friezes in the early nineteenth century, or to the restoration of a “lost” national consciousness through the prominence given to one artist in a collection, such as Rembrandt in Amsterdam in the late nineteenth century. The turning point for this kind of evaluation in twentieth century China was the 1935 exhibition of masterpieces of Chinese Art that was sent from Shanghai to the Royal Academy in London. As Guo Hui’s recent research has indicated, the display criteria, that is, the aesthetic categories within which works were grouped for display, was subtly different between Shanghai and London, indicating a kind of assertion of national categories.4

Further comparative refinements in understanding these phenomena may be found in studies of fifteenth- to seventeenth- century art in China.5 These foreground the ancient Chinese practice of collecting art Choi Jeong-hwa at the 2006 Gwangju Biennale. Photo: John Clark. and providing encyclopedic connoisseurship guides as a means to establish the authenticity of particular classes of objects, including paintings and calligraphy. Genuineness was in part guaranteed by the skills of the scholar-artist, whose moral character was an index for many other types of humanistic attainment, including those in literature. By the late fifteenth century, some Chinese scholar-artists also functioned as professionals by selling their work on commission for recompense in cash or goods, the circulation of many of which, such as rice and silk, also had a monetary function since they were easily traded for cash. The commodification of art objects through a system of exchange, with its level of complexity driving the process, often resulted in reciprocal relations between artist and patron over long periods of time. Whether all curators act entirely like patrons in selecting artists for biennials can be disputed, but these sorts of relations can be found in some of the contemporary Asian art exhibited in biennials, in particular with curators such as Apinan Poshyananda and the Korean artist Choi Jeong-hwa.

If understanding of circulation just involves descriptions of transactional processes and the sites where these processes take place, then art history may simply see the flow of art objects as going in one direction and money, or other circulative non-art assets, in another. Some reciprocity, or interdependence, is assumed to exist between the directions of these flows, but what is circulated is often not art. It includes economic goods, physical objects, money, ideas, signs, people, and images of art. We could even speculate that contemporary Chinese art, which may be sold for bewildering amounts of money, may also be seen as being exchanged as a simulacrum of the economic power of China; in this exchange, for those who come to own the works, money is a kind of quotidian lubricant, a currency of esteem, rather than just a store of value.

35 There is an underlying assumption in the understanding of the functioning of art circulation that the flow of artists, artworks, and curators in one direction is reciprocated, perhaps with a time lag, by a flow of money, esteem, or cultural capital and goods in the other direction, with many elaborate mechanisms of translation or a setting of equivalences between art and non-art flows. The sites where these flows take place may be the art-specific ones of workshops, educational structures, collections, or various exhibiting institutions such as biennials, but, also, may more abstractly include structures of taste or aesthetic preference or discursive sites such as ideological and curatorial programs. What links transaction processes to sites of circulation under neo- Zhang Xiaogang at the 2004 Shanghai Biennale. Photo: John Clark. liberal economic models is the transfer of value between immediate and deferred consumption, or, on a different level, the change of circulating art works as goods into fixed capital, which provides art history with a notion of circulation as a replenishment of the past by the present. This replenishment is all the more effective if the artwork appears to carry a stock of valued images of the past or even of recent revolutionary presents.

The Marxian notion of a caesura in commodity relations that exists in the abstract state between purchase and sale is one that points to a model of circulation where art history could account for gaps between the aesthetic value of art objects and their economic value as goods through recurrent crises of evaluation. Some artists seize on this and use photographic replicas as the means of guaranteeing economic value, whereas the actual artwork, such as performance art, is inalienably non-exchangeable.

Finally, Keynsian models based on the feedback between the marginal propensity to consume and the marginal output efficacy of capital point to art historical models where the larger the number of artworks produced, the smaller the relative effect is on the audience—or, to put it simply, supply and demand. Monetary theories may lead art historians to think artworks and artists are used as a form of money, whereby value is transferred from one site to another, sometimes in an exchange not just for more money, but also for esteem, favours, and life opportunities, chiefly for the possibility of continuing to produce art. International art magazines such as Asian Art News, Art Asia Pacific, and others are full of advertisements from galleries where the critique of Chinese consumerism is the subject of the work. How many more shockingly gaudy testaments to the vulgarity manifest in many areas of Chinese nouveau rich consumption can the international art

36 market absorb? Or is there some absolute market point for their work reached from which no artistic reputation can fall, like the numbing replicas of earlier works found in Asian Biennials, such as Yue Minjun at the Gwangju Biennale in 2004?

Some semantic theories posit that in any given speech community, the meaning in words has long been thought to transfer ideas that are assumed to stay the same between speakers and hearers, even when they reverse roles in a conversation. For art history, this points to artworks requiring extensive collateral interpretation Yue Minjun at the 2006 Gwangju Biennale. when they circulate beyond the original visual community Photo: John Clark. that understands them as art. This is critically true for religious and political iconography, but biennial audiences are not consistent and may require more explanation than any presumed transnational sophistication allows. This community can include audiences stratified by various degrees of art education as well as those able to make their own extensions of meaning when the artwork moves into other culturally defined visual communities. Semantic models also suggest that only a small part of meaning comes from the artwork itself. These works include the ability to question visual metaphors applied from one field to another, such as a perspectival metaphor used in the composition of a photographic image. But a Wittgensteinian view of languages as lacking fixed or determinate meanings, and of all meaning being specific to a transaction, could lead art historians to think all meaning in art is wholly dependent on semantic negotiations in context, ones that are a complex of visually and culturally specific transactions between the viewer and the work.

A similar notion of insertion is found in Simmel’s sociological understanding of money, which is crucial for interpreting circulation, for money intervenes between desire and fulfillment; ownership can extend beyond the simpler methods of theft and gift. The isolation of individual specificities is punctured as

Song Dong, Waste Not, at the 2005 Gwangju Biennale. Photo: John Clark. money introduces calculable equivalences between goods, and does so publicly. This suggests that art can be interpreted as circulating in a high-level and complex series of exchanges and that the aesthetic incommensurability of artworks is both the inverse of, and discontinuous with, its highly ordered equivalences in the very monetary order that allows art objects to circulate. The increase of impersonality in economic ownership, this position suggests, is accompanied by a distancing of its relationship to the aesthetic states that are embodied in artworks. Thus the increasing market value of some contemporary Chinese art, like that of Zhang Xiaogang at the Shanghai Biennale in 2004, should be seen as inverse to any artistic value the works may have had. The interdependence of personality and material relationships that are typical of barter relations is eliminated by money in exchange relations. This impersonal distancing also allows for an aesthetic of transient objects where the “flow of things” begins to resemble the circulations of the money economy.

37 Commodity spectacles arise when biennials produce competition between “tempting exteriors” and relativized styles by bringing their multiplicity together at one point in time and space for a new kind of detached viewer. Such a traveling audience member is both detached from the “home styles” domestic to their culture of origin as a cosmopolitan, and minimally engaged with the object at the moment of consumption, so that responses to diverse experiences and objects are similar. One might extend this view to international biennials and surmise that this similarity could be one that is educated and reinforced by the kinds of artworks shown which reinforce such detachment. There seems to be a kind of transnational reinforcing feedback on the level of images between the work of Patricia Piccinini in the Australian pavilion at Venice in 2003 and that of Xiao Yu which was exhibited at Venice in the Arsenale in 2001. There are many other cases of this kind of manufactured convergence including recent works which feature bone-like structures in molded resins across the work of Shen Shaomin from China, Jitish Kallat from India, and Lee Hyug-koo from Korea, for example.

Curatorial practice has produced marker exhibitions that, as in the 1989 Magiciens de la Terre, employed concepts such as “spirit of place” to allow the juxtaposition of tribal and sacred art alongside that of the Western avant- garde. In this kind of curatorial strategy, no context-specific negotiation of meaning and its supporting semantic communities is allowed for. Exhibitions are a kind of concrete thinking in which material concepts in which more Xiao Yu at the 2001 Venice Biennale. abstract ideas are allowed to be presented or creatively elided. This is why many curatorial projects that seek to relativize Western art discourses do so through the means of site- specific installations. These ritualize for public and transcultural engagement what otherwise would be restricted and culturally dense meaning systems.

Curators for Asian biennials have thought or presented aesthetic propositions by means of Patricia Piccinini, The Young Family, 2002, silicone, polyurethane, leather, plywood, human hair, 80 x 150 x 110 cm. their exhibition strategy, their selection, and, Photo: Graham Baring. Courtesy of the artist. then, juxtaposition of works. In doing so, these curators adopted many guises that sometimes were subject to prestidigitative shifts between operant roles. There is a range of roles at play which is quite bewildering and possibly beyond clear analysis. They include those of grand intellectuals or mâitres à penser, fairground barkers, automobile salesmen (sometimes of “luxury,” sometimes of “second-hand” vehicles, sometimes “custom” cars), shamans, hack doctors, grand cuisiniers, humble home chefs, playwrights, Hollywood stars, raucous theatrical agents, and even artists. Whatever the curator’s position or theoretical justification, the effect of his or her mediation was to disturb some presumed paradigm of “normal” viewing or monolithic interpretation (not infrequently against the very wishes of the artists shown). The aim was to force on the viewer the necessity of active participation in creating the meaning of the work, to question the type of representation, and, as often, to give exposure to an “alternative” and “authentic” national presentation.

38 Alfredo and Isabel Aquilizan, Project be-longing, at the 1999 Asia Pacific Triennial III, Brisbane.

Subodh Gupta at the 2005 Venice Biennale.

By Way of Conclusion There is anecdotal material available from field observations about particular works in biennials and the movements in and out of circles of evaluation by given artists or specific works. Here I want to synthesize some of the links between the models of circulation and the relations between artist and curators advanced above.

Artists, artworks, and curators move among biennial sites. They are like three wheels of decreasing size turning in and out of synchronization with each other, with curators being the smallest and most determinative in the movements of the other two. The most important feature of this system, the complexity of the algorithms for how it actually operates being scarcely imaginable, are the relational switching between two planes of value for the work—the artistic and the economic— and the restrictive function of the limited number of works in a corpus or artists assigned by curators to a particular cohort being both to allow, and be a product of, the intervention of the mediator-curators. This is not a new system, but for the Asian biennials an old one over which are articulated or into which are inserted a large number of new positions.

One model of circulation that has changed from earlier periods is the switch from personal relations between the artist and an aristocratic patron into a market of impersonal relations without a direct producer-client link. In the enlarged biennial system in Asia, which has its own regional specificities, the biennal has become like quasi-aristocratic patronage through the artist- curator relation, often producing for a sometimes competitive, sometimes selected, slot in the curator’s schedule on the opposite side of the world. But the possibilities for the interventionary role of the curator are multiplied by the very broad, impersonal, and unseen foreign public and a very small but more significantly constrained coterie of other biennial curators who could include the same artist, and often the same works, in biennials sites that had not yet seen either those artists or works.

The works and producers circulated in a market of esteem at biennials precede and sometimes anticipate the marketing of the same works and producers in the commercial market. The players and motions of this market were undetected by artists, but had significant implications for their economic livelihood and continued functioning. A number of Asian contemporary artists have advanced in sales with every year, particularly since 2005. It is likely that the market function of the biennials has been to increase the sales of those already identified by it, particularly to some new Asian institutions such as the Fukuoka Asian Art Museum, the Queensland Art Gallery (which

39 counts as an Asian participant), and the Singapore Art Museum. This purchasing of artworks by public galleries would likely have two future functions: to reinforce the value by canonization of works by artists already identified by the market and to increase inter-institutional competition to purchase works by those artists as markers across the region.

As we saw in the discussion of models, the critical area for functional crisis or breakdown in this system is when the artistic value of an artwork does not find equivalence or recognition in its economic value as an art object. This is not clear even with a work of commonly accepted artistic significance and economic value beyond particular national boundaries—such as Xu Bing’s Book of Heaven. How or in what way does this work contribute to the replenishment of values, a sort of feedback process from economic values into cultural values? Whether such feedback works for all art objects and their movement back into artworks or is only for canonized works is unclear too. But it is unlikely that works not already canonized can function in this way, and thus the negative, tyrannous effects of not being an entrant into the biennial system will be high.

But, to reiterate, the Asian biennials are a new extension of an old system. It is yet to be seen whether they can fully generate their own relative autonomy, and, beyond that, whether any particular localized set of values and their operators—in the form of artists, curators, and some collectors—can function to impose these values on the regional or even the more generalized biennial systems hitherto dominated by Euramerica. One could also envisage future and hypothetically geographical identification into at least Northeast Asian, Southeast Asian, and South Pacific Asian subsystems, and in some small measure see that regional art markets might arise that are linked to biennial consecration of particular artists. But as of 2005 this possibility was only nascent.

Notes 1 This essay is a shortened section of chapter three of my book draft Biennales and Contemporary Asian Art: Histories of the Asian “New,” now in submission with a publisher. 2 Most are available at “Research Workshops:’Circulation’,” http://www.arts.usyd.edu.au/departs/arthistory/research/workshops. shtml, and I have freely adapted and summarized them here. I am grateful for the papers of Jennifer Milam (Art History), Russel Storer (late Ming China), Nick Reimer (Semantics), Michael Carter (Simmel’s sociology), Julian Pefanis (Bataille, Clastres) and Tony Bond (Curatorship). My own short paper (Economics) is also used for the summary of models of circulation in this chapter. 3 On the recent behaviour of the Chinese art market, see Joe Hill, “Taking Stock,” in Yishu: Journal of Contemporary Chinese Art, December 2007 (Winter), 44–50, and other papers in this special issue on the Chinese contemporary art market. 4 See Guo Hui, “New Categories, New History: The Preliminary Exhibition of Chinese art in Shanghai, 1935,” in Jaynie Anderson, ed., Crossing Cultures: Proceedings of the 32nd Congress of the International Committee of the History of Art [CIHA] (Melbourne, Melbourne University Press: forthcoming 2009). 5 Particularly in the work of Craig Clunas, summarized in a paper given outside the Circulation workshop by Russel Storer and included on the workshop Web site (see endnote 2).

40 Britta Erickson Periodical Exhibitions in China: Diversity of Motivation and Format

eginning in the 1990s, exhibitions of contemporary Chinese art have appeared Bwith increasing frequency in the West, often presenting a narrow monolithic view focusing on works of art that looked “Chinese.” Concurrently, there has been an upsurge in the number of periodical exhibitions (i.e., biennials and triennials) in China, some of which focus on Chinese art, while others present international contemporary art. Both phenomena reflect the increasing

“All You Want to Know about International Art prominence of China as a participant in the international Biennials,” Asia Art Archive, www.aaa.org.hk. art arena. For whom and by whom are China’s periodical exhibitions convened? Like the upcoming Beijing Olympics, do they play a role of legitimization, are they held for the local audience, or both? As with enterprises in other fields, China does not have a long-established model, and, therefore, is rapidly inventing working models that may or may not succeed in the long run. These range from the privately funded and organized Chengdu Biennale to the Beijing Biennale, the latter inevitably under the control of the central government. The exhibition formats run from the tightly curated to the open and experimental.1

Since the appearance of China’s first biennial, the Shanghai Biennale of 1996, there has been a tremendous growth in the prevalence of domestic biennials and triennials. (Henceforth in this paper I shall use the term biennials to denote both biennials and triennials.) At present there are at least five general biennials that have appeared more than once, based in and named for the principle cities of Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Nanjing, and Chengdu, as well as the Xi’an Documenta, which originated in 2007.2 In addition, there are four biennials that focus on the topics of ink painting, sculpture, and architecture. These are the Shenzhen Ink Painting Biennial, the Shenzhen Yearlong Contemporary Sculpture Exhibition, the Shenzhen & Hong Kong Bi-City Biennale of Urbanism/Architecture (formerly the Shenzhen Biennale of Urbanism/Architecture), and the Architectural Biennale Beijing. Beyond this are annual arts festivals that are not entirely distinguishable in character from the biennials and that include the Pingyao International Photography Festival, Lianzhou International Photo Festival, and DIAF (originally the Dashanzi International Art Festival; now the Dangdai International Art Festival). There are others, but these are the best known.

Why the explosion of periodical exhibitions? I can identify two key factors. First, the format of the grand periodical exhibition is a familiar one, with an established history in China. Look at any middle-aged or older Chinese artist’s curriculum vitae, and you will see that the early significant exhibitions were the annual national exhibitions held in Beijing, as well as similar regional events. For decades, those were the exhibitions in which artists aspired to be included. In the 1990s and beyond, biennials have supplanted the national and regional exhibitions, such that artists have considered participation in prominent biennials to be much more desirable. Second, in China, the

41 control and display of art on such a large scale as the format of a biennial is an exercise in power; thus, to organize a biennial is to demonstrate a position of power—power of the nation, a city, an organization, or an individual. No doubt this is the case elsewhere, but China has a long history of using art in the service of politics and as a site of power jockeying: this has encouraged the growth of the biennial phenomenon. In the twentieth century, the link between politics and art was explicitly stated by Mao Zedong in his “Talks at Yan’an on Art and Literature” (1942), in which he described the role that the arts should play in China’s communist revolution. There he expressed his fundamental belief that art is subordinate to politics and must serve the people, saying, “What we demand is the unity of politics and art. . . .”3

Other biennials in China inevitably are compared to the Shanghai Biennale, both because it was the first and because it is the most recognized internationally and, thus, in at least one sense, the most successful. It is therefore useful to examine its progress from small-scale local affair to an acclaimed international event. The 1996 inaugural biennial was sponsored by the Shanghai Culture Bureau and the Shanghai Art Museum, where it was held; the vice mayor of Shanghai (Gong Xueping) was the Chairman of the Organizing Committee, and there was a panel of advisors. Without a curator, the Organizing Committee members chose the artists; this harkens back to the style of national art exhibitions. The Vice Chairman and Director of the Shanghai Art Museum, Fang Zengxian, laid out the rationale behind the exhibition in the preface to the catalogue. Recent art shows, he said, “planned and held by popular organizations have given rise to quite a number of problems ready to be resolved.”4 The biennial would be presented “for the purpose of establishing a State-level pattern for fine arts shows . . . with the State art gallery as the operating center and on the strength of the prestige of government conduct.”5 He also stated the desire to have Chinese art participate in the international art realm on an equal footing, and said they planned to present two biennials of Chinese art followed by an international biennial. In addition, Fang stated that Shanghai, historically open to the outside world, would “open the gate for China’s modern art to make its way into the world arena.” The first biennial included works by twenty-six oil painters living in China and three installation artists living overseas. Thus, with the exhibition, Fang made the case for the growing importance of Chinese art, for Shanghai as an important city within China, for his museum as the premier venue within that city, and for state-run venues as compared to the non- official or private exhibition spaces that were growing in popularity.

The first Shanghai Biennale drew considerable attention, to the extent that several major figures from outside Shanghai came aboard as advisors to the second, which focused on ink painting. The prestigious advisors included Pan Gongkai, President of the China Academy of Art in Hangzhou; Xu Jiang, Vice-President of the China Academy of Art (and nephew of Jiang Zemin, President of the People’s Republic of China); and Feng Yuan, who was soon to be named Director of the Art Division of the Ministry of Culture (in 2000). Zheng Shengtian appeared as a Vice Director, bringing with him the sponsorship of the Annie Wong Foundation. At this point Fang Zengxian was able to claim “the Shanghai Biennale is undoubtedly the most important and [successful] large scale exhibition inside China.”6

Although the role of the curator receives brief mention in Annie Wong’s preface to the catalogue of the 1998 Shanghai Biennale, no curators were identified for the first two biennials. It was only in 2000, with the third Shanghai Biennale, that a true curatorial direction appeared; this curatorial vision, divorced from the embedded power structure, was as much an impetus to the form of the exhibition as was the will to express hegemony, cultural or otherwise. Two curators from overseas, Hou Hanru and Toshio Shimizu, worked with two local curators, Zhang Qing and Li Xu, with Fang Zengxian as Chief Curator, to organize this first international style biennial in China. Sponsorship expanded to include dozens of Chinese and foreign corporations and cultural institutions, but,

42 Sui Jianguo, Study on the Folding of Clothes, 1998. Installation view at the Shanghai Biennale, 2002.

supposedly, with the bulk of the funding coming from French and Japanese government-funded entities such as the French Embassy and the Japan Foundation.7 Furthermore, the biennial had been taken under the wing of the government in that it was “designated a permanent program of the Shanghai International Art Festival, hosted by the Cultural Ministry of the P.R.C. and organized by Shanghai Municipal Government.”8 The exhibition remains under the aegis of China’s Ministry of Culture and Shanghai Municipal Government. In 2000, Fang could reasonably remark that the “Shanghai Biennale will set a good example for our Chinese colleagues and is bound to secure its due status among other world famous biennial art exhibitions.”9

The first two biennials were popular with local residents, as were all subsequent biennials. International visitors began to show up with the third biennial, and by the time of the most recent iteration, in 2006, it had become such an important stop on the international art circuit that tickets to the opening were in extremely high demand, to the extent that it was almost impossible to see the art until after those people had departed: the prestige of the event now overshadows the art. As each successive biennial became increasingly ambitious, with more international involvement, funding became more difficult. Recently a Swiss bank, Bank Sarasin, has agreed to be a major sponsor of the 2008 biennial and the following four. Fidelis Goetz, head of the bank’s international division, announced: “We are delighted to partner with the prestigious Shanghai Biennale, that echoes our own commitment to bringing the very best the world has to offer for our clients. At Sarasin, we seek new experiences and exposures that act as a catalyst for broader thinking. The Shanghai Biennale is such a catalyst, and part of our strong tradition of supporting innovative artistic endeavours.”10 Now that China is embracing capitalism with astonishing fervour, an international bank can find that its desire for positive exposure meshes with the state-run museum’s similar desire through their shared involvement with the biennial.

China’s major cities have deep-seated, centuries-long rivalries, in which the hosting of a biennial now plays a part: Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Nanjing, and Chengdu all hold general biennials. Organized by the recently opened Guangdong Museum of Art (1995), the first Guangzhou Triennial (2002) was curated by Wu Hung, a professor at the University of Chicago, as a historical survey with the title Reinterpretation: A Decade of Experimental Chinese Art, 1990–2000. At its core a documentary exhibition, it was enlivened by a section of new works, one of which became highly controversial to the extent that it was ordered destroyed before the opening. This was Huang Yong Ping’s Bat Project II, which had stirred up the interest of the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the American and French consulates in Guangdong, and the Guangdong Provincial Department of Culture, because it referred to the notorious 2001 collision between an American EP-3 surveillance aircraft and a Chinese military plane over the South China Sea. Censorship of one sort or another occurs at many, if not most, large-scale contemporary art exhibitions in China. When it is so obvious as it was in this instance, it highlights a power structure that puts artists at

43 Huang Yong Ping, Bat Project II, installation view at the 2002 Guangzhou Triennial.

the bottom, then curators, then museum officials, and, finally, the government at the top—but with savvy artists able to manipulate this to a kind of moral advantage, and perhaps finding in this situation material for subsequent works of art.

According to a press release for the second Guangzhou Triennial, the “first Guangzhou Triennial has produced considerable influence in both Chinese and overseas artistic circles.” Under the direction of international curators Hou Hanru and Hans Ulrich Obrist, with Guo Xiaoyan from the museum, the second triennial took as its theme BEYOND: an extraordinary space of experimentation for modernization; it considered the Pearl River Delta as a unique site of hyper development employing “specific solutions and patterns created and adopted by China and other non-Western countries in their own process of modernization” so that “the second Guangzhou Triennial focuses on the research and reflection on those ‘extraordinary’ modern developments, and presents the ‘extraordinary’ expression of artists, architects, and scholars.”11 It thus made the case that not only was Guangdong part of a uniquely dynamic region in China, but also its artists were uniquely creative.

With the third triennial’s theme, Farewell to Post-Colonialism, the curators show concern not so much for the city and its creative forces as world leaders, but for themselves as leaders in international thinking in regard to exhibiting art. The topic has been of concern to two of the curators, Gao Shiming and Johnson Chang Tsong-zung (the other is Sarat Maharaj), for several years. They “call for the renovation of the theoretical interface of contemporary art, to depart from its all pervasive socio-political discourse, and work together with artists and critics to discover new modes of thinking and develop new analytical tools for dealing with today’s world. . . . This Triennial may be understood as a locus of questions for the international art world.”12

Beijing could not stand by as provincial capitals’ biennials received widespread acclaim; it had to produce its own biennial. The first, in 2003, was widely deemed a flop. Taking as its theme Originality: Contemporaneity and Locality, it limited the works of art to painting and sculpture and divided the exhibition into seven disjointed sections, including Chinese, foreign, works by Qi Baishi (1863–1957), works by Tatsuo Takayama (b. 1912), a special Korean section, a special French Autumn Salon Centennial Exhibition, and a section of works recommended by Vincenzo Sanfo. Overall, the biennial was reminiscent of old-style exhibitions with a highly conservative curatorial direction: this was in keeping with the nature of the exhibition’s government-based organizers and sponsors, including the Beijing municipal government, the Ministry of Culture, the Chinese Artists Association, and the China International Exhibition Agency, among others. The curatorial team of twenty-seven plus three chief curators—although it included a number of younger, more forward-thinking curators—was over-weighted with high-placed members of the establishment and thus doomed to mediocre conservatism. Interestingly, in the preface to the catalogue it is stated that “this is the first time China holds such an exhibition,”13 meaning this is the first time that China as a nation holds such an exhibition, as if this is automatically of greater significance than all

44 Left: Opening, Chengdu Biennial, 2007 Right: Yang Jiechang, We Are Good at Everything Except for Speaking Mandarin. PRD, 2005, flag, neon lights, performance by PRD One Day Band. Opening of the Guangzhou Triennial.

the Chinese biennials that have gone before. The role of this exhibition as a tool for international relations was made quite clear in the press packet: “At the beginning of the new century, just before the Olympic Games, 1.3 billion people as hosts. A sincere invitation to the whole world in the name of Oriental civilization. An international art event will be held in China.” The claim to speak on behalf of all Eastern civilization is particularly audacious, but also naive. The second biennial, also lackluster, took place in 2005. The third has been delayed to 2008 to coincide with the Olympic Games, underscoring the use of art as just another tool in the service of international relations, but without any real understanding of how foreigners will perceive that display: it seems unlikely the third biennial will suddenly improve upon the previous two. In a bizarre justification for the biennial, the biennial office produced a paragraph titled “Relations between biennales and the Olympic Games” stating: “Some people regard biennales as the Olympic Games in the field of international fine arts. . . . The Montreal Olympic Games and the Montreal Biennale . . . have adopted the same city name, and the same is true for the Sydney Olympic Games and Sydney Biennale. . . . ”14 although there was no connection between the launching of the two events by those cities other than the obvious one of civic pride.15

The major municipal biennials have the best opportunities for funding, particularly Beijing, with the support of thirteen foreign embassies, twenty-one foreign arts organizations, and twenty- five Chinese embassies, as well as the local government funding (for the first biennial). But such funding can lead to conservatism and mediocrity. Two largely privately funded biennials have received less attention (they do not produce flashy press packets) but are fresher and more responsive to the local art scenes. These are the Chengdu Biennale and Nanjing Triennial. The Chengdu Biennale is funded by local entrepreneur Deng Hong, an amateur painter and art lover who has found that the staging of a local major art event provides a certain caché, and brings some degree of favour from the local government. Each of its three biennials has been overseen by Feng Bin, Director of the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute Art Gallery, and Chair of the Chinese Painting Department, who organizes a special section of the biennial focusing on young artists from throughout China. Kuiyi Shen, a curator of the third Chengdu Biennale (as was I), explored this subject at length.

The Nanjing Triennial began as the Triennial of Chinese Art. Although the driving force and major sponsor, Ge Yaping, is owner of the Red Classic Art Gallery in Nanjing, the first triennial opened at the Guangzhou Art Museum, slightly before the first Guangzhou Triennial: perhaps the museum was willing to play host to scoop its recently established local rival, the Guangdong Museum of Art, as venue of the first triennial in China. In 2005, the Triennial of Chinese Art moved to Nanjing, where the Nanjing Museum was co-sponsor. With a young curatorial team that included the dynamic artist Qiu Zhijie, willing to dedicate months to traveling throughout China seeking new talent, the exhibition included the works of young artists, mostly born after 1968. It “focuses on the indigenous development of contemporary art and its participants are limited to Chinese artists from inside and outside of China. We might as well say that it is an alternative approach to

45 international.”16 For the third triennial (the Nanjing Triennial), a Japanese and a Korean curator will be working with two young Chinese curators.

Looking at China’s biennials that are named for major cities, it is apparent that they follow a pattern of moving from a local curatorial team with local advisors who generally choose Chinese artists, to inviting foreign curators or more internationally active Chinese curators, who in turn invite overseas artists. In addition, the curatorial premises of the exhibitions become gradually more sophisticated, sometimes taking a rhetoric of rejection of globalization, or a search for a “Chinese”/non-Western formula. Furthermore, as the exhibitions become more important both within China and internationally, they invite the association of prestigious figures within the Chinese art world. If we look at the rosters of biennial committees, we can see which figures are most powerful, or most interested in projecting their power in this manner: Xu Jiang,17 Fan Di’an (formerly vice president, Central Academy of Fine Art; now director, National Art Museum),18 Feng Yuan,19 and Pan Gongkai.20 Others who have more regional power bases, for example, Wang Huangsheng, director of the Guangzhou Art Museum,21 and Dong Xiaoming, who runs International Ink Painting Biennial of Shenzhen,22 are starting to expand their influence, as shown by their official roles in biennials outside their locality. The biennial thus represents a wide variety of interests from individual to national, from artistic to financial, converging under competitive conditions.

Notes 1 A valuable starting place for researching biennials in Asia is “All You Want To Know About International Art Biennials,” produced by the Asia Art Archive in collaboration with Art Map Limited: http://www.aaa.org.hk/onlineprojects/bitri/en/intro.asp. 2 There is also the Guiyang Art Biennale, the third edition of which took place in 2007. So far I have found no record of the first two. 3 Mao Zedong, Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art, fourth edition, third revised translation (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1965), 31. 4 Fang Zengxian, “Preface,” Shanghai Biennale (Shanghai: Shanghai Art Museum, 1996), n. pag. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Jonathan Napack, “The Second Shanghai Biennial,” The Art Newspaper.com, http://www.theartnewspaper.com/news/articles. asp?idart=107011; accessed January 17, 2003. 8 Fang Zengxian, “Preface,” Shanghai Biennale, n. pag. 9 Ibid. 10 Biennale Office, “Bank Sarasin and the Shanghai Art Museum announce a five-edition ‘Associate Partnership’ for the 7th–11th Shanghai Biennale (2008–2016)—Bank Sarasin makes largest-ever donation to support contemporary art in China,” Shanghai Art Museum, January 13, 2008, http://www.shanghaibiennale.org/english/2008/news/2008-01-13/001.html; accessed March 22, 2008. 11 Press Release, Second Guangzhou Triennial, 2004, http://www.gztriennial.org/gztriennial/second/release-en/release-en.html, accessed March 29, 2008. 12 “Theme,” “The Third Guangzhou Triennial,” Guangzhou Triennial, http://www.gdmoa.org/zhanlan/threeyear/4/24/3/, accessed March 29, 2008. 13 Jin Shangyi, Liu Dawei, and Feng Yuan, eds., The Album of the First Beijing International Art Biennale, China (Beijing: People’s Fine Arts Publishing House, 2003), n. pag. 14 Beijing International Art Biennale Office, “Relations between biennials and the Olympic Games,” Beijing International Art Biennale (December 12, 2002), http://www.bjbiennale.com.cn/english/introduction-2.asp, accessed March 30, 2008. 15 The Montreal Olympic Games were in 1976, and La Biennale de Montréal began in 1998; the Sydney Olympics were in 2000, and the biennial began in 1973. 16 Qiu Zhijie, Zuo Jing, and Zhu Tong, “Exhibition, Reality, Imagination: A Conversation about Archaeology of the Future: The Second Triennial of Chinese Art,” in Qiu Zhijie, Zuo Jing, and Zhu Tong, Archaeology of the Future: The Second Triennial of Chinese Art (Wuhan: Hubei Fine Arts Publishing House, 2005), 450. 17 Art committee advisor, 1998 Shanghai Biennial; commissioner, 2000 Shanghai Biennial; director, academic committee, 2002 Shanghai Biennial; chief curator, 2004 Shanghai Biennial; director, academic committee, 2006 Shanghai Biennial; art committee member, 2001 Chengdu Biennial; committee member 2005 Chengdu Biennial; etc. 18 Curator, 2002 Shanghai Biennial; academic committee, 2004 Shanghai Biennial; academic committee, 2006 Shanghai Biennial; art committee, 2001 Chengdu Biennial; curator, 2005 Chengdu Biennial; curator, 2003 Beijing Biennial; curator, 2005 Beijing Biennial; etc. 19 Art committee advisor, 1998 Shanghai Biennial; honor committee, 2002 Shanghai Biennial; honor committee, 2004 Shanghai Biennial; organizing committee chairman, 2002 Ink Painting Biennial of Shenzhen; organizing committee chairman, 2004 Ink Painting Biennial of Shenzhen; chief curator, 2003 Beijing Biennial; organizing committee deputy director and chief curator, 2005 Beijing Biennial; etc. 20 Art committee advisor, 1998 Shanghai Biennial; consultant, 2000 Shanghai Biennial; academic committee, 2002 Shanghai Biennial; honor committee, 2004 Shanghai Biennial; honor committee, 2006 Shanghai Biennial; organizing committee advisor, 2002 Ink Painting Biennial of Shenzhen; organizing committee advisor, 2004 Ink Painting Biennial of Shenzhen; art committee member 2001 Chengdu Biennial; etc. 21 Curator, 2003 Beijing Biennial; committee member, 2005 Chengdu Biennial. 22 Committee member, 2005 Chengdu Biennial.

46 Kao Chien-hui Who’s Speaking? Who’s Listening? The Post-colonial and the Transnational in Contestation and the Strategies of the Taipei Biennial and the Beijing International Art Biennale

Cai Guo-Qiang, Advertising Castle, 1998, site specific work for the Taipei Biennial: Site of Desire. Courtesy of ARTCO Archive, Taipei.

Is It Possible to End Post-colonial Discourses? Strategic essentialism, a phrase coined by the contemporary Indian feminist literary critic and cultural theorist Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, is a major concept in post-colonial theory. It refers to a strategy of resistance that national, ethnic, or minority groups can use to present themselves. When a group attempts to temporarily “essentialize” itself, it presents itself in a deliberately simplified, homogeneous way in order to achieve certain goals, to reveal its identity, and to consolidate its solidarity in the complicated environment of globalization. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, do we still need an essentialist position to question and break the hegemonic discourse of colonialism?

Strategic essentialism is a movement, a practice, and an assertion taking a certain ideology or position. According to Spivak, strategic essentialism should be a positivist strategy conducted under serious and visible political tension. Although the range of contexts in Spivak’s original idea is limited to the scope of sub-citizens or members of the so-called lower class—the subaltern—her idea still offers an expanded window in which one can observe complicated subjectivities that exist within international biennials, especially the so-called non-mainstream or non-Western ones. With the power of strategic essentialism, various biennials are able to shape their cultural image and assist local individuals or cultural ideologies to function.

47 Lin Ming-Hong, site specific installation at the opening of the 2000 Taipei Biennial: The Sky Is the Limit. Courtesy of ARTCO Archive, Taipei.

Undoubtedly, there exists some weakness in this concept of strategic essentialism, and, for this reason, Spivak points out that the goal of essentialist critique is not the exposure of error, but the interrogation of essentialist terms. She also agrees that essentialism is like a powerful drug. When it is judiciously applied, it can be effective in dismantling unwanted structures or alleviating suffering; uncritically employed, however, it is destructive and addictive. “Can the subaltern speak?” questioned Spivak. She concluded that “the subaltern cannot speak.”1 Her point is not that the subaltern does not express itself in various ways, but that “speaking” is a transaction between a speaker and a listener. Without being received, perceived, or responded to, “speaking” is only a monologue.

Like those who claim themselves to be a subaltern or alternative group, many cities are desperate to announce a cultural subjectivity that has been ignored in the past. Therefore, in different biennials, strategic essentialism is either presented by the host city, or, alternatively, expected by a foreign audience. Nevertheless, in a biennial held in the capital city of a given area, one has to ask where the audiences are from, what kind of people they are, or what they do in life. The “speaking” can function only if the audience attending these art projects possesses the desire or ability to “listen.” Consequently, the success of strategic essentialism in the context of biennials actually relies on who is really listening to the local voices and which voices can be heard.

The situation with non-Western biennials, however, is that their conceptual identities are often strategically made without an essentialist position. First, in a non-Western biennial, the host city, with its economic and diplomatic powers, usually plays the role of cultural interpreter. Next, invited international curators and artists may provide contested cultural interpretations of the host city according to their own respective identities. In consequence with the search for cultural identity according to ideas of localization/globalization comes the use of a co-curatorial system (foreign vs. local views) that mixes avant-garde concepts with popular culture, that identifies sensitive and provocative social issues, or that blurs the boundaries between social and market values. Moreover, the host institution, in attempting to avoid repetition or redundancy, has to find a new form of presentation every other year in order not only to construct new inter-identities between the local and the global, but also to offer an updated version of their cultural prospects. This identity politics and the aesthetic need for novelty created a new “identity market” for those who like to follow the trends in order to speculate on and invest in them.

48 Navin Rawanchaikul, Navin and the Kids Visit Taipei, 2000, installation at the Taipei Biennial: The Sky Is the Limit. Courtesy of ARTCO Archive, Taipei.

As Spivak points out, under the tide of globalization, the question “Is it possible to end post- colonial discourses?” cannot be answered with a straightforward “yes or no.” Like politics itself, post-colonial discourses or strategies are not going to disappear. Even if there appeared to be an “end,” it will reappear in a new rhetoric.

The Discrepancy between Neo-Colonialism and Neoliberalism As long as there is a distinction between the powerful and the weak, there will be “quasi-post- colonial” and “strategic essentialist” voices. Nowadays, the realm and content of “post-colonialism are no longer limited to conflicts among gender, race, or nationality as previously defined. In fact, there remains a “post-colonial syndrome” in any M-shaped society—a society marked by the decline of the middle class and an increase in the disparity between rich and poor (such as neo-colonialism)—whether it’s related to the economy, consumption, dominant/subaltern values, or cultural tastes. Likewise, in the syndrome of contemporary biennials, the major contradiction lies not in traditional post-colonial discourses but in more liberal post-colonial discourses, and the M-shaped phenomenon that has entered the art world has turned biennials into an activity without clear purpose and marginalized the voices of who is speaking, who is speaking for whom, and who is listening.

The M-shaped concept underscores the conflict between the capitalist art market and socialist discourse around exhibition-making (the two sides of globalization and anti-globalization). With respect to discourse, the term of transnationalism recently has emerged among Western mainstream biennials with the aim of taking the idea of border-crossing subaltern labourers or migrants as a borderless nation, combining the general mobilization of all classes, promoting humanism, identifying with multiple modern issues, and expanding queries about the “West”— formerly a symbol of capitalism or authority. Even if the “West” does not always exist, social class does. Therefore, while the “West” gradually evolves into a vague ideology under globalization, the new target will be the emerging problems of social class under neoliberal capitalism and the current process of modernization taking place in many countries.

Moreover, one reason that the dominance of Western art is gradually losing its influence is that many curators of contemporary international exhibitions in Europe and America have been replaced by non-Westerners residing “in the West.” They are active in global art worlds,

49 Rita McBride, Arena, 2002, installation at the Taipei Biennale: Great Theatre of the World. Photo: Wang Jian-Dong

and their reputations are competitive with those of non-Western curators. These new border- crossing identities tend to lessen their own national positions in the turn towards a borderless transnationalism. Transcending tangible boundaries and concepts of nation, transnationalism refers to those multiple modern conflicts between reality and illusion such as humanism, environmental consciousness, migration problems, and so on. Also, transnationalism usually sides with the subaltern in these multiple modern conflicts. Hence, the discourse of strategic essentialism never disappears, but the definition of the groups that subscribe to it has changed.

The complicated identities of strategic essentialism appear frequently in the contemporary art world and in many international biennials. Chronologically speaking, the year that the Asian economy started to rise abruptly was the time when transnationalist ideas swept in. What is displayed in the different dimensions of troubled or prospering times is the constant fight between socialism and capitalism.

In the twenty-first century, the art world itself already shows the signs of polarization, whether the data supports the structure of an M-shaped society or not. For example, the two dominant Western exhibitions, namely the Venice Biennale and documenta, Kassel, in 2007 were attacked by many critics as not radical enough in their historical and global collation of formal and conceptual aesthetics. Nevertheless, the critics of these exhibitions are themselves not real social subalterns by definition, but, rather, dominators who interpret art developments. In addition, some works inspired by the marginal—and that might speak up for the subaltern today—will soon be spot-lit in major exhibitions tomorrow.

Two Types of Positions and Claims The rise of the Asian biennial is related to the development of the Asian economy under globalization. For whom does the Asian biennial speak? Or is it an activity of purely competitive cultural performance without the purpose of speaking for anyone? In the context of the new M- shaped phenomenon, subjectivity in the ideas of the Asian biennial is becoming complicated. Among Asian biennials, the strong contrast between the Taipei Biennial and the Beijing Biennale ruptures the definition of Spivak’s strategic essentialism; hence they will serve as contrary examples.

Shifted Ground: The Taipei Biennial Chronologically, Taipei was the first city to hold a Chinese biennial. Also in the Pan-Pacific area of East and North Asia, the Taipei Biennial is a good example through which to discuss the path from post-colonialism to transnationalism. The Taipei Biennial not only challenges Spivak’s ideas, but also overthrows the definition of its subject. As an Asian international metropolis having a troubled relationship with mainland China following Japanese occupation, Taipei has borne the issue of national identity for nearly a half century. In the long-term splintering of its identity, finding ways of establishing cultural subjectivity has been changing with the alternation

50 Agnès Varda, Patatutopia, 2004, video installation at the Taipei Biennale: Do You Believe in Reality? Photo: Jian Zi-Jie

of local politics and cultural authorities, which gradually reveals the shift of context from cultural subjective identity, post-colonial discourse, and internationalism to transnationalism.

It was in 1996 that the term biennial was first used by the Taipei Fine Arts Museum (TFAM). TFAM asked active Taiwanese artists to work with post-colonial discourses focused on the theme The Quest for Identity, and the biennial catalogue can be seen as the almanac of contemporary Taiwanese art. Afterward, nearly one-tenth of the participants in this biennial were selected as representatives for the Taiwan Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. However, the Web site for the 1996 Taipei Biennale no longer exists. According to official data, the first biennial at TFAM is the 1998 exhibition Site of Desire, curated by Fumio Nanjo from Japan.

Bringing together artists from four countries in the northeast Asia—China, Japan, Korea, and Taiwan—Site of Desire focused its discourses on the phenomenon of mammonism—the pursuit of material wealth—in Asian society from both foreign and local perspectives. The exhibition combined an extension of postcolonialism with a new-Asian modernity under globalization and presented it within the context mammonism of Taiwanese politics at that time. In 2000, with a new system in place of coupling local and foreign co-curators, the theme of the biennial at TFAM was The Sky Is the Limit. This biennial claimed that the new cultural identity under globalization lay in the borderless virtual and intermixed world. The theme for the 2002 biennial was Great Theatre of the World. Quoting the work of the Spanish playwright Pedro Calderon de la Barca, this biennial brought forth the notion that the world is a theatre and introduced related Western theories about film and images as well.2 In 2004, the curators turned toward French concepts from the writing of French philosopher Gilles Deleuze by adopting the line “Do you believe in reality?” as its theme.3 The content of this biennial displayed a transnational structure and presented modern issues that included the migration of global populations, contemporary changes in cities and countries, and the conflicts of modernization. Owing to an imbalance between the work of local and foreign curatorial teams regarding many crucial issues such as the selection of local and foreign artists, the fourth Taipei Biennial in 2004 caused much complaint from local participants. However, it remains the biennial with the greatest percentage of local artists since 1998, and, as such, offered them an unprecedented opportunity to represent themselves. In 2006, the theme Dirty Yoga suggested that “desire” is the promoting force for society in place of science and morality. In that year, the number of local artists declined.

In 1998, the first curator of the Taipei Biennial originated from Japan, followed in subsequent years by foreign curators from France, Spain, and the United States, to one from Turkey in 2008. From 1998 on, the Taipei Biennial can be regarded as epitomizing the context of international biennials, an Asian stage for international artists, or the harbour for a local artist to sail into the international art world; meanwhile, it also reflects the changing cultural trends in Taipei. This city does not have a cultural policy, but it does possess sensitivity to the mainstream global art world. In the last decade, the Taipei Biennial has established a certain relationship between Taipei

51 and the international art world and has also achieved some diplomatic impact by presenting Taiwanese artists at international events afterwards. In other words, with its essential strategy of “removing regionalist essentialism,” it re-defines a new form of social marginal content in the complicated realm of identities. It brings together different voices with different living experiences.

In 2008, the curatorial concept of the Taipei Biennial addressed a constellation of issues arising from neoliberal capitalist globalization as seen in many international cities, Belgian curator Barbara Vanderlinden at the opening of the 2004 Taipei Biennial: Do You such as anti-globalization actions, Micro-nations, foreign Believe in Reality? Courtesy of ARTCO Archive, Taipei. labour forces, and urban transformation. This biennial, through its inclusion of certain international artists, showed some examples of strategic essentialism demonstrated by the anti-globalization movement. Through this event, Taipei became a temporary platform for those who oppose globalization.

Disclosed Ground: The Beijing Biennale With respect to history and territory, China is the leading power in Asia. In the last century, China’s frustration with the West lies in neither cultural depth nor interpretation of history, but in the comparative speed of modernization. In the complexities of China’s “anti-West” attitudes and the “anti-China” attitudes demonstrated by the West, there is actually a stalemate rather than a strong/weak dichotomy.

Located in the capital of one of the leading countries in the world, the Beijing Biennale is able to obtain support from the Department of Culture and Department of Diplomacy as well as stand up for its own views toward nation and aesthetics. The official title of the Beijing International Art Biennale already sets a particular tone on cultural subjectivity, aesthetics, and even forms and categories that happen to be in contradiction to the trends of international contemporary art. While the Taipei Biennial, with its subaltern international position, chooses to side with the dominant international art worlds, the Beijing Biennale chooses currently less popular artistic forms to separate itself from them.

Ever since the 2008 Olympic Games were awarded to Beijing, the Beijing Biennale has been regarded as the cultural activity that would accompany the Olympiad. The previous two biennales, in 2003 and 2005, can be seen as a warming-up for 2008. The theme of the first Beijing Biennale was Originality: Contemporaneity and Locality, while that of the second was Contemporary Art with Humanistic Concerns and the third, Colours and Olympism. The discourse of the first Biennale defended traditional plastic arts such as painting and sculpture while opposing conceptual and installation art. Although foreign curators were invited to select foreign artworks, those in authority took the full charge of the direction of the Biennale in terms of ideas and argued that “the originality of art does not necessarily lie in new materials or new forms. In the catalogue for the Biennale, many texts suggested the relativity of China’s relationship to the world, including the essays “The World Belongs to China, China Belongs to the World,” “Art Exhibition and National Cultural Strategies,” “The Courage to Turn Away from Capitalism,” “An Exhibition Reconstructing National Independence and Confidence,” “Stand up for Our Nation,” and “The World’s Acceptance to China.”4

If biennials have become the symbol of contemporary art currents, the Beijing Biennale is actually opposite to the currents of contemporary international biennials. Without developing connections

52 to any other Asian biennials, the Beijing Biennale ignores the fact that many local sites in Beijing have become the new footholds for the international art world. However, in the aesthetic utopia of the Beijing Biennale, modernity also meets with marketability. For instance, works from the 2003 and 2005 Beijing Biennales such as Three Gorges: Displaced Population & Three Gorges: Newly Displaced Population and Sketch on Battleground—New Depiction of the Eighteen Arhats, became blockbuster successes at auctions in 2007 and 2008, respectively. Three Gorges: Displaced Population & Three Gorges: Newly Displaced Population focuses on Regina Silveira, Irruption Series (Sega), migrant workers; Sketch on Battleground—New Depiction of 2006, site specific installation at Taipei Fine the Eighteen Arhats depicts the recruits at Jinmen Fortress on Arts Museum during Taipei Biennale: Dirty Yoga. Courtesy of ARTCO Archive. Jinmen (Kinmen) Island, one of the confrontational points between China and Taiwan. Existing in marginal social roles, both migrant workers and soldiers meet the category of the subaltern or the unspeakable, but both garner high prices once they enter the public realm in the form of artworks. This proves that “the subaltern cannot speak” as claimed by Spivak, and it also proves that artworks ultimately belong to the art world.

Compared with other biennials, the Beijing Biennale forms a different kind of aesthetic essentialism with its strong cultural policy and its ambition to revive certain art genres. Owing to its dominance among cities, it is possible for Beijing to surreally and ideally present a prospect beyond reality; however, in the entire context of Western or non-Western biennials, it appears relatively weak and dull. Without a brand new exhibition structure, idea, strategy, or conditions to attract the international art world, the Beijing Biennale has limited its voice to that of a national art exhibition.

Conclusion Summarizing all the common problems of the two biennials with their desire to speak, we now return to Spivak’s argument: the point is not who is speaking or what is spoken, but who is listening, what is heard, and what responses are made. Biennials function in the role of advocate, and if the advocate can’t communicate effectively in service of the advocated, the advocacy is reduced to a kind of exploitation. If the contemporary art and cultural worlds tend to make provocations against institutions, civilization, utility, or responsibility, their practice is not one of “speaking for the subaltern” but, rather, is a totalitarian political act as defined by Hannah Arendt. This kind of act, “hegemonic otherness,” executes movement by the gesture of clinging to subaltern groups. In this respect, although the discourses of Spivak’s “strategic essentialism” and Arendt’s “source of totalitarianism” belong to different realms, they are similar in nature. We therefore need to reconsider, under the current conditions of globalization and an art market boom, how to find the speaking position for artists in non-Western/non-mainstream/non-Euro-American biennials. This will be one major reason to continue Asian biennials of contemporary art.

Translated by Jessie Kuo

Notes 1 Gayatri Spivak, “Widow Sacrifice,” Wedge 7/8 (Winter/Spring 1985), 120–30. 2 See the catalogue Great Theatre of the World: 2002 Taipei Biennial (Taipei: Taipei Fine Arts Museum, 2002). 3 See the Web site for the 2004 Taipei Biennale, Taipei Fine Arts Museum, at www.tfam.museum. 4 See Symposium for the 1st Academic Conference of Beijing International Art Biennale (Beijing: People’s Fine Arts Publishing House, 2003).

53 Sohl Lee Contradictions, Violence, and Multiplicity in the Globalization of Culture: The Gwangju Biennale

Yee Sookyung, Translated Vases, 2006, mixed media. Courtesy of the artist.

ince its inception in 1995, the Gwangju Biennale in South Korea has presented an exhibition every two years, and its 2008 edition opened this past September.1 Included in the recent S2006 Gwangju Biennale, Yee Sookyung’s installation Translated Vases visually represents the combination of forces that gave birth to Korea’s first Biennale in Gwangju, a Southern provincial city located three hundred kilometers away from the capital, Seoul. Before establishing its iconic status as the Biennale’s venue, Gwangju was already a symbol of another internationally known event—the 1980 Gwangju Uprising. When the memories of a state-sponsored massacre and the presence of an international art festival coexist, contradictions seem unavoidable. In Translated Vases, found fragments of contemporary renditions of Joseon Dynasty porcelain embodied violence in the act of destruction. Yee’s reconstruction of vases from this material guarantees neither tranquility nor purity that the unbroken whole sought to manifest; Yee reinvents the vases into unrecognizable irregular shapes. The evidence of gluing the shards together is not hidden, but, rather, explicitly demonstrated by the use of gold (a symbol of preciousness, prosperity, and vanity) as an adhesive. A broken tradition and forgotten past have been transformed into a new, aesthetically pleasing present with an exaggerated commodity value. With Translated Vases, then, begins a metaphorical discussion on exhibiting the “local” art and culture in the international setting, especially when considering that the curators of the 2006 Biennale presented Asia as the theme by defining an “Asian perspective” on contemporary art.2

The first half of this essay illustrates the often overlooked geopolitical history of South Korea in the 1980s and 1990s to reveal how the Biennale has compulsorily embraced globalism within its identity and how this very will to globalism is imposed upon the local memories of Gwangju. The second part attempts to defy observation of the site as a “locale” that is simply affected by the “global” through analysis of globalization as a composite of fluid forces—multiple scales of influences that cannot be categorized as either global or local—as well as by identifying the multiple actors

54 Yee Sookyung, Translated Vases (detail), 2006, mixed media. Courtesy of the artist.

who participate in producing and transforming the Biennale. As a palpable site of irreconcilable contradictions and a product of this particular geopolitical city and country of Northeast Asia, the Gwangju Biennale becomes both an object of study and a framework for interpreting the globalization of a culture full of fragmentations, incongruity, and “refractions of violence.”3

In modern Korean history, Gwangju is often considered a synonym for the 1980 Gwangju Uprising—a protest for democracy and against the military government, which was eventually suppressed by the state army force that slaughtered as few as several hundred and as many as two thousand civilians.4 Opening remarks published in recent Gwangju Biennale catalogues mention the 1980 Uprising as a motivation for the artistic transcendence of the painful past and an inspiration for visualization of a counter-hegemonic spirit, yet these remarks are made only in passing, as if organizing the Biennale itself in Gwangju is sufficient recognition of the protest and its consequences for the victims and their families.5 At first glance, the history of a political scar arising from violence on its own people are at odds with the presence of an international art festival closely linked with cultural tourism. The social and political contexts of the 1990s illuminate the reasons behind the art event’s highly visible disjunction.

Korea’s first civilian government was inaugurated in 1993, after over four decades of military regimes. This new administration actively pursued segyehwa, a Korean term roughly translated as globalization but lacking globalization’s emphasis on de-territorialization.6 Government-initiated, nationalistic segyehwa underscores, according to historian Samuel Kim, “a state-enhancing, top- down strategic plan.”7 The idea of international art exhibitions fit the central government’s desire for openness through culture. When the central government needed a biennial within South Korea to complete the segyehwa project,8 Gwangju’s geopolitical history of the 1980s compelled it to assign the first biennial, a cultural and economic opportunity, to this particular site. An international art

55 exhibition thus became compensation for the political trauma of the prior decade and a marker of the central government’s ambition.

Linking the 2008 Gwangju Biennale with the Johannesburg Biennale9 and documenta, renowned global curator Okwui Enwezor categorizes the three as “responses to events connected to traumatic historical ruptures.”10 Of the Gwangju Biennale specifically, Enwezor said, “[for] South Korea, it was the turn to democracy after repressive military dictatorships . . . that gave impetus to signify to the rest of the world that the ground for the work of imagination . . . is an important part of the transition [towards democracy].”11 Enwezor correctly points out that it is “the work of imagination” that is at play in Gwangju; but, more importantly, what Enwezor’s account does not elaborate View of monument in the new National Cemetery in 2008. Courtesy of the author. on is this very imagination’s potential to visualize the illusion of a transition instead of assisting the transition. Similarly, the imagined transition to segyehwa in the Gwangju Biennale becomes a reified image, perhaps substituting the possibility to facilitate that eventuality.

If Enwezor’s analysis dangerously leaves room for misunderstanding what the Gwangju Biennale represents, historian Martin Jay’s observation of Gwangju in 1997 elucidates the contradictions and violence still present at the site. In Jay’s words, the Biennale manifests “a refraction of violence.”12 Rather than leading to a transition towards democracy, the 1980 massacre led to a biennial. Jay recalls his two visits to Gwangju, first to the “old cemetery,” the gravesite where victims were hastily buried in 1980 and to which their families still return to pay homage, and second to the “new cemetery,” the state-sponsored mammoth, symbolic monument where victims’ bodies were re-buried in 1997. Those who considered the construction of the new site as “the act of official closure” of the democratic movement protested against the move of the bodies to the new cemetery.13 The vast, overwhelming scale of this political trophy, a project of the newly instituted civilian government, indeed creates a tragic juxtaposition in which “the actual victims are dwarfed by the monument to their memory.”14 The bodies are there, yet not there; their stories and agency are suppressed only to reinforce the instant spectacularization and consecration of the victims. The chronological simultaneity in the planning of both the new cemetery and the Gwangju Biennale in the early 1990s suggests the visual reification of democracy and globalization in a country where these two meta-concepts are far from immediate realization.

The new cemetery’s political use and architectural design share uncanny similarities with the Korean art scene of the 1990s, as described by art historian and critic Young Chul Lee. Lee suggests: “the sheer quantity of big art events tends to render them empty of all art. The energy of Korean contemporary art emanates from a deep desire to be merely demonstrative, an energy that is

56 not truly artistic but governmental, both on a national and a regional level.”15 According to Lee’s compelling remark, political interests create a disparity between the Biennale’s structure (politicians’ ambitions and grand curatorial claims) and its content (the artworks themselves). With the Gwangju Biennale, the 80s—a time marked by political strife—becomes a forgotten past replaced by the 90s, “a decade of mass culture, instant View of old graveyard in 1980. Courtesy gratification, [and] body politics.”16 This abrupt shift embodies of Nam Kyungtaek. inherent contradictions that stem from “the desire itself to meet change and make a profit from it rather than to solve real problems that won’t go away.”17 In the very internationalism sought by enlarging the scale of the event, the Gwangju Biennale may also have turned itself into an artwork that reflects contradictions embedded in Korean society, while simultaneously functioning as a proxy for the professed progress.

To pose the question of visual representation within and outside of the Gwangju Biennale, I will closely examine Yee Sookyung’s Translated Vases. Yee’s mutilated, incoherent vases share similarities with the 1980 Uprising victims re-buried in the new cemetery. The sense of disorder within the making of the vases themselves is juxtaposed with the control exercised in their arrangement, looking not unlike the new cemetery with its evenly lined up gravestones. The function of memory in both cases adds an interpretative layer: the victims’ haunted personal memories were utilized to falsely profess the central government’s will to democracy and globalization, while the broken ceramic pieces were transformed into artwork that supposedly represents “an Asian perspective” in a mega-scale international exhibition. Upon closer observation of the viewers’ bodily experience with Translated Vases, yet another parallel between the cemetery and the installation is revealed. Multiple flourescent-light cylinders are placed at the visitors’ waist level. In order to see the intriguing vases closer, the viewers need to kneel, bending their knees in and hunching their backs. As if paying homage to the political victims before their gravestones, the viewers are paying homage to artworks suffocated by the institutional weight of one of today’s largest biennials.

The burden of an institutional framework not merely overshadows the artworks but also creates internal contradictions within the Biennale. Understanding the combination of political, social, and economic circumstances provides a discursive ground from which to re-examine the work of cultural globalization: multiple forces arising from the capital Seoul, the Asia-Pacific region, and the globe constitute multi-directional influences that cannot be grouped together under the impact of the mega-global; Gwangju is also an unstable and un-locatable entity that constantly transforms and thus cannot be defined within a peripheral-local designation.

Domestic concerns and political conflicts between Gwangju and Seoul create a centre/periphery dynamic that is invisible within the global/local dichotomy. Noting the hidden tension between the two cities, New York based art critic Eleanor Heartney writes in her review of the first Gwangju Biennale that “in ways that were not always obvious to outside visitors, the Biennale’s form and location were greatly shaped by internal concerns.”18 Seoul, rising as one of the largest global cities in the world, has distanced itself from other Korean cities during the last two decades.19 Seoul is also a metonym for the central government against which the dissident Gwangju people struggled in 1980. During the preparation process for the first Biennale, the central and the local governments argued over whether to give the decision-making authority to the Ministry of Culture based in Seoul or the city of Gwangju.20 Although the initial conflict ended with Gwangju’s

57 View of gravestones in the new National Cemetery in 2008. Courtesy of the author.

victory,21 there continued to be conflicts as Gwangju is still dependent on the central government for a portion of the Biennale’s funding.22 In planning the Biennale, Gwangju lacks self-sufficiency as it, unlike Seoul, does not have the infrastructure to educate and support art professionals. Gwangju’s bureaucratic officials often have dissonant relationships with curators outsourced from Seoul, resulting in turf wars.23 Both the motivation for the Biennale’s creation and the continued political conflicts resonate in its structure, often outweighing artworks on display.

Asia’s regional changes since the mid 1990s add another dynamic element to the picture, as the establishment of other biennials in the vicinity24 triggers insecurity within Gwangju. Gwangju has its own reasons to claim itself as the foremost Asian biennial: its average budget between 1990 and 2006 was the highest in the world,25 and its audience figures are equally impressive: in 1995 the Gwangju audience numbered 1.6 million and in 1997 close to a million, while the 1997 Venice Biennale received around 60,000 visitors.26 Even when noting the ambiguous relevance of these statistics to the level of criticality in the exhibit’s artistic discourse, the sheer vastness of the Biennale’s scale tells of a relativist logic behind its institutional identity. Gwangju’s insecurity in fact stems from its geopolitical location as a provincial city in Korea—in addition to its distance from the capital city, it is also not Shanghai or Beijing, the world-recognized centres of the exploding Chinese contemporary arts scene. The 1997 Gwangju Biennale catalogue indicates an awareness of its organizers to the external competition and pressure, and the focus of their attention on the issue of survival among—and differentiation from—other biennials.27 The 2000 Biennale artistic director Oh Kwangsu, contemplating the issue of the Biennale’s international identity, decided to include more artists from Asia, rather than from other parts of the world.28 As seen previously, the 2006 Biennale embodied neither Gwangju nor Korea, but the larger region of Asia as its theme and inspiration. It seems that keeping to the theme of “local” in Gwangju—its “dissident spirit,” political trauma, and historical marginality within Korea—cannot differentiate the Biennale enough to guarantee its survival within the global arts community.

As the site of a mega-international exhibition, the Biennale becomes a crossroads for diverse groups of participants: multiple players—central and local politicians, administrators in Gwangju, and curators from across the globe—and multiple audiences from Gwangju, other parts of Korea, and outside of the country, whether as local residents making a family weekend trip or as art critics with accumulated frequent flyer mileage biennial “hopping” in East Asia. This can lead to areas of experimentation, in which the ambitions of artistic directors often differ dramatically from the expectations of the Gwangju city officials. For example, in stark contrast with the mayor’s emphasis on regional economic benefits from cultural tourism, the main aim of the Biennale’s 2004 artistic director, Yongwoo Lee, was to alter the spectator’s position in artist-viewer relations. 29 Foreign curators, who are called upon to participate in the design of the exhibitions, contribute yet another

58 Yee Sookyung, installation view of Translated Vases at the 2006 Gwangju Biennale. Courtesy of Kim Kyeongbum and the Namdo Daily.

voice that represents a different agenda or exposes a lack of knowledge about Korea and Gwangju. In 1997, the Swiss-born curator Harald Szeemann (1933–2005), who had joined the Biennale as a commissioner, was criticized for exhibiting artworks mainly by European artists with whom he had already established familiarity, thus representing the Western hegemony that the Biennale had claimed to refute.30 Conflicting interests produce instability, with the Biennale reflecting neither a single stakeholder’s agenda nor a combination of all of its participants’ wishes.

Within the prevalent international exhibition model, curatorial experiments incorporating discourse about the world’s most contemporary art coexist disjunctively within the institutional framework of cultural politics. As this inherent incongruity incapacitates any efforts at explaining the globalization of culture with a single clean-cut formula, the case study of the Gwangju Biennale requires the exploration of local memory, political history, and multiple scales of ever-changing influences. My analyses of the globalization of culture in Gwangju, therefore, do not result in a conclusive resolution to the Biennale’s conflicts or contradictions; rather, I uncover questions to be seriously considered when discussing this particular Biennale. How does the Gwangju Biennale interact with and evolve in parallel to its Korean siblings, namely the Seoul International Media Art Biennale and the Busan Biennale, both launched in 2000? Considering the landscape of the Korean arts scene, what is the cultural impact of having three mega exhibitions within South Korea? On the larger scope of East Asia, how do the nine biennial exhibitions that opened this past fall affect the region’s economy of artistic production, dissemination, and critical engagement? And, finally, what do these biennials contribute in terms of the artistic discourses on cultural production from East Asia?

Here I return to Translated Vases in order to explore the process of turning “the local” into “the global” and to further provoke what that process may entail for the Gwangju Biennale or other biennales in the so-called “non-Western” countries. It is necessary to know that the initial violent act of destroying the vases was not done by Yee but by a renowned potter, Yim Hang-taek. In order to continue replicating the Joseon Dynasty white porcelain’s perfection, unfaithful renditions of the tradition must be destroyed in the hands of the artist himself as a way of quality control via the act of erasure. Yee’s installation represents not the act of destroying tradition but the violence done to parts of tradition in an attempt to preserve only what one considers worthy of conservation and promotion. Translated Vases thus embodies this paradox in the desire to achieve an ideal representation of a local tradition in contemporary society through self-selection, self-censoring, or even self-orientalization as expressed in the words of Richard Vine in his review of the 2006 Gwangju Biennale.31 Yee’s reconstructing of “refractions of violence” thereby becomes critical commentary on the contestable notions of tradition and authenticity that represent “the local” in a more globalizing society of the twenty-first century, an institutional dilemma that the Gwangju Biennale is yet to overcome.32

59 Notes 1 This article was originally written for the panel “Multiculturalism, Migration, and the Mega-Exhibition: Considering the Impacts of Contemporary Festivals, Biennales, and Documentas” as part of the Association of Art Historians’ Annual Conference held in London in April 2008. I thank the panel conveners Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen and Royce W. Smith for their continued support and encouragement. I am also grateful to Bob Foster and Rachel Haidu for generously offering me insightful comments. 2 See the 2006 Gwangju Biennale exhibition catalogue, Fever Variations (Gwangju: Gwangju Biennale Foundation, 2006), 211. 3 “Refractions of violence” is Martin Jay’s phrase, which I will explore more in depth later in the paper. See Martin Jay, “Kwangju: From Massacre to Biennale,” in Refractions of Violence (New York: Routledge, 2003). 4 The government’s official record counts the victims among protesters as 165, but an unknown number of civilians were indiscriminately slaughtered by the state army force. The Foundation of 518 Victims’ Families’ Web site: http://www.518kdfamily.org/. 5 The 1995 Biennale presented an ancillary exhibition titled Spirit of May, referring to the Uprising that occurred on May 18, 1980. 6 See Charles K. Amstrong’s “Introduction: Civil Society in contemporary Korea” in Korean Society: Civil Society, Democracy and the State, edited by Charles K. Amstrong (New York: Routledge, 2002),1–10. 7 See Samuel S. Kim “Korea and Globalization (Segyehwa): A Framework for Analysis” in Korea’s Globalization, edited by Samuel Kim (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 2–3. 8 Preparations for the first Korean Pavilion in the 1995 Venice Biennale were concurrently underway. 9 The Johannesburg Biennale failed to continue after its second exhibition in 1997. 10 Okwui Enwezor, “Mega-Exhibitions and the Antinomies of a Transnational Global Form,” Documents no. 23 (Spring 2004), 10. 11 Ibid., 10–11. 12 Martin Jay, “Kwangju: From Massacre to Biennale,” in Refractions of Violence (New York: Routledge, 2003), 2. 13 Ibid., 78.

14 Ibid., 78. 15 Young Chul Lee, “Contemporary Korean Art in 1990s,” presented at a conference “Inside Out: Reassessing International Cultural Influence “ in Wroclaw, Poland, June 1999: http://www.apexart.org/conference/Lee.htm, accessed March, 16, 2008. 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid. 18 Eleanor Heartney, “Into the International Arena” Art in America 84, no. 4 (April 1996), 51. 19 Saskia Sassen, “Whose City Is It? Globalization and the Formation of New Claims,” in Public Culture 8, no. 2 (1996), 208. 20 During the author’s interview in New York on October 3, 2007, an official of the Korean Ministry of Culture (Assistant Director, Department of Arts Education) recalls the initial conflict between the two cities. 21 Even for the third Biennale in 2000, the Gwangju Biennale Foundation’s board of trustees was led by the mayor of Gwangju, and the Foundation’s chief of administration was the city’s vice mayor. See Lee Joohyun’s “The Gwangju Biennale, what is its challenge?” in MoonhwaGwahak 17 (March 1999), 208. 22 Robert Fouser, “Picnic in an art garden: The 2000 Kwangju Biennale,” in Art Asia Pacific no. 29 (2001), 24–26. 23 Jeon Joo-eun, “Response to criticism of provincial bureaucracy,” in Wolganmisool (November 1998) http://monthlyart.com/, accessed on November 3, 2007. 24 Namely, the Shanghai Biennale in 1996, the Yokohama Triennale in 2001, the Guangzhou Triennial in 2002, and the Singapore Biennale in 2006. See http://www.aaa.org.hk/onlineprojects/bitri/en/didyouknow.aspx, accessed November, 26, 2008. 25 Ibid. Also to be noted is that the organizers of the first Gwangju Biennale in 1995 invested $23 million, an amount unheard of in the world of international exhibitions. 26 Gwanghyun Sim, “Manipulating Reality: Social Malady of Provincial Bureaucracy,” in Wolganmisool (December 1998) http:// monthlyart.com/, accessed on November 3, 2007. 27 See the 1997 Gwangju Biennale catalogue, Unmapping the Earth (Gwangju: Gwangju Biennlae Foundation, 1997), 25. 28 Defining the Biennale’s identity became an important issue, and the artistic director Oh Kwang-su seemed to reach the conclusion that the Biennale should include more Asian artists in order for it to become “a distinctly Asian international event.” See the exhibition catalogue Man + Space (Gwangju, Gwangju Biennlae Foundation, 2000), 19. 29 The curators selected “viewer participants” from across the globe to be paired up with “artist partners.” The Biennale exhibited the result of collaborative creation. See the curatorial objectives at http://2004.gwangju-biennale.org/eng/exhibition/exhibition_viewer. asp, accessed on November 17, 2007. 30 Robert Fouser, “The Kwangju Biennale: Unmapping the Enmapped,” in Art Asia Pacific, no.18 (1998), 22. 31 Richard Vine, “Sins of Omission,” Art in America (January 2007), 73. Vine’s exact words are: “a new-style Orientalist reverie . . . dreamed . . . by East Asia’s own elite.” Although his above point adds an intriguing aspect to the discussion of the local/global, his criticism of the Biennale overall falls short due to his limited understanding of modern history of Korea and the Korea-U.S. relations. 32 For the 2008 Gwangju Biennale, entitled Annual Report: A Year in Exhibitions, artistic director Okwui Enwezor began a self-reflexive dialogue on biennial models by bringing exhibitions previously held elsewhere to Gwangju for a section called “On the Road.” On the larger scheme, the 2008 edition attempted to situate the Gwangju Biennale within the particular history of modern Korea as well as the cultural dynamism of the twenty-first century Asia.

60 Elsa Hsiang-chun Chen The Imagined Trans-Asian Community and the Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale

uring the past decade, contemporary art in the Asia-Pacific region has witnessed the impact of capitalist globalization. In the name of “contemporary Asian art,” exhibitions, Dthe art market, and art criticism worldwide have been flourishing. Some museum and art-historical study programs in Euro-America have also gradually adjusted to reflect this cultural and economic change. “Contemporary Asian art” seems to have become a new category that has been taken for granted. So, what does “contemporary Asian art” mean, anyway? Is it a geographical, historical, national, cultural, or aesthetic configuration? What kinds of relationships among trans- Asian communities does it signify? I will attempt to address these questions through a case study of the Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale (FT) in Fukuoka, a city in southern Japan.

Background FT and the Asia-Pacific Triennial of Contemporary Art organized by the Queensland Art Gallery in Brisbane, Australia, are the two major landmark exhibitions in the world dedicated to exhibit Asia-Pacific contemporary art.1 The first edition of FT (FT1), Communication: Channel for Hope, held in 1999, was also the inaugural exhibition of the then newly established Fukuoka Asian Art Museum (FAAM), one of the few museums devoted to researching, exhibiting, and collecting modern and contemporary art by Asian artists based in Asia. FT1 and the FAAM were received with great anticipation as their Amanda Heng, Another Woman, 1996, fourteen photographs, aim to begin formulating discourse on “contemporary Asian art” was installed in FT1. Photo: Fukuoka Asian Art Museum. clearly pioneering.2

FT and the FAAM did not emerge from a vacuum. As early as 1980, the Fukuoka Art Museum held its first Asian Art Show exhibiting what was then largely ignored contemporary Asian art. The Asian Art Show was the predecessor of FT, and FT1 was initially supposed to be the Fifth Asian Art Show. In 1992, the mayor of the Fukuoka City expressed a strong will to build a museum of modern and contemporary Asian art. When the museum, the FAAM, was established, it took over the Fukuoka Art Museum’s modern and contemporary Asian art projects and collection. The Asian Art Show was expanded, renamed FT, and became the largest periodical exhibition of the FAAM.

Based on FAAM’s determined and continuous efforts in research and collection, the intention of FT was to introduce works or projects that represent the latest trends in contemporary Asian art. In addition to exhibitions, FT also established significant artists’ residency programs as well as forums and conferences. Different formats of catalogues were published simultaneously with every edition of FT and not only carried reviews and debates on recent developments in contemporary Asian art, but also revealed the selection criteria, processes, and major curatorial decisions, aspects that are often not made visible in other such large-scale exhibitions. FT2: Imagined Workshop,

61 FT2 Workshop. Photo: Fukuoka Asian Art Museum.

in 2002, and FT3: Parallel Realities, in 2005, which emphasized respectively the transformation of collaborative craft traditions and the most recent digital technological advances, seemed to represent FAAM’s broad and diverse approach to contemporary Asian art. In the fall of 2009, the long-awaited FT4 is going to be held after four years’ of research and preparation.3

“Contemporary Asian Art”? “Asia,” as a category, is never just a geographical definition. What it connotes is usually different for people from other histories, cultures, geopolitical, economic, and ethnic backgrounds. For example, at least until the beginning of this century, “Asia” and “Asians” for many people in Britain referred to those who came from former British colonies in South Asia such as India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, etc., and their offspring, be they of British nationality or not. On the other hand, “Asia” and “Asians” for many North Americans signifies those who have come from East Asia such as Japan, Korea, Taiwan, and, more recently, mainland China, a result of the historical legacy of World War II, the Cold War, the booming East Asian economy since the 1980s, and the recent economic and geopolitical rise of China.

Taking into consideration its exhibition structure and content, “Asia” for FT appears to include the areas usually called Northeast Asia, Southeast Asia, and South Asia, and to the west of Japan, east of Pakistan, south of Mongolia, and north of the Philippines, excluding North Korea and most Central and West Asian countries. Shinji Goto, one of the FT1 curatorial committee members, tried to historicize the concept of “Asia” in relation to FT and the FAAM. He explained that the term originated in Greece and fifteenth-century maritime Europe, where “Asia” was referred to in a degrading way rather than connoting any consciousness of regional integration. Using the research by Kang Sang-jung, a Korean Japanese professor of Tokyo University, Goto indicated that “Asia” became a term that indicated consciousness of regional integration only after the Sino- Japanese War. That’s when Japan, then dominated by right-wing military colonialists, embarked on its “Southward Policy” and decided to invade neighbouring Asian countries. Furthermore, he argued that the reason the FAAM and FT have been able to contribute to the formulation of “contemporary Asian art” and, hence, have a leading role in showing what “contemporary Asian art” is or can be, is in part, unavoidably, its historical legacy as well as the strong economic power of Japan and Fukuoka during recent decades.4 Goto’s critical reflection candidly and astutely revealed the legacy of the colonial geopolitical, economic, historical, cultural, and ideological structures that haunt, and might continue to haunt, the FAAM and FT’s formulation of “contemporary Asian art.” Echoing Gayatri Spivak’s renowned question, “Can the subaltern speak?,” he asked if contemporary Asian art can “speak” under such conditions.5

62 Wu Mali, Kuroshio, installation view at FT3, 2005. Photo: Wu Mali.

Indeed, the regions considered “Asia” as represented by FT and the FAAM are very similar with those by the Great East Co-Prosperity Sphere, a twentieth-century concept promoting a unified political and economic bloc of Asian nations independent of Western powers.6 In spite of this historical legacy and FT’s and the FAAM’s crucial role in shaping discourse on Asia, it is perhaps too early to say that FT and the FAAM have re-presented, once again, the Great East Co-Prosperity Sphere through art, the battlefield between Japanese and Euro-American military colonialism and imperialism in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

According to Kuroda Raiji, an important FT co-curator and now the Chief Curator of the FAAM, “contemporary Asian art” as promoted by FT and the FAAM has been one way to intervene in the mainstream development of contemporary art in the West that largely ignored what was happening in Asia, as well as in Japan, which over-privileged and uncritically followed the mainstream development of the West. He argued that under such circumstances, most of the museum resources worldwide have been over-invested in representing Western art and that this led to contemporary Asian art being “othered.” Hence, he continued, “contemporary Asian art” for FT and, especially, for the FAAM has been more a strategy of cultural resistance against the West than a reincarnated or mutated expression of Japanese colonialism and imperialism. The FAAM should function as a facilitator rather than a dominating force. He made this very clear in his fairly idealistic yet interesting point that the FAAM should “end its mission” and “destroy itself” when contemporary Asian art becomes a center in itself.7

Via “contemporary Asian art,” FT and the FAAM have been trying to create a collaborative network among Asian countries in order to transgress the historical binary oppositions between Asia and the West. As one of the very few museums in the world dedicated to modern and contemporary Asian art, the FAAM has been making persistent efforts not only in research, collections, and exhibitions, but also in consistently inviting artists, curators, and researchers to its residency programs in Fukuoka or elsewhere in Japan, depending on the participants’ proposed plans. These efforts have provided a great opportunity for the FAAM, Asian art professionals, and cultural workers, as well as local Japanese communities, to understand, empower, have dialogues with, and, perhaps, in the long run, transform each other. In this vein, I consider that what “contemporary Asian art” as promoted by FT and the FAAM has done and can do is to create more than a strategic and political concept or category. Contemporary Asian art is also a reality, which has its own unique historical and cultural traditions, aesthetic and social foundations, and changing relations and restructuring.

FT and the FAAM together have provided an organic mode of representation, enabling artworks and projects that are potentially more sensitive to cultural and historical difference and its complex

63 Wu Mali, Kuroshio, installation view in Shikanoshima, FT3, 2005. Photo: Wu Mali.

dialectical transformations. This model is time consuming and yet, perhaps, worth reconsidering under the current climate of hastily processed international biennials—in which, within less than two years, a curator or a small team of curators have to organize a world exposition of art. This has been a rather tormenting practice for the curators and artists as well as for the audience. Limited by time frame, budget, labour, market, competition among cities and institutions, individual historical and cultural understandings, and so forth, in some international biennials and mega exhibitions, especially those held in Euro-America, contemporary Asian art has been made to represent some specific aesthetic concepts, cultural impressions, historical sentiments, political allegories, specific forms, or even superstar brands. Contemporary Asian art sometimes even becomes a fashion that is used to illustrate global multiculturalism. Going back to Goto’s comment made with reference to Spivak’s question, I see that what FT and the FAAM have been struggling to accomplish is to make contemporary Asian art visible and seen within historical, ideological, aesthetic, geopolitical, and economic structural fissures. This has coincided with Spivak’s efforts in her writing and grassroots activist practices to make “the subaltern” speak and be heard under systematic and ideological oppression in history. One major difference is that Spivak has been very specific and precise in identifying the process of silencing in archives, literature, nation, society, and social relations while FT and the FAAM only identify “the West” against which all work by contemporary Asian artists of different historical and cultural backgrounds should resist.8

Thus, I wish to suggest that the rhetoric that FT and the FAAM used in identifying “the West” and its referents be re-visited, re-historicized, and relativized in order not to fall, once again, into the archaic binary ideological dilemma between the so-called “West” and “East” that has been in existence since at least the nineteenth century; “The West” in that context is not reality but has been an umbrella concept that signifies domination and hegemony. “The West” has often been uncritically used to strategically or essentialistically oppose domination and hegemony, and, as a result, unwittingly, to perpetuate the privileged status of the people and powers being opposed. Why did FT and the FAAM need “the West,” and what did they mean by their use of the term “the West?” These same questions can be posed not only to FT and the FAAM, but also to many art institutions in Taiwan, China, Korea, and other Asian countries that, to some extent, share similar

64 Wu Mali, Re-Thread, installation view, BBC Radio Lancashire in Blackburn, U.K., part of the FT3 residency program, 2006. Photo: Wu Mali.

histories and discourses about the subject of difference. To presume “the West” in such a way, I argue, is, unavoidably, to privilege mainstream or stereotyped Western Europe and North America. It also takes away the opportunity to understand the real Western Europe and North America (and beyond) from different perspectives, and the trajectories of complex, long-term, and productive transnational exchange that is inscribed in contemporary Asian art.

Relations between Trans-Asian Communities Finally, I wish to conclude my exploration by focusing again on the interesting dialogic transnational relations between trans-Asian communities that have been pursued by FT and the FAAM.

Three editions of FT stemmed from the fact that recent technological advances have made communication, transportation, and our daily lives more and more convenient, and, hence, have both condensed time and space and furthered globalization. These editions aimed to present art and cultural expressions that were able to reflect (on) this change, in which Japan has been playing a leading role, and its impact upon existing traditions and ways of life. In a spirit parallel to the electronic 3C (Computer, Communication, and Consumer Electronics), they proposed an aesthetic 3C (Communication, Collaboration, and Community). On the one hand, they problematized and reshuffled the boundaries between the modern and the traditional, technology and handicraft, (FT1-2) and art and fashion (FT3) by representing works and projects that integrated elements of media, forms, and concepts from both sides. On the other hand, they tried to contest the border between art and non-art communities and between communities of different national, historical, and cultural backgrounds in Asia by facilitating collaborative works and projects whose processes required and involved creative participation and communication (FT1-3).

FT’s attempts to de-hierarchize different art, cultural, and social practices and facilitate their mutual communication and collaboration offers a dialogic and self-reflexive model for the connecting of Asian communities and the formulating of a transforming, trans-Asian subjectivity on the basis of long-term face-to-face or daily encounters in a less hegemonic way. While most people in Asia and elsewhere still direct most of their attention to, and follow uncritically, the latest fashions emerging in (Euro-American) contemporary art biennials and mega exhibitions, and while some powerful art practices, institutions, and countries in the Asia-Pacific region are selectively integrating and cooperating with each other,9 FT’s model seems to offer a pertinent alternative to this global tendency.

65 In its ideological resistance to “the West,” FT created a discursive and time-based space for neglected transnational exchange within Asia and extended it to its diasporic communities. To take my own participation in and observation of FT3: Parallel Realities as an example, I happened to be the translator and curator, respectively, for Wu Mali’s residency and community art projects for FT3 held in Fukuoka, which later toured to Blackburn, in the UK. Kuroshio (2005), Wu’s project for Fukuoka, supported fully by the FAAM, made accessible the unknown link between Taiwan and Japan and its many small islands, such as Shikanoshima and Nokonoshima, by exploring their fishing communities’ shared experiences living in the area of Kuroshio.10 Re-Thread (2006), Wu’s project for Blackburn, a small desolate town in the far northwest of England whose economy went up and slid down with its once prosperous and now deserted textile industry, made us (two women from Taiwan, a place that also had its unique historical vicissitude of textile industry) and the visitors aware of the invisible stories of British migrant textile workers and their offspring who were of Asian ethnic origin. We gradually understood their complex trajectories from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, through Malawi in Africa, and finally to Britain. We learned something new each day and slowly built up a mutual understanding that was not accessible to us while we were in Taiwan, Asia, Germany, the U.K., the U.S.A., Canada, or Africa before. This experience has largely changed our perspective.11 To end with Shu-mei Shih and Françoise Lionnet’s insightful words, this dialogic transnational subject space is one of “exchange and participation wherever processes of hybridization occur and where it is still possible for cultures to be produced and performed without necessary mediation by the center.”12

Notes 1 For comparative views on these two exhibitions from the perspective of their curators, see Masahiro Ushiroshoji, “Asia Pacific Triennales and Fukuoka: a comparison,” Artlink 20, no. 2 (July 2000), 72; Caroline Turner, “Cultural Transformations in the Asia- Pacific: The Asia-Pacific Triennial and the Fukuoka Triennial Compared,” in John Clark, Maurizio Peleggi, and T.K. Sabapathy, eds., Eye of the Beholder: Reception, Audience and Practice of Modern Asian Art (Sydney: Wild Peony, 2007), 221–43. 2 A. W. Lloyd, “Reorienting: Japan rediscovers Asia,” Art in America 87, no. 10 (October 1999), 104–7; M. A. Greenstein, “1st Asian Triennale: Fukuoka Asian Art Museum, Japan,” Art/Text no. 66 (August/October 1999), 89–90; and K. Itoi, “Pacific Priorities: Japanese museums turn their sights on Asian Art,” Artnews 94 (May 1995), 68. 3 For further information on FAAM and FT, see their official Web site: http://faam.city.fukuoka.lg.jp/eng/home.html; FT1-3’s exhibition catalogues: The First Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale: Channels for Hope (Fukuoka: FAAM, 1999); The Second Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale: Imagined Workshop (Fukuoka: FAAM, 2002); and The Third Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale: Parallel Realities (Fukuoka: FAAM, 2005). For readers with Chinese reading proficiency, see also my 2002 articles published in Dian-cang-jin-yi-shu (Art Today) (later renamed ARTCO); a monthly magazine of contemporary art in Taiwan that shares the same publisher with Yishu, “FT2 and the history of the Fukuoka Asian Art Museum,” (June), “Imagined Workshop: A review of the curatorial rationale of the Second Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale” (May), and “Representing Asia or Asians?: The objective and mission of the Fukuoka Asian Art Museum in perspective” (May). 4 Shinji Goto, “Can ‘Asian Art’ Speak?” in Communication: Channels for Hope: The First Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale (Fukuoka: FAAM, 1999), 284–85. 5 Ibid. 6 See “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere,” Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greater_East_Asia_Co-Prosperity_Sphere . 7 Kuroda Raiji, “Report,” Seminar: Asian Art: Towards the 21st Century, The 1st Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale (Fukuoka: FAAM, 1999), 91–93. 8 For Spivak’s noted essays and interviews I am thinking of the following: Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg, eds., Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1988), 271–313; Gayatri Spivak, “The Rani of Sirmur: An Essay in Reading the Archives,” in History & Theory 24 (1985), 247–72; Gayatri Spivak, “Woman in Difference: Mahasweta Devi’s “Douloti the Bountiful,”’ in Andrew Parker et al., eds., Nationalisms and Sexualities (New York; London: Routledge, 1992), 96–117; and Gayatri Spivak, The Postcolonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, in Sarah Harasym, ed. (New York and London: Routledge, 1990). 9 For instance, Art Compass 2008 showed the co-operation among the 16th Biennale of Sydney, 7th Gwangju Biennale, 7th Shanghai Biennale, 2nd Singapore Biennale, and 3rd Yokohama Triennale. See its official Web site: http://www.artcompass2008.com/site/ ?page_id=4. 10 The Third Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale: Parallel Realities (Fukuoka: FAAM, 2005), 130–31. 11 Re-Thread was held at BBC Radio Lancashire in Blackburn from September 5 to October 1, 2006. It was made possible by the following institutions and individuals: South Asian community in Blackburn, FAAM, Blackburn Museum and Art Gallery, BBC Radio Lancashire, North West Sound Archive, Castlefield Gallery Manchester, BBC Radio Manchester, Chinese Art Centre Manchester. For further information, see http://www.castlefieldgallery.co.uk/Archive.asp?eKey=226&eP=1, and for Wu Mali’s interview with the BBC Women’s Hour Program, organized by Nicola Swords and Elsa Chen, see http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour/03/2006_ 38_thu.shtml. 12 Shu-mei Shih and Françoise Lionnet, “Introduction: Thinking through the Minor, Transnationally,” Shu-mei Shih and Françoise Lionnet (eds.), Minor Transnationalism (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2005), 1–23.

66 Long March Writing Group Excerpts from Yang Shaobin’s Notebook: A Textual Interpretation of X-Blind Spot

ang Shaobin owns a black notebook. It’s a very plain notebook, the kind Yfound in supermarkets or sidewalk stalls. It hasn’t been in use for long, and only one fifth of the pages have been written on. The cover appears worn, and pages protrude from inside. Ink and grease stain the title page. The notebook contains writings documenting Yang Shaobin’s two-year collaboration, from 2007 to 2008, with the Long March Project Yang Shaobin’s notebook. on the development of the exhibition X-Blind Spot, and includes art proposals, work notes, and sketches that reveal in vivid detail Yang Shaobin’s feelings and thoughts as an artist. The following contains excerpts from this notebook in addition to certain details and key terms that should help describe, refine, and expand Yang Shaobin’s indelible network of memories. This network is like a thread that is woven throughout the artistic production of this project. Philosopher and theorist Gilles Deleuze speaks of the space between visibility and existence.1 This space or “interstice” is like a crevice that engenders something new. X-Blind Spot seizes this interstice, this psychological space, in the hope of continuously forming unprecedented links.

Key Terms: Losing One’s Way Lu Jie, Xiao Xiong, Xiao Ma, Xiao Wang, and I departed from Long March Space in Beijing for the coal mines of Changzhi in Shanxi province to experience the life there. The journey by car was six hundred kilometres and took thirteen hours. Going along the Jingshi expressway, we all overlooked the fact that there was no interchange between the Jingshi expressway and Handan so we had to drive through the city of Handan before getting back onto the expressway. We didn’t stop to ask for directions until we got to Anyang, Henan province. Then we got on the Anlin expressway, switched expressways and were finally on our way to Changzhi. The road was bumpy and the car bottomed-out on several occasions. It rained along the way. By the time we arrived in Changzhi it was already eleven in the evening. The most aggravating aspect of the trip was the coal transport trucks. They drove recklessly and shone their headlights directly at oncoming vehicles. Changzhi is a small city. We eventually found a place to eat but it was filthy. The sesame paste on the floor looked like shit. The owner’s face was covered in scars. Disheartened, we returned to the hotel to rest after the meal. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, May 10, 2007

In 2003, when Yang Shaobin decided to collaborate with the Long March Project on an art project about coal mining, contemporary Chinese art was entering a period of rapid expansion. The

67 practice of painting in China during this time differed from that of a few decades prior, when fieldwork and painting from life were emphasized. With the exception of government-sanctioned art, “realism” and its corresponding set of aesthetic values were an increasingly inadequate means of expression in the face of a growing, money- hungry society. Like many artists today, commercially and academically successful contemporary artists prefer to work from private studios, looking to various texts and images as sources for their work. Yang Shaobin, Untitled, 1998–99, oil on canvas, 230 x 180 cm. Yang Shaobin was equally caught up in Courtesy of the artist and Long March Space, Beijing. this methodology; his technique, method, and design in the series of paintings commonly referred to as Red Violence (ongoing since 1998) and International Politics (ongoing since 2002) constituted and maintained a distinct style that was based primarily on texts and images. Such distinct elements became signature codes of his artistic practice and served as a safeguard and iconographic narrative, like that of many of his contemporaries, that catered to the pressures of satisfying a particular cultural identity within an international, market-driven platform.

But Yang Shaobin has never been one to settle for convention. His established working methods gradually began to eat away at his soul. He grew restless and started to examine and question the general direction of his work. For Yang Shaobin, the threadbare times of the “Yuanming Yuan era” 2 were a strong yet distant memory. He had already shown internationally in prestigious exhibitions including the 48th Venice Biennale and was representative of the successful post-’89 generation, earning both academic and commercial acclaim.

Yang Shaobin and curator Lu Jie (founder and director of the Long March Project) met in the early 1990s during the Yuanming Yuan period. Lu Jie curated Yang Shaobin’s first exhibition in 1994 and had a hand in the artist’s initial commercial art transactions, subsequently inviting Yang Shaobin to contribute to the Long March Project in 2002 as one of over 250 participants from China and abroad. The Long March Project is a complex, multi-platform, international arts organization and ongoing independent art project whose programs variably focus on the relationship between art and social life, providing artists with the possibility of engaging in different contexts of production. From 2004 to 2008, Yang Shaobin and the Long March team made numerous visits to rural coalmines in Hebei, Northeastern China, as well as many other coal mining communities within this region. The group descended into mining shafts, experienced the life of local workers, and collected source material, culminating in the first phase of the project, 800 Meters Under, which was showcased as an exhibition in September 2006 at Long March Space. Various components of 800 Meters Under have since been exhibited in The Real Thing: Contemporary Art From China, at Tate Liverpool, and at the Sharjah Biennial, and other international exhibitions. Lu Jie said of the project, “we don’t look at the project as a matter of an artist creating works, but rather at its implications for contemporary Chinese history, culture, and social development; 800 Meters Under represents a textual documentation of the social responsibility and morality of art.”3 Perhaps such philosophical motivations of the Long March Project expressed a more practical significance for Yang Shaobin as an individual. Such provocative challenges have led to the continued in-depth collaboration between Yang Shaobin and the Long March Project, resulting in the second phase of the coal mine project, X-Blind Spot, produced between 2007 and 2008.

68 Key Terms: On Site Excerpts from Yang Shaobin’s notebook, various dates Suzhou Antai Open-Pit Coal Mine: Yan Menguan, sheep flock, dog. Antai Open-pit coal mine. Overwhelming, imposing. Changing room, close-up of shower room. Work site: Excavator heaps coal onto KOMATSU 170 Winter scene. A very black and dirty road. The lens is focused on the road, capturing its changes. Record scenes at noon, record again at dusk. This way I can capture the temporal changes of the site, from lighting to atmosphere. In between the two shoots, take in-depth shots of another setting, like the open-pit coal mine or small-scale mine—best to get daytime and night-time shots for each.

Suzhou Anjialing Open-Pit Coal Mine: Dusk, overlooking a gigantic shaft. Changing room.

Inner Mongolia Project: Confirm possibility of aerial shoot, airplane altitude: 200 meters; cruising altitude: 300 meters (limitations).

Jinnan Coal Mine: Shoot miner running very quickly, body, two feet. Stepping on ground covered in coal ash, create tense atmosphere.

Baotou: Record clouds, starry night sky, the ground during strong winds, record with microscopic approach, look for elements of movement, bleakness, helplessness, paltriness, the sewer (use above for scenes)—can find it anywhere.

Changzhi Sanyuan Coal Mine: Shot of descending into shaft. (Light spot) moderate, indistinct . . . (cage) miners walking about. Tunnel is far and deep, flickering red light, enter work site, sound of machinery, noisy clamour. Partial light, oblong coal car in operation. A beam of light on the wall sways with movement of car. Swaying water, color: blue. A sunflower-like circular light flickering. A tunnel, the effect is pretty good. Black water bubbles . . . Work site: Miner’s face, a beam of light hits his face, it’s very bright. Digital numbers flickering, light shining on machinery, swaying. The work site of the miners is very good.

A miner doesn’t look directly into the camera, not bad. Miners examining and repairing facilities, sound of people talking, pretty good! Coal miners shoveling coal, can use. Sound of some of the miners interacting at work site, can use. Conveyor belt, momentum, add sound. Coal mining machine in operation, good sound. Shot connecting to ground level, only dimly discernible, light circle, add sound. Sound of our camera crew walking back. Electronic sign showing human figure. Shot ascending from shaft. Passing over group of miners below. Miners ascending from the cage.

69 70 Datong Wuguan Village mine: Slum, dead cat, indoor setting. Miner making a phone call. Miner ascending from shaft in the dark. Security check and awaiting security check. Jade green ceiling light reflected on miner’s face, getting shower voucher.

Fushun open-pit coal mine: Very empty scene. Pollution. Coal mountain waterfall. Mud, black water stream.

Tangshan small-scale coal mine: Shot of coal being poured in room. Entire shoot took three minutes, sufficient usable shots. Numbers visible, can be linked with dripping sound of hospital cardiogram. Cut back and forth between shaft entry and shaft entry of large mine. A miner operating in a high altitude, can link with scene of doctor performing lung lavage. Link image of hospital cardiogram with sound of migrant workers smashing roof. Water in the room, a sketch in the water. Wall reflected in water. Legless man walking in hutong, standing before a shaft. Link ruins of destroyed building with Baotou coal mine. Smoke and dust inside room, insects. Two auto mechanics, partial tire. Shot of tearing down building in the evening. Ruins under light, sound of breaking glass.

Baotou Yanggeleng: Shower. Miners ascending from shaft, a few miners moving about. . . . Close-up of miner, hurrying along the road. . . . Baotou Steel: smoke, dense smoke, cooling off water, icicle. Large-scale coal factory. Miners unloading coal from the top of train car. A long series of train cars. People look really small, many people.

Dongsheng small-scale coal mine: Four-wheeler moving back and forth from inclined shaft. Light getting brighter from a distance, can link with close-up of patient’s neck breathing in hospital room. Sun setting, coal mountain combusting.

Compared with 800 Meters Under, the sites observed for X-Blind Spot were more varied and covered more territory, including the four diverse coal mining districts of Shanxi, Hebei, Inner Mongolia, and Liaoning. The Shanxi Suzhou Antaibao open-pit coalmine is visually arresting and difficult to describe to someone who has not seen it with his or her own eyes. It is vast and far-reaching, like an excavation site on a terrestrial pole. The sky and earth are one colour, and there is nothing but boundless expanse for as far as the eye can see, like the surface of the moon. Even the gigantic excavators and transporters are dwarfed. The Komatsu 170 is a gigantic piece of machinery used to transport coal in outdoor environments. Its wheels are over two metres in diameter. The name “Blind Spot” is inspired by the fact that there are fifty- and sixty-metre blind spots in front of and behind the machine, respectively. The physical repercussions of such blindness, a technical consequence, lie in stark contrast to the immensity of this mining environment and to the visible risk of labour. Confronting such realities, Yang Shaobin and

Photographs taken during the research process for Long March Project—Yang Shaobin Coal Mining Project, 2004–08.

71 the Long March team responded to this vast social landscape, to its tangible and metaphysical elements, and attempted to reconcile this grand narrative of China’s industrialism with the reality of its repercussions.

Key Terms: Miner, Mine Supervisors, Contemporary Artist Ate breakfast at ten in the morning and discussed program. Lu Jie’s friend, Lao Yang, a coalmine supervisor, arrived at the hotel to meet with us. We discussed coalmine matters. At eleven, we drove with Yang to the Sanyuan Coal Mine, about twenty minutes from the city, to have lunch with the president of the mine and other leaders. It reminded me of the first time I went to the mine in Tangshan. After lunch, Xiao Wang, Xiao Ma, and myself retrieved the camera equipment from the car. Lu Jie and the coalmine president chatted. Xiao Xiong recorded this interaction.

We went to the supervisor changing room to change into clothes for going down the shaft. A security officer accompanied us into the shaft, which was three hundred metres deep. We were down in a few seconds. It was very clean inside and we rode a small mine car into the tunnel . . . the trip went smoothly. When we entered the work site, miners were examining and repairing equipment and turned on the machinery just for us. We set up the cameras to record from two different angles. We turned off the flash on the camera in order to avoid explosions. We ascended the shaft two hours later. We recorded everything on tape. In the evening, Lu Jie’s friend arranged a dinner. We drank a lot and played drinking games. Seven people drank five bottles of 35-year Fenjiu (a spirit distilled from sorghum). –Yang Shaobin’s notebook , May 11, 2007

When we arrived at the sealed-off small-scale mine, a few miners were working and an elderly person was standing guard at the mountain. General manager Wei drove toward a legal open-pit coal mine. The workers halted their entire operation when they saw us coming because they were scared. I didn’t understand. They resumed work once we left.

We went to the television station with general manager Yang to look for information about coal mine disasters and small-scale mines. Earlier, the director had promised to provide us with some materials. However, we realized we couldn’t use any of the information he gave us. General manager Yang was very displeased. I felt helpless because it was [politically] sensitive information. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, May 14 and October 4, 2007

X- Blind Spot employed video, installation, sculpture, photography, and other forms of media, and this multifaceted use of material was as complex as the obstacles Yang Shaobin confronted throughout the project. One particular obstacle of note was the lack of cooperation from the many small-scale mine directors and television stations. Their hesitancy and suspicion reflected a recurring problem Yang Shaobin encountered in his research: the awkwardness of how his identity was perceived. Previously, the Long March team often encountered situations in which it was difficult to find an appropriate way of introducing Yang Shaobin to local mine workers. Sometimes they said his paintings were very valuable, fetching upwards of a million renminbi apiece. Yet, it was the fact that he arrived from Beijing that often caught people’s attention. “From Beijing” invariably carried more political and authoritative clout than “contemporary artist.” On the other hand, Yang Shaobin’s identity as a contemporary artist was similarly at risk of being

72 misunderstood by local artists. Currently, in the Chinese art world, with a handful of major cities the exception, most artists still practice traditional ink brush painting and create works that have a government-approved slant. While these were intangible differences, they existed nonetheless.

The contemporary artist could be argued to be an elite cultural product. The awkwardness of Yang Shaobin’s perceived social distinction and wealth in some ways epitomized the reputation of contemporary art in China today. In this way, projects like 800 Meters Under and X-Blind Spot enable us to reflect and challenge that status. 800 Meters Under takes modernization, Westernization, industrialization, nationalism, and collectivism as its backdrop and focuses on the difference between the state of human existence in state-operated mines (e.g., Kailuan coal mine) and those of illegal small-scale operations (e.g., Heiliang coal mine). X-Blind Spot, on the other hand, departs from the depths of the underground to focus on open-pit coal mines and uses a multidisciplinary approach that incorporates humanities, geography, and economics to examine various aspects of coal production in the northern provinces. During the two-year period observing dozens of coal mines and communities, Yang Shaobin became familiar with coal mine leaders at all levels, from large state-operated supervisors, mid-size to small-size mine supervisors, household coal pits and their related facilities, contractors hired to tear down buildings, miners, local culture cadres, and artists. He witnessed the surreal scenes of high-tech, large-scale work sites, but also the microscopic and intimately human backdrops of coalmines as they relate to migrant workers, urbanization, education, environment, and so forth. Acknowledging this reality in hindsight is tracing a kind of history; it is linking the past with the present. The concept of a “blind spot” is a warning, a question, a challenge, and a testimony that draws 360-degree attention to the lifestyle of a particular social group that revolves around coal drawn up from the depths of darkness; it is the space between old man Zhang, a local sheep herder, and his journey from Inner Mongolia, and a sentry for a small-scale open-pit coal mine in Datong, or Li Jianguo, a model worker who deftly operates a nearly six metre high Komatsu 170 for the Suzhou An Tai Bao coal mine.

An important difference between this coal mining project and a straightforward work of art conceived and produced in an artist’s studio is the far more fulfilling and multi-dimensional interaction with social reality that it involves. For an artist like Yang Shaobin, who comes from a studio and text-based practice, what he confronts is not only the subject of his research, but the entirety of real life—eating and drinking with leaders of local coal mines, manoeuvring through various social relations, befriending miners, etc.—all these details were crucial for the completion of the project. This experience may not be so dissimilar to that of the early art collectives4 in China that were also driven by social concerns, and it necessarily challenges the elite mindset and assumed language of the contemporary artist. Here, we see an artist’s foundations altered and reconstructed before a multifaceted reality. The artist that returns to the studio from this experience is invariably affected, and this effect will continue to transform and subtly permeate his work.

Key term: Work Site Shot of descending shaft. (Light spot) moderate, indistinct . . . (cage) miners moving. Tunnel is far and deep, red light flickering, entering work site, sound of machinery, noisy clamour. Partial light, oblong coal car in operation. A beam of light on the wall sways with movement of car.

Miners examining and fixing facilities, sound of talking. Miners shoveling coal. Sound from interaction between some of the miners at work site. Conveyor belt, momentum, sound. Coal mining machinery in operation.

73 Shot of connecting to ground level, very dim, light circle. Sound of our camera crew walking back. Digital sign showing human figure. Shot ascending from shaft. Passing over group of miners. Miners ascending from the cage. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, various dates

There is a different work site we seldom witness: the studio and the life of a contemporary artist within it, which are frequently overshadowed by exhibition openings, the marketplace, and media. The Long March team witnessed Yang Shaobin’s sincerity, rigidity, and pain. Each stage of creation was a risk, a transcendence. What unfolded in X-Blind Spot was years of painstaking thought, putting into practice one’s beliefs, and the undertaking of a massive workload. For several years, the Long March team and Yang Shaobin endured a joint purgatory of which the most painful portion was succeeding in making breakthroughs in the understanding and creation of art. The conversation and work at Yang Shaobin’s new studio in the 798 Art District, his studio in Songzhuang, and at Long March Space revolved around and progressed from the meaning of brutality.

Key Term: Brutality . . . continuing onward, renovating road ahead, entering worker housing area. It reminded me of the circumstances I grew up around. Miners and families sat in the hutong entryway chatting, playing chess.

I still like the feeling of desolation and brutality. I have to try my best to get shots of this scene. I saw scenes like this in the Datong area . . . . –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, video notes, various dates

Forty-five-year-old Yang Shaobin has profound memories of growing up in the coal mine of Hebei Kailuan. His parents also hail from mining areas in China. After graduating from art school in 1983, he returned to the coal mine to become a police officer. His entire life was intimately linked with coal mines prior to his becoming an independent artist in Beijing at the age of twenty-eight. This life experience undoubtedly had a deep influence on Yang Shaobin’s work and thoughts. It is also directly responsible for the fruition of projects like 800 Meters Under and X-Blind Spot.

Yang Shaobin’s life in the Yuanming Yuan artist village during the 1990s could be considered brutal. At times, there wasn’t even enough to eat. Artistic creation sustained him through the suffering and hardships of life. Like many literary writers and artistic youth of the time, Yang Shaobin took Irving Stone’s writing on Vincent Van Gogh in Lust for Life and William Somerset Maugham’s writing on Paul Gauguin in The Moon and Sixpence as his bibles. In media interviews a frequently mentioned incident that occurred during this period was the time police broke open his door in the middle of the night to check his temporary residency permit. These examples illustrate elements of violence or brutality in his life that can be linked to his earlier series of paintings, Red Violence, and even a more recent series, International Politics. While his painterly expression in these series remains unchanged, the focal point has already shifted. The deconstructed and spatially dislocated blurry human figures in the Red Violence series represent an objectification of Yang Shaobin’s psyche and feelings, while the real or fictionalized historic scenes depicted in the International Politics series represent a construction of his external perspective. Together, the series complete a shift from his inner self to his outer self, from the personal to the fictional. In Yang Shaobin’s own words, art provided him with a release, and the thing that was released may very well have been what Antonin Artaud refers to as totalizing fear and devastation.

74 Yang Shaobin, installation view of X-Blind Spot. Courtesy of the artist and Long March Yang Shaobin, installation view with (left to right) X-Blind Spot No.4, X-Blind Space, Beijing. Spot No.2, X-Blind Spot No.3, 2008, oil on canvas, 354 x 240 cm each. Courtesy of the artist and Long March Space, Beijing.

Key Terms: Tearing Down the Slums Drove to the southern part of Datong, the roads were very bad. It was filthy the entire way, with lots of raised dust. In summer, the humid air does not appear dirty. All the way to Penghu District . . . strip after strip of rundown hutong . . . I shot for about forty minutes in the hutong. Afterwards, I went outside, took some footage of people breaking reinforced steel bars amidst the ruins of torn down buildings. Then I went to the roof of the building and took a crane shot of the entire scene . . . drove to Nanjiao at ten in the evening, shot scene of buildings being torn down. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, October 4–5, 2007

The law is a calculated and relentless pleasure, delight in the promised blood, which permits the perpetual instigation of new dominations and the staging of meticulously repeated scenes of violence.5

Many of China’s mining districts contain large slums. Some miners end up living for over a decade, in some cases even one or two generations, in buildings originally meant as temporary and crude housing. The destruction of slum communities directly affects the livelihoods of miners and is usually spurred by the exhaustion Yang Shaobin, X-Blind Spot No.13, oil on canvas, 194 x 357 of resources and the continuous shift of worker cm. Courtesy of the artist and Long March Space, Beijing. peasant status as they move from farmer to miner to farmer again. When their homes (slums) are destroyed, many revert back to working the land. Yang Shaobin portrays this phenomenon with a humanitarian eye, looking through the video lens, along the length of his brush, and reflecting on issues of migration, identity, and social status. Urbanization and shifting identities are also themes of Translocalmotion, the 7th Shanghai Biennale (2008), of which the video portion of X-Blind Spot was a part.

Key Term: Washed-out Sediment Beidaihe Lung Lavage Hospital. Patients of lung lavage treatment show the sediment that is washed from the lungs. Hospital room attendant, heart rate monitor, close-up of person’s face. Close-up of different parts of the body, close-up of IV bottle filled with gurgling liquid, close- up of general scene, green liquid. Neck breathing, close-up, underside of bed. Lung specimen.

75 Yang Shaobin, X-Blind Spot No.15, 2008, light boxes, 100 x 75 x 88 cm each. Courtesy of the artist and Long March Space, Beijing.

Operating room. The entire process, close-up of IV bottle. Doctor making notes on status of operation, changing tube, close-up of machinery (inserting tube), close-up of sediment being washed out, see patient’s face. Over twenty bottles of sediment. Close-up of doctor, pressing respirator. Shot of the sea. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, video notes, various dates

The location is Hebei province, Qinhuangdao Beidaihe Black Lung Disease Rehabilitation Center (X-Blind Spot research site). According to some sources, 440,000 people in China currently suffer from black lung disease. There are an estimated 600,000 more undiagnosed cases, of which 46% are miners. Black lung disease is a deadly respiratory illness for which there is currently no cure. Lung lavage remains the most effective treatment. The artist and the Long March Project visited the hospital to observe the life-threatening predicaments miners confront.

These scenes are incorporated into Yang Shaobin’s videos and paintings. In his paintings are the IV drips, physical examinations, the black liquid that is washed out from the lungs, and the exposed, diseased lung tissue—all of this stands in for the figures of the miners. The miners themselves are no longer the focal point; they have departed or are “hidden” from view. In the process of this shift, Yang Shaobin alienates our understanding of what constitutes a coal miner, posing questions about human labour and human neglect in the face of economic advancements.

Key Terms: Black and White Coal miner, black person, black bird, black flower, black car, black shoe, black building, black hat, black feet, black hands, black sky, black fingernail, black tire, black tooth, black chimney. –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, sketch notes, various dates

Unlike the blackness in the first phase of the coal mine project, 800 Meters Under, a fundamental aspect of X-Blind Spot is the contrast between black and white—like the over-exposed black of x- ray scans. It is an inverse vision, forced retrospection, introspection, piercing lucidity, distinct blind spot, reversed double-sided displacement, and flashback. What we see now is white—a miner’s presence in absence. All is severed; all is reformatted through media and imagery.

Key Terms: Chaplin and Guevara Put a potholing Chaplin in the picture or use existing shot of small-scale mine to compose a work (large painting). –Yang Shaobin’s notebook, sketch notes, date not given

76 In 2004, Yang Shaobin painted a small-scale portrait of literary theorist and cultural critic Edward Said. Yang Shaobin used his typical deconstructive painting style to construct a “destroyed” image of the academic. The work was called Edward Said. The artist has actually painted many similar subjects using the same technique, including some renowned politicians and even himself. But most of these pieces tend to be nameless, untitled. This naming process reflects a desire to maintain a vacuum-like state that can be likened to an artist’s resistance to interpretation. Yang Shaobin’s fundamental attitude is respecting the value judgment of the painting itself.

In the X-Blind Spot series, there is a scene with Charlie Chaplin and what appears to be the corpse of a miner who looks like Che Guevara. The appearance of the two figures may seem random at first, but, upon further analysis, viewers will discover that they actually serve as a code. Yang Shaobin depicts Chaplin as a symbol of early shovel-and-pick industrialization, similar to his characters in Modern Times and other films. In the painting, Chaplin digs earnestly in an act that resembles rowing a boat, except he is in fact positioned on a bed, calling to mind the miners who row their carriages below ground only to end up contained within another metal frame, their lungs in need of cleansing. Perhaps we can interpret the image as a symbol of post-industrialization and also appreciate the sense of humour that serves to mitigate the sombreness of the subject matter. The Guevara figure challenges issues of revolutionary heroism and death. All of this corresponds to the artistic idealism inherent in X-Blind Spot, the notion of artist as elite cultural product being sent to work, to experience labour in one of the harshest of environments where risk, danger and brutality are an everyday reality. Yang Shaobin’s works in X-Blind Spot urge viewers to self- reflect, reassess, and preserve those moral and ethical values that are constantly fragmented in contemporary daily life, to transcend potential blind spots, to be aware of existing networks and the possibility that such networks need reassembling. This is the enlightened message that the collaborative coal mining project between Yang Shaobin and the Long March Project presents.

On modernity, Anthony Giddens wrote: “The juggernaut [is] a runaway engine of enormous power which, collectively as human beings, we can drive to some extent but which also threatens to rush out of our control and which could rend itself asunder.”6

Can we tame the juggernaut of modernity or at least guide and reduce its risks to increase its opportunities?

Translated by Philana Woo

Notes 1 Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, Sean Hand, trans. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 41–58. 2 Yuanming Yuan Period: From the late 1980s to the late 1990s, many pioneering artists from all over China gathered together in the villages in the Yuanming Yuan area (located in the northwest of Beijing). They lived and worked in different villages around the area, such as Fu Yuanmen Village, which became the first artists’ gathering place in Beijing. Significant Chinese artists, such as Fang Lijun and Yue Minjun, were also living there during this time, struggling with their basic life through minimal sale of their works. Although nothing could protect their basic life, they persisted in their artistic ideals. The situation at that time marked the beginning of the marketplace for Chinese contemporary art. In 1991, Yang Shaobin moved to Yuanming Yuan from his hometown, moving to Song Zhuang “Xiao Bu Village” in 1995. The Yuanming Yuan Period ended when these artists moved to Song Zhuang, as these villages were subsequently demolished. Since the late 1990s, Song Zhuang has gradually become a new artists’ gathering place in Beijing. 3 Lu Jie and Xiao Xiong, curatorial plan for 800 Meters Under and X-Blind Spot, Long March Project, Beijing, 2004, unpublished text. 4 The socially driven artistic collective is not an explicitly defined concept but is a general international term that reflects collective creation from 1950s onwards. During that period, according to the demands of social production and revolution, a great number of works that had propagandistic and educational functions, but without authors’ signatures, emerged. The majority of these works paid tribute to, and at times involved, the outstanding achievement of workers, farmers, and soldiers. These creations were vivid, because their life and work experience were unified with their creations. 5 Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” in From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology, (ed. Lawrence Cahoon) (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), 246. 6 Anthony Giddens, Consequences of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity, 1990).

77 Bao Dong Li Yifan: From Social Archives to Social Project

lthough the title of Li Yifan’s solo exhibition ADossier, at the Iberia Center for Contemporary Art in Beijing, echoes those of his most recent three-part documentary panorama of Chinese society— comprising the already released Village Archive: Longwangcun 2006 Video Files (2008), a film on legal matters currently under

Li Yifan, still from Before the Flood, 2004, video, 143 mins. Courtesy of Iberia production, and the upcoming Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing. Urban Archive —his particular working method, collecting and organizing documentary materials, is not so recent. His archival approach to art is one he has been developing since Before the Flood (2004), his most acclaimed documentary project to date.

In Before the Flood, Li Yifan curbs his urge to direct. He lets the camera simply record the action, not intervene in it; his director’s hand is barely detectable even in the editing. In the end this account of the Three Gorges Dam project’s relocation program in Fengjie county, Chongqing, is devoid of the slightest hint of startling disclosure or violent footage the viewer might have anticipated. In Li Yifan’s opinion, his duty is to faithfully record events, not make an “underground” or “indie” statement. Many graphic scenes were cut, and, what is more, so as to avoid ending the film on a bleak note, he intentionally shows some people working among the ruins of a dynamited neighborhood in the closing scene, a directorial decision which in my mind is meant to remind us that resettlement is not all demolition and destruction. What is truly a pity, though, is that such a reasonable approach by Li Yifan had no impact whatsoever on the government, and despite the fact that Before the Flood had been previously shown in many different settings, the screening of the film was banned during this exhibition by the relevant authorities the day after it opened. This stands as undeniable proof that the critical power of documentary film stems from the truthfulness of the subject matter, not the subjectivity of the director. The factual Before the Flood is not a mainstream production about people who are enchanted about the prospect of having to move to a new home, and it is destined to have a discordant note of criticism. Li Yifan is not willing to spin this story (or any story for that matter) out of reality: he sets out to respect its essence, and it is this attitude that prompted him to adopt his archival approach to filmmaking.

Not only the title but also the structure of Li Yifan’s Village Archive follows the archival model as the film depicts the lives and labours of the inhabitants of southwest China according to the changing solar terms of the Chinese lunar calendar and lists, in encyclopedic fashion, the activities

78 Li Yifan, still from Village Archive, 2008, video, 91 mins. Courtesy of Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing.

of everyday, religious, and political life. Compared to Before the Flood, Village Archive is like an exercise in spot sampling, and it would need additional material from the bigger picture for it to be considered a representative visual sample of contemporary rural society in China.

In Li Yifan’s documentaries, the image is obviously more important than any discourse. His lens does not attempt to create any discursive sequence; on the contrary, most of the scenes can only be watched, not interpreted. It is a non-expressive form of visual language; in other words, what we see is simply what we see—the image speaks for itself. In documentary film, this kind of “image- in-itself” proves the non-transparency of reality, and only opaque reality is real.

Criticism needs to be based on truth for it to be genuine. Although Village Archive does not present social issues and a historical view like Before the Flood, its depiction of the “ordinary life” of the Chinese countryside possesses a more implicit critical power. Because the itemized images are difficult to boil down to a specific point of view or position, they call into question, in the broader sense, popularly held ideas and ideologies.

Members of the “’89 Generation” have always been known to have an intellectual streak, but in his documentary work, Li Yifan intentionally stifles the humanist zeal that both drives and constrains him. The reason for this lies—in his own words—in an attempt “to critique and subvert the common sensationalist stance and the simplistic textual deconstruction of the enlightened elite.” 1 For him, documentary film must follow the principle that states that reality comes first, for it is the only way to draw a visual sample of society, which is the essence of archive building.

The idea behind Li Yifan’s “archive building” can be summed up as harnessing the inherent power of things to criticize established discourses. In this respect, his works in other media, such as his photography, video, installation, and performance works, are consistent with his documentary films. But if we were to say that his documentaries pay more attention to phenomena, his contemporary art on the other hand is a focused presentation of all the issues involved and the various thoughts and ideas about them as well as where these thoughts and ideas come from and lead to. Simply put, the former—documentary—is a kind of survey, whereas the latter a form of research.

The question of chief importance for him is clearly the rift between mainstream society and the marginalized lower rungs (comprising peasants, migrant worker, and the urban poor), and the dangers that gap entails, as well as ways to close it—we can actually feel the social rift for ourselves in his films. Most of his thoughts on this topic are gathered in The Tyrant and the Tyrannized (2007) and 9 to 10 (2007). The Tyrant and the Tyrannized is a performance art piece that was staged at the opening reception of the exhibition in which migrant workers, shirtless, as they often are, and donning terrorist masks, crouched in the corner. The “terrorists’” presence certainly made the atmosphere tenser, but what is more noteworthy is that they had in fact been segregated in a corner of the gallery, and the unease they inspired in us, the audience, was purely the consequence

79 Li Yifan, The Tyrant and the Tyrannized, 2008, performance and installation. Courtesy of Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing.

of our own actions. The work provides a psychoanalytical view of social fragmentation, taking the parallels in the relationship between oppressor and oppressed and submission and revolt, and pointing to such current division within China. In Lacan’s theory of psychoanalysis, this division is a “symptom” that cannot be healed, because the split subject is the fundamental psychological result of the signifier, and the Other is in fact a product of the self. Li Yifan’s video 9 to 10 can be understood from precisely this perspective: it is in fact a symbolic “Other” fabricated by the artist; it alludes to the order of the real, which never comes in contact with the “normal,” mainstream society, or our corresponding symbolic order.

What Li Yifan really fears is reality, and this is evident in his sense of social responsibility. He once stated in an interview that he is “like a person with a vested interest who, facing imminent danger, sends out a warning sign to others with a vested interest. Of course, I hope that my warning will help avert a situation in which everyone loses, and that society will be able to establish a form of approximate social equality.”2 His deepest fear, however, is the mismatch between the caring attitude of so-called intellectuals and the reality of the lower classes. Because of this, the lower classes are perhaps a mere figment of the intellectual imagination, one that only serves to fuel social division, to the extent that the “lower rungs” are simply a product of a symbolic order, the function of which is precisely to oppress the reality of the lower classes and banish them from the realm of consciousness. On this, Li Yifan has his own opinion: “I gradually became aware of a terrifying truth: our society has already made a habit out of sacrificing the well-being of the lower classes, and we take it for granted.” 3

The issues are clear, but what about the solutions? Li Yifan had this question in mind when he stumbled upon Zhou Litai, a renowned migrant workers’ lawyer who has taken on over 8,000 cases since 1996. After the implementation of the basic policy of market economy reform in 1992, the once small temporary work force from the countryside suddenly swelled into a wave of floating migrant workers that swept over the entire nation. They were met with poor working conditions as the social security and legal systems lagged behind in adapting to the new social reality, and migrants workers were often paid late, discriminated against, and denied compensation when injured in the workplace. And so emerged a new class of lawyers who, like Zhou Litai, specialize in migrant worker cases. Defending one’s legal rights in a court of law may not solve all the macroscopic issues arising from social division, but it can nonetheless resolve individual cases, and court decisions that are binding and guiding go on to influence legislation and ultimately serve to improve the legal system. Some of the cases handled by Zhou Litai have already become commonly referred to case studies in judicial practice and legal research.

80 Li Yifan, installation view of Legal Archives, 2008. Courtesy of Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing.

Li Yifan, installation view of Legal Archives, 2008. Courtesy of Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing.

Li Yifan identifies with Zhou Litai as a social activist engaged in a campaign to improve the legal system, and for this reason he decided to make the lawyer the focus of a film project he plans to call the The Law. Two years in the making, production is currently stalled because Li Yifan is barred from filming live footage in court—indispensable footage for the project. Until the film is completed, we will have to satisfy our need to comprehend the legal issues Li Yifan is bringing to our attention by paying a visit to his installation Legal Archives.

Occupying the exhibition hall of the Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, Li Yifan’s temporary legal archive is overflowing with thousands of Zhou Litai’s migrant workers’ case files. Screens flash photos of plaintiffs one after the other while several dozen TV monitors placed outside the wire mesh enclosure—the installation is more like a cage than an archive—play footage representing the home life of the migrants selected from Village Archive. The viewer can enter the file-filled space and read any case he or she chooses, while, perhaps, the photos of the plaintiffs of the case he or she is reading flash on the screen.

The collection of documents, images, and videos forms an archive or a scene strewn with material evidence. The material objects participate as readymade objects in the author’s act of active creation: some files have been shredded to make paper on which maimed workers (all clients of Zhou Litai) had scribbled passages from the classics of political literature such as Rousseau’s Social Contract. However, looking at the exhibition as a whole, this cage-like archive also points a finger at a symbolic ideological theme, imprisonment—which probably explains Li Yifan’s use of wire mesh.

In his solo exhibition Dossier, Li Yifan provides ample material evidence of the pressing reality of contemporary Chinese society, and, by reaffirming the moral imperative for a social project, gives us an art that is sincerely and profoundly politically engaged.

Translated by Dena Duijkers

Notes 1 Li Yifan, “Dossier Exhibition Proposal,” in the exhibition catalogue Dossier (Beijing: Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, 2008), 30. 2 Li Yifan, “Li Fiyan Talks About his Work 9 to 10,” in the exhibition catalogue Dossier (Beijing: Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, 2008), 112. 3 Li Yifan, “About Before the Flood,” in the exhibition catalogue Dossier (Beijing: Iberia Center for Contemporary Art, 2008), 55.

81 Barbara Pollack Art and China’s Revolution September 5, 2008–January 11, 2009 Asia Society, New York

rt and China’s Revolution, curated by Melissa Chiu and Zheng Shengtian, presents a history of art during the first four decades of the People’s Republic of China (PRC), a Aperiod in which culture came under the increasing control of political leaders. The show attempts to trace the story of Mao Zedong’s use of art as a tool for persuasion and dissemination of ideology. But, it also asks viewers to look at the works—all products of a massive propaganda machine—as art and to appreciate them for their aesthetic power.

This is a complicated task, made even more challengingly when presenting this work to American audiences who, on the one hand, harbour many stereotypes about this period left over from a time before the U.S. had diplomatic relations with China and, on the other hand, have little knowledge of the details of events depicted in the works on view. The exhibition, therefore, has to provide enough historic information to bring viewers up to understanding the material on display without feeding into negative impressions they may have towards China as an autocratic society. In order to achieve this goal, the exhibition features a timeline of events from 1949 to 1979 illuminating the tangled history of art and politics surrounding Mao’s regime. It demonstrates that from the outset of the PRC, art faculties were asked to produce paintings commemorating important moments in Mao’s life, and art workers’ associations were formed to advance the overriding political agenda. Soviet-trained educators were brought into China and, overnight, socialist realism replaced ink-and-brush painting as the country’s most respected art form. The idea that culture is intrinsic to political reform was not only directed at intellectuals, but was inherent in the program for reaching the masses of Chinese people. Therefore, not only fine art, but all forms of mass production—from posters and woodcuts to teapots and matchbooks—were platforms for political slogans and emblazoned with depictions of revolutionary heroes and of course, Chairman Mao.

The bulk of the exhibition is devoted to the Cultural Revolution, the decade from 1966 to 1976 when Chinese society underwent one of the most ruthless state-enforced transformations in the twentieth century and art was used a primary tool to evoke this change. Fundamental to this movement was the power of Mao, nearly deified by several key works on view including Chairman Mao Inspects the Guangdong Countryside (1972), by Chen Yanning, and Strive Forward in Winds and Tides (1972), by Tang Xiaohe. The latter depicts the Chairman, dressed in a white bathrobe, standing on a barge surrounded by appreciative spectators, on the occasion of his historic swim in the Yangtze river to prove his continuing vigour even as an aging political leader. Far more fascinating is the story behind another hero-worshiping work, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan (1969), commemorating the leader’s 1921 visit to the Anyuan coal mine. An accompanying video interview with its artist, Liu Chunhua, explains how the painting was chosen to be a “model work,” reproduced as posters more than two billion times.

Many consider the woodblock prints produced during this period to be far superior to the kitschy paintings. Here, the intricacy and subtlety of technique can be found in works such as Jiang

82 Left: Liu Chunhua, Chairman Mao Goes to Anyuan, 1969, poster, 95.2 x 76 cm. Collection of Yan Shanchun. Photo: Howard Ursuliak.

Right: Tang Xiaohe, Strive Forward in Winds and Tides, 1971, oil on canvas, 172.5 x 294.5 cm. Collection of T. Z. Chang. Photo: Eddie C. Y. Lam, Image Art Studio.

Tiefeng’s Using Mao Thought to Fight with the Storm (1973–74). The rise of the Red Guards is depicted in Zhang Songnan’s four panel work in charcoal, Youth (1972). But the masterpiece of this era is the Rent Collection Courtyard, a tableau of one hundred and fourteen life-sized figures originally created in 1965 at the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute illustrating the evils of a greedy landlord and the injustices inflicted on his peasants. To convey its power, the work is best seen in its entirety in a massive room of its own. In Asia Society’s cramped galleries, the sculptures felt shoved in a corner, depriving viewers of their full impact.

83 Long March Project—A Walking Visual Display, installation at Asia Society. Photo: Eileen Costa. Courtesy of Asia Society.

Rent Collection Courtyard installed at Asia Society Museum, 1974, fiberglass, dimensions variable. Collection of Art Museum of Sichuan Fine Arts Institute. Photo: Eileen Costa. Courtesy of Asia Society.

In fact, the exhibition and its excellent accompanying catalogue gets into some fairly subtle issues, perhaps too much given the limited gallery space. The show includes works by blacklisted artists— literally called black paintings—many as inoffensive as traditional ink-and-brush paintings. Small watercolours by members of the No Name group are also included, showing by their modest scale and sensitivity how far the Red Guards would go to hunt down “bourgeois” works of art. Li Keran’s Sunset on the Pass (1964) blends the political icons with ink painting, inserting tiny soldiers and red flags into a traditional mountain landscape.

Of course, one of the curators—Zheng Shengtian, managing editor of Yishu—knows only too well the penalties of not cooperating with the majority position during this period. He was detained when he criticized the treatment of fellow faculty members at the Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts and demoted to painting backgrounds on works that others finished. Which raises the question: Can any of the works in this exhibition truly be read as “art” given that they were not made under the optimum conditions of free will? In fact, most of the works of this period carry the opposite message, elevating the needs of the collective above the ideas of an individual and liberating art from such bourgeois notions as genius and originality. If all of this art was made by force, it would be hard to appreciate it for its aesthetic power, because that would in effect give credence to a totalitarian regime. But if you can argue that some of the art was made as an individual response to historic circumstances rather than forced labour, then it may be more permissible to enjoy its aesthetics.

That is the dilemma at the heart of this show, which makes the case that, at least for some artists, the Cultural Revolution was a positive experience. Millions of students were sent to the countryside to work beside farmers and peasants as reeducation, and for artists, according to the exhibition, this led to relative freedom to sketch and paint away from the pressures of academia. Several significant artists are included in this section of the exhibition, including Chen Yifei, who is represented by the realistic oil painting Eulogy of the Yellow River (1972). Internationally recognized artist Xu Bing contributes several drawings and a calligraphy practice notebook, tellingly related to his later work. Zhang Hongtu’s series of eleven portraits completed while he lived in the countryside speak more movingly of the worries and depression of the era as seen on the faces of his subjects.

The Cultural Revolution influenced intellectuals around the globe, coinciding as it did with the youth movements in the U.S. and France. “The personal is political” and other leftist slogans of the time were inspired more, rather than less, by the revolutionary tactics in China, laid forth in Mao’s Little Red Book. This issue, presented only in the slim guide to the exhibition accompanying the show, is worthy of its own exhibition. Equally worthy would be a show about the legacy of

84 Li Keran, Sunset on the Pass, 1964, hanging scroll; Chinese ink and colour on paper, 111.8 x 137.2 cm. Courtesy of Take a Step Back Collection.

Chen Yifei, Eulogy of the Yellow River, 1972, oil on canvas, 143.5 x 297 cm. Courtesy of Taikang Life Insurance.

the Cultural Revolution in China’s contemporary art circles. Rather than pair some easy matches, such as Wang Guangyi or, worse yet, the Luo Brothers, with the art of this period, the curators made the choice to feature the Long March Project as representative of current trends. The Long March Project, founded in 2002 by Lu Jie, began as a public art engagement along the route of Mao’s historic retreat in the 1930s. Many significant artists have since been involved with the organization, now running as a commercial gallery branch in Beijing, including most recently Cai Guo-Qiang, who participated in a forum on art education in 2006. While completely worthy of attention—its Great Survey of Cut Paper in Yanchuan County is nothing short of brilliant—the display at the museum cannot convey the wit and irony of most of its projects.

But getting beyond the limitations of this particular venue, the catalogue brilliantly demonstrates the value of research on this vital topic. In addition to essays about art-making practices during this period and political repercussions, there are the timeline and array of historic documents. It is all undeniably fascinating, making it abundantly clear that rather than an isolated incident, the amalgam of art and politics that took place in China had worldwide implications. It is easy to also appreciate this material from the perspective of China’s development over the past thirty years and how far it has come. But then one is reminded that the Chinese government blocked important loans to this exhibition, and you realize that this period of government control has not quite ended. The struggle, as one might put it in revolutionary terms, is not yet over.

85 Zheng Shengtian and Hank Bull in Conversation about the Exhibition Art and China’s Revolution, Asia Society, New York

Hank Bull: The first thing that occurs to me about this exhibition that you co-curated with Melissa Chiu is that there are two difficulties: one is that it opens up a lot of painful memories, and, for a lot of people, it is very difficult to look at these works. A lot of people suffered during the Cultural Revolution, not only inside China but in other countries as well. It’s really hard. Even now, forty years later, they have trouble confronting these images and have trouble seeing these works now being consecrated in an art gallery or in a museum.

I know that you’re someone who went through that period of history, and you also personally suffered there. And I just wonder what kind of feelings you have. . . . How does it affect you to be going over this history?

Zheng Shengtian: This question actually reminds me of the first show that I did for the Morris and Helen Belkin Art Gallery at the University of British Columbia. We started the exhibition in 1999, and it received a lot of media attention. Actually, Scott Watson was the one who initiated this, and he asked me, “Are you interested in doing a show that reflects the art of Cultural Revolution?” That show eventually took place in 2002 at the Morris and Helen Belkin Art Gallery and also at other venues in Toronto and Winnipeg. The show was titled Art of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. At the beginning we discussed this, and actually you’re right; not only for me, but, for many others, it recalled a lot of painful memories from that period. So I think if someone were to have asked me to participate in a show of this particular nature right after the Cultural Revolution— and I saw some shows like that—it would have been too difficult, because my memory of that time would still have been very, very fresh. But then, as time passes. . . . 1976 was the end of Cultural Revolution, so after the passing of more than thirty years, the emotions started to calm down, and now we have the courage to look back at that period of history and realize that although the Cultural Revolution was a disaster we shouldn’t think that the whole experience or everything that happened during that time was negative. I don’t think that is the right attitude. Just like the way we talk about World War Two, it’s a disaster for every human being, and many people died and suffered; and many countries during that time were destroyed or occupied. It’s one of the most horrible periods in history, but, on the other hand, when we look back and reflect on this particular period, World War Two was actually a turning point for the world. The world changed a lot because of that war. We saw the rise and fall of regimes like Fascism and the Japanese Empire, but democratic power also grew during that time, and a young generation of politicians, intellectuals, artists . . . they learned and grew up during that time. So although this may be a dark period in human history, there are a lot of things we had to face, to analyze, and to learn from the experience.

Actually, there are people in China who tried to put the entire period of the Cultural Revolution into a forbidden zone. I don’t think this is right. So in 1999, Scott, Wayne Baerwaldt, and I travelled to China twice to collect information. It was interesting that there were some Chinese scholars

86 Opening reception of Art and China’s Revolution, (left to right) Hugh Mah, Hank Bull, Joanne Louie Mah, Melissa Chiu, Vishakha N. Desai, Zheng Shengtian. Courtesy of Asia Society Museum

who were doing the same thing. There were two scholars, one from Shenzhen, Yan Shanchuan, the other from Beijing, Wang Minxian. They were writing a book on the art of the Cultural Revolution. Actually, they had almost finished writing the book in 1999; they were just waiting for it to be published. We invited Yan to be our co-curator. Both of them provided a lot of useful information as well as the research materials. They had collected posters and books published during that time, which helped a lot. The book eventually was published under the title The Art History of the People’s Republic of China, 1966-1976. They didn’t call it Art from the Cultural Revolution because the term Cultural Revolution was still taboo in China.

Through the process of preparing for the exhibition, we found many interesting materials. The exhibition at UBC was quite well received. During the run of the exhibition, many viewers left their comments in a guest book. The gallery gave me a copy of all the comments and told me that no exhibition had received so many responses from people before. They were serious comments, not like the ones that go, “Wonderful,” or “I like this show.” Many of these comments were about a paragraph long. I read through all these paragraphs, and there were a few viewers who said that they couldn’t stand watching the show because it was too painful and reminded them of their own personal losses. They didn’t even want to see any images of Mao.

But not many people had these types of comments. Many of the viewers were middle aged who had experienced the Cultural Revolution. They were students, intellectuals, and workers during that time. Actually, they were happy to see this exhibition and found it thought provoking. There was one comment that really touched me. It said, “I was a young man during the Cultural Revolution. I was sent to the countryside and suffered all this time—in fact, all my life. Now I want my children to know what exactly was going on during that period.” So he brought his children to the show, telling them how crazy the period was and what this entire movement was about, and about the propaganda campaign “Red Ocean,” and the Red Guard movement. He wanted his children to see all these things visually and to have them understand it. This is a healthy attitude to have when looking at history.

Now, when we look back, we have some sort of distance. The experience no longer touches one so emotionally. It’s like looking at a mirror, and you can now begin to examine what the mirror is showing you. I think the cultural products—the artworks—produced during that time are very important, especially works produced during the early years of the revolution. Many of these works had already been destroyed or lost, so there was a historical significance in bringing these works together and to showcase them. Neither the UBC exhibition nor the Asia Society show was celebrating the Cultural Revolution, although we had all these artworks, all these historical materials. So what we did was to present them more like an archive, and we had never had this kind of show before, neither within nor outside of China.

87 Exhibition banners outside Asia Society, New York. Photo: Zheng Shengtian.

Hank Bull: So, in that sense, looking at these painful memories becomes a necessary step for the process of reconciliation—personal reconciliation—with memory, but also, each of us has a relationship of some sort with China. I wonder if the same sort of thing is at play today.

And this is the second difficulty that the Asia Society exhibition has to negotiate. In the wider sense of the relationship between the United States and China today, the exhibition is potentially controversial, potentially difficult. You have, right in the middle of Park Avenue a giant Mao jacket, and you have what looks like a Communist Chinese propaganda banner hanging in front of Asia Society in the middle of uptown New York. It could spark comments. I mean, under the surface of this sort of globalized, cooperative economy, there’s still a great ideological difference, and there’s still a discussion about human rights, and there could be all sorts of comments made. But it also strikes me that this exhibition is important in terms of reconciliation between these two countries. It opens a door for communication and gives us a chance to reflect on the effect of the Cultural Revolution at that time and its contribution to history. So I wonder about that aspect. That’s more a public aspect. You must have had opportunities to deal with government officials on both sides. And the Asia Society is obviously a very official organization, and yet it seems that that difficulty has been very successfully negotiated. Would you say people are generally happy that there haven’t been a lot of protests or negative criticism?

Zheng Shengtian: Yes, actually it surprises me that there have not been any protests near the site of Asia Society. I anticipated that there would be something. . . . Some people may not like to see so many images of Mao and the Communist regime. . . .

Hank Bull: Like glorification of the regime?

Zheng Shengtian: Yes, of course it won’t make them happy to see Mao’s statue on Park Avenue and the big banner hanging there. Asia Society invited me as a co-curator to work with Melissa Chiu in 2004. At that time, they had a lot of discussion about this. As you say, Asia Society is a very influential organization, so they had to examine every aspect of this show and the possible positive and negative impacts it might have on the public. And we also discussed this with our advisory group—a number of leading scholars in the field. But to me, this show doesn’t really promote any political ideology; instead, it is simply a cultural event. It is a period that is now part of history because there are so few materials that are available nowadays. As a curator and as an historian, I know a lot about this period, and I’d like to contribute to this process of bringing all these materials together for people who want to see them. This is more like academic study for me.

I think this show is also good for both the U.S. and Chinese governments as well as for the people of these two countries. I think it is good for China because Asia Society, as an international

88 organization, provided the resources to help to collect those historical materials. It’s very important to study the art produced during the socialist time. Most of the scholars, especially in the West, don’t know much about it. They would say, “Oh, Socialist art is just propaganda art.” So this time we wanted to show the world that Chinese art produced during the Revolution is not only propaganda posters; there were many different kinds of art produced during that period—by very liberal and, also, very conservative artists and by good artists and less talented ones. So there were artworks that reflected all kinds of creativities. For some of the older artists, the challenge for them at that time was to try to adapt to the changes and to fit in; whereas for the younger artists, other than doing commissioned works, they also struggled with the desire of wanting to express themselves. Maybe this is an art scene that is different from what we usually see here in the West. But this is what happened in a closed society, a socialist regime, where everything is strictly regulated by the government. So it’s like you have flowers growing in different gardens, and now we are trying to show how they are growing differently. I think it’s crucial to bring this information to people. The exhibition is useful for both China and the U.S. in the sense that for China, the exhibition actually helps them to preserve historical materials, and for the West it will promote knowledge and understanding for people who are interested in this period.

Hank Bull: How do you get past these sorts of ideological issues? It’s really about the art and the artists, and it’s about these individual artists and what they went through at the time of making their art. One is astonished by the level of technical skill, artistic skill, and emotional communication . . . . These artists are virtuosos. It’s so wrong to say, “Oh, it’s just propaganda.” When I think about my memories of that time, one thing that strikes me about the exhibition that is interesting is that you talked about these different kinds of gardens. I grew up in the 1960s in Canada, and it was the age of television and Marshall McLuhan. But it seems to me that in China at that time there was no television; is that right? There was no TV during the Cultural Revolution?

Zheng Shengtian: There was no television.

Hank Bull: So there’s a huge, huge difference. You still have this question of mediation, which is very interesting; the mediation and the mass media takes place through handwork, through dazibao, making posters, and marching and. . . . I think that’s a very interesting question to think about— how ideas were communicated to this huge population without the medium that we took for granted in the West.

Zheng Shengtian: I think that is why the painting, like Liu Chunhua’s Mao Goes to Anyuan, or other popular artworks were printed in such large numbers. It’s unbelievable. Millions and millions of copies were printed and sent to every household. Since we didn’t have television or other mediums for visual communication, these artworks became the main message. There were young artists like Chen Yifei, Shen Jiawei, and Chen Yanning who created only one work of art and became very famous because every household had a copy of that work. It was a kind of mass movement at the time. It’s a very interesting visual history.

Hank Bull: So we say, “Oh yes, China was really closed, and it was hard to see inside what was going on.” But right across the street from where we are talking now, there was a Chinese bookstore. I remember I had a copy of the Little Red Book in Hindi that I bought from that shop. There were copies in shops in Toronto and all over the world. Those same posters that were distributed to every household in China were also distributed throughout the world. So the Cultural Revolution—it’s not only about art and Chinese revolution, but it’s about art and the world revolution that took place in the 1960s. And in 1968 you have this incredible year that is so reminiscent of 1849 in Europe where you have massive demonstrations in Tokyo, in Prague, in Chicago, in Paris—all

89 over the world. This sense of a new era—and once again to remember the Canadian experience of Marshall McLuhan—the sense of the global village, and that “we’re going to do it in a new way.” People were dropping out of society here as a result of the nostalgic seduction that the Cultural Revolution was instilling around the world and in some ways illuminating positive and utopian ideals about what the future could be.

I myself dropped out of school and went to work on a farm because I was inspired by the ideas of Chairman Mao. I picked tobacco. But of course it also inspired terrible psychoses and this idea of permanent revolution—this sort of very romantic idea that came from Trotsky, which gets regurgitated by Mao and eventually ends up in atrocities like we saw in Cambodia. But the effects that this had, once again without television but just through the print medium around the world, is really pretty amazing. When you think that, yes, it was very controlled, it was like a terrarium, and yet there was this tremendous sense of diffusion. So that’s something that I think is not mentioned enough. We have had all kinds of reflection in 2008 about the 40th Anniversary of 1968. There have been an infinite number of interviews about that. But most of the interviews focus on what happened in Paris—the most famous example—and in the United States. But I don’t really think that the Cultural Revolution gets the credit that was due, because its events happened in 1966, two years before the revolution took place. And I remember seeing the “red guards” and people who were kind of living the mystique of the Cultural Revolution on the streets of Toronto. So that’s an interesting impact.

Zheng Shengtian: In one of our publications there's a text written by Professor Craig Calhoun titled “The Cultural Revolution: A Global Phenomenon.” He said the Cultural Revolution was “a global event” and had a strong impact around the world, especially for countries close to China. There is a review by Holland Cotter published in the New York Times on September 4, 2008. He made a very interesting comparison after his trip to the Olympic Games in China. He started his piece with his recollection of the Olympics, and he mentioned that many people wondered about what would happen after the Olympics. The Beijing Olympics was obviously very well organized, as it tried to make an impression on the world. But Cotter pointed out that China had made a similar effort fifty years ago, which was the Cultural Revolution. For many people—and as well for me when I was a young teacher—the Cultural Revolution presented the utopian idea of creating new art and criticizing the old things. On a lot of occasions, this mass movement tried to position China as a leading nation that promoted utopian ideas. And, of course, we began to see the failures in the early years of the revolution: there were lots of ugly power and political struggles, and people suffered and lost their lives. And China had to pay a high price for this movement. So Cotter was trying to explore how the Olympics affected the world. As we are wondering what will happen next, I think this exhibition is trying to answer the question: what happened before? Fifty years ago, China launched a revolution that was actually a "Spiritual Olympics." [Laughs.]

Hank Bull: Yes, I think it’s true, especially now that contemporary Chinese art has become such a global phenomenon, and we have so many Chinese artists all over the world now. They are, in a sense, babies of the Cultural Revolution; many of these people were born at that time. Sometimes we see obvious examples of Mao Pop and artists exploiting the iconography of the Revolution. But beyond that, what do you think? How do artists of that generation carry the memory, and how do they reflect upon that? And how are their works influenced by this identity?

Zheng Shengtian: Actually the older generation suffered most; artists such as Pan Tianshou and Lin Fengmian had a very tragic life. Artists who were in their middle age at that time also suffered a lot as they lost ten years of their professional career. By the time the Revolution ended, a lot of them had very few opportunities. For the younger generation, as you have just mentioned, a lot

90 of them believed that the time they spent in the countryside or army was very important to them. Xu Bing always says: If you want to understand my work, you have to understand the Cultural Revolution. Other artists, like Chen Danqing and Luo Zhongli, also share this view. We also see that in the works of Gu Wenda and Cai Guo-Qiang. Their works often reflect their personalities and their visual experience of growing up during the Cultural Revolution. Even though those years were really difficult, they had to survive, to conserve their energy to live and to find a way to create their art. In those days, being an artist wasn't as easy as now. But this experience is important because these struggles helped them to reinvent themselves. That's why many of them became strong artists. Unlike today, if you need painting supplies you can simply make a phone call, and you can promote your works by showing them at the galleries or art fairs. But in those days, everything was a struggle, even if you were only looking for a pen or a piece of paper. You had to come up with a creative solution in order to get what you wanted. In other words, the Cultural Revolution propelled these artists to become stronger, more creative, and powerful. They have tremendous courage in pursuing their art as they were not spoiled or they did not live a comfortable life during their childhood. Like Shen Jiawei, he spent many, many years living the northeast territory next to Russia. You can imagine how hard it is to live there—very cold. And sometimes he couldn't get food there, maybe only a few potatoes. My wife's sister actually lived in the same area during that time. I heard many stories from her. So it was a very difficult experience for a young man or woman growing up in such harsh conditions.

I think this exhibition is interesting for these artists. I remember at the opening night Luo Zongli came to me and said, "It's a very exciting show because when we were kids, all these paintings were our models and we looked at them (the prints) many, many times. It's unbelievable that all of the original paintings are now presented in front of our eyes." Many of these artists had not seen the originals because after the Cultural Revolution these paintings were not allowed to be shown, or they were collected by individuals. And now they are all presented together in a museum. So this is one of the reasons we wanted to do the show, because we wanted people to know that many of these contemporary Chinese artists were influenced by revolutionary art.

Hank Bull: And I’d say—this is my pet theory—that it comes even before that. China is a country that has one of the oldest continuing histories of painting and has its own very sophisticated history of criticism and thought. It’s not just coming from the Cultural Revolution but coming from modernism. Look at the modernism of the nineteenth century, the utopian dream, held by Chinese intellectuals of the time, that China would throw off the chains of the Qing dynasty and emerge as a modern, democratic nation, a nation amongst nations. It’s part of a whole continuum that goes back. . . . This show is very important because it’s a missing piece we haven’t had before. It’s really great to be able to see that.

Zheng Shengtian: Also the diversity of responses has really encouraged me, because we don’t want to have a show where everyone says it’s good or it’s bad. During the process I had two interesting conversations—one took place at the beginning of our curatorial trip. I visited a very important scholar, a professor of Peking University in Beijing whose specialty is the Cultural Revolution. I really respect him because he's one of the liberal scholars in China. We went to his office and I asked him for his opinion on the art produced during the Cultural Revolution. And he said, "There's no art, it's all propaganda." He doesn't think there's any value in those works. So this is his point of view. And then last month in New York, after the show's opening, I gave a talk with Melissa, and there was a gentleman who came up to me and gave me a copy of a long essay he wrote about our show that was titled "An Unofficial Guide to the Exhibit." He is a member of the American Communist Party. [Laughs.] And he has some interesting points. He was really touched by some of the works at the exhibition, like the Rent Collection Courtyard, a group of realistic sculpture that shows what

91 life was like before 1949 and how landlords treated the farmers. Although it's been argued that the story about this particular landlord was a fabrication, it does present a time in Chinese history when farmers were really badly treated and exploited. The artwork itself is actually quite touching because it's a good quality work. That's probably why Harald Szeemann was so interested in this work. In 1972 he wanted to bring it to documenta 5 but failed to do so because there was no diplomatic relationship between Germany and China. And then in 1999 when he curated the 48th Venice Biennale he invited Cai Guo-Qiang to re-create it. So I think the show will elicit diverse responses from people of the older generation. And that's what we curators are looking for. It's interesting to see how this dialogue is going to unfold and how historians and curators are going to re-evaluate these socialist artworks and reposition them in twentieth century history. Not only Chinese socialist art, but also Russian, Eastern European art. . . .

Hank Bull: Absolutely. For so many years works such as the Rent Collection Courtyard were a taboo in the West and were dismissed as propaganda. But this is serious art. Now, to be able to seriously look at Socialist Realism in general, and the art from China and Russia, actually destabilizes the accepted history that we have of Western art. I mean, for example, since the 1960s in the West it has been almost de rigueur that art should have some social commitment and social message, some political commentary or some fundamental engagement with political realities of the day. To do art for art’s sake in China—that was forbidden, that was the most political thing you could possibly do. For someone like Ding Yi to do abstract painting in 1985, pure abstract painting—that was radical. You know, no one had ever done this before. So you have this ironic flip where the political significance of the work and its relationship to art is turned around.

Zheng Shengtian: Yes, that’s why we also include the No Name Society. Towards the end of the Cultural Revolution, there was a group of young people who used small canvases and cardboard to do a little bit of landscape painting. Those paintings were so small that they could hide them in their pockets, but that was actually quite avant-garde.

Hank Bull: Yes, I know. Isn’t that amazing? To think that landscape painting in oils would be the most radical and subversive style you could adopt! [Laughs.]

Zheng Shengtian: So some critics argue that these are impressionist works, not avant-garde. But these works became avant-garde in certain situations, at a certain period of time. I think we should forget all these traditional views of history. When you look at Chinese socialist art in the 1950s, it was strongly influenced by European art of the early twentieth century, like the German artist Käthe Kollwitz and the Mexican artists Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros. Even though China and Russia were closed to the outside world, there was still a certain degree of significant cultural exchange happening during that time.

Hank Bull: Antonio Negri said an interesting thing in an interview about 1968, where he felt that 1968 marks the end of modernism and the beginning of post-modernism. So this is the point at which these narratives, these coherent narratives all start to collide into each other and collapse, and you can no longer . . . it’s the end of the Clement Greenberg story. All these different influences— East and West—start to interfere with each other in a way that makes these old edifices of cultural meaning fall apart and new ones emerge that are much more diverse.

92 You talked about the strength and the energy that these artists have who grew up at that time. There’s something I’ve always wondered about you. You are a person who is famous for your energy and your stamina. You have this incredible ability to out-distance people who are half your age. And I’ve always thought that’s because you’ve lived through that period and you were actually toughened by that. And now you have lived life absolutely to the fullest ever since.

Zheng Shengtian: Well, I think in some ways the Cultural Revolution did make me feel younger. The reason is that I lost ten years during that period and I couldn't do anything. After the Cultural Revolution I was still at the same “age” as I was starting out in terms of my status. In the school that I taught in, I was still a young teacher, although at that time I was already thirty-something. Since the senior professors were still above me, I remained in a junior position. So if you really want to look at the whole experience positively, you can say to yourself that, "I'm still not that old. I'm still an assistant." [Laughs.] So this probably helps!

Hank Bull: So one last question: when do you think this exhibition will appear in China?

Zheng Shengtian: Before answering your question, I would like to clarify something. Prior to the opening of the show, the New York Times published a story about the show stating that “China has reversed its decision to lend art works” to Asia Society’s exhibition. Actually, the Times had tried to reach me to confirm a few facts, but I was taking a vacation at that time. So the report was not complete. What happened was that the official organization—the China International Exhibition Agency—had been quite helpful. We had been working with their leader and staff for three years, and they helped us to locate many materials. We worked well together as a team, and the official museums were also supportive. They all agreed that if we wanted to borrow the works they would give us their support. But in China, to do an exhibition you need to get an approval form the Cultural Ministry in order to ship things out. Actually what we didn't get was the final approval. So we waited until the beginning of 2008 because that was the deadline when we needed to finalize the loan list and arrange the shipment. Shipping was particularly difficult to organize before and during the time of the Olympics. We asked the Cultural Ministry if they could give us the final approval, and there was still no answer until February. And then we were left with very little time, so if we had waited longer, the show could have been postponed or cancelled. And Asia Society couldn't afford to do that, so that was why we decided to go ahead without having loans from the official museums. So it's not a cancellation; it's simply that we couldn’t get the permission in time. I was told that it was a bad time and after Olympics everything would be easier.

I think it was a wrong decision and bad judgment to forbid people from seeing, displaying, and studying these Cultural Revolution materials and artworks. Many years ago the Chinese Communist Party already gave an official evaluation of the Cultural Revolution. So this part of history shouldn't be hidden from people. If those decision-makers are smart, they should open this area of history to the public. I think it will benefit the government if people are able to engage in open dialogues. So to answer your question, I hope one day the Chinese authorities will raise the ban and let Chinese people have an opportunity to see the artworks and other materials from the Cultural Revolution. I think there should be a lot of books published, films made, and discussions carried out on this particular period of China’ history.

93 Micki McCoy Red, Smooth, and Ethnically Unified: Ethnic Minorities in Propaganda Posters of the People’s Republic of China

Liao Yiqiong, Mao Zedong is Heart to Heart With Us, 1970, poster, 77 x 106 cm, Shanghai People’s Publishing House. Image courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

ecently, the representation of ethnic minorities in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) has been a topic of debate in the popular media. One much-discussed episode took place Rduring the 2008 Beijing Olympics, when it was reported that many of the children who represented China’s fifty-five official ethnic minorities in the Opening Ceremonies are actually members of the majority Han ethnicity.1 Readers’ comments on news media sites about this and related stories demonstrate the topic’s multivalent and often conflicting significance for its global audience.2

This essay is a preliminary effort to promote understanding of this issue by looking to another form of mass media, the propaganda poster, as a historical predecessor for the recurrent motif of ethnic diversity used to envision the PRC as a harmoniously diverse nation-state. How official ethnicity was depicted in a sampling of propaganda posters made prior to China’s recent economic transformation is the topic of investigation here. While not taken to be representative of all official depictions of diversity or ethnic minorities, these images offer the opportunity to explore how ethnicity has been visually constructed as a unified front in order to assert ethnic minorities’ collective participation in a triumphant socialist narrative.

A recurrent theme in the dynastic history of China is the consolidation of many groups as subjects of one ruler, regardless of that ruler’s own heritage. In the early twentieth century, according

94 Nantong City Worker-Farmer- Soldier Art Study Class, Hearts of All the Country’s Nationalities Toward Mao Zedong, 1971, poster, 53 x 77 cm, Shanghai People’s Publishing House. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

to anthropologist Dru C. Gladney, the concept of nationality (minzu) and its accompanying nationalist ideology played a decisive role in the republican revolution of 1912 and the end of Qing Manchu rule. Stressing the notion of Han minzu (Han nationality), distinct from the much older Han ren (Han person), Gladney describes how this concept intellectually replaced the ruler- subject relationship.3

During this period, Dr. Sun Yat-Sen (1866–1925), founder of the Republic of China, established the schema of the “Five Peoples of China” (wuzugonghe), which consisted of the Han, Manchu, Mongolian, Tibetan, and Hui ethnicities.4 This ethnic schema, according to Gladney, “served as the main platform for his republican revolution”5 and was strategic in two ways: first, to unite domestic groups under a single national cause and, second, to project the image of a united front in the fight against foreign imperialists. The Han comprised “all the diverse peoples belonging to Sino-linguistic speech communities”6 (Sun himself was Cantonese).7

The Communists took a similar approach to ethnic policy, with some customization. During the Long March (1934–35), the Party adopted the practice of promising special privileges to different groups they encountered in exchange for support of the Communist cause.8 Such privileges initially included, as in the Soviet Union, the possibility for minority republics to secede. This privilege was, after 1949, “revoked as no longer necessary. Instead,” as Gladney explains, “maintaining the unity of the new nation at all costs was stressed.”9

Regarding minority republic secessionism, a statement issued by the Central Party Propaganda Office of the New China News Agency to the Northwestern Branch Office in 1949 reads: Today the question of each minority’s “self-determination” should not be stressed any further . . . . For the sake of completing our state’s great purpose of unification, for the sake of opposing the conspiracy of imperialists and other running dogs to divide China’s national unity, we should not stress this slogan in the domestic nationality question and should not allow its usage by imperialists and reactionary elements among various domestic nationalities . . . . The Han occupy the majority population of the country, moreover, the Han today are the major force in China’s revolution. Under the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party, the victory of China’s people’s democratic revolution mainly relied on the industry of the Han people.10

This statement can be seen as shaping the way in which ethnic minorities would be officially depicted in the coming decades: united as one in their pan-cultural socialist cause.

Also adopted from Soviet policy were the four criteria for defining nationality: common language, territory, economic life, and “psychological makeup.”11 In 1953, there were forty-one official ethnicities. By the time of the 1982 census the number of groups had risen to the current fifty-six.12

95 Chen Huanming, All the Country’s People of One Heart Forever Follow the Communist Party, 1963, poster, 53 x 77 cm, Hubei People’s Publishing House. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

Gladney writes, “The idea of Han unity became fundamentally useful to the Communists, who incorporated it into a Marxist ideology of progress, with the Han people at the forefront of development and civilization.”13 Such unity is reinforced in a poster from a later decade, Mao Zedong is Heart to Heart With Us , published in 1970. While not undifferentiated, Mao’s followers are all presented as a model industrial work unit dressed in appropriate industrial attire. In contrast, Hearts of All the Country’s Nationalities Toward Mao Zedong, published in 1971, integrates a variety of figures in their national dress among those in the generic outfit of the socialists in the PRC. Their diverse appearances signify the minority in general. Despite these different looks, all are shown as strapping young socialists, both Han and minority: proud, upright, and unified. Their differences in facial features are set off by their shared physiognomy of the liberated proletariat. All exhibit the same “red, smooth, and luminescent” idealization promoted during the Cultural Revolution.14 The fireworks exploding overhead are at once an emblem of modernity, Chinese ingenuity, and the explosiveness of their uniformly fervent support of Chairman Mao.

China’s nascent nationalism is mirrored in the art of same period. As art production became nationalized and radically altered in the early years of the PRC,15 the subject, style, and production of art were determined through official discourse and transmitted to artists through the Propaganda Department.16 The debate surrounding China’s national art is described as having hinged on the tension between what were perceived as domestic and foreign art forms, and between modernity and tradition. Mao’s Yan’an Talks on Art and Education of 1942 and 1943, which described art’s function to serve the people and its instrumental role in class warfare, became a cornerstone of the debate.17

In this process, meanwhile, academic and socialist realist styles of European and Soviet traditions were continually studied. In 1952, vice-minister of cultural affairs Zhou Yang advocated socialist realism as good for “combining the reality of today with the ideals of tomorrow.”18 This attitude was influential to all official pictorial forms, including guohua (“national art,” as ink painting had come to be called), nianhua (popular New Year’s prints), woodcuts, and oil painting. From 1949 to

96 Jiang Nantao, Unite and Rise Up/Struggle for Greater Victory, 1973, 55 x 77 cm. People’s Fine Art Publishing House. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

1957, artists continued to go abroad to study art, though instead of going to Japan and France they now went to the Soviet Union.19

While bureaucrats debated the artistic style appropriate to New China, appropriate artistic subjects were also being defined, one of which was the ethnic minority. Zhou Changgu’s ink and color painting on paper, Two Lambs (1954), for instance, depicts a girl in Tibetan dress. She stands barefoot, leaning on a fence and dreamily gazing at lambs nuzzling. Julia F. Andrews argues that this painting successfully synthesized a “traditional” medium while incorporating “the new theme of contented minorities.”20 Ethnic diversity was also part of the visual regime in canonical paintings such as Shi Lu’s ink and color painting on paper, Beyond the Great Wall (1954), Huang Zhou’s Snowstorm on the Steppes (1955), ink and color, and Dong Xiwen’s oil painting Spring Has Come to Tibet of 1954.21

Painted in socialist realist style, Spring Has Come to Tibet intimates a rebirth for the Tibetan populace upon its assumption into the People’s Republic. Similarly, in Beyond the Great Wall, a mountainous landscape in which minority shepherds marvel at a railway cutting through the Great Wall, the artist also attempts to incorporate once foreign border lands into the image of Han-led socialist progress. Pre-revolutionary work by Zhao Wangyun, Sketches from the Border (1934), was apostrophized in a poem by Guo Moruo for being “neither Chinese nor Western, but created by the heart.”22 This further indicates that the ethnically diverse borderlands were of continuous importance to New China in the synthesis of its new national identity.23

In All the Country’s People of One Heart Forever Follow the Communist Party, published in 1963, Mao, who by that time was still chairman of the Party but no longer chairman of the PRC, is surrounded in a crowd of smiling faces of diverse ethnicities. It was published after the failure of the Great Leap Forward and in the wake of the Sino-Soviet split, a scenario that, as Ellen Johnston Laing writes, “left China severely crippled, but [it] undoubtedly fostered a surge of nationalism in China expressed in art with an emphasis upon ‘national’ style.”24 This image was perhaps part of

97 Anonymous, Long Live the Unity of All the World’s People, 1973, poster, 106 x 50 cm. Shanghai People’s Publishing House. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

a visual program to lift the spirits of its demoralized audience through reinvigorating the by-now familiar trope of the “contented minority.”

All the Country’s People of One Heart Forever Follow the Communist Party was produced in the era of relative liberalism between the Great Leap and the Cultural Revolution. This liberalism is reinforced in statements by Zhou Yang and other Propaganda Department bureaucrats, which championed artistic “individuality, variety, and professional expertise” and tacitly added ethnic minorities to the list of encouraging art subjects through the promotion of works depicting them. In Zhou’s words, art “should, on the one hand, cultivate communist moral qualities among the people and, on the other, enrich their spiritual life to increase their wisdom and their appreciation of beauty. Our literature and art should make people become nobler, wiser and finer.”25 This, combined with the fact that such posters were published with Mandarin text, rather than that of any minority language, reinforces the idea that the “contented minority” was constructed largely to boost the morale of its majority Han audience.

In that many minority groups were concentrated in isolated or border regions, the images were also meant to teach coastal and metropolitan audiences about the country’s diverse makeup. The function is at once political indoctrination and the transmission of internal data about ethnographic appearances. For instance, Unite and Rise Up/Struggle for Greater Victory (1973) serves as a visual civics lesson, as it appears to picture minority members of the National People’s Congress (NPC) emerging from the Great Hall of the People, site of the NPC sessions.

The poster evokes or was perhaps painted to depict a historical event: an NPC session in which ethnic minorities, dressed accordingly, participated. It indicates the official interest in showcasing minorities’ role in government, a practice that continues in the media today.26 Again, ethnic groups are identified by their traditional dress. Figures carry books of Mao’s Quotations and proceed under an enormous portrait of him. The portrait and the state seal jump forward from the background in sharp focus, while architectural elements on an equally recessed visual plane are rendered out of focus. Here, just as in Hearts of All the Country’s Nationalities are Toward Mao Zedong and All the Country’s People of One Heart Forever Follow the Communist Party, the ultimate, hyper-visible reference for all ethnicities in the People’s Republic is Mao.

In these images, ethnic differences work only to underscore the qualities they share with other participants in a happy and prosperous socialist society. The message, as always, is socialism as the

98 Zhou Ruizhuang, Firmly Support Asian, African, and Latin American People’s Anti-Imperialist Struggle, 1966, poster, 77 x 106 cm. Shanghai People’s Fine Art Publishing House, Shanghai. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre.

a priori unifier for cultural difference. Through their idealization and lack of individuality, they are signifiers not of unique identity but of umbrella protection under the state. Their museologically correct clothing, which evokes the outfits hung in the Ethnic Minorities galleries of the Shanghai Museum, are presented as colourfully benign.

In other posters, diversity transcends political boundaries. Firmly Support Asian, African, and Latin American People’s Anti-Imperialist Struggle (1966), published at the start of the Cultural Revolution, emphasizes the universality of class struggle, as it informs its audience generally of leftist revolutionary movements around the globe. Figures situated in distant locales are shown struggling together in a kind of collage indicative of the ultimate pan-cultural sameness of their ideological goals. Again, the strategy is to de-individualize and de-contextualize visually and culturally diverse groups and relocate them in the universal field of class warfare. These images of worldwide revolution would serve as morale-boosting agit-prop for the domestic cause.

The man advancing in the foreground recalls references to the aggressively expressionistic Käthe Kollwitz prints prominent in the early twentieth-century woodcut movement. Perhaps significantly, the figures in Firmly Support Asian, African, and Latin American People’s Anti- Imperialist Struggle are actively engaged in violent class struggle, whereas the domestic ethnic minorities in this study have all been depicted in peaceful actions and wearing positive expressions. One wonders whether images of aggressive national ethnic minorities would have been too evocative of domestic strife.

Another image of international cooperation published during the Cultural Revolution is Long Live the Unity of All the World’s People (1973). The violent dynamism of Firmly Support . . . is replaced with a battalion of figures at ease wearing uniformly glinting smiles. The woman in the front line and off to the right wearing Korean clothing could be judged alternatively as an ethnic minority of the PRC or a Korean national. That specific groups are again not explicitly identified, but rather implied by appearance, uncovers potential ambiguity in PRC ethnic policy apparent even in the relatively closed-off early 1970s.

The last image in this study, from 1979, Long Live the Unity of All Nationalities, signals significant changes in the post-Mao era. Figures are collaged and woven into the image of the flag, again reinforcing the notion of a diverse national fabric, yet Mao has now been replaced with the national flag as their unifying visual referent. Engaged in intellectually and physically distinct

99 Yang Keshan, Long Live the Unity of All Nationalities, 1979, 106 x 77 cm. People’s Fine Art Publishing House. Courtesy of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre, Shanghai.

actions, their relatively more personalized expressions of these minority representatives begin to articulate more individual subjectivities, even if the tone is, as always, uniformly triumphant.

This study comes out of a review co-authored with Anna Glaze of the exhibition Visualizing Revolution: Propaganda Posters from the People’s Republic of China, at the University of California, Davis Nelson Gallery, April 3, 2008–May 18, 2008 published at http://yishujournal.com/story. aspx?uid=2008050512480435; accessed November 8, 2008.

The author is grateful to Yang Peiming, owner and director of the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Center, for providing the images in this study and many details about them. The author is also grateful to Katharine P. Burnett, co-curator with Yang of Visualizing Revolution: Propaganda Posters from the People’s Republic of China, for providing the opportunity for primary research.

Notes 1 Related stories include the New York Times blog post by Jennifer 8. Lee on August 18, 2008, regarding the “Chinese Ethnic Park” in Beijing. See http://olympics.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/08/18/at-chinas-ethnic-minorities-theme-park-its-a-small-world-after-all/; accessed 11/8/08. 2 See comments at ibid. 3 Dru C. Gladney, Dislocating China: Muslims, Minorities, and Other Subaltern Subjects (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 14. 4 Ibid., 15. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., 11. 9 Ibid., 12. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid., 9. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Julia F. Andrews, Painters and Politics in the People’s Republic of China, 1949–1979 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 360. 15 Ibid., Introduction. 16 Ibid. 17 Julia F. Andrews, Painters and Politics in the People’s Republic of China, 22, and Ellen Johnston Laing, The Winking Owl: Art in the People’s Republic of China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 2–4. 18 Ellen Johnston Laing, The Winking Owl, 20. 19 Ibid., 21. 20 Julia F. Andrews, Painters and Politics in the People’s Republic of China, 145. 21 Laing, The Winking Owl, fig. 30. 22 Ibid., 285. 23 Ibid., 285. 24 Ellen Johnston Laing, The Winking Owl, 33-34. 25 Ibid., 35. 26 See “NPC Ends Annual Session, Adopting Landmark Property, Corporate Income Tax Laws,” http://www.china.org.cn/english/ 2007lh/203185.htm, accessed 11/24/08, for a more recent example.

100 Jonathan Goodman Chen Jiagang: The Great Third Front August 16, 2008–October 30, 2008 Paris-Beijing Photo Gallery, Beijing

hen Jiagang’s massive pictures of industrialized ruins may be seen as a powerful indictment of the ecological cost of industrialization; however, their origins are more Chistorically specific than they might at first seem. According to Chen’s statement in the catalogue for this exhibition, a historical situation in the mid-1960s caused China to set up a Third Front (the First Front consisted of the coast of China, while the Second Front was the area of Beijing-Tianjin and central China). This Third Front was located in the vast region of mountainous western China. In the 1964 Beibu Wan Incident (Gulf of Tonkin Incident), fighter planes from American ships fired on North Vietnamese ships and a major petroleum supply centre because the American boats believed they were under attack. Fearing an invasion could result from the hostilities, China moved the huge factories associated with its defence industries, as well as the millions of men who were expected to run them, to the Third Front. Today, the factories are mostly silent, rusting toward their eventual end as outmoded, anachronistic industrial units. They are awe-inspiring in their scale yet absurd because of their uselessness in present times.

Since July 2003, Chen has been going to western China to record both the grandeur and the decay of these huge factory buildings, perhaps seeing in their gradual demise the end of an era. There is an affinity with Sebastião Salgado’s passion for decay in Chen’s vision, especially when Chen’s pictures of a blighted landscape become an elegy as well as a condemnation of the politics of the Cold War and the Vietnam conflict. The grand dimensions of these buildings and machinery act as a measure of the hostilities that brought them into being. As a result, the active paranoia of an earlier time’s cold and hot political antagonisms is illustrated as generally destructive. (We live in different times now, but we do not forget that the world was very different only a generation ago.) Chen’s pictures enable us to see the results of a decision that was reached in panic despite the fact that there is something beautiful about the empty buildings he has captured as images— photographic documents that also capture a sense of melancholia. The buildings now bring about an aura of general hopelessness, which is intensified by Chen’s idiosyncratic decision to place attractive women, often finely dressed, within scenes of steel-making or vast fogs of steam. The contrast between the youthful beauty of the women and the rough architecture of the buildings’ interiors and exteriors underscores the gap between cultural refinement and preparations for war.

As compelling as this contrast may be, one remains somewhat skeptical regarding the aesthetic effectiveness of its artifice. By populating his industrial studies with winsome young women, Chen risks making his subject matter sentimental; however exquisite the women are, they essentially aestheticize the landscape into which they have been placed. Can their youthful attractiveness transform how we perceive the brutal circumstances surrounding them? Or do the women come across as a kind of treat for the eyes, a decorative afterthought that cannot but seem ludicrous in the face of their environment? I find it hard to read the women’s presence in terms of either salvation or decoration, although they do animate the landscape that so impersonally threatens to

101 Chen Jiagang, Third Front III (Emergency Pool), 2007, photograph, 160 x 200 cm. Courtesy of Angela Li and Chen Jiagang.

enclose them. Yet this industrial landscape is hardly made more beautiful through their placement in it, and they often appear to be dwarfed by their surroundings, anxiously coexisting with the gigantic edifices and machinery. Chen’s women, then, edge his vistas in the direction of kitsch, distorting the dimensions of the industrial background and emphasizing a rather coy transmittal of beauty.

The image of the buildings by themselves, without the women’s presence, would place Chen squarely in the contemporary practice of Western documentary photography, such as the work of the German photographer Thomas Struth, but Chen weakens his compositions by favouring his models in situations in which they appear out of place or even silly. The inclusion of these women occurs throughout Chen’s recent photographs, and the viewer must decide whether this development strengthens or weakens the content of his compositions. I am certainly responsive to the beauty of women, but I cannot help but feel that there is something fashionable rather than artistic about Chen’s decision. It is like sticking a flower into the middle of a garbage dump—even if his audience understands why the artist might do this, they might, at the same time, remain unconvinced of the consequences of such an action. Chen has included his girlfriend in a number of the images, which personalizes the pictures for him, although this fact does not support his larger goal, which is to have the presence of the women in his photographs transform the harshness of their environs. Unfortunately, their beauty cannot compete with the monumental discordance of the factories themselves. In fact, there is a remarkable drama to Chen’s scenes of

102 corrosion and decay that echoes the classical ruins the nineteenth-century Romantics speculated about in their poetry and their art. The sense of melancholy that permeates the atmosphere in Chen’s imagery is an achievement in itself, and he asks us to contemplate the modern industrialization of the world and the consequences of a rash political decision, whose effects are both controversial and undeniably real. At the same time, his models seem slightly stilted in the photographs, as if they were posing for a fashion shoot.

Despite their limited function within Chen’s art, the women in the photos seem undaunted by the brutality of their environment; they portray one kind of reality—cultured and refined—in opposition to another that is represented by their physical surroundings. Yet they seem strangely distanced from their environs, offering an ambivalence that is neither critical nor supportive. With the exception of one image, in which a model wears a colourful outfit, most of the time the women blend in with the drab greys, greens, and browns of the buildings that surround them and this tends to undermine the artist’s purpose of having the women function as embodiments of beauty in places where such beauty seems either absurd or exquisitely fragile. In Third Front III-17 (Emergency Pool), however, we see in the foreground a series of pipes lying on the floor of an empty shallow pool. In the background, on the left, crumbling rooms form a shaft; a cloud of steam is seen at its base, indicating that some industrial activity may be going on. On the right is a complicated series of large pipes that emerge from a tower. A single woman, wearing a colourful dress with a long slit up its side, sits amidst all of this; the reds and blacks of her clothing look luminous against the rusted browns of the pipes and building, and the solid grey sky above.

Still, in spite of her colourful contrast, this young woman cannot compete with the dingy atmosphere that engulfs her small presence, and perhaps that is Chen’s point, namely, that the masculine world of defence factories overwhelms any suggestion of a female sensibility. But it seems to me that the duality of the image and the ideas it presents are artificial and border on a false dichotomy. The obvious gap between the woman and the huge machinery around her is not necessarily bridged by her existence in the image. At the same time, one wants to be sensitive to the implications of personal bias; my reaction to the photograph may reveal a predilection for a rigorous formalism, which in fact is subject to bias just like any predilection for a particular style. This attitude toward art may be contrasted with Chen’s practice, which is to subvert his images’ classic objectivity with the inclusion of women, a decision that serves an emotional intent rather than logical one. When addressing Asian, specifically Chinese art, a Western critic has to look and write carefully, especially if the work is not over-intellectualized; the social meaning in Chen’s photographs suggests an approach that is perhaps more intuitive than analytical. While I tend to doubt the visual effectiveness of the women in Chen’s art, I am at the same time aware that his viewpoint may include a degree of feeling that is more or less disregarded in Western contemporary aesthetics; what we regard as sentimental may in fact be an honest presentation of emotion in Chen’s pictures.

Nevertheless, the differences that one ascribes to other cultures might not be as great as one might think. Art communicates across divides of class, education, and gender. As a result, two things may be true—first, the artist’s commitment to communicate across such differences inevitably remains central to successful art practice, and, second, we may misread situations whereby the differences appear to be larger than they actually are. One is reluctant to impose a universalism on the products of different cultures, but it is true that art can communicate across the gap. So, while I am hesitant to consider Chen’s placement of women in his photos as successful, and

103 Chen Jiagang, Third Front III (Propaganda Board), 2007, photograph, 160 x 200 cm. Courtesy of Angela Li and Chen Jiagang.

while his decision to include the women may stem from a point of view different from what I am accustomed to, my discomfort is irrelevant. In fact, like all artists, Chen is entitled to do whatever he wants—the argument of cultural difference in his case no longer applies, especially in a world as internationalized as ours has become. As a result, my expectations as an American writer and the outlook of the Chinese culture I write about are not so very different as they might seem. Chen’s women are the embodiment of an aesthetic that has refused to dismiss the practice of deliberate beauty. Creating a work of deliberate beauty is now a controversial practice in Western contemporary art, in large part because we have been overcome by an intellectualized concept of art.

For example, we are used to the flat objectivity of the water towers by Bernd and Hilla Becher that are photographed without comment or elaboration. Chen’s women humanize what otherwise would be a picture of a soulless metal landscape; it happens repeatedly in his art. In Third Front III (Propaganda Board), we see a woman in a slate-blue dress leaning against a very large outdoor bulletin board made of white ceramic tiles. Her bicycle is propped up next to her, while behind the board stand silos and a four-storey building. Half of the photograph is taken up with the grey and black of wet pavement; there is no sign of life except for the girl, and the site is made more human by her presence. And while it is impossible to dismiss her presence, it is equally difficult to invent a reason for her being there. She embodies the artist’s refusal to see his landscape purely as form; the shape of her body is organic rather than right-angled in nature. Again, I am a bit skeptical that she is able to redeem the site, but my doubt may be the residue of formalist notions that emphasize

104 Chen Jiagang, Third Front III (The Girls), 2008, photograph, 160 x 200 cm. Courtesy of Angela Li and Chen Jiagang

the integrity of a work relying on the supposed impartiality of the last century’s modernism. The inclusion of the girl may easily be attributed to a visual strategy meant to undermine the empty ambience of the buildings. Sometimes, though, humanism wins out in Chen’s photographs. His image for Third Front III (The Girls) shows two young women whose images are quite a bit larger, proportionally, than the other two photographs I have spoken about. Dressed simply but elegantly, the two figures stand next to a steel structure from which a huge spout of steam is escaping. Here one feels that the women are more central to the landscape; they exude a calm demeanor in an image that might easily create a sense of foreboding—we don’t know where the steam is coming from or what its force is capable of. Chen traffics in an emptiness redeemed by the ongoing occurrence of beauty the women represent; without them, the images would be harsh and cold. Once again, the women are meant to ameliorate the bleakness of the landscape.

Chen’s negotiations with an industrial landscape are made more complex by his inclusion of women. It is often very difficult to know an artist’s intentions, but I sense that Chen’s addition of women is more aesthetic than structural, a part of a humanist theme and not a formal element. No matter which way they are interpreted, his viewers will judge these photographs’ efficacy as art, and they are left to consider what the meaning of Chen’s choices may be (this happens with all artists, but in Chen’s case, the meaning of the women in his photos is particularly opaque). I am inclined to speculate myself that Chen risks sentimentality in order to emphasize feeling over form. His audience remains hard pressed to fully consent to the contrasts experienced in his photographs, however striking they may be.

105 Melissa Lam AAA Project: Review of A-Z, 26 Locations to Put Everything October 3, 2008–November 1, 2008 Ship G10 Hollywood Center, Hong Kong

Pamela Kember, The Wall and the Books, 2008, books. Courtesy of Asia Art Archive, Hong Kong.

he Asia Art Archive (AAA) is a grassroots initiative based in Hong Kong, founded by Claire Tsu, and established in 2000. Tsu initiated the organization in direct response to Tthe increasing number of Asian contemporary art exhibitions worldwide and the growing number of Asian artists beginning to gain recognition internationally. AAA is a not-for-profit research centre, its mandate being to collect, preserve, and make information on contemporary Asian art easily accessible. AAA began collecting archive materials on the Asian contemporary art boom in order to give an academic focus to facilitating understanding, research, and writing in the field. Not satisfied with being just a “library,” AAA has continually positioned itself as much more than a static collection of material waiting to be discovered. AAA has endeavoured to be proactive by instigating dialogue and critical thinking through the regular initiation of educational and public programs and by introducing as wide an audience as possible to these rich and valuable resources.

In 2008, as part of its many programs, lectures series, and workshops, AAA organized the October Contemporary Festival in Hong Kong, an initiative that began in 2007 to connect all eight not-for- profit Hong Kong art spaces into a themed exhibition. For their 2008 project, AAA commissioned two art professionals—an art historian, Pamela Kember, and an artist, Michael Lee Hong Hwee—to question the idea of “archive,” and, more specifically, the purpose and intentions of AAA.

The first exhibition, titled The Wall and the Books, was created by Pamela Kember and featured a citadel of books stacked with their spines facing outward in a circular ascending pattern in the middle of the temporary gallery space that AAA provided for the show. In her catalogue statement, Kember stated that she “wanted to address the principle of the ‘holdings’ of an archive, what they actually possess, [and] the paradoxical desire to possess everything on the subject.” Kember has literally addressed the physical “principal” of AAA’s holdings by creating an architectural structure of books stacked in a shape that resembles a well. This structure is also reminiscent of the historic

106 Pamela Kember, The Wall and the Books, 2008, books. Courtesy of Asia Art Archive.

Wailing Wall in Jerusaleum, where people are encouraged to stick pieces of paper upon which they have written their prayers and/or wishes into the cracks of the wall. Possibly in allusion to this evocative geographical site, Kember offers instructions on how she would like the audience to interact with the books—not by reading them, but by visually experiencing them and “creat[ing] new patterns and an infinite cycle of references contained within its structure, to other past and present writers.” She encourages art viewers to do this by having them write their thoughts on small pieces of paper and then slip them into the tower of books to add more visual dimension to the structure.

Upon examining more closely what viewers had written on the papers and inserted between the books, I discovered waggish messages such as “Rock, Paper, Scissors,” “Books are Good,” and “Hello.” These amusing and whimsical findings were in their own way refreshing, demonstrating the special brand of Hong Kong humour that is often present amidst such exhibitions. Kember has successfully added a physical and interactive dimension to the exhibition, demonstrated by her creation of a dynamic art object that people can add to with their suggestions for AAA.

In her catalogue text, Kember further compared her use of these books to that of another kind of wall (even though in no way does it physically suggest one), the “scaffolding and a screen” used in military strongholds and containing “ruins of the past, even sacrificial remains.” She has achieved this in the way that the archive of books in the exhibition resembles an antiquated structure with viewers encouraged to stand around and visually contemplate the surface of structure’s material existence, drawing their conclusions from the books’ jackets so that, perhaps, their experience of the books is only superficial. Rather than being used for their everyday function of reading and as markers of knowledge, the books are being used as building blocks to simply create a structure, a kind of archaic museum where people are encouraged to look at the books as artifacts but not touch them. This is an innovative concept. Kember challenges AAA’s usual tactics of encouraging knowledge consumption by reading and, instead, encourages a visual experience.

Michael Lee Hong Hwee’s complementary exhibition, titled The Booked, the Unbooked, and the Unbookable (in collaboration with Lee Chun Fung), was held the last two weeks of the October Contemporary Festival and demonstrated a similar interest in physically deconstructing the nature of the archive and making it a visual experience. Lee created four wooden bookshelf-like structures that were all installed so that they could interact with the physical materiality of the books from AAA’s library. The first structure, entitled Bibliophiles in Residence, is built like a small cubbyhole living space. The catalogue reiterates a double truism for the work: “Booklovers like to work in bookshops. Booklovers like to live in bookshops.” This installation consisted of a delightful and amusing, Japanese-like living space with a stool, desk, and reading lamp for the reader to use after choosing a book from the collection layered above the roof-like ceiling. The second structure, entitled Restroom for the Deranged, featured books intended to be used in order to be abused. The subtitle of this piece—“Treat books with tender loving care. Torture books with tender loving

107 care”—alluded to a kind of physical deconstruction of the books. The central section had books flying askew, held aloft by strings that allowed them to float with their covers flapping out in mid air. Book covers were altered, physically disassembled, and reinvented. This was the most visually stunning part of the exhibition. The third structure, entitled The Garden of Paratextual Delights, encouraged viewers to reimagine books from an aesthetic and visual perspective. Michael Lee Hong Hwee, Bibliophiles in Residence, 2008, wood, books, casters, lamp. For this piece, Lee assembled stacks of crisp white catalogues Courtesy of the artist. of the current exhibition in columns and constructed small miniature representations of books that rested on top of the stacked books. Lee created a kind of cityscape in The Garden of Paratextual Delights that consisted of a variety of stationary invented figures, complete with thumbtack guards that surround the book columns. In Lee’s last structure, entitled Lost Libraries, he questioned the use of book archives by creating a wooden structure housing forgotten books. The drawers of the wooden structure were left partially open with books dangling half in and half out, as if pleading with viewers to finally engage with these books that have been ignored for years.

How successful are both of these projects in questioning

Michael Lee Hong Hwee, Restroom for the the AAA and its function as an archive? Well, the wonderful Deranged, 2008, wood, books. Courtesy of the artist. thing about the Asia Art Archive is that it has had the forethought to move us forward into the present—it is also an online archive that is accessible to everyone around the world. The one surprise is that neither artist nor art historian felt compelled to deal with was this online component of AAA’s archive; their physical library is but one small part of what they actually do. From exploring the difficulties of publishing a grassroots Filipino art newsletter to featuring Delhi’s wealthiest contemporary art collector, www.

Michael Lee Hong Hwee, The Garden of asiaartarchive.com is by no means static; it is consistently Paratextual Delights, 2008, wood, books, Styrofoam, Plexiglas, office supplies. Courtesy updated and includes an active board of directors, access to of the artist. research grants, current projects, a monthly newsletter, and a listing of events featuring Asian art that are added to by interested members of the public around the world. AAA is online (www.aaa.org.hk) and constantly moving; its fluidity consistently evaluated and revamped by its staff.

What is the difference between an archive and a library? This was a question that was continually running through my mind as I viewed these two shows; in both, Kember and Lee decided to aesthetically engage “the book” as a visually conceptual object and not as academic research material. In many ways, what both art historian and artist attempted to do was to bring the archive out into the open space of an exhibition, thereby revealing what is usually hidden by reconstructing it as a visual entity: by turning the art research Michael Lee Hong Hwee, Lost Libraries, 2008, wood, books. Courtesy of the artist. material into art.

108 Chinese Name Index

Bao Dong Gao Shiming Lee, Michael Pan Tianshou Xiao Yu 鮑棟高士明 Hong Hwee 潘天壽蕭昱李鴻輝 Cai Guo-Qiang Gao Xinjiang Qi Baishi Xu Bing 蔡國強高行健 Lee Chun Fung 齊白石徐冰李俊峰 Chang, Johnson Ge Yaping Qiu Zhijie Xu Jiang Tsong-Zung 葛亞平 Lee Kuan Yew 丘志杰許江張頌仁李光耀 Gong Xueping Shen Jiawei Xu Zhen 龔學平 Chen, Elsa Leung , Annie 沈嘉蔚徐震 Hsiang-Chun Kitwah Wong Gu Wenda 陳香君王梁潔華 Shen Kuiyi Yan Shanchuan 谷文達沈揆一嚴善淳 Chen Chieh-Jen Li, Chunyee Guo Hui 陳界仁黎俊儀郭卉 Shen Shaomin Yang Fudong 沈少民楊福東 Chen Danqing Li Jianguo Guo Moruo 陳丹青李建國郭沫若 Shi Lu Yang Keshan 石魯楊克山 Chen Huanming Li Keran 陳惠明 Guo Xiaoyan 郭曉彥李可染 Shih Shu-mei Yang Shaobin 史書美楊少斌 Chen Jiagang Li Xu 李旭陳家剛 Hau Lung-bin 郝龍斌 Sui Jianguo Yeh Wei-Li Li Yifan 隋建國葉偉立 Chen Yanning 李一凡陳衍寧 Hou Hanru 侯瀚如 Sun Yat-Sen Yuan Goang-Ming Liao Yiqiong Chen Yifei 孫中山袁廣鳴 Hsu Manray 廖藝群陳逸飛徐文瑞 Tang Xiaohe Yue Minjun Lin Fengmian Chen Zhiguang 唐小禾岳敏君 Hu Fang 林風眠陳志光胡昉 Tsu, Claire Zhang Hongtu Liu Chao-shiuan Cheung, Amy 徐文玠張宏圖 Huang Chih chieh 劉兆玄張韻雯黃致杰 Tsui, Hilary Zhang Qing Liu Chunhua Chiu, Melissa Huang Yong Ping 劉春華徐美華張晴招颖思黃永砯 Wang Guangyi Zhang Songnan Deng Hong Liu Dahong Huang Zhou 劉大鴻王廣義張頌南鄧鴻黃胄 Wang Huangsheng Zhang Weijie Ding Yi Liu Hojang Jiang Nantao 劉和讓王璜生張偉傑丁乙江南濤 Wang Minxian Zhang Xiaogang Dong Xiaoming Liu Wei Jiang Tiefeng 劉韡王明賢張曉剛董小明蔣鉄峰 Lu Jie Wong Hoy Cheong Zhao Wangyun Dong Xiwen Jiang Zemin 盧杰黃海昌趙望雲董希文江澤民 Woo, Philana Zheng Shengtian Fan Di'an Luo Brothers Jin Jing 胡宇君鄭勝天范迪安金晶羅氏兄弟 Wu Hung Zhou Changgu Fang Lijun Jing Shijian Luo Zhongli 巫鴻周昌穀方力鈞井士劍羅中立

Fang Zengxian Kao Chien-hui Ma Ying-jeou Wu Mali Zhou Litai 方增先高千惠馬英九吳瑪悧周立太

Feng Bin Kuo, Jessie Mao Zedong Wu Shanzhuan Zhou Ruizhuang 馮斌郭書瑄毛澤東吳山專周睿莊

Feng Mengbo Kwok Kian Chow Pak, Tozer Wu Yu-Hsin Zhou Yang 馮夢波郭建超白雙全吳語心周揚

Feng Yuan Lam, Melissa Pan Gongkai Xiao Xiong Zhou Yi 馮遠林嘉敏潘公凱肖雄周依

109