龙在天 Dragon in Air

水墨、皮纸、壁画

2012

Wordscape:poetry project 2011，

the OCT ART&DESIGN Gallery,Shenzhen

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This exhibition aims to explore the concept of “Memory” and “Trace” by showing the artworks grasping the passage of time passed and its memory from the past as a ‘trace’ and ‘symptom’. The exhibition will mainly be focused on the Chinese artists born after the middle of 1960s, who experienced their youth at the transitional stage within the process of individualization born out of the socio-economic transformation in China. The reason this generation is so special is that they had experienced both the Cultural Revolution and Capitalism when they were young.
As Jacques Derrida explained his theory ‘trace’ over an example of ‘The Mystic Writing Pad,’ everything in the world has a memory as a ‘trace’ and ‘symptom’ in a certain form. In case of the mystic writing pad, it looks like the words written on the board could be completely erased by wiping the words, but actually the trace of it remains at the bottom all the time. Just like this mystic writing pad, the memory of us also remains as a ‘trace’ and ‘symptom,’ and it strongly affects our present with or without intention and makes our future indeterminate. This exhibition intends to find out how this memory as a ‘trace’ and ‘symptom’ could be visually expressed at the artworks by post-70’s Chinese artists.

The animations and paintings of Wu Junyong have the same unsettling effect of an Aesop’s Fable or Grimms’ Fairytale. Peopled by kings, jesters, and animals, they use the language of shadow-puppetry and performance to comment on the greed and hubris of society. Almost gothic in their aesthetic, they are marked by a dark wit that seems timeless, crossing Chinese and Western mythology to expose the follies of those in authority. There is more than a little of The Emperor’s New Clothes in Wu’s work, and a strange feeling of wickedness in the fact that pictures so violent should be so appealing.

Wu Junyong’s studio is a mish-mash of paper cut outs pinned to corkboards, paintings propped up against the walls, prints hanging from the upper levels, and a quiet digital studio in the corner. It’s easy to picture him moving from one area to another, picking up different tools with which to work, depending on the mood and demands of the moment.

To meet Wu Junyong is to come into contact with the same cheeky ambiguity in his art. Hopefully something of his mischievous smile comes through in the interview posted below.
Christen Cornell: You moved to Beijing from Hangzhou two years ago. How’s the move been?

Wu Junyong: Beijing is like a big stage. I started in a village, then moved to a regional city, then moved to Hangzhou – which is quite a big city – and now I’ve moved to Beijing, an even bigger city. It’s fun here. You can meet all different kinds of people: smart people, stupid people, over the top people, some crazy people. All kinds. And you can see that everyone’s performing – I’m performing too. It’s just that we all have a different performance.

CC: Your works already have the feeling of performance. Has Beijing influenced this?

WJY: It’s probably made me more hardworking, more committed. In Beijing your status becomes very simplified. You’re an artist here. In Hangzhou I’m a teacher, but I’m also an artist, and a normal person at the same time. But here you’re just an artist, so you work a lot harder at that.

CC: Your paintings and animations often include animals. Like fables, they seem to represent something. Can you talk a little about that?

WJY: Animals often have a kind of symbolic status. They represent things. So for example a dragon has a lot of meaning in China – it’s supposed to fly in the sky, to be powerful. But then I’ll often have dragons falling from the sky, or even being cut up – about to die, sapped of their energy.

CC: Your pictures can appear so innocent at first glance, but then often become quite frightening the more you look.

WJY: I hide a lot of things inside them. As far as I’m concerned every picture is a riddle. It might suggest a story we think we’re familiar with, but then I put a whole lot of other random things in there with that to confuse.

So one picture might have a group of people all going in one direction, but then you might notice that somebody’s arm is upside down. The direction is confused; the characters look lost. Then there might be another person sitting on top of a chair. You could call him ‘the chairman’, but the chair is so high it looks unstable. It’s dangerous up there – he’s too far from the ground to be safe.

CC: Do you know how you want to make your audience feel while you’re working?

WJY: I suppose I want my works to have a feeling of tragedy. My films are all kind of melancholy, and also have a feeling of helplessness. You can feel the direction of the characters is probably not good – is probably getting more and more dangerous, more and more corrupt. So you start to wonder why, and what it is they’re actually doing. I don’t really know what the audience is thinking, but a lot of people say they can sense that mood.

CC: Many critiques would then say that these kinds of contradictions – these uncertainties and ambiguities about what is right and wrong, possible and impossible – say a lot about contemporary China.

WJY: This has been my focus these last few years. I think a person’s upbringing starts with him looking at himself, and then later, when he’s grown up a little more, he starts to look at the world around him. You can’t hide from society; you have to face it and the questions it raises.

CC: Would you say you’re a political artist?

WJY: Of course. A lot of my work is about politics, about power and public officialdom. This is a big issue right now. You have to face it. I chose to face it directly.

CC: Do a lot of people ask you what the hat means?

WJY: [Laughs] I’ve answered that question many times.

CC: Does the answer keep on changing?

WJY: This year the answers will probably all be the same, but they’ll be different from the answers last year, because the meaning of the hat is always changing. So it might have started with the idea of ‘daigaomao’ – to wear a tall hat – which in Chinese culture means that I might praise you and be very over the top in that praise. I give you a tall hat to wear, but in fact the praise and flattery is all false.

In China everybody’s constantly flattering each other. In the paper, you can see the government praising itself, praising China, praising the Chinese people. Chinese friends, when they’re together, are the same – just praising and flattering each other. It’s a big joke! So the hat has this kind of meaning.

CC: It also makes me think of the Cultural Revolution, when people had to wear these hats to receive public criticism.

WJY: That’s right, because one minute somebody’s flattering you, and the next minute behind your back they’re cutting you down! [laughs]

CC: Did you grow up in a city?

WJY: I grew up in a village. When I started university I didn’t know one European artist. Maybe Da Vinci or Van Gough, maybe Andy Warhol, but I really had no idea about any modern or contemporary art. At university everyone was going on about Lucian Freud – I was like, who’s Freud? I only knew Chinese revolutionary art, Soviet Art, these kinds of things. I knew nothing about Western art. It was a very closed environment where I grew up.

CC: Is it a bit unusual that you went to art school then, a kid from the village?

WJY: Not really, because the area I grew up in was very advanced in its own folk arts. It was a very cultured place in its own way. And you can see my art is still influenced by this. It’s had that traditional folk art influence throughout my time at university to today. I bring traditional Chinese folk art into a contemporary context.

CC: Do your films all include the same characters and look like shadow puppets?

WJY: Not necessarily. I did this three-part work in 2005 called Opera which really changed the direction of my work. Up to that point it all had the feeling of being on a stage, but still in a very intimate environment. From there though it started to have this look of a circus troupe and moved into a more public space. The images started to have a stronger connection with history and to be more clearly about a performance.

CC: When you talk about history you’re not only talking about Chinese history, though, are you? The stories you tell aren’t only Chinese stories.

WJY: That’s right. There are all kinds. So for example there are many images in the Opera Series that come from a Bruegel painting, ‘The Blind Leading the Blind.’ All those blind people pulling a rope – the idea actually came from this painting.

CC: So your works often have this connection to the classics. Perhaps that’s why they feel slightly familiar to me.

WJY: The language is probably familiar, even if you don’t always know where it’s come from.

时间的胃 Time of Stomach
2011
录像，装置，绘画
Animation,Installation,Painting

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图片现场来自以下展览：
《DAYBREAK 破晓》
展期：2011年9月10日至11月20日
地点：阿拉里奥北京（酒厂艺术园）

 Time Out Beijing 

是什么改变了最初的吴俊勇？时光倒转至2005年，彼时，兼画家、漫画家、动画设计师于一身的他恰逢中国主流意识的冲击，一时间不知所措，如同当头喝棒一般。他的短片《等咱有钱了》浓缩了对中华人民共和国暴发户与日俱增的不满情绪，使用暗讽的手法描绘了中国极度性感的景象，一经推出即赶上地下flash动画片在国内网络上的狂热潮流，走红速度之快令人瞠目。六年后，吴俊勇在F2画廊举办新个展，此时的他已有了“吴大师”这个画家的头衔，那么他还的影响力还一如从前吗？

吴俊勇的工作室里有一大堆乱糟糟的未完成画作，我们就是在那里和他进行的采访。巨大的油画布挂着满墙都是，32岁的艺术家吴俊勇身着自己制作的T恤和短裤，礼貌地坐在一边，浑身上下都是创意的混搭。他给人一种平静祥和的感觉，与他在油画和动画片里呈现出的感觉大相径庭，他的愤怒通过这些油画和动画片表现得淋漓尽致，就跟狂饮高脚酒杯里的白酒的肥猫一样，那么轻而易举。吴俊勇的作品都是关于差距的，在我看来，比如说流言和真相之间的差距，这并不在我们意料之外。

“艺术和社会应该直接沟通，”他边说边做着手势。“艺术直接影响社会，社会也反过来影响艺术。在目前的社会环境下，我们所生活的时代可谓非常独特。我想用我的作品来反映我们所处的现实。”

讽刺家是当今世界非常困难的行业，他们的特点就是反映现实，俨然是“新兴木刻运动”的当代呼吁，“新兴木刻运动”最早是由鲁迅——中国20世纪30年代的作家兼社会评论家提出来的，不过也仅仅是起了个名字，因时间流逝而逐渐褪色，但吴俊勇的怨恨不同，里面有更多不因时间而改变的东西。“这些大幅的图画有时需要一个特定的现实，”他啜了口茶，说道，“但是我只是提出了一些根本性的问题，就像古老的欧洲美术作品那样，描绘的都是战场或历史事件。”

吴俊勇成长在福建的一个小镇，当地的民间艺术颇有名气，那里没人听说过所谓的专业艺术家，唯一展出的美术作品是苏联和中国的宣传画。当吴俊勇在中国美术学院进修新媒体之后，博览图书馆的浩瀚书海，分享同学们的鉴赏品味，才真正为波希（Bosch）、伦勃朗（Rembrandt）和杜勒（Durer）的巨大影响力所震撼。

吴俊勇的风格介于以上三位大家之间，同时以一种守旧派的道德倾向，使用寓言和双关语掩饰社会批判。他的冷嘲热讽更为尖锐，带有明显的中国故事叙述者的腔调，例如他新个展中一副名为《墙外游记》的画，借用《西游记》中的一个景象，来比喻艰难翻越中国网络防火墙的行为，也就是俗话所说的“翻墙”，意为“穿过墙壁”。“在中国，上网只是《西游记》的现代版本，”吴俊勇解释说。“我们要想看真实的西方世界还需要‘穿过墙壁’。”

吴俊勇的作品也许正是因为它特有的中华民族智慧，才吸引了西方人的眼球脱颖而出，“戴尖帽的人”就是屡试不爽的典范。在名为《王冠》的画作里，一个男人摘下帽子露出光头，而在其他的画作里，戴着帽子的角色也是随处可见，混乱至极，就像希罗尼穆斯•波希最糟糕的梦魇。这种形象是对中国俚语“戴高帽”的另一种直接的翻译，为“奉承”之意。这好像是解读艺术家愤怒的密码，只是迫切需要上下文。

也许因为这种角色过于明显，这些疯狂的戴帽者成为吴俊勇最喜爱的角色，正如他所解释的：“有时我把人类看作动物，但一旦你戴上帽子这种社会产物之后，你就有了社会的角色。你参与了社会的运转。”这似乎是说，“戴帽子的人”是吴俊勇本人和艺术家身份两者之间的界限标志，如同监管边界的州长，哪里有奉承和不公，就惩治哪里。

吴俊勇接着给我看了一幅正在创作的作品《乱相》——他“几乎每天”在微博上发布的讽刺性系列动画作品，似乎是想证实他的观点。这些作品中频繁地出现“戴帽子的人”，讽刺新的故事、喜事、大事。但这些“戴帽子的人”起到的强调作用在艺术家身上出现了根本性的分歧：新媒体微博对社会的回击，和动画设计师兼画家在故事和俚语中慢慢灌输自己眼中的真相，这两者之间所存在的对抗。但是谁会赢呢？

吴俊勇影响力最大的当然还是油画和电影，在这两个领域，还需要对自己的讽刺技能和独特的中国声音多加思量。与出道时的他相比，现在的他要有思想得多。在《等咱有钱了》破茧而出六年之后，他的动画更加精美，双眼更加敏锐，绘画风格也更加大胆。只是，我们离开时，可以很明显地看出依旧坐在那里的吴俊勇，仍会在自己所选择的媒体中再创轰动。那些讲真话的人们总是会身体力行。

What’s eating Wu Junyong? Back in 2005, the painter, cartoonist and animator struck Chinese mainstream consciousness like a brick to the face. His short animation ‘Wait Us Rich’ rode shotgun on a local internet craze for underground Flash cartoons. It was a darkly satirical, hyper-sexed vision of China that epitomised a growing discontent with the PRC’s nouveau riche. Six years later, his new exhibition at F2 Gallery has Wu don his painter’s hat, but can he still have the same impact?

We meet in the artist’s studio amid a haze of works still to be finished. Giant canvases spill chaotically over the walls, while the 32-year-old artist sits politely in a homemade T-shirt and shorts amid the clutter of creativity. He exudes an almost serene calm, in stark contrast to the canvases and animations where his wrath spills over the mediums as easily as a fat cat swills a goblet of wine. But one shouldn’t be surprised, Wu’s work is all about discrepancy: the gap between what you’re told – or in my case, assume – and what is. ‘Art and society should have a direct relationship with each other,’ he gesticulates.

‘Art directly affects society and society on the way back affects art. In the current social situation, we live in a very oblique era. I want to use my works to reflect the reality of our setting.’

It’s the calling card of the satirist – a difficult profession in this part of the world. It is also the cry of the ‘New Wooden Carving Movement’ (新兴木刻运动) started by the Chinese writer and social critic of the 1930s, Lu Xun. But that’s merely giving it a name. There is something more timeless about Wu’s ire. ‘With the large paintings, sometimes there is a certain reality,’ he explains over tea, ‘but I’m just asking fundamental questions, like the old European paintings that depict a battlefield or historical events.’

Wu grew up in a small town in Fujian Province dominated by folk arts – the kind of place where the notion of a professional artist is unheard of, and the sole paintings on display were Soviet and Chinese propagandist pieces. Only when he went on to study new media at art college, grounded in library books and the tastes of his peers, did he discover influences such as Bosch, Rembrandt and Durer.

His style lies somewhere in between the three, combined with an old-school morality that masks social criticisms in fables and wordplay. He sharpens his satirical barbs with a distinctly Chinese storyteller’s brush, such as in one painting from his new show entitled ‘Journey to the Other Side of the Wall’. Here, he takes an image from the tale of Journey to the West, likening the story to the act of surmounting China’s internet firewall via the common term fan qiang (翻墙), meaning ‘to go through the wall’. ‘In China, surfing the internet is just the modern version of Journey to the West,’ explains Wu. ‘We also need to “go through the wall” to see the real Western world.’

However, perhaps because of its folk wisdoms, Wu’s work does run the danger of being lost to foreign eyes. One recurring example is that of the ‘pointy hat men’. In the painting ‘Crown’, a man takes off his hat to reveal only an empty skull; in others, behatted characters scatter the chaos like Hieronymus Bosch’s worst nightmare. The image comes from another direct translation of a common Chinese idiom: ‘to put on a tall hat’, which means to flatter. It’s like a code for the artist’s wrath, but badly requires context.

Perhaps tellingly, these mad hatters have become Wu’s favourite characters, as he explains: ‘I sometimes see human beings as being like animals, but when you wear a hat, which is a product of society, you start to take on a social role. You engage with society.’ It is almost as if the ‘hat men’ mark the boundary between the two, with Wu, the artist, policing the border like a sheriff, punishing flattery and injustice wherever it may rise.

As if to confirm that notion, he shows me an ongoing project entitled Chaos. It is a series of satirical cartoons he posts ‘almost every day’ on Weibo. They frequently feature the ‘hat men’, satirising news stories, celebrities and events. But what they serve to highlight is the fundamental divide in the artist: the new media microblogger jabbing back at society versus the animator/painter coaxing his slow truths in tales and idioms. But who will win?

Where Wu has most impact is surely on canvas and film. Here, his satirical wit and distinctly Chinese voice find time to ponder. By his own admittance, he is more thoughtful nowadays. In the six years since ‘Wait Us Rich’ broke, his animations have become more refined, his eye sharper and his painting style bolder. But, as we leave him in his studio, it is clear that Wu Junyong can still shock in whatever medium he chooses. People who tell the truth always can.
Gareth Clark

http://www.timeoutbeijing.com/features/Art/12897/Wu-Junyong.html

Rumor: Wu Junyong Solo Exhibition
Sep 3 – Nov 7, 2011
F2 Gallery

流言：吴俊勇个展
2011.9.3－2011.11.7
F2画廊

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北京朝阳区草场地319号

鲍 栋

要说起来，吴俊勇绝对是符合那种“图像时代”艺术家的典型形象的，首先履历就符合，70年代末出生，2000年参加工作，后来又成了新媒体专业的硕士，最初做网络Flash成名，目前在跨媒体学院当老师，曾经热爱电脑游戏，工作室里摆着巨大的显示器，自己做很漂亮的个人网站……当然，他的作品更符合，数字动画与绘画，图像与形象……然而，“图像时代”的艺术家到底意味着什么呢？仅仅意味着用新媒体做作品，或者往作品里撂更多的图像，抑或是，把油画画得虚虚薄薄的像没拍清楚的照片？那些因赶时髦而使用“图像时代”这个词的人，他们想的或许只是这些。

然而，“图像”这个概念并不是如此简单，它根本不需要成为“时代”这个词的跟班，在“时代”这个词还没有红起来的时候，图像早已在对抗那个强劲的对手——语言。是的，“图像时代”也时常被描述为图像对语言的替代，仿佛图像最终战胜了语言。可大多数时候，我看到的却是语言对图像的殖民愈加彻底，图像与视觉早已被符号化，也即是被概念化，变成了语言帝国主义下的一块殖民地。因此，别看到那些充斥着图像的作品就以为是“图像时代”来临了，大多数时候，那些图像只是语言的傀儡，或者说，投降叛变的图像，比如人们常说这个图像代表什么，那个形象表达了什么——而在真正图像主权的政体下，图像是要去看，而无法用来说的。

在这种局面下，吴俊勇的意义在于，他是在用图像去反动语言，甚至策反语言，把语言中潜伏了多年的图像激活出来，他已准备好要去建立一种图像主权法则。这样的雄心早在他的网络Flash时代就显露了出来，当时他以锈零为网名发表的作品就被网络群众们认为晦涩难懂，因为他不是用图像去转述文学情节，而是更着力于图像自身的力量。使图像能够以自己的方式生产着意义，这是图像挣脱语言统治的唯一方式。

在我看来，吴俊勇艺术实践的核心正在于去呈现一种图像修辞术，这种图像修辞术不再如罗兰·巴特分析的那样是用图像掩护着语言的运作，而是用图像生成着更多的图像，使意义的生产不断地被延宕在图像链之中，让观看的快感尽量久地保持下去。

比如他的动画作品中总是会出现的那一对连体圆形的轮廓，串起了望远镜中的视界、世界地图、乌鸦的比目这些图像，形成了一条视觉的纵聚合轴。这些图像之间构成了隐喻，或者说，各种个人的与集体的经验在它们之间流动着，使原本被语言切分的经验又被复原成为了一个感知的整体。在这条以一对连体圆形为基底的视觉纵聚合轴上，一条条视觉的横组合也同时被打开。在2010年的《鸟兽散》中，望远镜的视界这个端点打开了这样一条转喻，一方面引发了影像语法的出现，吴俊勇动画中那些镜头的推拉伸缩摇移都是在望远镜的观看经验中才能成立的；另一方面，望远镜视界的封闭轮廓又指向了封闭的观看这一视觉行为，指向着远远窥视的经验——各种形象的剪影效果因而显得合情合理了——然后又与镜头调度的经验相汇合，指向监视。而2009年的作品《乱花》中，左右两边视界的图像并置与联动也是在这个连体圆的框架下展开的。

值得注意的是，和语言系统中的情况不同甚至相反的是，视觉的横组合并不是一条时间轴，因为观看与聆听或阅读最大的不同就在于观看并不像语言那样是一种分节，观看始终包含着一种整体感知，在我们看见的那一瞬中，图像的转喻已经完成了运转。图像的转喻不是时间性的。也正是因为视觉的横组合不是时间轴的形式，所以视觉的纵聚合轴上所呈现出来的可替换选项并不是现成的，而需要通过主动的观看来完成看见。鸭兔图就是一个不够完美但能说明基本情况的例子，直到你看见了兔或者鸭你才知道有这样一个选项，我们可以想象一下罗夏测试中的墨迹，它几乎聚拢了无限的选项，但只有在你把它看成是一张脸，或者一片风景之后，你才能看见这些选项。

吴俊勇提供的另一个图像修辞的案例是风筝线/木偶线/操纵杆/指挥棒/魔术杖，它们之间也构成了一条图像链，或者说隐喻群，它们无需语言概念的支撑而直接指向“操控”这一经验。图像之间不通过概念而直接由经验与想象而彼此关联，这才是一种真正的图像的修辞。因此，图像的修辞术难道不就是图像的在场吗？正如语言的在场必然是语言修辞的出场，图像的在场也必然是图像修辞的出场。

在这个意义上，媒介意义上的图像与语言并不是对立的，这种对立还不如被挪到诸如经验与概念、自足性与工具性、图形性与话语性，乃至差异性与同一性等二元关系中去。语言也有着它的图形性，如诗歌中的语词就不是一种表义的工具，或者说，诗歌的价值在于使言语从社会既定的语言系统中挣脱出来，使语词获得一种不可被还原为抽象概念的确切存在。总之，我们对图像的尊重是为了针对所指而强调能指的在场，这并不是去排斥语言本身，而是在提防意义及感知的俗套所带来的遮蔽。

《俚语词典》即是一种把词语还原为图像的尝试，在这个计划中，吴俊勇试图把那些在文化地层中沉寂下来的词语，把那些因约定俗成而被死死束缚住的隐喻解救出来，并唤醒过来。在其中，“翻脸”被描绘成掀开脸皮露出肌肉与骷髅的骇人场面，而“吹牛”则被形象化地处理成一个人吹出一个个气态的牛……这些图像实际上暗示了修辞乃是日常语言的源头，而日常语言，如这些俚语都是衰变过后的修辞。

借着词语留存的根器来创造出图像，这件事情吴俊勇干了很多年了，他最初的Flash作品中就充斥着这些形象。实际上，他的作品中一直出现的那个带尖顶帽子的小人形象，就是来自于对“带高帽子”这一习语的视觉化。但是图像一旦产生，就不会再受原来的概念所控制了，这个尖顶帽子的小人形象打通了多种经验与身份，从文革挨批的牛鬼蛇神到小丑魔术师，而这顶尖帽子又时常成为意识形态的象征形象，当它被揭开，时常是脑中空空如也，或者是万物喷涌。

与动画作品不同的是，《俚语词典》以及其他的一些布上或纸上的绘画作品具有更强更清晰的感知度，使图像获得了更多的细节，而这些细节是概念无法替换掉的。“无产阶级”被描绘成体态发福的大胡子马克思，一手拿镰刀一手握锤子，站在一片晦暗不明的空地上。这个图像的关键是裸体的身体，而拉丁语无产者（proletarius）就是源于子嗣（proles）这个词根，它暗示了无产者一无所有除了还拥有可以生殖的身体——这个图像给我所带来的提示，或许是它的作者并没有预料到的。图像从产生的那一刻开始就已是活的，它们会自己生长。

与某些庸知俗见不同的是，强调并尊重图像的自足性，并不意味着仅仅是在玩一场视觉游戏。实际上，吴俊勇的图像的意义生产力是要远远超过那些政治符号绘画的，更重要的是它们是在生产新的意义与感知，而不是去绑架那种僵硬的政治姿态。在这个“图像时代”，一种最深层的政治性恰恰体现为在表征系统之中批判这个表征系统，这种表征的批判包含着对语言和图像关系的重新认识，在这里，艺术家们的图像实践所提供的启示是哲学教授与政治活动家们所不能提供的。

这并不是在为吴俊勇辩护，仿佛他缺乏对现实政治的关注，恰恰相反，从一开始，他的作品就有着强烈的政治指涉及意识形态批判。在中国目前的语境下，那些广场、红旗、纪念碑、雕像，以及镰刀与锤子怎么可能没有政治意蕴呢？而在他2011年开始的《乱相》计划中，图像更是经常与具体的社会事件关联起来。值得我们注意的是，在这些最初发布在微博上的作品中，那些最具政治性的图像反而不是那种直指语义的符号，而是一些展现了精彩图像修辞术的图像，这些图像能够使原来的政治意识背后的表征系统变得松动，从而改变人们政治情感的麻木状态。而所谓图像修辞术，在其最狭义的含义上，不就是去探寻一种图像的说服力吗。

2011-8-19
於成都A4当代艺术中心

Wu Junyong and Image Rhetoric

Bao Dong

Wu Junyong absolutely fits the typical image of the artist in the “era of image”. First of all, his résumé fits: born in the late 1970s, started working in 2000, then earned his MFA in New Media Arts, became well known for his internet Flash work, and is now an instructor in the New Media Art Department. He used to love computer video games. A huge monitor sits in his studio displaying a professional artist’s website which he himself constructed … Of course, his work further conforms to this identity, digital animation and painting, image and figure… However, what does it mean to be an artist in the “image era”? Does it mean making art only by utilizing new media, or compiling more images into the work, or further, thinning oil paintings as if they were fuzzy photographs? Those who use the phrase “image era” to merely stay in fashion probably limit themselves with these ideas.

However, this “image” concept is not as simple. It doesn’t need to be the attendant for the word “era”. Before the word “era” became widely popular, image had long been competing with that strong rival — language. Yes, “image era” is often described as the replacement of language, as if image has finally defeated language. However, most of the time, I in turn witness language’s thorough colonization of image, image and visuals have long been symbolized, which also means conceptualized, turned into a colony of linguistic imperialism. Thus, do not assume that the “image era” is arriving whenever you see these image-filled works, for the most time, these images are merely puppets of language, or to say, surrender and mutiny against image. For instance, people always say what this image represents and what that figure expresses — under a genuine sovereign image regime, image is to be seen, rather than to be described.

In this situation, the significance of Wu Junyong lies in that he is utilizing image to counteract language, even to incite rebellion against language, to activate the long-incubated images from language. He has prepared to establish a sovereign law of image. This ambition appeared early in his internet Flash era, back then he published works under his internet name Xiu Ling. The works were considered obscure by internet surfers, because he was not using images to re-narrate literary plots; rather, he emphasized the power of the image itself. To enable image to produce meaning in its own way, this is the only method for image to break away from the control of language.

The essence of Wu Junyong’s art practice is to present an image rhetoric, this image rhetoric is no longer as Roland Barthes analyzed the image covering the operation of language; rather, it is to use image to generate more images, to keep the production of meaning in the chain of images, to ensure the pleasure of viewing as long as possible.

For instance, in his animation work, there always is an outline of two joined circles, connecting the visual world in the binocular, the world map, the bird’s eye. These all form a vertical visual axle. Among these images form metaphors, or to say, all sorts of personal and collective experiences flow among them, enabling the originally segmented language experience to be restored into an entirety of perception. On the vertical visual axle based on the two joined circles, each and every horizontal visual combination is opened simultaneously. In “Cloud’s Nightmare” (2010), the visual world is in the binoculars. From this point, it leads to a metonymy; in one aspect, it initiates the appearance of visual grammar, all the shots of zooming in and out and moving sideways can only be realized in the experience of looking through binoculars; in the other aspect, the sealed-off outline of the binoculars also suggests the sealed-off viewing action, suggesting the voyeuristic experience from afar — making the silhouette effects of all images seem logical and reasonable — then converge again with the adjustment of the lens, hinting at surveillance. In “Flower of Chaos” (2009), image juxtaposition and linkage in both the left and right visual fields also unfold under the framework of these conjoined circles.

What’s worth noticing is that, different from or even opposed to the situation in language systems, the horizontal visual combination is not a timeline, because the most significant difference lies between viewing and listening or reading. This viewing doesn’t resemble language, which is a segmented act; viewing contains an overall perception throughout the process, the moment that we see, the metonymy of the image has already reached completion. The metonymy of an image is not time based. Exactly because the horizontal visual combination is not based on a timeline, what the vertical visual axle presents as replaceable choices are not immediately available, rather the visual experience has to be obtained through initiated viewing. The duck-rabbit diagram is not a perfect but applicable example: you only realize there are such choices until you see the rabbit or the duck. We can imagine Rorschach tests, they include endless choices, but only until you see a face or a landscape, only then can you see these choices.

Wu Junyong provides another cause of image rhetoric is the string of the kite/ string of the puppet/ baton/ magic wand, they form a imagery chain among themselves, or to say a metaphor group. They do not need the support of language to directly link to the experience of “control”. The connections formed among each other directly through experience and imagination rather than conception can be called true rhetoric of image. Thus, the rhetoric of image isn’t just the presence of the image? Just as the presence of language is inevitability the presence of language rhetoric, the presence of image is certainly the presence of image rhetoric.

In this sense, image and language are not opposite in the terms of media. This kind of opposition could rather be moved to binary relations such as experience and concept, self-sufficiency and instrumentality, figurative and discursive, even to otherness and homogeneity. Language has its own figurative nature; for instance, aren’t the words in poetry an instrument of expressions of meaning? Or to say, the value of poetry lies within the language’s struggle to break away from the established language system, to obtain an irreversible state of the existence of the abstract concept. In all, the respect we have for image is to the presence in question, not to reject language itself, rather to be vigilant against the intrusion brought by the convention of meaning and perception.

“A Dictionary of Slang” is an experiment to restore the language back to image. In this project, Wu Junyong attempts to rescue and waken the words that are buried underneath the cultural stratums and those tightly restrained metaphors under the established customs. Among them, “Fall Out” (in Chinese “Fan Lian”, literally means turns someone’s face) is depicted as a horror scene where a face is peeled off, and flesh and skeleton are exposed. “Brag” (in Chinese “Chui Niu”, literally means blowing a cow”) is vividly depicted as a man blowing a cow shape balloon up. These images actually suggest that rhetoric is the source of daily language, and the everyday language, such as these slang are examples of rhetoric after evolution.

Wu Junyong has been employing the roots of words to create images for years. His early Flash work is filled with these figures. In fact, a little human figure with a tall pointy hat has repetitively appeared in this work. This comes from the visualization of the slang “to put on a tall hat” (in Chinese this means to excessively extol someone, who is often with power and authority). However, once the imagery is born, it is no longer under the control of its original concept. This pointy hat little figure transforms into many identities and experiences, from the “bad elements” and “class enemies” from the Cultural Revolution to clowns and magicians, this pointy hat often becomes the symbolic image of ideology. Once it is removed, sometimes an empty brain appears, or something other, a million things burst out.

What is different from the animation works is that “A Dictionary of Slang” or other oil on canvas works or works on paper have a stronger and more distinct perceptibility, which allows the images more details, and these details cannot be replaced by concepts. “The Proletariat” is depicted as an over-weight, big-bearded Karl Marx, one hand holding a sickle, the other holding a hammer, standing on a patch of dark and gloomy unknown land. The key to this image is the naked body. Proletariat in Latin is “proletarius,” from the word “proles,” meaning heir, suggesting that although owning nothing, they still owns the body that allows them to produce — this image elicits in me a revelation, may be unexpected by its creator, that the image is alive from the moment it’s born, and it grows in its own way.

Different from certain ordinary opinions, emphasizing and respecting the self-sufficiency of the image doesn’t equal to merely playing a visual game. In fact, the significance of Wu Junyong’s images is far beyond those politically symbolic paintings. More importantly, they are producing new meanings and perceptions, rather than to taking hostage rigid political gestures. In this “image era,” the most profound political nature exactly presented as the criticism of a system of representation within this system of representation, this criticism of representation contains a brand new realization of the relationship between language and image; here, the revelation of what that artists’ imagery practice provides cannot come from philosophers and political activists.

I am not defending Wu Junyong as if he lacks of attention toward the political reality; on the contrary, his work possesses a strong political reference and criticism towards ideology. In the current Chinese context, how can those squares, red flags, monuments, statues, including sickles and hammers not have political connotations? In the project “Chaos Phase” begun in 2011, the images are often even more inter-connected with specific social events. What’s worth of noticing is that these works are at first published on a Chinese micro-blogging site, those images possessing the most political power are not those symbols of direct meanings, but those with amazing rhetoric; these images can loosen the system of representation behind the original political consciousness in order to alter people’s numbness and irresponsiveness toward politics. The so-called “image rhetoric”, in its narrowest sense, isn’t it to explore the persuasiveness of the image.

2011-8-19
At A4 Contemporary Art Center, Chengdu