Past Is Prologue: He Xiangyu solo exhibitionPost date：2024-11-14
Updates：2024-11-14
65
- Event Time
- 2024-11-08~2025-02-16TUE. - SUN. 10:00 - 17:00
- Event Location
- Kuandu Museum of Fine Arts,, Beitou Dist., Taipei City Taiwan, R.O.C
Here, in these rooms, there are things within the space: a metal garland of smoothed-down stones, a few pictures on the walls, olive oil applied very thinly, like watercolor. Occasionally, the void will play some role.
There will be no noise in these rooms, other than those that we might make. People can be noisy, stones are not.
There is structure here, a level of composition. Some might say ‘harmony.’
At different latitudes, the idea of harmony changes, just like the weather: in one place it may stand still, while elsewhere it gently moves. Over the years, He Xiangyu has also moved from place to place, and he still does: he was born in China, lived in the US and then in Berlin, too. Often, he finds himself caught between different versions of harmony and tries to give some sort of shape to this tension.
He has listened to various sounds––words that differ from each other––and at times, with his art, he seeks to make new ones.
These stones that stand so still, so carefully spaced, have themselves traveled widely. You and I don’t know how long for, or from where; which waters and winds have smoothed them down so finely. We pay respect to their untold origins by expressing admiration for their shapes.
You and I may have known very little about them before entering these rooms (perhaps we knew nothing at all); we may still know very little about them after leaving these rooms.
Some of us might consider counting them: numbers can at least give the feeling of knowing something. This could be comforting ––there’s relief in order, after all––or boring, or even meditative. Others will be happy just to contemplate them, the joy of seeing such perfect forms, salvaged and almost levitating.
There is solace in things that have been retrieved and lifted, for life can be heavy, a thing of such weight that, at times, it crushes us to the ground.
Along with composition, there is decoration in these rooms, too, with portions of the walls having been painted with olive oil, more than once. Pencil was used to mark the limits of the areas.
There was pressure at a certain moment, somewhere, some time back, since pressure is what is needed for the oil to be made; the olives must be crushed. And in the olden days, in countries far away from these rooms, the wheels that would have crushed the fruits were made of stone. Many of those wheels now lie somewhere, no longer in use, like ancient temples, perpetual, only slightly worn, chipped––their erosion, so far, imperceptible to the eye.
Unnoticed will go too the oil while it sinks into the wall, unseen will be the moment when the process of assimilation will start blurring the pencil lines.
Soon, these rooms will be repainted, no visible trace left of this moving field. But the field will stay alive, recessed into the building.
All this happens over time. The stones have been smoothed over time––a great deal of it––and the olive oil will disappear over time, a very small amount of it. You and I exist in between these two scales of events, and we keep ourselves busy by dealing with them: we preserve and elevate things that have survived a magnitude of time, while constantly repairing things that start falling apart around us.
This is a daily exercise.
There is pressure, crushing and repair in these pictures too, the ones on the walls. Windows got smashed; plastic and tape came into play. And then the effort, the individual effort.
There will be no noise in these rooms, other than those that we might make. People can be noisy, stones are not.
There is structure here, a level of composition. Some might say ‘harmony.’
At different latitudes, the idea of harmony changes, just like the weather: in one place it may stand still, while elsewhere it gently moves. Over the years, He Xiangyu has also moved from place to place, and he still does: he was born in China, lived in the US and then in Berlin, too. Often, he finds himself caught between different versions of harmony and tries to give some sort of shape to this tension.
He has listened to various sounds––words that differ from each other––and at times, with his art, he seeks to make new ones.
These stones that stand so still, so carefully spaced, have themselves traveled widely. You and I don’t know how long for, or from where; which waters and winds have smoothed them down so finely. We pay respect to their untold origins by expressing admiration for their shapes.
You and I may have known very little about them before entering these rooms (perhaps we knew nothing at all); we may still know very little about them after leaving these rooms.
Some of us might consider counting them: numbers can at least give the feeling of knowing something. This could be comforting ––there’s relief in order, after all––or boring, or even meditative. Others will be happy just to contemplate them, the joy of seeing such perfect forms, salvaged and almost levitating.
There is solace in things that have been retrieved and lifted, for life can be heavy, a thing of such weight that, at times, it crushes us to the ground.
Along with composition, there is decoration in these rooms, too, with portions of the walls having been painted with olive oil, more than once. Pencil was used to mark the limits of the areas.
There was pressure at a certain moment, somewhere, some time back, since pressure is what is needed for the oil to be made; the olives must be crushed. And in the olden days, in countries far away from these rooms, the wheels that would have crushed the fruits were made of stone. Many of those wheels now lie somewhere, no longer in use, like ancient temples, perpetual, only slightly worn, chipped––their erosion, so far, imperceptible to the eye.
Unnoticed will go too the oil while it sinks into the wall, unseen will be the moment when the process of assimilation will start blurring the pencil lines.
Soon, these rooms will be repainted, no visible trace left of this moving field. But the field will stay alive, recessed into the building.
All this happens over time. The stones have been smoothed over time––a great deal of it––and the olive oil will disappear over time, a very small amount of it. You and I exist in between these two scales of events, and we keep ourselves busy by dealing with them: we preserve and elevate things that have survived a magnitude of time, while constantly repairing things that start falling apart around us.
This is a daily exercise.
There is pressure, crushing and repair in these pictures too, the ones on the walls. Windows got smashed; plastic and tape came into play. And then the effort, the individual effort.
