The Seven Beds - Wu Tung-Lung Solo Exhibition
七張床-吳東龍個展
2014/03/22~2014/04/27
七張床-吳東龍個展
2014/03/22~2014/04/27
This is a story about the seven beds Wu Tung Lung had laid on during his stay in the Big Apple.
Selected in 2013 by the Ministry of Culture’s International Artist Residency Exchange Program, Wu Tung-lung became the artist-in-residence at the International Studio & Curatorial Program in Brooklyn, New York. Wu has previously taken part in other residency programs in Paris, France and Dufftown, Scotland, whereby his observations and experiences from the travels have turned into important resources for his creative endeavors. His latest solo exhibition, The Seven Beds, upon his return from New York, will be presented from March 22nd to April 27th at Project Fulfill Art Space in Taipei, with the exhibition composed of his latest works that have been transformed and extended from his personal experiences and delicate emotions garnered from his time in New York. Wu describes Brooklyn, New York as “an area of new and old mixed with a lot immigrants; it is vitally energetic yet also restless with hidden dangers. An area where comfort and danger coexist, it is a place that is very real and also contains a bit of rough and violent energies.” The somewhat chaotic streets of Brooklyn project an uneasiness that is also imaginative and full of potential. The worn-out walls of those old warehouses, the mass graffiti of iconic New York style, the policemen stationed outside the subway exits at night, tattoo parlors, dimly lit bars, even the rubber smell emitting from the artificial tracks of its sports arena, and the medley of different colored hairs on the floor of the beauty salon, all of these intricate details have come to form this urban landscape that is dynamically and distinctively New York. As I drag my luggage along the streets of Brooklyn,shuffling on the way to the next temporary lodgings, the colossal silhouette of a chair factory looms up ahead, dominating my vision. It is my last night in New York; the next day I fly home to Taipei. I slow my steps, taking in the scene on the streets around me. The aging warehouses that line the streets each present their individual personalities to the outside world: crumbling, flaking facades; some aligned in neat rows of red-brick; others fenced in behind meshes of coarse wire; and of course there are the quintessentially New Yorkcolored sprays of graffiti. I stop at an intersection, peering at the cement factory opposite me, ruminating on how I’d passed my days here. I’d go to one of my favorite haunts, plant myself at the bar as usual, order a lumberjack stack and a cup of coffee. The waitress would ask me if today I’d like my pancakes slightly on the crispy side and I’d nod and smile my answer back at her. The fire hydrant at the corner on the sidewalk outside would be blossoming a spray of sunlit droplets,causing the local scamps no end of delight as they splashed about, cooling their bodies from the summer heat – the sunlight itself lending a comfortable feeling to everything it shines on, decelerating all life to a lazier passage of time. During those days of shuttling back and forth across the chaotic streets of Brooklyn, it wasn’t so much a case of exploring new ground, as it was a gradualjourney of self-discovery. Leaving the subway station late at night there would often be cops stationed at the exits, their faces showcasing the true cosmopolitan mix of the district – Caucasian, Asian, African, Latino faces – all packing heat, but patrolling casually. The dim lighting on the corners further illuminatedby the glitteringlights of the tattoo parlors and clubs, projecting a kaleidoscope of color onto the surrounding surfaces, while small groups of young men and women dance rhythmically to the electronic beats – evenas night’s dark curtain falls the city becomes more vibrant, more dynamic. There is a hair salon not far from my place, where huge mirrors hang alongside monochrome pictures on the wall, facing the patrons seated in red-wine colored chairs – all very tastefully furnished. Dazzling light from the chandeliers above reflects off dark-varnished hardwood floors below, highlighting various cracks in the surface that reveal strands of red, blonde and black all intertwined. Sitting back in the cracked old barber’s chair, which still retains its shine after years of abuse, you can watch the whole world walk by on the sidewalk outside. Late afternoon after the rain, the iron bridge is reflected back on itself in a scattered jigsaw of little puddles gathered on the road below. As the train passes over, the calm surface is broken by ripples, pealing out from the center of the pools in time with the rattling of the subway cars, fading from the surface as the trains recede into the distance. Floodlights from the sports field adjacent just turned on light upthedashed white strips lining the running track; it is still possible to make out the chunky smell of rubber, making it seem as if the track has just been newly laid. As the ambient temperature slowly drops to cool, the first runners are joined by ever more athletes, all gasping as they move at their own pace and politely fall into their own rhythms – orderly in synch with, but at the same time insularly independent of, their fellow exercisers around them. Brooklyn is a veritable enigma – a melting pot of the influences carried in by immigrants from abroad and held fast by bastions of local charm; a mixture of the latest trends alongside the remnants of old culture. Bursting with vitality and restlessness, there is an ever-present danger lurking below the surface. These seemingly paradoxical ingredients combine to create a district that is both the diamond and the rough, andintertwined with these violent energies,an abundant life force wells up in the midst of all the tension, making each move across the district a unique and revitalizing experience. Forever etched on my mind are the memories of the sleepless nights tossing and turning in the raucousrooms; lying motionless amidst the stench of musty pillows and yellowing sheets on sunken mattresses; and the kneecapped sofas squeezed into the wooden mezzanine loft bedrooms. Seven Bedswas for me, both an ultimate real-life fantasy,but at the same time an experience as though lived in a vacuum of nothingness. 眼前是一座座的廠房,我拉著行李走在布魯克林的街上,正準備往下個借住的地方去;那是我在紐約的最後一晚,隔天就要回台北了。我放慢腳步,回味着路途上的景象。這些老倉庫有的帶著略為斑剝的外牆,有的是堆砌工整的紅磚,有的外面隔著粗大的網狀鐵絲,或者是厚重的金屬捲門,當然也有十足紐約風格的大片塗鴉。我停在路口看著對邊的水泥攪拌廠,想著這些日子的開始與結束。 我去了常去的咖啡廳,一如往常地坐在吧台點了Lumberjack Stack與黑咖啡,服務生問我今天鬆餅是否烤焦一點,我點頭微笑示意。外頭街角人行道上的消防栓噴出如花灑般的水柱,附近的小孩溼透身子玩耍着,陽光下一切顯得格外自在,時間自然地放慢了速度在進行著。 在那段日子裡,經常自在地在布魯克林這片略帶混亂的街頭穿梭,與其說探險着什麼,更像是讓自己隨意遭遇些什麼。夜晚地鐵站出口經常會有警察駐守,除了白種面孔外,也經常看到亞裔、拉丁裔以及非裔的臉孔,他們配帶槍枝但卻一派輕鬆。街角的刺青店與酒吧點亮了昏黃的燈光,牆上投影著閃爍變化的幾何色塊,三五成群的年輕男女伴隨著節奏鮮明的電子音樂輕輕舞動,整個城市在夜幕低垂之後更顯活力。 我住的附近有一間掛有大面鏡子與酒紅色理髮椅的美髮院,牆上有幾張黑白照片,裡面擺設的品味極好。暗褐色木地板在復古造型吊燈底下顯得格外發亮,地板的縫隙裡殘留著長短不一與不同髮色的頭髮,隱約看得出來有紅的褐的金的黑的。理髮椅的皮革略為龜裂但光澤依舊,坐在裡面透過玻璃窗可以看見往來的行人。 午後,下過雨的鐵橋下有著清晰的倒影映射在路面的小水窪,地鐵經過時,讓水面震出微微的水波,水波隨著車廂固定振動的頻率顫抖着,也隨著列車遠離而慢慢靜止。傍晚運動場的燈光剛剛亮起,人工跑道上頭的劃線潔白筆直,依稀還聞得到跑道的橡膠味,嶄新彷彿剛施工完畢一般。隨著溫度轉涼前來運動的民眾也越來越多,大家喘息着各自以不同的速度前進,有秩序地找到屬於自己的節奏。 布魯克林是個眾多外來移民與新舊混雜的區域,充滿著生命力也略帶躁動與隱隱潛藏的危險,當中安適與危機共存,是個真實並帶有一點粗獷暴力的能量之地。在這些不同元素交錯撞擊之下,生活時時充溢著豐沛的能量與張力,在每次的住處搬遷中,都是一個新的探索與經驗。回憶起這當中有失去彈性的床墊、吵雜不安的房間、老舊泛黃的床單、充滿霉味的枕頭、椅腳斷裂的沙發,以及木板夾層上的閣樓。七張床,是我最真實的幻想也是我最虛無的現實。 |