Legend 1 You can move through the world singing, as birds sing from treetops. Though a ginko forest isn’t really a forest, but a Chengdu district, in Southwest China. A song amidst ginko, our Ginko Philosopher is on a long journey, essentially by foot or wing. 2 “A north wind blows.” In China’s Classic of Mountains and Seas, the chapter “Classic of the Western Wilderness” says, “There are wild fertile lands, where one can feast on phoenix eggs and quench one’s thirst with sweet dew. The phoenix sings and dances, a hundred beasts gather. Wind blows north and heaven gives forth great waters…”. The Classic of Mountains and Seas is China’s oldest compendium of myth and folklore. South of the Qinling and Ta-pa mountains is a name on display. As you enter the large exhibition hall, a great white mountain arises before you—piled white and mountainous with salt. At the mountain summit wisps blanche mist, given off by a machine, rising and falling. The name of this mountain is Gangren Boqi Mountain, a majestic summit with many gods and sacred places. There are multitudes of its gods in Tibetan Buddhism and Bon, as well as Hindu gods of creation and destruction. bottes ugg soldes Nobody has ever attempted to summit. I was once torn apart by the wind between Gangren Boqi Mountain and Lake Manasarovar. All I can recall from the experience are snow, glaciers and a megalithic shadow over me. White snow makes for white salt. As mist descends, bits of salt melt. The mountain’s grandeur shrinks ever so slightly. As this continues, theoretically the mountain will disappear. Mountain becomes sea, as a mountain of salt creates a salty sea. The “Classic of the Western Wilderness” folds into the Classic of Mountains and Seas. Of course, transformation of this scale has never occurred before in Chengdu, has never been on display in a fine art museum. 3 Once, when the wanderer was young, he dreamt visions of candy and revolution. As a child he never dreamed of salt-tasting water. A big sweet candy ship. Ta-pa Mountain was the cradle of dreams and revolution. The children of children traipsing this cradle are dreamers and poets. The ship is a double bunk at Sichuan Fine Arts Institute. The wanderer is 18 years old. In 1989 the sweet taste of candy has changed, masculine energy and passion have left behind of themselves only a single dragon bone, similar to The Old Man in the Sea’s ravaged marlin carcass. 4 A black road. The acrid odor of asphalt startles our otherwise content neighbours. They call the police. You have to move. nike x fragment You are always moving. Years pass and you never buy yourself a home. This is the essence of your journey. Wanderers have only their present freedom, and a distant destination. Arrive. Depart. As it veers north, the dark road stretches into a black cross of broken roads. At this exhibition towers a huge seven meter tall stainless steel stone. Qiang Jie’s pink utopia laid out with small greenish-black tiles, the audience can use Sui Jianguo’s panda bear trashcans…, Zhang Yongjian sends a large stone from Yimeng Mountain. He says, “Black asphalt crossroads are best.” 5 Dried up. A Wasteland. Elliot’s back shadow. Water drips from one steel plate onto the next below. Underneath gets hotter and hotter, fire at bottom. Water has no other choice, destined for its own destruction, but to evaporate into air. It can never look back, advancing wave upon wave. Much like stalwart revolutionaries and stubborn holders-on, or compassionate rescuers. Like a small twig making its way along Paul Celan’s Seine River. Seven nights are even taller, red color surges red. Seven hearts are even deeper, a hand knocks at the door. Seven roses are even later, a spring splashes. Springs. Mouth of living water. Zhu Xi’s back shadow. new balance femme pas cher In the artwork Fire and Water, the source of our spring is a plastic hose coming from a faucet. 6 Kua Fu is another legend from the Classic of Mountains and Seas. This giant followed the sun until when in then north he died of thirst. A livid plum blossom was the last thing he ever saw. Kua Fu who followed the sun is the mythological ancestor of knights. All knights who pursue the brilliant light are his descendants. They ride into the setting sun, brandishing four meter long blades. The sun horse now descends the mountain and the line between light and dark encroaches upon our knight who sits astride his horse. With sunlight now half upon the mountain and half behind, the knight is half lit, half dark. His blade pierces the wall. The room’s light also shines on just a portion. It flickers every 50 seconds, dancing light waves along the blade. 7 A stele, a moist stele. Standing in stillness along another face. A stele is to commemorate, it is the weight of history. Form is minimal, touch is moist. As moisture becomes something new, it permeates and extends into a riverbed of possibility, existence of life, breath, a unity of life and death. At the interface of what is bygone and what is yet unknown, where final conclusions and sacrificial ritual are past, the whole written description of both the past and yet to come, rich and mellow, cool and refreshing. 8 A brick is also a stele of sorts. It is historical, commemorates and summons. Our wanderer’s lair, built with brick, grows into a homeland. Then one day, bricks piled high, he grows weary of his fixed abode, and returns to the land. Like Wukan, with political sense of land and bound revolutionary fervor; the brick comes to symbolize renewal and departure. Redefine oneself as online surfer. The brick surfs through palms of countless hands, crumbling to pieces in return. 9 Venice is a city made of water. An infinite and vast sky. The beauty of a single morning. Water is most virtuous. Marco Polo and Kublai Khan were two idol urchins, one speaks, the other listens. 55 stories told of 55 “invisible cities”, 55 drifting images and metaphors, floating through transparent air, just as fish sail through a window you forgot to close. Look! Look! As you navigate the sea, or cross the plaza, is a free-standing structure. At Venice Biennale’s Confronting Anitya exhibition, on the terrazzo flooring, are tiny ontological shapes, transparent abstractions at the height of emptiness. Just a single bubble surfaces every 15 seconds. And the “knight who doesn’t exist” reads the Diamond Sutra. 10 The print machine chops along at resolute pace. “Xinhua” means “New China”. It’s a newspaper promise of candy for all, made 60 years ago. Sugar is what children dream of, and so they sing to sell their newspapers. 11 60 years ago, another child dreamt of death. He was 16, leading three brothers and sisters, unable to look back. He left behind his sociology and candy promises, an irresolvable ache. 2000 salt blocks brought back from the Himalayas, stacked mightily high, reaching the Pacific Ocean at its outer edge. The Himalayas are the peak of our world, white capped year round, wise and compassionate. The sea nearest Tianjin’s TEDA Fine Art Museum is the Bohai sea, which in turn borders the Pacific. This exhibition is dual in nature. On the beach of Bohai Bay are salt blocks forming words, spelling “I have long dreamt of death.”—Will and testament left by that kid from Bijie, Guizhou. The tide swells at its appointed times. In it dissolves salt from the highest point above sea level, now returning to the sea’s expanse. Many miles away, we look at the screen on a museum wall, where the Himalayas face the sea. That poet, Haizi, said spring warmth opens flowers, but train tracks are icy old. Well the cement of this museum floor is freezing. Our ache melts slightly in the warmth of these poetic images, though still persistent, digging in. 12 Black Gobi. The 3000 year old sun cemetery convulses with the ruins of a military encampment along this endless expanse. Ahead is an endless wall……you cast aside your friends, because you need a cameraman and a vehicle full of bricks. The bricks are for swapping, in the depths of the Black Gobi Desert, you use these bricks to swap out older ones spelling the words: “Defend Our Nation”. This is a forbidden military zone, forbidding life, itself, once home to a “black mushroom”, one which covered the earth and hid the sky. When it bloomed, all else died. If you live long enough to return, bring me a brick. Heavy as a meteorite, burnt relentlessly black. Invader and defender, conqueror and avenger, each either criminal or hero of the people. The Mongolian curved blade resembles a new moon at the edge of the Gobi Desert, like skulls hung about the necks of horses, close your eyes. But the black mushroom doesn’t discriminate. People, nations, heroes, criminals. It only knows how to jubilantly explode, erasing epics of human history, leaving behind barren wasteland. 13 An extreme cold spell. Within a transparent tent, a carpet gives off a warm glow. A game of barter, “if you need it”, subverting exchange of goods for money. Three hundred carpets are taken in two hours. Left in fairy-tale radiance are a handful of smoldering matchsticks in the palm of a young girl. 14 The internet. Blanketing the entire world, an unimaginably vast and living system. You are one of the first artists to utilize the power of the internet. Online, you “passed along a brick”, and you also “exchanged secrets”.