时空的切片

时空的切片
朱朱       

 
Ⅰ

每一位画家都在寻找他可以表达的空间，对于罗荃木而言，这个空间打开得出奇的缓慢和谨慎，他在很长一段时间里沉浸于地图的绘制，然后，在标本的王国里再次找到契合他心性的表现对象，进而开始了假山石的表现，这些几乎就是他圈定的个人领地了。

在其中有什么相通的属性吗？答案是肯定的。他关注和描绘的事物，都涉及了一种骨架的形制。某种程度上，地图以一个平面展示了大地的骨架，标本保存的是禽鸟的骨架，而假山石从古代就被视为缩微的自然之骨架。

骨架，尽管是可以被辨认的形，但是，无疑带有一种抽象感，它表述着事物的基本形态与空间结构。它的敞现意味着生命的缺席，任何一付骨架总是宣告着一场已经发生过的死亡，这里不存有种种生动的、变幻不已的表情与姿态，它所弥漫的是一种阴郁的、原形的气味，因而，它恰恰也是我们不愿直面的东西，它如同矛戟一般不易销蚀，它比生命还要久长，这样的存在物突显了生与死的对立，那种狰狞得教人不敢直视的真相。

骨架在艺术史上早就充当起认知的工具。在欧洲的中世纪，达•芬奇走进阴森的停尸间，希望通过解剖学来获取有关人体结构的知识；对于近现代的艺术学院的学生们而言，总是有那么一付人体骨架，就摆放在一大堆石膏像和苹果当中。不过，古典艺术家在人体内部的短暂旅行，是为了再次返回身体的表层，从而更为准确和微妙地表现人的面容与神态，身体的表层才是动人的、愉悦的，才是终点和表现对象；最典型的莫过于达•芬奇的“蒙娜丽莎”，或“抱貂的女人”……然而， 对于罗荃木来说，骨架仿佛是他向这个世界索取的唯一实物，借助于骨架，他将世界还原、冷凝为一个静态的框架性结构。

在他看来，鲜活的面容与体态，丰富微妙的表情，或者自然在不同地域和季节所呈现出的风貌，显得过于变化多端、稍纵即逝，难以把握与言说，并且，在他的心底似乎始终抱有疑虑，即他不相信它们的真实性。他的脑袋似乎只容纳得下一些基本的、孤立的东西，而这就足够了，他仿佛是一种寻找笼子的鸟儿，在那样一种只具有“很小的可能性”的空间里，反而会获得安全与安宁的感受。

这种癖好的形成或许与他的童年经验有关，他那位业余画家的父亲为他提供的第一件写生的实物，是一只海螺。海螺的骨骼感以及纹理给他留下了深刻的印象。另一方面，他的母亲在废品收购站工作，那里，堆积着大量的使用过的旧物，我们可以想象一个男孩在那里玩耍的情景，他被笼罩在一种昏暗、沉寂、弥漫着霉味的空间氛围里，外部的世界以残骸的形式静静地堆积，呈现在他好奇的目光之中，它们虽然具有不同的用途、质地和形状，却不具有动态和生命感，那有待于重新填充与想象——后来的罗荃木似乎是以画笔回收了这些体验和经历，绘画对他而言，就是一处“自由与迷失的空间。”

不过，真正促使他选择地图和标本作为表现对象的原因，或许还在于他的性格。这位画家在现实中给予人的印象总是那么沉默、胆怯、软弱，显示了自身与人群之间的隔阂。而他在运动和变化之中的事物面前显得如此敏感和不适，以致他的一位朋友形容说：“对他来说，一只隔着网子飞过来的乒乓球就等于一枚导弹。” 不止于此，整个现实生活的世界对他来说，就像一张形态和意义处于不断地摇晃与颤抖之中的大网，令人目眩神迷。而类似于“国家机器”和“政治现实”这样的东西，唤起的是一种本能的畏惧和逃避，甚至它们仅仅作为谈资里出现的字眼，在聚会时被席间的某人提及时，也会令他觉得坐立不安。

从另一个角度看，他的那些题材还具有卡尔•波普尔（Karl R Popper）所言的“第三世界”感，也就是说它们带有一种客观知识性。他的地图来源于各种书刊，而他的标本来源于自然历史博物馆，并且，在这两个题材的过渡期间，他还根据一些科普杂志和医疗画册创作过一些小画。尽管“假山石”这样的题材不可能被归入到知识领域中，然而，正如他自己在谈及这一题材所说到的，它“是介于具象和抽象之间的形象，画山石是肆意的，可以按照内心的感觉自由行走，在任何地方多一点或者少一点，只凭内心需要，而不被形所限制。山石的形态有点像心灵的地图，布满奇怪的洞穴……”这段话本身道出了他的视觉定向与情趣所在。从中不难看出，他所迷恋的东西并非活生生的人物与事件，并非这个充满动态的、瞬息万变的现实世界，而是类似于科学提示给我们的“一幅试探性的宇宙图景”。正是从这种“非绘画性”的抽象图景出发，他进而展开自己的想象，将自己的冥想一笔一笔地灌注到它们之中，将自我投影到它们之上。

Ⅱ

他施加于事物之上的这层投影并非飘忽的幻象、甜蜜的梦境，恰恰相反，是事物的外貌。这听起来有些荒谬，但是，我们可以用标本制作的过程来做一个比方，制作者往往在禽鸟的骨架和皮毛之间填充某些材料，以便重现和凸显其在空间中的立体形象，我们也不妨将罗荃木视为这样一个制作者，绘画即以一种个人语言进行填充的过程，由此对象重获一个独立的美感形象。罗荃木尤其关注对象的肌理表现，对于他来说，这种肌理正是在画面上重建起来的一种真实性，它如同现实之中的事物那样伸手可触，然而，却是处于两维平面之上的一种存在。

从骨架到外貌，路程并不迢远，甚至只是一步之遥——在这样的起点与终点之间，就是他以绘画进行的全部旅行。我们可以体验到他绘画的那种强烈的自我限定，一种自足的、内在循环的特性，这就像一座水泵抽空了现实的水源，而将自身想象力的水流缓慢地灌注到绘画空间之中。这个空间如同心灵本身，混合着知识与趣味，抽象与感性。

日本作家永井荷风在《地图》一文里，曾经比较过古时的江户地图与现今的东京地图，他以为，东京地图虽然精密正确，“但看了地图，毫不引起何等兴味，也不能想象出风景之如何。……但使阅者觉得烦杂而已。试看那不正确的江户绘图，像上野那样开樱花的地方，自在地描上一朵樱花，像柳原那样有柳树的地方，添上一团柳絮，不但此也，又如从飞鸟山可以远望日光筑波渚山，便在云的那边描画出来，临机应变，并用全然相反的制图的方式态度，使阅者兴味津津……东京地图如几何学，江户地图乃似花样也。”借用这位日本作家的譬喻来形容，罗荃木的地图恰好是一种几何学与花样的结合。对他来说，“几何学”意味着世界的原型，而“花样”意味着个人的情感和幻想——这两种地图的交合与混融形成了一种真正的“心灵的地图”。

他对地图的绘制总是沿其抽象的经纬和脉络，注入幻想的风景，局部地还原了大地的具像感。那种肌理仿佛是我们航空时俯瞰到的大地之貌，尽管显示在一定的距离之外，但无疑比地图本身“肉感”了很多，就时间感而言，它好像大地从冬日荒凉枯干的环境里开始了复苏，其中并存着枯寂与生机的双重特征。

在标本的绘制中，这种抽象与具像、生与死、虚与实之间的错幻同样得以被表现。一只老虎仿佛正从一根垂悬的枯枝上迈步而下，一只躺卧在台子上的豹子在昂首谛听，仿佛有同伴或猎物正从不远处向它发出了召唤，还有那些毛色鲜艳的禽鸟，似乎徘徊在枝头或假山石边，它们的尖喙、羽翼和尾巴往往以充满动感的弧形弯翘在空中。我们可以看到，尽管标本陈列馆的空间本身显得阴郁、空虚，但是，他有意识地在将可能的生趣灌注到标本的形象之中，削弱着标本本身的僵硬、无生气以及人造的感觉，好像要以绘画的力量将被施以了死之催眠术的它们解救出来。

他坦承，对于他的绘画来说，有一个人是无法回避的，那就是山本博司。虽然在接触到这位日本艺术家之前，罗荃木就已经开始了对于标本的描绘，但是，山本博司无疑向他呈现了一种自觉而完整的艺术面貌，由此带来了意识的震颤。山本博司的两个系列作品——“模拟野生动物展览”，以及相对晚近的“蜡像”，都可以说是对静态的物象所进行的凝视与沉思，这些物象就时间感而言，属于或远或近的记忆。山本博司以摄影的方式呈示了它们宛在的真实，更是在这种真实的样子背后，揭露出由时间的距离感所带来的深不可测的虚幻意味——山本博司发明过一个词语“时间的暴露”来作为自己全部作品的特色（见《没有信仰的艺术》）。

标本所吸引罗荃木的，亦在于它们在时空里的不确定性，“它们本身的自相矛盾，让人怀疑又着迷：表面上栩栩如生，实际已经被凝固了；呈现的景观活灵活现，却带着浓烈的福尔马林的味道。”当我们为那些动物的雄奇或艳丽而沉醉的时候，内心也会荡漾起一种悲伤而空茫的感觉，因为，我们已然知晓这些形象徒有外貌，而不复生命的活力；画面中的那些搁架、台子、标签以及栅栏，正可以说是一种冷酷的提示与旁证。

罗荃木确实在他的绘画中紧紧攫住了对象本身所包含的错幻与悖谬，他所创设的绘画空间，既非现实的自然世界，也非现实的标本世界，而是设法混淆了、重叠了这两种现实或者说两座空间世界，在此我们对于时空的感受变得凝滞，而那些孤立在灰暗背景里的对象如同“时空的切片”，向我们展示着、述说着永恒与短暂、心灵与现实之间的某种真相。

Ⅲ

他的绘画在现代艺术之中存在着一条可以寻找的线索，譬如，在莫兰迪那里，世界是以孤立的片段感来显示的，在巴尔蒂斯那里，人物仿佛都是游离、静止在现实时空之中，而这种语言还可以追溯到尼德兰绘画以及凡•代克那样的古典绘画大师那里。我们在这样的图象面前，会产生一种奇特的感觉：好像有什么东西被撤除了，四周变得空荡，毫无修饰和遮挡可言。我们在此一眼望穿，以致又有所失落。“透明”，我们正可以从这个词的原义出发，而非从唯美或理想化的立场上，去解释这些图象所具的那种品质。如果我理解得没错的话，这种透明反倒是对于世界的厚度、亦即对于表象的不可捉摸性的一种回应。

也许事情正如让•斯塔罗宾斯基所说的，“人们撞在事物上，深入不进去。人们碰它，触它，掂量它；然而它始终是致密的，其内部是顽固不化的漆黑一团。”或者，“言语，手势，面部表情，举止，这一切形成了一系列幕布，仿佛一道由暧昧的液体形成的障碍物，对象依仗它实现后退，远远地逃离精神。凝视，并非占有。这是在栅栏前止步，在其表面滑过。”罗荃木的绘画正是想努力穿越表象的幕布与栅栏，瞄视那种赤裸的、祛除了任何装饰的真实，由此获得一幅关于世界的内在图像。

这种透明本身有着一份阴郁和虚无感，绘画空间有可能会因为自我封闭而变得像一个洞穴，显得冷寂、枯干，甚至会彻底地滑坠到空洞之境。显然，这并非罗荃木所要抵达之处，为此他设法以自己的方式返回到事物的外部存在。他注意到，“在标本馆里，最凶猛的动物仍然是你最害怕的。虽然在标本与标本之间没有温顺和凶残的分别，这些特征只是你的常识、或者记忆，但站在这类标本面前，你依然会觉得害怕。这种恐惧包含了记忆和常识，却还有别的东西。”这个所谓别的东西，正是生命的激情本身，它像一只黑暗洞穴中的手电筒或者夜空里的探照灯一样，驱使着人不由自主地回到外部世界，回到存在之中，在那里一切重新变得混沌起来，不透明代替了透明，自我重新开始了迷失，然而，当你真正置身于存在之场中的时候，你会发现，有关世界的各种认知与结论显得冷漠与绝对，太过空泛和先验。“真正的抽象应该不抽象。”他以这句话道出了自己的焦虑和探求。

假山石系列可以视为一种切入现实的欲望所导致的一场朝向历史的迂回。这个物象无疑包含了我们的集体记忆，在它的抽象感之中更具有亲切感和人性意味，而它有别于标本的特点，还在于它的外置，尽管假山石总是被安放在古老的园林和庭院之中，与真正的外部现实仍然保持着一墙之隔，但是，它已然脱离了标本陈列式的密室氛围，在岁月和自然的侵蚀与作用之下，自身不断地产生出微妙的变化。罗荃木以一种“枯笔皴擦”的笔法对其进行了描绘，展示出一种幽玄、枯寂之美，而画面上时而会出现的、仿佛始终在淌滴的渍痕，不仅仅是在导致“枯中带润”的语言效果，更于古意之中增添了一种微妙的悸动感，从而传达出一种更为神经质的现代感性，假山石这种“山水的标本”因而如同他笔下的动物标本一样，隐然带有了“生意”。

与此同时，他也不停地尝试对于真正的生命姿态进行捕捉，《海豚》即是他在这方面的一次出色的表达，在这幅画中，他描绘了两只海豚从水面上跃起的瞬间，它们的体态与波动的水面、激起的水花相互映衬，显得优美而轻灵。然而，这种效果并非画面意蕴的全部，我们从海豚那里所体验到的，另有一种时空的凝滞感，好比电影慢镜头的呈现，可以说，这同样也是在连续性的时空中获得的一种切片。这幅画似乎是从一个相反的方向证实了——揭示事物本身所蕴涵的那种抽象与具像、生与死、虚与实之间的错幻感，无疑就是他内在气质的一部分，并且，已经构成了他最为独特的语言魅力。

2007年4月

Fragments of time space
Zhu Zhu

I

Every artist is in search of a space for self-expression. For Luo Quanmu, the extraordinary slowness and caution involved in opening up this space, the long period during which he immersed himself in the drafting of maps, identifying the object within the specimen kingdom most in accord with his own temperament, and starting the scholar’s rock series – all these seem to represent a self-delineated territory.

Are there similar qualities that unite these? The answer is yes. The objects that pertain to his concerns and interests are all related to the skeletal framework. To a certain degree, maps represent a geographic skeleton, specimens preserve the skeleton of birds, and ever since ancient times, scholar’s rocks have been regarded as skeletal miniatures of nature.

A skeleton is an easily recognizable form. Yet, it possesses an undeniable sense of abstractness. It expresses the basic form and spatial structure of an object. Its gap-filled appearance implies the absence of life. Any one part of a skeleton proclaims an already occurred death. It embodies all kinds of vivid, endlessly changing expressions and attitudes, as well as the musty air of gloom and the original form. Coincidentally, it is the thing we most refuse to confront; like the lance and spear that does not corrode easily, it exceeds life in length and highlights the contrast between life and death. It is that cruel and loathed reality that causes the educated person to shun direct confrontation. 

Throughout art history, skeletons have served as tools for understanding. In Europe during the Middle Ages, da Vinci visited mortuaries in the hopes of gaining knowledge about the structure of the human body through anatomical investigations. For more recent art students of academic settings, such a human skeleton is always present, among the plaster statues and well-polished apples. However, classical artists’ short venture into the human form’s interior was to return once more to the human form’s exterior, from that point onwards rendering more accurate and subtle depictions of human facial features and expressions; it is the body’s exterior that moves people, that entertains, and is the ultimate goal and objective. The most typical examples are da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” and “Lady with the Ermine”.  It seems as if the skeleton is the one thing Luo Quanmu demands of the world. He has returned the world to its original state, solidifying it into a structure with a static framework. 

To him, lively facial expressions and posture, rich and subtle expressions, or varied styles and features that appear naturally in different regions and seasons all reveal the variety of excessive change. Transience is difficult to grasp and discuss. Moreover, deep down, he remains suspicious and unbelieving of their authenticity. It seems as if his mind only has capacity for those basic, isolated things, and this is sufficient. Like a bird in search of a cage, he derives a sense of security and stability from a space that has only few possibilities.

This idiosyncrasy might have something to do with his childhood. The first object he drew from nature was a conch given to him by his father, an amateur artist. The bone structure and veins of the conch left a deep impression on him. On the other hand, his mother worked in waste product collection. One can only imagine a little boy finding amusement in the heaps of used items. He was enveloped in a dim, quiet, poison air filled atmosphere. The wreckage of the outside world piled up quietly, revealing within his curious gaze that despite their different uses, material, and form, and even given their lack of dynamism and liveliness, they awaited makeovers and imagination. It is as if these experiences manifested themselves in Luo Quanmu’s later works. To him, painting represents a “free and uncharted space”. 

However, the true reason that has impelled him to select maps and specimens as subjects have to do perhaps with his personality. Luo Quanmu is an artist who gives off the impression reticence, timidity, feebleness, and general social detachment. His sensitivity and ill disposition towards moving and changing objects has caused one friend to say: “To Luo Quanmu, a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth equals a guided missile”. Furthermore, for the artist, the real world is like a giant net that rocks and sways due to its endless changes in form and significance, inciting people’s infatuation. Like the “national machine” and “political reality”, what is aroused is an innate fear and escapism. Like the person whose name is mentioned over dinner, even if only as a passing topic of conversation, he sits ill at ease.
 
From another perspective, his subjects invoke Karl R. Popper’s World Three. This is to say that he has some objective knowledge. His maps come from various books and periodicals and his specimens come from museums of natural history. Moreover, in the transitional period of these two subject matters, he also made some sketches based on science magazines and medical catalogs. Even though “scholar’s rocks” can’t be classified as intellectual, it is as he mentioned in conversation: “it is a form that is situated between concrete and abstract. Drawing these rocks is wanton; it can go along freely with intuition, becoming more or less in any one place, depending solely on the needs of the inner heart, and unlimited by form. The form of scholar’s rocks resembles the map of the soul, suffused with strange cavernous holes…” This quote itself reveals the artist’s visual orientation and temperament. It is not difficult to see that he is enamored not with lively people and events, nor a world full of dynamic and fast changing realities, but rather something like the “exploratory universal prospect” provided by science. It is precisely from the abstract prospects of this “non-painting” that he proceeds to reveal his own imagination, pouring his deep thoughts brushstroke by brushstroke into them, and projecting individualism onto them.

II

The projection he places onto objects lacks the illusion of drifting from place to place or the sweetness of a fantasy, and is instead the opposite – it is the objects’ exterior. This sounds absurd, but we can use the process of making specimens as an analogy. The maker constantly adds materials onto a bird’s skeleton and feathery exterior, filling in the gaps so that the three dimensionality of the form fleshes out and becomes evident. We can also understand Luo Quanmu as such a maker: painting is a process of filling in the gaps using a personal language that informs a unique aesthetic form. Luo Quanmu pays special attention to the skin texture of objects. For him, the skin represents an authenticity that is rebuilt on the canvas, something so real you could almost touch it with your hand. Even so, it is nevertheless an existence beyond the two surfaces.

The distance from the skeleton to the exterior is not great; perhaps it is only one big leap from the start point to the end point that composes the entire journey in painting. We can relate to the intense self-restriction Luo Quanmu imposes on his painting, a kind of self-satisfied, inherent trait. It is like a pum, which having sucked a spring dry, moves on to the waters of its own imagination, pouring these atop the canvas. This space is like the soul itself, blending knowledge and taste, abstractness and perception.

In Map, Japanese writer Nagai Kafu compares an ancient river home map with a map of modern day Tokyo, saying that while the latter is more detailed and accurate, it does not incite pleasure or imagination about the landscape. Instead, it only vexes viewers with its complexity. Look at the inaccurate drawing of the river home rendering, and it is like going where cherry blossoms bloom and freely sketching a blossom or a willow orchard full of willow trees and sketching a cluster of willow catkin. From a high mountain, you can spy the landscape from a distance. Sketching from besides the clouds, taking into account constant changes, and applying a completely different attitude than map drawing that gives the viewers a pleasurable experience. The Tokyo map is like geometry, while the river home map perhaps resembles a pattern. Borrowing Nagai Kafu’s metaphor, Luo Quanmu ‘s maps are also a combination of geometry and pattern. To the artist, “geometry” implies the world’s original form, and “pattern” implies individual perception and illusion. The intermixing and fusing of these two kinds of maps form a kind of true “map of the soul”.

Luo Quanmu’s map renderings have always been in the vein of the abstract, towards the landscape of the illusory, taking parts of the earth’s surface and restoring it, bit by bit, to the concreteness of the earth. That kind of surface texture seems to be the picture of the earth we have held since the age of aviation. Even if it maintains a certain distance, it is undoubtedly more “voluptuous” than a map. Speaking in temporal terms, it is as if the earth is resuscitating from a bleak winter, harboring the twin elements of the mundane and vital.

In the drawing of specimens, illusions abstract and concrete, alive and dead, falsehood and truth, are expressed equally. A tiger walks along the hanging branch of a withering tree; a leopard lays down on a platform and cocks its head to listen, as if a companion or prey has summoned him from nearby; birds with vibrantly colored feathers pace back and forth on the tip of a branch or besides a scholar’s rock, their pointy beaks, wings, and tails curve and contort in lively midair displays. It is evident that despite the gloomy and hollow representations of specimens when displayed in museums, Luo Quanmu intends to invigorate the same specimens with life and vitality. He weakens the specimen’s originally rigid, lifeless, and man-made feel, as if to rescue them from the hypnotic grip of death through the strength of painting.

He admits frankly that in respect to his paintings, one person cannot be avoided, and that is Hiroshi Sugimoto. Although Luo Quanmu began sketching specimens prior to being exposed to Japanese artists, Hiroshi Sugimoto undoubtedly represented a conscious and complete portrait of an artist to him, in particular, possessing the tremor of consciousness. Hiroshi Sugimoto’s series “Imitation of Wild Animals Exhibition” and the more recent “Wax Figure” can both be described as a meditative gaze on the static image. The temporal terms of these images pertain to memories neither far nor near. Hiroshi Sugimoto uses photography to express their authenticity, and it is this backdrop of authenticity that exposes the incomprehensible illusions brought about by the distance of time. Hiroshi Sugimoto coined the term “the exposure of time” to describe the unique feature in all of his work. (See Art Without Belief.)

The thing that attracts Luo Quanmu to specimens is their indeterminant element of time space: “their inherent mutual contradiction arouses both suspicion and fascination; the surface is lifelike, but in reality, it is already solidified. Vivid in sight, it gives off the stench of formalin.” As we are intoxicated by the magnificent strangeness and beauty of the objects, our inner hearts quiver with a sentiment of sorrow and emptiness, for we already know that these things will never again come back to life. It is as if the frames, platforms, labels, and railings all serve as callous hints and circumstantial evidence to this.

Luo Quanmu truly grasps the illusion and absurdity found within the subjects of his paintings. The painting space he has created is an unreal natural world, it is also an unrealistic world of specimens, and it attempts to confuse and overlap two kinds of reality, or perhaps two spatial worlds. Here, time space becomes sluggish, and the isolated objects in the dim backdrop are similar to “fragments of time space”, exhibiting to us, narrating a kind of truth between the eternal and brief, the soulful and real.

III

His paintings possess a traceable thread within modern art. For instance, Morandi’s world is expressed through isolated fragments. In Balthus’ world, humans seem to drift, frozen in modern time space, and this kind of language can be traced back to Dutch paintings and great masters like van Dyck. This art backdrop produces a unique feeling: it is as if something has been removed, and everywhere it is deserted; there is a complete lack of decoration and shelter. Again we look penetratingly, so that again there is loss. Rather than taking a position of aesthetics or idealism, we can use the definition of “transparency” as a starting point to understand the character of these paintings. If I understand correctly, this transparency actually represents a thickness about the world, that is, a kind of response to the unascertainable nature of expression.

Perhaps the situation is as Jean Starobinski said: “Humans constantly remain unable to penetrate objects. Humans bump into it, touch it, ponder it. In the end, it remains enclosed and obstinately opaque. “Or, “language, gestures, facial expressions, mannerisms” – these all form a series of curtains, like an ambiguous liquid that forms an obstacle into which the target can retreat, forever evading the spiritual. To gaze is not necessarily to own. This is to stop before the railings, to slip past it”. Luo Quanmu’s paintings cut across the curtains and railings of expression, aim at that naked, sparse reality and in particular, gain an inherent image of the world.

This kind of transparency inherently possesses a sense of gloom and vapidity. The space of painting might become like a cave due to self-seclusion, seemingly quiet and lonely, withered, even thoroughly slip and fall into a space scape. Evidently, this is not the destination Luo Quanmu wishes to reach. For this reason, he attempts to use his own method to restore the exterior existence of the object. He notices “in specimens, the most ferocious animal is always the one you most fear”. Although among specimens there are no distinctions between meek and cruel, these characteristics are common knowledge or memory. Yet, standing before such specimens, you will still be frightened. This kind of fear involves memory and common knowledge, as well as other elements. “The so-called other elements is the fervor of life itself; like a flashlight in a dark cave or a search light in the dead of night, it prompts humans to return, unwittingly, to the outer world, to existence, where everything is fused together once again. Non-transparent substitutes for transparent, individualism begins to fade, and just as you truly place yourself within existence, you will discover that all sorts of knowledge and conclusions regarding the world seem cold, absolute, and overly vague. “True abstractness should not be abstract”. This saying betrays the artists’ anxiety and search.

The scholar’s rock series can be regarded as a kind of outlier oriented towards history that cuts through reality and is driven by desires. This image undoubtedly includes our collective memory. In his sense of abstractness, there is a stronger flavor of intimacy and humanity, and the unique trait about the specimens has to do with their outer placement. Scholar’s rocks are always placed in ancient gardens and courtyards, maintaining a perpetual separation from reality. Yet, it separates itself from the stuffy atmosphere of the exhibition space, the corrosion from natural forces of time and nature consistently producing subtle changes. Luo Quanmu uses a kind of “withered brush, chapped stroke” paint style to exhibit a darkly secluded, beautiful loneliness. His brush drips, creating stains that not only bring about the effects of “the moist within the parched” but also an increased sense of delicate tension within the ancient style. The “mountain and river specimens” of scholar’s rocks consequently resemble the animal specimens under his brush, possessing a faint sense of life.

At the same time, he consistently attempts to grasp the attitude and posture of real life. “Dolphin” is a primary example of this. In this painting, he depicts the brief moment during which two dolphins leap above water. Their forms, the fluctuating water surface, and the water sprays all provide contrast to the scene of graceful agility. Even so, this kind of effect is not all that the painting implies. We can experience from the dolphins another kind of sluggish time space. Like a scene set on slow motion, this creates a fragment in the continuation of time space. This painting is confirmed from the opposite end – announcing the abstractness and concreteness of objects, the illusory sense of life and death, falsehood and truth. It is undoubtedly a part of its inherent temperament. As such, it has already formed the most unique charm of Luo Quanmu’s style.

April 2007