2024年是廈門集美·阿爾勒國際攝影節的第十年，伴隨這個攝影節的「發現獎」也已十年整。在這個時代，「發現」幾乎是最庸常之事。在信息瀑布流中，只要滑動指尖，算法便能讓你一直遭遇新事物。「發現獎」的規則是，每年四位/組受邀策展人分別提名兩位/組藝術家，併為其策劃個展，其中一位/組藝術家會獲頒「發現獎」。如果不是這個名字，它可被視作又一個單單比較藝術家作品的獎項。不過，「發現」二字引出了一些其他問題：策展人要挖掘不為人知的邊緣藝術家嗎，誰又要來「發現」？是廈門市民、中國攝影界、國際攝影界，還是此時此刻閲讀本文的你？這樣想來，「發現獎」幾乎有點幽默：設立獎項雖然會造就輸家贏家，且「誰該發現誰」是個細思難堪的問題。但是，獎項會讓所有參與者贏得最稀缺、最絕對之物——注意力。人們天生會關注排行榜、賭局和角鬥，即便這裏比的是最無法被互相比較的藝術創作。
在2024年的「發現獎」中，策展人萬豐提名了藝術家羅玉梅、馬琼珠。這三個名字都與一個地方緊密相關：香港。萬豐長期在港生活，近年的策展項目「青喉」探究香港2019年之後社會與藝術家的狀態。馬琼珠與羅玉梅在香港出生長大，她們目前生涯中的大部分時間都是在這個亞熱帶島嶼上度過。然而，這次的兩個展覽卻也不能説是要講香港故事。相反，三人現下或多或少都和香港有一點距離。萬豐出生在「China」這一名字的源頭、瓷都景德鎮，至今對粵語「識聽不識講」。馬琼珠在2021年離港後旅居各地，只能用簡單工具創作，定期把作品打包寄回在港友人。羅玉梅也離開了香港，和家人生活在日本千葉縣。萬豐、羅玉梅、馬琼珠的組合，似乎是邀請觀眾來發現，從香港這一確切的地理和治理空間中外溢的、逃逸的、行未落定的人及其故事。但是，如果你在這裏的展覽裏待久一點，香港的輪廓便會慢慢浮現，心底也會倏爾閃出確鑿字句，有關輾轉、流離、言不及意。
對不起，我有點太着急了，讓我先回到這次廈門的展覽——你還沒看到這次展覽的樣子。我受萬豐邀請，借香港藝術發展局的資助，從上海前往廈門，在展期的最後一日看到了攝影節。集美區在廈門本島之外，算是個正在開發的新區。2017年時我也曾因攝影節來過這裏。七年過去了，市政府周遭仍然很空蕩，轉顧四周，常無人影，讓我好奇誰會是攝影節的觀眾。攝影節藏身於整飭的市中心的一棟四層建築，「發現獎」在這棟樓三層的一角，八個展覽迂迴展開。羅玉梅和馬琼珠的展覽是第五和第六個。
這次展覽，羅玉梅將其命名為「客途秋恨：第二現場」。一整間展廳都浸在黑暗裏，迎面而來是一面投影在薄紗上的錄像。在錄像開頭，來自不同人的自白以文字出現，伴隨着黑白、透出黃漬的舊錄影。這些言説者是即將登船的旅人、長期在船上的海員。Ta們提到從前海外華人對中國的舊稱「唐山」、從中國東南地區去往東南亞必會經過的「七洲洋」（海南文昌正東的危險海域）、在香港的渣華街（你恍然大悟：哦原來就是爪哇街！）。越到後來，我認出一些我曾在2023年看到過的錄像，即與南音名曲《客途秋恨》同名之作。那件作品相形之下更為單純，它所記錄的便是那個「第一現場」了——按羅玉梅的話講，那是「電影現場」。2023年，我這樣摹寫自己所見：「幽暗房間內，只有竹板在按原曲敲擊。二胡的弓弦在箱體皮面上拉擦，不成腔調。紅綠藍黃的彩色小球，一開始被仔細放置，臨結束時演者卻將它們拋入半空；有綵球砸中了地面上晃動的銅鑔，金屬迴響如旅程將盡，大夢初醒。」
當時那方小小的屏幕，在這裏驟然放大。那個「電影現場」，在此被疊入更多時空——在薄紗一旁，一本舊書《七洲洋外》靜靜躺在透明匣子裏。展廳中央，三條長磚壘成三角形。展廳一角。貼着牆的地方，一方長條屏幕如條屏，徐徐閃爍「客途抱恨」「對乜誰言」等《客途秋恨》裏的詞。角落中，還有一塊屏藍汪汪的，是七洲洋上的實時風向圖，英文走馬燈般在講夜航船上，月雖未圓，愁緒卻起。
我在這個展廳裏感到鬼影幢幢。此起彼伏的聲響、文字與圖像，交纏出巨大的不確定性，讓確切的地理空間——那片海域——先被一個久遠的歷史稱呼糾纏，再滲入延宕的人間情態。你初來乍到，很難理解羅玉梅在講什麼具體故事，但支離破碎的聲響、轉瞬而去的風、一切兩半的地球儀，卻在感官上互文成一團整體的、隱忍的情緒。錄像中有一句，「他們説因為地球轉動，所以我們跌倒，但所有人都知道它是音樂。」這句話在語義上幾乎不通——音樂何從談起呢？但這句話向我揭露了羅玉梅創作所在意的斷裂與跳躍。在空無之中驟然現身的穿透性啓示，如那些劃破寂靜的打更聲、打鐵聲，幾乎帶着縱身一躍的勇氣（再接上泅入水底的安靜）。離家之人在夜航船上的嘆息，隔了那麼多年，還會有人再嘆。
從黑暗中走出，是驟然光亮。看到馬琼珠的那一排剪紙和拼貼作品時，我幾乎笑了。整個攝影節中有那麼多的「當代藝術語言」——多方引用、四處指涉、重重編織，觀眾常常要被也學者畢肖普所謂的「研究型藝術」所累。但是，馬琼珠是這一切的反面——她的創作太簡單了，乍看過去就是許多幾何形狀的拼貼。大部分是黑白照片裁剪而成的灰色，依稀可以看到天空的褶皺、密密排布的大廈玻璃窗。空蕩天空和重複窗格連成圖案,成為灰色的底圖。偶爾，可以辨認出飛鳥與樹影。和灰色形成鮮明對比的，是在角落處、摺疊處被塗抹的金色。灰色和金色直接碰撞在一起，被白底襯托出清晰的邊緣。這些作品直截了當地放棄了敍事，與形式嬉戲。我甚至在想：這是當代藝術嗎？馬琼珠的這些拼貼，讓我想到的是二十世紀上半葉的超現實主義攝影家曼·雷或者中國攝影家金石聲。這些拼貼中對自我所處的現實與藝術的物質形式齊頭並進的探索，帶着現代藝術時期、當新媒介剛剛出現時人們與之鄭重周旋的稚拙和樂趣。我震驚且好奇，馬琼珠為什麼能如此創作？——她好像毫不在意此時此刻周圍的藝術家了。
當我回到上海之後，我才看到馬琼珠已經有二十多年的藝術家生涯。她也做過我眼中那些非常「當代」的作品，比如2001年探討女性經驗的裝置《Nothing At All》。而從2014年的《24-hour McDonald》、2016年的《A Chinese Gymnast》開始，她已經在用黑灰色與金色的塗繪介入現成圖像。但在過去三年半、離開香港的旅行中，生活之外的材料、藝術圈關心的社會議題似乎逐漸退開。旅途中日復一日的生活——飛鳥和玻璃窗這樣並不期待解讀、並不留下伏筆的材料，就這樣進入了她的創作。馬琼珠的行旅之作，帶着一種從此時此刻的藝術和社會跳脱開去的變不可能為可能。當她在異國的沙發上盤腿而坐，拿起剪刀裁切這些照片時，似乎只有她和這些自己拍下的照片。展牆上寫下一句話，「我在尋找一個非懷鄉的形狀」。這可能也是這次展覽標題「形狀之鳥」的由來。「形狀」，在我看來既指向具體的、創作中需要被藝術家探索出的形狀（攝影從一開始便面對着「從有到有」而非「從無到有」的課題，但「賦形」卻是），也是馬琼珠自己的生活之形。在錄像《鳥之形狀》裏，馬琼珠用手指捏住小小的飛鳥形狀的紙片，手指向後折翅，再突然鬆手，鳥兒有時飛出，有時撲在桌上。這是一種自況嗎？形狀在此時突然變作了一種實際的境況。
在這些拼貼之外，馬琼珠呈現了許多簡單的「直接攝影」——當她和女兒旅行時，每當女兒拿起相機拍攝，她便拍下女兒。她鏡頭中的女兒，女兒鏡頭中的世界，兩個視野在展覽中成組出現。這便是「影她，她影」了（2023時，馬琼珠曾有同名展覽）。「直接攝影」説的是那些直接用相機鏡頭拍下的照片，代表可以説是馬格南圖片社那樣的新聞攝影或者街頭攝影。約莫十幾年前，當觀念藝術、當代藝術對中國的攝影界影響越來越大時，我周圍的攝影師感慨，拍照片的人越來越少了。馬琼珠拍攝女兒的照片，以及女兒拍下的照片，甚至連微弱的事件性都沒有。但是，這些照片中似乎透出母女之間共享着的、重疊着的、對這個世界的注視，母親看着女兒，也看向女兒看着的世界。而女兒會長大，媽媽會離開，女兒會獨自去看、去影。女兒的長大，在這裏似乎提供了除去離開或回到香港之外的另外一個方向：我們會成長。如斯圖亞特·霍爾所説，「遷移是單向之旅，沒有所謂的「家」可以回去，它從未存在過」（ Migration is a one way trip. There is no ‘home’ to go back to. There never was.）。當「回家」變得不再可能，與女兒一同看向這個不斷變化的世界，帶着充滿好奇的注視生活下去，是那麼巨大的啓發與希望。
看完展覽後，我到集美的大社村尋友人，才意識到自己闖入了「陳嘉庚宇宙」——南洋華僑陳嘉庚便是集美人，因為捐資興學、創立了廈門大學和集美的許多學校，陳嘉庚在這裏是「神一般的存在」（本地人之語）。但是，陳嘉庚累積資本的來源——新加坡、馬來西亞和那裏的菠蘿廠、橡膠園，以及他在彼地的經歷卻幾乎從不被提及。回到文章開頭所説的，「發現」在這裏意味着什麼呢？雖然兩個展覽看起來幾乎和廈門毫無聯繫，但你不覺得，如果這片土地上的人們稍稍探向歷史深處、生活深處，便會看見羅玉梅看向的七洲洋、馬琼珠剪下的飛鳥嗎？
作者：聶小依，德英基金會2024–25屆策展學者，近期的研究課題是“創造藝術”和“創造生活”之間的聯繫。
“As I reflect on myself, I emerge as the water body and soaring birds”
2024 marked the 10th annual edition of the Xiamen Jimei x Arles International Photo Festival, alongside the Jimei Arles Discovery Award established at the same time. In today’s context, the notion of “discovery” is the most ubiquitous; amidst the torrent of information, new encounters are always readily available at your fingertips.
The “Discovery Award” follows a distinct structure in which four invited curators will nominate two artists or artist groups and curate their solo exhibitions. Eventually, one will be selected as the awardee. If not for the award's title, it might just be presumed as simply another occasion to compare artists’ works. The term “discovery” introduces a range of inquiries: should curators seek out lesser-known and relatively marginalized artists, or should they “discover” the artists? The residents of Xiamen, the Chinese photography community, the international photography scene, or those who are currently reading the article?
In this context, the “Discovery Award” seems to present a paradoxical disposition: any form of competition will determine winners and losers, not to mention that “who should be discovered by whom” is an uncanny, almost problematic question. Nonetheless, the award provides participants something rare and absolute – attention. People are inherently drawn to rankings, competitions, and comparisons, although artistic creation is inherently difficult to compare.
In the 2024 “Discovery Award”, curator Chris Wan nominated artists Law Yuk Mui and Ivy Ma. These three individuals share a significant geographical connection: Hong Kong. Chris Wan has resided in Hong Kong for a significant time, and his recent curatorial project “Blue Throat” looks into the post-2019 condition in the Hong Kong society and among the artists. Both born and raised in Hong Kong, Ivy Ma and Law Yuk Mui had so far spent most of their time on this subtropical island. Yet, both exhibitions do not intend to narrate a story of Hong Kong. Rather, each of them navigates a certain distance from the region in their way. Born in Jingdezhen, a town best known for its porcelain production and the origin of the name “China”, Wan’s mastery of Cantonese is limited to mere listening and his inability to speak the language. Having left Hong Kong in 2021, Ma has been residing in various cities from time to time; under this nomadic condition, she can only create art with limited tools and has to send her works to her friends back in Hong Kong from time to time. Law has also left Hong Kong, residing with her family in Chiba Prefecture, Japan.
The collaboration among Chris Wan, Law Yuk Mui, and Ivy Ma invites the audience to explore the individuals and narratives that emanate from the specific geographical and governance context of Hong Kong. As you stay around and engage with the exhibition, the contours of Hong Kong may gradually become more discernible, prompting the emergence of incisive reflections on themes of transience, displacement, and the ineffable.
Sorry, I got a bit ahead of myself. Let me go back to the exhibition in Xiamen first—you have not seen what it looks like yet. I was invited by Chris Wan and supported by the funding from the Hong Kong Arts Development Council, to travel from Shanghai to Xiamen and catch the exhibition on its last opening day. Jimei district is a newly developing area located at the outskirts of the main island in Xiamen. I was in Jimei for the photo festival in 2017. Seven years have elapsed, and the vicinity around the city government remains notably desolate. As I look around, it often seems quiet, which makes me wonder who the audience of the photography festival is. The festival is in a four-storey building in the city center. The “Discovery Award” is showcased on the third floor, with eight exhibitions unfolding in a meandering path; the exhibitions for Law Yuk Mui and Ivy Ma are the fifth and sixth along the line-up.
Titled Song of the Exile: Scene II, Law Yuk Mui’s exhibition presents an intimate dialogue shrouded in darkness, with a video projected on a floating gauze screen as the audience’s first encounter. The video begins with confessions from different individuals presented in text, alongside old, yellowed black-and-white footage. The narrators include travellers getting ready for boarding and sailors who had long been voyaging. They mentioned “Tangshan”, a historical reference to China often used by overseas Chinese, “Seven Islands Sea”, an essential sea passage connecting Southeast China and Southeast Asia (a hazardous waters to the east of Hainan Wenchang City), as well as Java Street in Hong Kong.
Subsequently, I recognized familiar footage that I had seen in 2023 from Song of the Exile, a video work sharing the same title as the renowned classic Nanyin piece. This earlier work is relatively straightforward, documenting the first scene, in Law Yuk Mui’s terms, the improvised cinema. The following was my reflection noted in 2023, “The room is dimly lit, bamboo boards are tapping by the beat of the original tune. Erhu bowstring draws across the leather surface of a box, devoid of melody. Coloured balls in red, green, blue and yellow are initially arranged meticulously, but are tossed into the air towards the end of the performance; some of the balls hit the swaying cooper cymbals on the ground as they fall and the echoing resonance marks the end of the journey and the awakening from a dream.”
The small screen eventually expands at this juncture. The “improvised cinema” subsequently interweaves with a broader temporal and spatial context; adjacent to the gauze screen, an old book Beyond Seven Islands Seas rests quietly in a transparent case. Three elongated bricks were arranged in the formation of a triangle at the centre of the exhibition space. Along one of the wall spaces was a long screen that gradually reveals the texts from Song of the Exile —“harboring resentment while travelling”, “who can I talk to and what would it be about?”, etc. At the corner lies a shade of blue, a screen that displays the real-time wind map of the Seven Islands Sea, with English narration running across the screen, about the night-time voyage where a sense of melancholy permeates under the moon that is yet to be orbicular.
The exhibition space elicits a profound sense of unease. The interplay of sound, words and images contributed to an uncertain atmosphere, complicating the geographical territory with a historical narrative and the enduring human experiences. The precise narrative articulated by Law Yuk Mui’s works may not be immediately discernible at first glance; yet the fragmented tunes, ephemeral breeze, and bisected globe, altogether elicit a subtle and collective response. As noted in the video work, “They claim that we fall because of the Earth’s rotation; in fact, we all know that it is music.” This statement appears to be semantically paradoxical—where should we start when we were to talk about music? Nonetheless, it reveals a conscious rupture in Law Yuk Mui’s artistic practice. A piercing revelation erupting from the void—like the sudden crack of a night watchman's gong or the rhythmic clang of forging iron—arrives with a leap of audacity, followed by the hush of slipping beneath the water's surface. The sighs of those departing on nocturnal vessels reverberate through the years, reaffirming the persistence of such sentiments.
Illumination pervaded as I walked out from the dark. A sense of amusement arose as I looked at the compilation of paper cuts and collages by Ivy Ma. The photo festival showcases a variety of “contemporary art languages”—multiple references, scattered allusions, and intricate weavings—often burdening the audience with what scholar Claire Bishop terms “research-based art”. However, Ivy Ma’s works presented a notable divergence from this paradigm; her creations are strikingly simplistic, initially resembling mere assemblages of geometric shapes. These predominantly grey images, derived from black-and-white photographs, faintly unveil the contours of the sky and the densely arranged glass window structures. The sparse sky and repetitive window designs create a continuous motif against a grey backdrop. Occasionally, the silhouettes of flying birds and tree shadows emerge. In stark contrast to the prevailing grey tones are the gold accents applied to the edges and folds, with grey and gold existing in direct juxtaposition, with their clear edges accentuated by a white background.
These works notably reject narrative structure, focusing instead on compositional elements. I even wondered: Is this contemporary art? Her collages remind me of the surrealist photographer Man Ray from the early twentieth century or the Chinese photographer Jin Shisheng. These collages explore the relationship between one’s reality and the materiality of art, resonating with the innocence and playfulness embodied in serious engagements with new media during the modern art era. I found myself both astonished and inquisitive: What enables Ivy Ma to create such work? She seemed completely unconcerned with the presence of her contemporaries at that moment.
After I returned to Shanghai, I realized that Ivy Ma has cultivated her artistic career spanning over two decades. She has produced works that correspond to contemporary artistic paradigms, such as Nothing at All (2001), an installation piece that explores the female experience. From 24-hour McDonald's (2014) and A Chinese Gymnast (2016) onwards, she has been intervening in readymade images with black, grey, and gold paint. However, over the past three and a half years travelling away from Hong Kong, materials outside of life and social issues that concern the art world seem to have gradually receded. The daily encounters during her journey, such as flying birds and glass windows, have seamlessly become part of her work in the most straightforward manner. Her travel-inspired works evoke a transformation that renders the seemingly impossible attainable, allowing her to transcend current artistic and social contexts.
When she sits cross-legged on a sofa in a foreign land, with scissors in hand and cutting these photographs, it seems that the entire world only consists of herself and the images she captured. An inscription on the exhibition wall says, “I am searching for a shape that is not nostalgic.” This statement may also illuminate the exhibition's title, "The Shape of Birds”. The term “shape” denotes both the specific forms that the artist seeks to explore with her practice, as well as her existential contour (it echoes the ongoing challenge in photography, which has historically grappled with the notion of “from being to being” rather than “from nothing to something”).
In the video The Shape of Birds, she delicately pinches a small piece of bird-shaped paper with her fingers, tossing its wings backward before abruptly releasing it; occasionally, the bird takes flight, while at other times, it falls onto the table. Is this a form of self-reflection? The concept of shape unexpectedly materializes into a tangible reality in this juncture.
Beyond these collages, Ivy Ma presents many simple examples of “direct photography”. When traveling with her daughter, she captures her daughter every time she picks up a camera. Image of her daughter from her lens and the world as seen through her daughter’s lens appear as a set of displays in the exhibition. This embodies the concept of “Double Moment” (Ivy Ma held an exhibition with the same title in 2023).
“Direct photography” refers to images taken directly with a camera, representing styles akin to photojournalism or street photography, much like those produced by Magnum Photos. Approximately a decade ago, as conceptual and contemporary art began to exert a growing influence on the photography scene in China, many photographers around me had expressed their concern that the number of individuals actively engaged in photography was dwindling. The photographs of Ivy Ma’s daughter, as well as those taken by her daughter, seem to lack even the faintest sense of eventfulness. Nonetheless, these images appear to articulate a shared and overlapping gaze between mother and daughter towards the world. The mother observes her daughter while simultaneously looking at the world from her daughter’s perspective.
As the daughter grows older, the mother will inevitably leave, and the daughter will embark on her journey. This process of adulting and maturing offers an alternative direction beyond the concepts of departure or returning to Hong Kong. As Stuart Hall posits, “Migration is a one-way trip. There is no ‘home’ to go back to. There never was.” When the prospect of “returning home” becomes untenable, the continuous engagement with this ever-evolving world alongside her daughter, imbued with curiosity, emerges as a profound source of inspiration and hope.
After visiting the exhibition, I went to Dashe Village in Jimei to meet a friend, only to realize that I had entered the “Chen Jiageng Universe”. Chen Jiageng, a prominent figure from the overseas Chinese community in Nanyang, is revered in Jimei for his philanthropic contributions to education, notably his establishment of Xiamen University and numerous local schools. He is celebrated as a “divine presence” (as described by locals). However, the origins of Chen Jiageng’s wealth, primarily derived from his ventures in Singapore, Malaysia, with pineapple factories and rubber plantations, are rarely addressed.
It brings us back to the question initially posed at the beginning of this discussion: What does “discovery” mean in this context? While the two exhibitions may seem almost entirely disconnected from Xiamen, I cannot help but wonder if the inhabitants of this region were to engage more deeply with their historical and social narratives, could they identify with the Seven Islands and the flying birds that both Law Yuk Mui and Ivy Ma observe?
Written By Nie Xiaoyi, 2024–25 Curatorial Fellow of De Ying Foundation. She recently looks into the interconnection between "creating art" and "creating a new form of life".
Translated by Christine Lee.
