凡是過往，皆為序章 Past Is Prologue —何翔宇個展 He Xiangyu Solo Exhibition

在展廳內，有平滑石頭組成的金屬裝置，牆上有幾幅照片，有水彩一般薄薄塗抹於牆面之上的橄欖油。在這裡，虛無也適時的扮演了重要的角色。

除了我們所製造的聲音外，展廳裡安靜無聲。人會製造噪音，石頭不會。

展廳內有著不同層次的結構變化。有些人可能會稱之為「和諧」。和諧的概念一如天氣，隨緯度高低而變化，或許在某個地方靜止停滯，在其他地方卻徐徐移動。多年以來，何翔宇曾四處遷徙，至今仍然如此－－他生於中國，寓居美國，又遷往柏林。他常感覺自己困於不同型態的和諧之間，而試圖為這樣的緊張賦予形體。

他常聆聽種種不同的聲音，聆聽彼此相異的文字，而有時，他試圖用藝術來創造新的聲音。

這些靜止不動的石頭也曾長途跋涉。我們並不知道它們來自何方，流浪了多久，也無從得知是什麼環境將它們打磨得如此光滑圓潤。人們藉由欣賞讚嘆它們的形狀，來表達對它們不明身世的敬意。

在進入展廳之前，你我或許對它們的瞭解並不多（也可能是一無所知），在離開展廳之後，可能依然對它們所知甚少。

或許有些觀者會想計算它們的數量，數字能使我們彷彿略知一二。這麼做也許能帶來寬慰，畢竟秩序使人心安。但也可能乏味無趣，或引人深思。另一些人光是凝神觀看便滿足了，注視著被挽救出且近乎飄浮的完美形體是一種樂趣。

那些被撿回並懸起的事物中蘊含著慰藉，因為人生有時重量深沉，會將我們壓垮在地。

展廳內除了石頭和金屬勾勒出的線條，還伴隨著一些象徵性的符號。部分的牆面被鉛筆標記出界線，線內再塗上了層層的橄欖油。

在過去的某個時刻，某處所曾存在著壓力，因為油的製程需要壓力，橄欖需要經過壓榨。而在久遠以前，在與這裡相距遙遠的國度裡，壓榨這些果實的滾輪也是用石頭製成的。其中許多滾輪如今已不再使用，只是安靜地躺在某處，如同古老的寺廟，恆久不變，僅有微微的磨損、小小的缺口。至今，人們並無法透過肉眼察覺它們的腐朽。

橄欖油滲入牆壁的時刻同樣不會為人所注意，牆壁吸收油的過程也模糊了鉛筆的印記。鉛筆痕跡消失的那一刻也不被輕易察覺。

很快的，這個展廳將重新粉刷，這些場域的變化不會留下任何可見的痕跡。但它們仍然存在，只不過隱入了建築之中。

這一切都發生在光陰荏苒之間。石頭的磨光需要時間－－極漫長的時間。橄欖油的消失也需要時間－－極短暫的時間。人們存在於這兩種時間狀態，為處理這兩種狀態而忙碌－－我們保存並高懸歷經歲月淘洗的事物，同時又不停修補已經開始在我們身旁崩解的事物。

這是我們的日常練習。

展廳牆上的照片也同樣傳遞著一股壓力，講述著擠壓與修補的故事，塑膠布和膠帶儼然已成為圖像的一部分，試圖修補破碎的窗戶。此外還存在著努力，個體的努力。

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.