Things that can't be laid out in the sun

Today I went to the village to shoot. Originally, it was only said to be Ganlu Temple. I thought it was really held in the temple. A meeting between an artist and an uncle of an auto repair shop who likes to dance. I imagined them painting and dancing in the monastery, and it felt amazing, but I didn't know what the Buddha thought.

So we headed to the top of the mountain, hoping to find a temple called Ganlu Temple there. After repeatedly going the wrong way, we suddenly realized that Ganlu Temple was also the name of the village. This meeting was in a renovated elementary school. Reversing the car back from the deep mountains, the tires ran over the newly paved stone road with a clanging sound, and when I stopped on the slope, I saw a huge "Xinhua Dictionary". There is a grid on the wall, which reads "Eat well, go up every day". The huge cloud device sticks out from the wall, and it feels that as long as you walk into the courtyard, it is different from the outside.

On the right side of the door is a Chinese textbook as big as the "Xinhua Dictionary" that I just saw on the slope. Two children wearing red scarves are surrounded by the center of the flower. Orientation, beneath the flowers is a large expanse of pure white. Because the impression of the Chinese textbook is too strong, it is really like that when it is placed here. The eaves, the trees, and the blue sky are reflected in the background, which is particularly beautiful. Because it was not fully built, there was a lot of cement, sand and stones piled up around the house. The left side used to be the court. An old basketball hoop had not been dismantled. It looked very short and was pitifully drenched in the rain.

Many people gathered here. I heard someone calling to arrange today's lunch. I vaguely heard words like bacon and toon, and I remembered the toon tree I saw on the way. It was not public at all, and it was scattered in rows of tiled houses. between. Some people have nothing left in their fields, only three or two toon trees of different sizes are still growing, and there are clusters of tender buds on the branches, which makes people very anxious, why haven't they come to pick them and go home. Woolen cloth. So I imagined this meal, maybe more wonderful than everything that happened here, but in the end I didn't get it.

The truck at the door did not move away for a long time. I followed a few girls in from the side of the car and looked at everything in the yard curiously. The row of houses facing the gate is the main space, which is divided into left and right. On the left is the kitchen. The chimney has been re-reinforced and sticks out from the roof. The whole shape of it can be seen from the window, like the lines in the sketches of elementary school students. The house on the right is relatively large, with a rectangular fire pit built in it for everyone to sit around and bake together. I also imagine that children can sit by the fire pit and draw.

There are two paintings hanging on the wall, depicting the partial landscape of the yard; the roof has the Big Dipper, maybe the tiles were removed according to the position and replaced by glass, even in the daytime, the beam of the Big Dipper is still coming in. When the firewood was set up in the fire, the smoke rose very high, and the Big Dipper formed a milk-like beam of Tyndall effect, which was incredible. The tables and chairs in the house are all old things that were used in the original school. The three inner walls are displayed with some small things that I didn't have time to look at. Maybe they are local specialties. I just remember that there are rows of textbooks on the far right. Gotta be neat. Three old benches of different sizes were built into the wall at the entrance, and they were cleverly made into a bookcase. All the ninth grade Chinese textbooks were placed. I flipped through them at will, and there were Kong Yiji and foreign poems.

A pool was built in the corner of the yard next to the kitchen. Someone jumped into the pool to clean up the accumulated leaves and mud. After rinsing, the tap was turned on again, and it was full all morning. The ground is paved with floor tiles in the shape of a cross, extending to the gate, the house with the fire pit, the pavilion on the left, the classroom on the right and the stairs, the rest is grass, four trees are distributed in the four corners of the courtyard, the bench is split, and a circle is cut out. The trunks are surrounded and merged together, and sitting on either side is like sitting with a tree. The pavilion is a slate table and stool built in the past. The color is blue and black, but it is very clean. When you see the white clouds sticking out of the house on the slope, it covers them and becomes a unique pavilion. Next to it are a few pencils made of wooden stakes, which are also painted with the kind of paint that is said to not fade for ten years. They grow straight up, and even the wall can't stop them.

The two rooms on the far right are probably the original classrooms and teachers' offices. No major changes have been made, but the windows have been re-installed, a layer of bright red paint has been painted, and tables, chairs and benches have been neatly arranged, facing a small room. podium. I didn't have a familiar feeling until I walked in here. This is what the primary school I read in the village when I was a child. Because I was the youngest, and my words were not neat, the teacher asked me to sit in the last row, and the small bench was brought from home. The teacher teaches writing and singing. When the weather is bad, the classroom is very dark, and it is almost impossible to see the faces of the classmates.

Going up the stairs, there are two attics, and two beds are laid on the spot with uneven old wooden boards, which should be transformed into bedrooms. The only special thing is that the structure of the original house has not changed. Walking in the stairwell has an old feeling, like the kind of babbling wooden building that I lived with my grandparents when I was a child. It smells musty in rainy days. The railings are very dense and the windows are very dense. There are hollow carvings on the frame, light leaks in, and the sky is bright.

There is a small door in the courtyard leading to the bathroom in the backyard. Along the way, a lot of thin bamboos are planted. Maybe it was originally there, and it has become a dense bamboo forest. A glass wall was erected between them, and behind it was the bathroom, and the brick house looked like a sketch by a primary school student. Although the building is still under construction and the facilities are not perfect, the bathroom can be used normally.

After walking around the courtyard, people came one after another. If this is an artist's exhibition, then the curator is the villager, and the first audience to see it is also the villager here. It feels very strange. How remote is this place, and the mountain road has nine twists and eighteen bends, and I have severe motion sickness. Thinking of the exhibitions and art spaces in the city, it seems that the most fashionable men and women in the city are the most accessible, and the probability of a villager walking into the art exhibition hall to see the exhibition is very small. But this space is arranged here, right at the door of the villagers' houses. Even if there will be trendy men and women in the city like we have gone through nine and eighteen bends to get here, it ensures that the people who are the least likely to come into contact with art also be the first to get in touch with it.

I think these are enough, the story can only be told before the artist comes out. The work speaks for itself. I feel that the part where the artist appears is always so specific that it will hurt the audience and the work. If the audience is overly curious -- or overly voyeuristic, it gets something else, and we see a guy doing something he's not good at. The process is very painful, and I don't know who I'm sad for. Maybe it's because I put too much trust in these works - too much in my own imagination, so when a living, flawed creator appears in front of me, I inevitably feel lost.

And it's not just artists who appear on the stage, so many people appear at the same time, everyone has their own purpose, and there are not many real audiences. If anyone takes themselves as an audience and participates in this "production" process, they will definitely feel Pain and disappointment. The media people who came to shoot were armed with heavy equipment like weapons. They all had terrifying names, such as "monitor", "monitoring earphones", and even "clearing", "controlling the scene", "prohibition of gangbanging", "must speak" , "Don't look at the camera", "Take it easy, forget our existence", "No trace of white ash is allowed on your shoulders"... The artist said to the silent dancer, "You have to learn to face the camera sooner or later", "I They know how to communicate.”

The young, fashionably dressed media people have a sharp voice. When they call artists, they respectfully call teachers, and when they call folk dancers, they change their nicknames and add an extra "brother". They may think they are close, but in comparison they can't help but seem a little bit different. Disregard. The artist invited the dancer, hoping that he would "do something" in his yard, and then use the media to publicize it. That's what made me slowly collapse some of the trust I built up when facing the work. You can of course say that art creators are bullied by money and power, and artists are often flattered and bowed because of this. .

On the way home by bike, I kept thinking of Li Weijing's book "Life is Sweet", and later found the paragraph according to the book: "She is really a pure little thing, she always feels that money, power, and knowledge feed each other, and team up with bitches. After a long time, she realized that it might actually be the artists who turned their backs on money and power and took advantage of them—if the time is long enough and the history is long enough.”