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Asian Art, published by Asian Art Newspaper Ltd, London, April 2001, p.12
Zhu Wei
When the Hong Kong-based art dealer Stephen McGuinness decided to open a New York branch of Plum Blossoms, he knew that it had to be in Chelsea, where new art galleries are arriving on the streets faster than latte bars. McGuinness also knew immediately which artist’s work he had to open with. “There was no question, it had to be Zhu Wei,” he said.
MCGUINNESS FIRST MET ZHU in 1993. He had gone to the mainland to visit one of his artists who was exhibiting at the Guangzhou Art Fair: “I was a bit reluctant, because we were all exhausted after Art Asia in Hong Kong, which was happening at exactly the same time.” The fair had been bewildering and huge - two floors of booths, no vetting “and loads of airport art” - and he hadn’t seen anything that interested him at all until on the way to lunch on the last day they went down and aisle they hadn’t seen before. “And there he was, in a tiny booth covered with red crepe paper so that it stood out. The paintings were just pasted onto the crepe; they weren’t framed or anything.”
McGuinness was, he said, “just knocked out” by the work and became the young artist’s sole agent. “I was knocked out by the same thing that knocks me out today,” McGuinness said, gesturing to a large ink painting hanging in his gallery, showing a man in army uniform, his shoulders like a shrugged landscape, his expression one of aloof confusion. “For someone of his age, who could not have a classical education because he was brought up in the Cultural Revolution, then in the PLA, Zhu Wei has an incredible knowledge of Chinese tradition,” McGuinness explained. “He works in the tradition of 1,000 years; it’s subtle sometimes, but most of his work has a message which is an international and political commentary.”
Zhu was born in Beijing in 1966. He still lives in China’s capital - and indeed, living in China is a very important part of his work, which he often refers to as a visual diary of his thoughts and things that he sees in a rapidly changing nation. However, he does not show his work in his home country - it is too openly controversial, it too clearly places cadres and communism on a rather comic pedestal, so that it is hard to take them seriously. As McGuinness explained, the Chinese government tolerates Zhu and other post-1989 contemporary artists. They are allowed to live and paint without interference, “but the one unspoken rule is: don’t put this in our face and we’ll leave you alone.”
Zhu started to paint when he was eight, going regularly to classes in Beijing’s Children’s Palace. He showed talent and interest and when, ten years later, he joined the People’s Liberation Army, he was immediately transferred into the army’s art college - his brief there being to paint propaganda for the glory of the motherland. In 1989 he graduated from the college, and stayed in the PLA for another three years until his unit was demobilized, and he found himself a free agent with an ambition to paint.
His first work - which is what caught McGuinness’s eye - typically included ink paintings of soldiers. They had monumental hands and sculpted heads. They might be carrying flags, standing before a red lacquer screen or looking down on the Forbidden City, but whatever the narrative, there would always be a sense of the state’s control of the individual and of the sense of anonymity that creates.
Since 1993, he has increasingly included pictures of civilians in his work, although the message of anonymity and the state exercising its muscle is still the same. A recent series was called Sunflowers, not because of yellows, flowers or van Gogh, but because sunflowers tend to turn their heads towards the sun. Zhu’s pictures are drawn as if from inside a home, looking out onto the street, where strangers have fixed their gaze on something outside the frame. They could be in a public square gazing on a leader or they could be watching television; we can only guess. But their eyes, like most of the eyes painted by Zhu, are central points of the paintings. They are modeled on the deceptively simple eyes drawn by classical Chinese painter Bada Shanren - and can somehow express hope, blankness, confusion or love in just a few brush strokes.
This was a reaction to the celebrations marking the 50th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, in which the government demonstrated just how easily it could play the nationalist card. In 1998 he did a bizarre and brightly coloured series based on oversized fruit, called Diary of a Sleepwalker. In one, a man stands at an industrial loom, seemingly oblivious to a 5-metre-high tomato just behind him. In another, a man carrying an umbrella walks through a rice field, carefully avoiding a giant aubergine as if this were an everyday obstacle.
What kind of man is Zhu? McGuinness laughed. “For one thing, he’s an incredibly loyal person. The relationship usually between artists and dealers can be heartbreaking as soon as they become successful - and what are you going to do, sue someone in China or Vietnam?”
Zhu is also “a bit of a hermit”, who spends happy days on his own, just painting and creating. When he travels - most recently to the United States - he has a confidence that sometimes astounds his colleagues. “I remember in New York he went out on his own for the day, hardly able to speak English. When he came back he said he had a great day, and that he’d hired a guy to carry his camera and take pictures of him in front of all the monuments.” Giving one’s camera to a stranger is bold enough, McGuinness said, “but then I asked how much he paid the guy. And he said happily that he had paid US$7 and a can of Coke!”
Most recently Zhu has been working on some monumental sculptures in a pottery style reminiscent of the warriors from Xian. But this new terracotta army is of cadres wearing Mao jackets, leaning forward in an obsequious kowtow . And where the Xian soldiers each have their individual facial expressions, Zhu’s civil servants have no clear faces at all.
Victoria Finlay
伦敦亚洲艺术报有限公司出版《亚洲艺术》，2001年4月刊，p.12
朱伟
当香港画商史蒂芬.麦哲史决定在纽约设立万玉堂分支时，他知道地点一定得在雀尔西，因为这儿的新艺术画廊如雨后春笋般，来得比咖啡馆还快。同样的，麦哲史也立刻知道了新画廊该以哪位艺术家的作品来开幕，“毫无疑问，当然是朱伟。”
麦哲史是在1993年遇见的朱伟。那一年，为参加他代理的某艺术家在广州艺术博览会的展览，麦哲史去了趟大陆。“我多少有点不情愿，因为香港的亚洲艺术博览会和广州博览会几乎同时举行，刚参加过香港的，我们都累坏了。”广州博览会乱且大——展厅足有两层，参与的作品未设门槛，“成堆的机场纪念品货色”——他没看见一件他感兴趣的东西。直到展会最后一日，去吃午饭的路上，麦哲史他们拐进一条之前未曾走过的过道，“结果他就在那儿，一个小得要命的摊位，摊位上覆了一层红绉纸，看着还算醒目。所有的画都直接粘在红绉纸上，没有画框，什么也没有。”
用麦哲史本人的话说，他被这些作品“彻底地震撼了”，继而成为了这位年轻艺术家的独家代理人。“那些震撼我的东西今天依然震撼我，”麦哲史指了指画廊中挂着的一幅大型水墨，画中一名穿军装的男子，他的肩如山水般起伏，他的表情淡漠而迷惘。“朱伟这个年龄的人很难接受到传统教育，因为是在文化大革命中成长的，接着又是入伍，可朱伟对中国传统文化的了解令人难以置信，”麦哲史解释道，“他从事的行业已经有千年的传统；另外，尽管有时没那么明显，但他的作品常常传递出对国际的和政治的诠释。”
朱伟1966年出生于北京，现在他仍然生活在中国的首都——事实上，中国的生活是他作品非常重要的一部分，他常认为他的作品是他的思想和亲眼目睹一个国家处于剧变中之种种的视觉日记。尽管如此，朱伟的作品却不曾在他的祖国展出过——它们太具争议性，太过明显地把士兵和主义置于滑稽的底色之上，以至于人们没法正经看待他们。正如麦哲史所说，政府忍受朱伟和其他后八九当代艺术家，他们可以不被干涉地生活和绘画，“可这儿有一个潜规则：可以不过问，但别在我们面前干。”
朱伟八岁开始到北京少年宫学画，显露出绘画的才华和兴趣，十年后入伍，很快被军中的艺术学院录取——他在那儿的主要任务是画歌颂祖国辉煌成就的宣传画。1989年大学毕业后，他在军队又待了三年，直到单位遣散，他发现自己成了一个有绘画野心的自由职业者。
让麦哲史眼前一亮的就是朱伟的首批作品——以士兵为描绘对象的水墨画。士兵们有着纪念碑般的双手和雕塑般的头颅，他们或手持红旗立于朱漆大门前，或俯瞰紫禁城，无论他们所做为何，画中始终弥漫着权力对个人的操控，弥漫着无名氏的感受。
自1993年起，普通百姓越来越频繁地出现在朱伟的作品中，而无名氏和压顶的感受依旧。最近一个系列叫做《向日葵》，其契机并非出于黄色、花朵抑或是凡高，而是由于向日葵的头颅往往随太阳而转动。画仿佛是在某户人家里画的，向外望，望到街上去，街上的陌生人正凝视着画框以外的某个对象。他们是在公共广场上瞻仰某位领袖，还是在看电视，我们唯能猜测。只是他们的眼睛，恰如朱伟所绘的大部分眼睛，是画面的重心所在。这些看似简单的眼睛源自中国传统画家八大山人——它们能够表达希望、空虚、迷惘和爱，却只需寥寥数笔。
《向日葵》系列的灵感是中华人民共和国成立五十周年庆典，庆典证明了打民族牌是多么的容易。1998年，朱伟绘制了一个色彩艳丽且怪谲的系列，叫做《梦游手记》，画的内容是超级巨型水果。其一，一个人站在工业纺织机上，似乎压根没看到身后一个超过五米高的西红柿。又一，一个人扛着把伞穿过稻田，他小心翼翼地避开一个巨大的茄子，倒好像这是日常生活中的常见障碍。
朱伟是个什么样的人？麦哲史笑了。“一方面，他难以置信的忠诚。通常一旦艺术家功成名就，他们和画商之间的关系马上变得令人心碎——你能怎么办，起诉一个在中国或者越南的人？”
朱伟也“有点儿隐士”，过着他自己的幸福生活，只是画画，创作。当他最近一次到美国旅行时，他的自信却让与他一起工作的人吓了一跳。“他几乎就不会说英语。我记得是在纽约，有一天，他一人出去了，回来后他说今天过得挺棒。他雇了一个家伙，为他在所有地方拍照。”把相机交给一个陌生人已经够大胆的，麦哲史说，“后来我问他付了多少钱给那人，他高兴地说，7美元和一罐可乐！”
最近朱伟创作的内容是一些有如纪念碑般的雕塑，雕塑的陶土风格使人联想到西安的兵马俑。只是这些新式兵马俑都穿着中山装，躯体前倾，要磕头似的奴颜婢膝。西安的兵马俑各自拥有各自的五官表情，朱伟的公仆们压根没有清晰的面孔。
Victoria Finlay撰文
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