The sculptor's early work is redolent of
marine life, but as his oeuvre changes, he
is beginning to explore the simple purity
of sculpture--form itself.
The modern arts in Taiwan have tended to closely follow trends set in America and Japan. It is as if art forms could succumb to external pressures like the garment industry, where fashions are set by a few of the industry's giants and followed by the masses of also-rans obliged to conform, so that the fashionable are in fact those who follow trends set by others. But this sort of art is not to be treasured for centuries, but watched, as we watch a fashion parade, with little of the soul stirring that takes place when experiencing great art. For art, precisely, is engendered in that sacred precinct of genuine creativity and inspiring originality. In Taiwan, individuality is just beginning to flower.
Although youthful, vigorous, and prosperous, the Taiwanese have become victims of an education system that seeks to produce high-wage earners rather than original thinkers. In the arts, the emphasis is on mastery of techniques, not composition or inspired performances. In music, for example, dozens of youngsters each year amaze Western musicians with their stunning technical skills and note-perfect playing--yet with little empathy for the music itself. That is because the arts are often treated like gymnastics--played to perfection and performed to win prizes.
Yet Hou Lien-chin, a promising young sculptor who just graduated from college, certainly seems to have come from another world, an alien time zone where beauty is not outmoded, and enchantment no stranger. His works simply glow in joyous celebration of grace, elegance, humor, and wit. The pieces selected for his first exhibition in Taichung, held in April, display a dazzling mastery of solids, planes, and surfaces, and a sheer daring in the pursuit of simplicity. One hardly believes these to be the work of a diffident youth doing his first graduate course at the Tainan National College of the Arts, a spawning ground for many of the major luminaries of the arts, who have been quietly lifting the cultural profile of Taiwan onto the international stage.
Traditionally, sculpture as a genre has not been as powerful of a creative phenomenon in Pacific-rim cultures like China, Japan or Korea. But it has thrived in cultures of the Aegean, like the Cycladic islands and later the mainland of Greece centering on Athens where stone sculpture reached its apogee early, attaining ease and fluidity in the round, as well as becoming a palpable conveyor of motion and emotions. To this day, Europeans walking the streets, let alone going into cathedrals or museums, are profoundly familiar with images of solid forms moving in space.
Among the peoples of the Pacific, artists have focused more on painting over flat surfaces by concentrating intensely on the line as it moves across a plane. What one might call sculpture in Asia has tended to be markedly frontal, flat, based as it were on placing a painted image in solid form simply extending its lateral dimension, so we have Shang Dynasty figurines that look like cookie press-outs, the Easter Island faces on standing slabs, and native American totems as low- and high-relief carvings. There is no interest in expressing (or perceiving) a solid, three-dimensional form twirling in or moving through space. Even the realistic phases of Buddhist sculptures will grant faces and garment folds their concavities, but rarely acknowledge flutters in the wind.
Thus, it is all the more extraordinary to find a young Taiwanese artist, who has been primarily exposed to frontal figures dominating the altars of temples and the rigidly frontal sculptures of political figures, so innately fascinated by the movement of solid forms.
Hou Lien-chien was born into the family of a Kaohsiung factory worker in 1981. As a child he admired the sculptures of Michelangelo he had seen in art book and marine forms he would find in books and on television programs. This filled him with a longing to learn to dive and enter the mysterious world under the sea, filled as it is with forms moving and turning in multiple layers. In his university days at the Taiwan University of Arts in Banciao, Hou worked on sculpture, and watched with admiration as some recent graduates from the graduate institute in Tainan turned hard marble into liquid-like forms. This spurred him on to engage in an intense exploration of soft, flowing forms that move in space. The age of mass media and instant image-transfer across nations has enabled a young Taiwanese man to experience the vitality of stones in motion without having to live in Florence.
Less than one meter in length or width, each piece exudes a monumental feel and aura. Most are shiny and smooth, with sleekness glistening in curved abstractions that at the same time evoke a sense of being in the moment. The marble is of different grades of black and white, some with grains and streams that insist on being heard. Indeed, they playfully creep along or stretch out over the slick surfaces, as if to tease. The magic of these creations is their ability to "change form" as the viewer takes in the piece from every angle. But once off the artist's bench, good artworks all assume a life of their own and will inspire awe with their brilliance, trigger heart-warming mirth, or sweep the viewer into as yet unknown meditative depths.
On one piece of coral pink, a small handle rises up shyly from a thick liquid flow, bringing up with it the dark veins that slither across the comfortably smooth surface. The base is free form, like pancake batter just ladled onto a hot pan, spreading but keeping its surface tension, rising up at the peripheries. One cannot help but think of coral because of the colors of the glowing aurora marble.
A self-hugging white oval piece with ears (or arms), in all its introversion, seems to burst with irrepressible joy. Tight like a clam, the subtle twists and turns push and swell with unequal tension in several directions, resonating with the undulating seafloor beneath. From one end, we see an eared, pregnant oval with protruding ends, from another the stress moves in another direction, reshaping the bulges. From the short end the oval becomes a sphere.
The early works evoke slithering marine imagery. A particularly lovely example of this is a plump curved duffle-bag-like work in white marble with bursts of gossamer veins erupting on its surface. The center of both sides indents coyly with a frond-like apron. This part is grainy to the touch and ticklish.
Hou has moved increasingly away from identifiable visual sources. A black monumental form that is definitely not of the marine domain comes across more as a love song of flat and curved planes, of straight and bent silhouettes, an intertwined duet between a squeezed cylinder and a slab. The challenges notwithstanding, the result is sleek elegance and graceful simplicity. Here white veins again flash like lightning, challenging the disciplined surface. This dichotomy between form and material offers Hou a distinct challenge that will be fascinating to follow in the future.
In his earlier oeuvre, finished in 2002 and 2003, Hou gently evoked marine life. Although already abstract, where inherent forms outweigh the marine image to which they may owe their origins, the early works are not entirely free of external formal influence. They still depended on mimesis of a sort.
But once in Tainan, Hou has been moving away from even these subtlest of links with natural forms to deal directly and purely with formal, planar, and tactile relationships per se. He grapples now with the quintessence of the art of sculpture in its purest and highest expression. The agile and sensitive creativity of Hou flies alone, unaided, into the loftiest realms of art. And the result is astounding.
A large black-grained block of four-square solid marble appears to rupture in the middle, as unstoppable flows of soft, magma-like mass erupt from within, forcing the block to arch upward in the middle.
The dynamics ride on tensions between soft and hard, between straight and bent, between curved and flat planes, always teasing the viewer's perception of solid stone, giving it life, even liquidity, movement, and humor. Here viewer and artist are immersed in the basics of sculpture: line, plane, texture, color, and movement. We feel the movement engendered by their slightest shift. But these living sensory experiences are transmitted only when an artist of genius comes along to release the myriad potentials hidden in solid stone.
A huggable white furry form reveals pits and spikes and glistens with tiny crystals. The stone is blazingly white without a single spot of color. Like freshly fallen snow on a little mound, the introverted form invites our touch. One stroke leads to another and surprises are revealed. The hand moves inward to feel the bottom and the surface down there is perfectly smooth.
Hou does not seem to fear the unknown. He clearly appears to delight in the exploration of new dimensions. How is it possible in this period of trend-following for a man of Hou's delicate sensibilities to thrive, one may ask. Genius is an answer, but more than that, genius is liberated only when the artist remains deaf to outside noises, deeply fascinated by, and more than satisfied with, the ever-expanding horizons within.
Joan Stanley-Baker is a professor at the Institute of Art History and Art Criticism of Tainan National College of the Arts.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Joan Stanley-Baker.