White Night 在白夜下行走

May 31, 2018 2018年5月31日

Chengdu-based photographer Feng Li has worked on a single project, White Night, for over a decade now. The series, quirky and surreal, is a visceral exploration of the odd moments between and behind those we most often pay attention to. With no plans to stop or start on another, he says the series will only come to an end if he loses interest in taking pictures altogether.

Though in his early days he experimented with black-and-white and film photography, he now works primarily with a Sony digital camera and a mounted flash. Capturing everything in flash is a purposeful decision, often making it difficult to distinguish the time of day, a hallmark of the series.

来自成都的摄影师冯立,已经在单个摄影项目《白夜》(White Night)上进行创作逾 10 年了。这个系列离奇而超现实,它是对那些我们最会关注的人之间和其背后的古怪时刻的一种本能探索。由于还未计划停止或开始另一个摄影项目,冯立说,只有当他对拍照完全失去兴趣时,这个系列才会结束。


In an old article, the interviewer attempted to draw a comparison between Feng’s photography and his original field of study – Chinese medicine and acupuncture – writing, “It’s as though he approaches portrait photography as clinical cases. When the bulb’s warning light flashes, he’s able to accurately pinpoint the illness’s acupuncture point.” When I asked Feng, however, if he thought his previous profession influenced his artistic work, he replied that he thought the period had at most an indirect connection.

In such a response, one sees ties to the fact that even within the realm of artistic photography, he does not seem to care for either comparisons or a discussion of influences. White Night began when he was taking photos for his job as a photographer with the Chengdu propaganda department; that evening, he recalls, was particularly foggy, and the fog and the lights wrapped themselves around each other in surreal ways which reminded him of scenes from films by influential directors such as Angelopolous or Tarkovski. When I brought up this story, however, with a shrug, he replies, “It happens those are a few of what amount to the few films I’ve seen.” When I asked about photographers he’s named in the past as being of interest – Diane Arbus, William Eggleston, Nobuyoshi Araki, Han Lei – he said he had never used his own photographs to draw any comparisons to those of others, and that he rarely looks at photo books himself.


即使在摄影领域,冯立似乎也不太爱比较或讨论影响的作用。《白夜》这个系列,开始于他在成都市宣传部门当摄影师的时候。在他记忆里的那个夜晚尤其模糊,蒸腾的雾气和朦胧的灯光,以超现实的方式把夜包裹,这让冯立想起了安杰洛波卢斯(Angelopolous)或塔尔科夫斯基(Tarkovski)等导演的电影场景。然而,当我提起这些的时候,他却淡然地答道:“碰巧这些只是我看过的为数不多的几部电影中的一部分。”当我问及他曾提起过感兴趣的摄影师,诸如黛安娜·阿伯斯(Diane Arbus)、威廉·埃格尔斯顿(William Eggleston)、荒木经惟和韩磊时,他说他从来没有用自己的照片来和这些人作比较,他自己也很少看影集。

It is difficult even to say that Feng considers himself an artist. Instead, he says, “I think of myself as a photographer, but use an artist’s style in order to think.” He has not tried other artistic mediums, and expresses no desire to do so. His primary inspiration, he says, is life, and his sole aim seems to be to approach life as a kind of unreal, storied fabric; he looks for unreal moments that to him ultimately comprise our chaotic reality. Nor does he spend his time fastidiously choosing the photos he likes best. There aren’t any unpublished White Nights photos, he says; basically anytime he takes a picture, he releases it online. Asked whether he minds that some have evaluated his work as ugly and amateurish, he said he’s never minded others’ experiences, and that ugly and amateurish are good evaluations as far as he’s concerned. Indeed, when I asked him to talk about composition and aesthetic, he claimed his photos have neither.




What, then, does Feng Li look for when he is photographing? Tellingly, when I asked him to describe a moment he’d been unable to capture, he said he was unable to describe it – “just like the moments I captured.” He told another interviewer that a good photo prevents you from understanding what happened and that it is filled with unknown, mystery, and uncertainty. I tried to go a step farther and ask what he thought a successful photo is, only to have him tell me that there is no such thing as a successful photograph – “just difficult-to-put-to-words photographs, no-way-to-use-writing photographs, or no-need-to-use-writing-to-describe photographs.” In terms of subjects, he says he can only run into them, that they cannot be sought out.

那么,冯立在摄影时在寻找什么呢?我请他描述一个他无法捕捉到的瞬间,但他却说这无法描述──“就像那些拍到的瞬间一样。” 他说,“一张好照片,它阻止了你理解发生的事情。它充满了未知、神秘和不确定的因素。”


But despite his reticence to discuss influence, style, form, aesthetic, Feng Li has in fact expressed a pretty clear worldview throughout interviews and in his own artist’s statement: the world is problematic and in a state essentially of primeval chaos, such that a distinction between the real and the unreal is difficult to achieve. The moments he seize tell a story of a dangerous world, “reality’s others face,” an underbelly of existence that essentially is our reality, only too many people are too afraid to look directly at it. The only way to live, in Feng Li’s mind, is to do one’s utmost to understand the reality of existence through experiencing the world around oneself, the value of which cannot be replaced by others’ stories and experiences.


For all that, though, he does not claim to understand reality; far from it. When previously asked to define his works in a few words, he responded he had finally reduced it to one: “Why?”

He calls eternity a question mark and says that he is still unable to understand the world, in the same way that he can’t express in words what his photographs might mean. This is a particular paradox: Feng thinks it of utmost importance to understand the chaotic world but rejects attempts to define or contextualize the photographs that attempt to capture that chaos. But paradoxes by nature wrap in on themselves: so perhaps the paradoxical nature of Feng Li’s mission – finding the unreal cracks that make our reality so real – made further inconsistency inevitable, and perhaps ultimately that is this artist’s point.



Website: fengli-photo.com
Instagram: @fenglee313


Contributor: Kiril Bolotnikov

网站: fengli-photo.com
Instagram: @fenglee313


供稿人: Kiril Bolotnikov

Revolutionary Chic “毛时代”的艺术设计

May 30, 2018 2018年5月30日

In a tiny storefront on Fumin Road, next to the shoebox cafés and hipster bars of Shanghai’s former French Concession, Linda Johnson sells an unusual mix of old and new: antique furniture, vintage maps, cellphone cases, photographs, handmade jewelry, baby onesies, chapbooks, small-press zines, fountain pens, wrapping paper, and much more. Madame Mao’s Dowry, as her boutique is called, first opened its doors in 2001, and in its nearly two decades of operation, Johnson has witnessed a dramatic transformation, both in the surrounding neighborhood and in Chinese design generally. While the shop has changed to keep up with the times—sometimes involuntarily, as when rising rent forced it to shrink to half its original size—Johnson has stayed true to her founding mission: to showcase “design that’s proudly Chinese for living in modern China.”

在上海静安区富民路的一家小店面,在逼仄的咖啡馆和时尚酒吧的边上,Linda Johnson 的店卖的则是不同寻常的新旧组合:古董家具、旧地图、手机盒、照片、手工首饰、婴儿连体衣、诗歌别册、独立杂志、自来水笔、包装纸……等等。这家店在 2001 年首次开张,名为“毛太设计”(Madame Mao’s Dowry)。开业近二十年,Linda 见证了周边社群和中国设计业的戏剧性转变。随着时间的推移,商店不断地衍化调整(有时是不得已而为止:比如几年前由于房租上涨店铺面积缩小到原来的一半)但 Linda 一直忠于初心:“以中国身份为荣的本土当代设计”。

“In the old days, my partner and I would scout university departments and art studios looking for designers, or follow leads given to us by artists from Shanghai and Beijing. We would use our shop, then on Fuxing Road, like a gallery, holding regular exhibitions of designed products,” Johnson recalls. “Interest in the whole design market was growing rapidly.” Yet in the early 2000s, that interest came largely from foreigners, and it didn’t extend much beyond Qing-dynasty porcelain and textile patterns. “Our aim was to challenge that, and to say that China’s modern history had a significant impact on art practice,” she explains.

在过去的日子里,我和我的搭档会去找大学的设计院系和艺术工作室寻找设计师,或者跟着上海和北京的艺术家给我们的线索去找人。我们会在我们的店铺,或在复兴路,像一个画廊一样定期举办有关设计的产品展览。 Linda 回忆说,人们对整个设计市场的兴趣迅速增长。但是在新世纪初,这些设计感兴趣的主要还是外国人,除了清朝的瓷器和织锦纹样之外,并没有延伸开去。我们的目标是挑战这种状况,并告诉大家中国现代历史对艺术实践产生了重大影响。她解释说。

Johnson’s boutique seeks to highlight the Mao era’s contributions to contemporary design (hence the name). It puts particular emphasis on art and artifacts from the Cultural Revolution, the calamitous decade from 1966 to 1976 that plunged the country into a protracted state of chaos. Customers react to this focus in different ways. “Some can be quite angry and disparaging, assuming that we’re glorifying the horrors, which of course we are not,” says Johnson. “Others are curious to learn more, and our collection of posters and news photographs has provided a resource, especially for local people, to understand something about ordinary life during the period.”

Chinese art from that era, with its smiling peasants and steely-eyed soldiers, today looks colorfully unreal, if not downright camp. Yet Johnson cautions against writing it off as mere propaganda. She believes it can and should be regarded separately from its political origins. “Our focus is the art and design of the period and its impact on contemporary aesthetics, not on the decision-making of its leaders,” she states.

Linda 的精品店试图突出“毛时代”对当代设计的贡献(也因此而得名)。它特别重视文革时期的艺术和艺术品,1966 年至 1976 年那充满灾难的十年,使国家陷入了长期的混乱状态。而顾客对此以呈现不同的反应。Linda 说:有些人可能会非常愤怒或不屑,以为我们在称赞这种暴行,但我们当然不是这个意思。而另一些人则会想了解更多,那么我们收集的海报和新闻照片就提供了资源渠道,特别是对当地人来说,让他们了解这一时期的日常生活。

那个时代的中国艺术作品,总会有面带微笑的农民和目光坚定的士兵,从现在的角度来看颇有些奇幻色彩,甚至可说是矫揉造作。然而,Linda 想要警示人们,不要把它仅仅当作宣传画来看。她认为,这种艺术形式可以而且应该同其政治渊源分开看待。我们的重点是这个时期的艺术和设计及其对当代美学的影响,而不是领导人的决策。她说。

Of course, not all the products in the boutique are from the 1960s and 1970s. In fact, most of them aren’t. Madame Mao’s Dowry features work by contemporary jewelers, ceramic sculptors, printmakers, poets, graphic artists, fashion designers, and more, and their work runs the gamut of different styles. For Johnson, this diversity is proof of how much Shanghai’s design scene has grown over the last two decades. “Design is a very different concept here today,” she notes, “and what’s produced is much more varied and much more sophisticated. There’s also a much broader mix of nationalities of young designers living in Shanghai.”

当然,店里并非所有的产品都是上世纪六七十年代的,事实上,绝大部分都不是。“毛太设计”以当代珠宝商、陶瓷雕刻家、版画师、诗人、平面艺术家、时装设计师的作品为特色,并涵盖了各种不同的风格。对 Linda 来说,这种多样性证明了过去二十年中上海设计界的巨大进步。在如今,设计是一个非常不同的概念。她说,它所产生的是更加多样化和复杂得多的东西。生活在上海的年轻设计师的国籍也要广泛得多。”

Beyond providing a space for local designers to sell their wares, Madame Mao’s also hosts events, such as poetry readings for Literary Shanghai or the Shanghai Literary Review. The aim is to provide a space for creative people working in Shanghai. “Many visitors have remarked that Madame Mao’s Dowry is more like a museum than a shop,” says Johnson. “It’s about valuing the culture China produces, not just selling it.”

除了为当地设计师提供销售商品的空间外,“毛太设计”还举办活动,如《文学上海》或《上海文艺评论》的诗歌阅读会。其目的是为在上海工作的创意人才提供一个空间。很多游客都说,‘毛太设计’与其说是一家商店,倒不如说更像是一个博物馆。” Linda 如是说,这是对中国生产的文化的珍视,而不仅仅是销售产品。

As Shanghai continues to change, Madame Mao’s, with its mix of antique and contemporary design, provides a bridge between the city’s past and its future. Johnson says that the visitors she values most, even though they rarely purchase anything, are the locals who have lived in the neighborhood for most of their lives: “they share stories with me of their experiences, which are often tinged with nostalgia and regularly surprising.” In a city single-mindedly turned toward the future, insisting on the relevance of mid-twentieth-century art is a way of keeping the past alive.

随着上海的不断变化,“毛夫人嫁妆”和当代设计的结合,为这座城市的过去和未来提供了一座桥梁。Linda 说,她最看重的是来此的顾客,即使他们很少购买任何东西,但他们是那些在附近生活了大半生的当地人:他们和我分享他们的经历,这些经历常常带有怀旧的味道,而且经常令人惊讶。在这个一心扑向未来的城市里,坚持与上世纪中期的艺术作品有所关联,可谓是一种铭记过往的方式。

207 Fumin Road
Jing’an District, Shanghai
People’s Republic of China

Hours: Monday ~ Sunday, 10 am ~ 7 pm

Website: madamemaosdowry.com


Contributor: Allen Young
Photographer: David Yen

富民路 207 号

营业时间: 周一至周日,早上10点至晚上7点



供稿人: Allen Young
摄影师: David Yen

Heavy Metal Mongolia 呐喊吧,你并不是唯一

May 29, 2018 2018年5月29日

It’s 1985 – about 100 people are standing around in a local concert hall in Ulaanbaatar, the capital city of Mongolia. Cigarette smoke and the murmur of social activity fill the air in equal measure. Members of the band Ayasiin Salkhi step onto the stage to set up their instruments.

Despite the country’s Soviet-allied government placing restrictions on anything it deems as promoting western ideals, many in the city are familiar with rock and roll, thanks to records and tapes that made their way into the country via black market smugglers or people returning from traveling through the Soviet Union, where contraband from the West is easier to obtain. But once the first guitar chords strike, it’s apparent that Ayasiin Salkhi aren’t playing the rock and roll on those black market records. This is something strange and new – this is heavy metal.

时间回到1985年,大约有100人挤在蒙古首都乌兰巴托的一间音乐厅里,二手烟的烟雾和人们交谈的低语声弥漫于此。这时 Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队的成员走上舞台设置乐器。

尽管当时因为蒙古政府与苏联结盟的关系,所有有助于传播西方思想的行为都被禁止,但许多人对于摇滚乐还是相当熟悉,这要感谢来往于黑市的走私者和从苏联旅行回来的人,他们将唱片和录音带带进蒙古,因为在苏联这些来自西方的违禁品更容易取得。但是,当 Ayasiin Salkhi 弹下第一个和弦,很显然的这不是从黑市那里听得到的摇滚乐—这既新奇又古怪—这是重金属。

As Mongolia’s­ first-ever metal band, Ayasiin Salkhi were pariahs in the 1980s.

Heavy metal was relegated to the fringes of Mongolia’s contemporary musical conscience. But metal has clawed its way back over the last 30 years, and now boasts a growing, dedicated following and its own festival in the steppe nation.

One of the Mongolian metal scene’s most ardent supporters is Unenkhuu Umbanyamba, or Uugii, the man behind Mongolia’s biggest annual heavy metal event – Noise Metal Festival – which marks its five-year anniversary this coming autumn.

After seeing how heavy metal festivals in other countries brought like-minded fans together, Uugii felt Mongolia’s metal community needed one of its own.

“We needed this festival to play, to express ourselves – to, you know, just let our energy and emotions go,” he says.

作为蒙古有史以来第一支金属乐队,生长在 80年代的 Ayasiin Salkhi 是被社会放逐的。


Unenkhuu Umbanyamba(Uugii) 是金属乐最狂热的拥护者之一,他同时也是 “噪音金属节” 的幕后操手。噪音金属节是蒙古金属乐界最具代表性的活动 ,今年秋季即将迎来第五周年。

在看到其他国家的金属音乐节是如何将志同道合的乐迷聚集在一起后,Uugii 认为蒙古也需要这样的活动。“我们需要这个音乐节来表达自己,一个让我们尽情宣泄能量和情绪的地方” 他说。

Uugii, the founder of Noise Metal Festival

The first Noise Metal Festival took place in 2014 at UB Palace, a venue in the capital. Uugii was equal parts excited and nervous at the uncertainty surrounding that inaugural event.

Ten bands were booked – eight local and two foreign acts – yet the execution of the event fell short of Uugii’s expectations. “It was a failure, but a big learning experience,” he recollects, noting production difficulties and the sizeable debt he incurred from renting all the equipment at exorbitant rates.

When asked why the difficulties didn’t deter him from throwing a second festival the following year, Uugii put it simply: “First is the passion I have for the music. Secondly, if I didn’t do it, nobody else would.”

第一届噪音金属节于2014年在首都乌兰巴托的 UB Palace 举行。 Uugii 对于首次举办这种活动,感到既兴奋又紧张。

他总共预定了10组乐队——8个本地乐团和2个外国乐团,但第一次音乐节的执行成效不如 Uugii 的预期。 “这是一次失败的经验,但我们从中学习到很多。” 他回忆起筹办中遇到的各种困难,还有当时因为租用高价设备所留下的巨额债务。

当被问到为什么这些困难没有阻止他举办第二届音乐节,Uugii 回答:“首先是我对音乐的热情。 其次,如果我不去做,就没有人会去做了。”

Subsequent iterations of Noise Metal Festival have gone much better, with the turnout growing each year and international acts from Canada, Russia, Japan and Singapore joining the home-grown lineups.

But Andy Teesh remembers when that wasn’t the case in Mongolia. He was the front-man for Ayasiin Salkhi at that 1985 show.

As a high school student, Teesh’s grades and aptitude in extra-curricular activities earned him a scholarship to study in Russia at a police training school in Volgograd. An Iron Maiden tape made its way into Teesh’s possession when he was visiting Moscow, giving the young Mongolian his first taste of the music that would divert his trajectory as an aspiring officer.

Because Mongolia had close ties to the Soviet Union in the 1980s, many of the steppe nation’s citizens were living, working, and studying in Russia. Teesh met other compatriots who also fell in love with heavy metal – so much so that they wanted to play it.

“I got the idea to start the band in 1984. I met this kid in Moscow that was still in high school but could play the guitar . . . I met another kid who used to live in Odessa that played the drums really well, another kid who played bass,” he says. “We all thought that we needed to start a heavy metal band back home.”

And the group became Ayasiin Salkhi, or “Fair Wind” in English, a name that served as something of an antonym to one more suited to a death metal band – “like ‘Death Hurricane,’” Teesh says with a laugh. The name also kept the band off any intrepid censor’s radar.


但是当 Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队的主唱 Andy Teesh,回想起以前金属乐还默默无闻的时候——那时 Teesh 还是高中生,课外活动的优异成绩让他获得一笔奖学金,可以在俄罗斯伏尔加格勒的警察培训学校学习。当他访问莫斯科,拿到了一卷铁娘子乐团的录音带。这是这位蒙古年轻人第一次品尝到金属乐,这改变了他的人生轨道,转移了他原本要成为一个军官的目标。

80年代由于蒙古与苏联的密切关系,许多蒙古公民都会去俄罗斯生活、工作和学习。Teesh 在那里遇见了同样喜爱重金属的同好,他们决定要组一个乐队。

“1984年我有了创建一个乐队的想法。我在莫斯科遇到了一个还在念高中、会弹吉他的小子…… 后来我遇到了另一个住在敖得萨的小子,他鼓演奏的很好,还有另一个会弹贝斯的。” 他说,“我们一致认为,我们需要在家乡组一个重金属乐队。”

“这个组合即是后来的 Ayasiin Salkhi (在蒙古语中意思是“正义的风”),这个名字恰好是一个 “死亡金属乐队” 的反义词。“可能 ‘死亡飓风’ 这样的名字会更适合金属乐队吧。”  Teesh 笑着说,但这个名字让他们成功躲过了审查员的雷达。

By 1985, all members of Ayasiin Salkhi were back in Ulaanbaatar, having spent the previous year practicing their sound. In that time, Teesh landed a job with the Investigation Department of Mongolia’s Ministry of Justice, a position he is still proud of. In stark contrast to the long-hair, black skull cap, heavy Iron Maiden shirt and combat boots dons on any given day, Teesh still has black-and-white pictures of the clean-cut, fresh-faced investigator he was back then, complete with the crisp, grey uniform of his profession. But that didn’t stop the band from practicing constantly.

“When I came back, I earned the rank of lieutenant,” he says. “I even played in the Investigation Department’s band. However, I started to put Ayasiin Salkhi first and spent more time practicing because, in the end, I was a metal head.”

That was the same year Ayasiin Salkhi had their inaugural, ill-fated show.

到了1985年,Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队所有成员都回到了乌兰巴托,他们花了一整年的时间不断地练习。当时 Teesh 在蒙古司法部的调查部门已经找到一份工作,想到这段过往,他仍然不掩骄傲的神情。工作所需保持的形象和平常留着长发、带着黑色骷髅帽子、身穿铁娘子乐队的衣服和一双军靴的他,形成了鲜明的对比。Teesh 拥有一张他还是调查员的黑白照片,照片中的他干净俐落、神态轻松、穿着整齐的灰色制服。但这份工作没有阻止乐队继续发展。

“当我回来时我获得了中尉的职位。” 他说。“我甚至参加了调查部门的乐队。 但是我开始将 Ayasiin Salkhi 放在我的首位,花上更多时间练习。因为我终究是一个金属迷。“

Ayasiin Salkhi 在同年举行了第一次登台表演,而这是一场不幸的表演。

Teesh recalls: “Our show was really badly received. It was very different in Mongolia back then. The way we were behaving on stage, with the head-banging, our look, and our singing style – for most of the people in the audience, it was very nightmare-like, almost like we were evil.”

There was an almost immediate media blackout enforced on Ayasiin Salkhi. No newspapers were allowed to write about them, no TV stations were allowed to broadcast about them, no radio stations were allowed to play their music. Teesh started to get pressure to abandon heavy metal from family members, friends, and by his superiors at the Investigation Department.

“My bosses told me: ‘Criminals and gangsters listen to this music, so if you are an investigator, be an investigator.’ If you played metal music during communist times, you were seen as supporting Western ideology, as well as disrespecting your own art and culture. In other words, you lacked communist ethics and ideals,” says Teesh.

Teesh 回忆起:“我们那年的表演真的很糟糕。这种音乐当时在蒙古非常少见。我们在舞台上表演的方式,撞击彼此的头,我们的穿着打扮、演唱风格——这对于大多数观众来说是噩梦般的体验,几乎像我们是邪恶的。”

随之而来的,是对 Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队立即的媒体封锁。没有报纸、电视台、广播电台被允许刊登他们的信息,也不能播放他们的音乐。Teesh 开始受到来自家人朋友以及工作上级长官,说服他放弃重金属的压力。

“我的老板告诉我:‘只有犯罪分子或流氓会听这种音乐,如果你是一个调查员,就要有调查员的样子。如果你在共产时期玩金属音乐,你会被认为支持西方意识形态,不尊重你本身的艺术文化。换句话说,你缺乏共产主义的道德和理想。”Teesh 说。

Mongolia ended its status as a satellite state of the Soviet Union with a democratic revolution in 1990. Just as the country had chosen a new direction, Teesh too had a choice to make that year: a career as an investigator or a life in heavy metal. He chose metal.

“There were few fans, no income, and no respect for us,” says Teesh, who still fronts the band today. “Our families and friends even told us to quit, but it didn’t matter because our hearts were in metal music that much.”

Mongolia’s revolution ushered in a new wave of openness to the outside world in the 1990s, but some of the old biases against what many deemed as western culture remained.

1990年,蒙古发起了民主革命,结束它长期与苏联结盟的关系。正如同国家选择了一个新方向,Teesh 也面临一个抉择:调查人员的职业生涯或是重金属。他选择了重金属。

“我们几乎没有粉丝,没有收入,也没有人尊重我们。” Teesh 说,他今天仍然是 Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队的核心人物。 “当时我们的家人朋友甚至直接告诉我们放弃,但这并不重要,因为金属乐在我们心里实在太重要了。”


Uugii is a member of the generation of Mongolian metal heads that really embraced the genre in the 1990s. Rock and roll was now celebrated, commemorated with a monument dedicated to The Beatles erected in Ulaanbaatar – one of the bands many growing up in communist Mongolia became fans of through illegal record swaps.

Still, heavy metal and the culture that came with it chafed against the social sensibilities of 1990s Mongolia. “Back in the day, people would say ‘Those metal-heads, or whoever listens to rock, are potheads who are just into drugs and sex,’” says Uugii. “This kind of perception carried onto the next generation and people saw people like me and would say, ‘Oh, you guys who listen to this really heavy music probably do drugs,’ but I don’t even smoke cigarettes.”

That experience sowed the seeds for Uugii to later launch Noise Metal Festival, seeing it as his “mission” to one day “help people here understand metal music more as a form of art.”


尽管如此,重金属及其伴随的文化仍然无法被当时敏感的社会所接纳。 “当时,人们会说 ‘那些听金属或是摇滚乐的人,都是大麻和性爱上瘾的毒虫。’ ” Uugii 说。 “这种观念传到下一代,人们看到像我这样的人,会说 ‘哦,听这种金属乐的人可能都在吸毒’。可是我甚至连烟都不抽。”

这样的经验,在 Uugii 心中种下举办噪音金属节的念头,并将其视为他有朝一日要完成的 “使命”——要帮助人们更理解作为一种艺术形式的金属乐。”

The genre has come a long way in Mongolia since then. Local heavy metal albums can be found in the capital’s music stores, and the internet has ushered in a new era of music discovery for the country’s mostly young population. The new generation of Mongolia’s metal heads faces much less resistance in society. According to some, that fact has fostered a greater willingness in the youth to express themselves how they see fit. And Noise Metal Festival has become a place where all generations of the country’s metal heads gather.

Battulga Khurelbaatar is the lead singer of one of Ulaanbaatar’s up-and-coming heavy metal bands, Growl of Clown. The 21-year-old has taken the stage at Noise Metal Festival with his band for the past three years. With a greater ability to express oneself, he says it’s a lot easier for metal fans to build a sense of community in the country.

The young metal head also sees the genre as having a positive influence, a departure from the biases of the past. “This whole metal thing, I’ve never regretted pursuing it or the things I’m doing. Some people may think they may be better off if they chose a different route, but listening to metal music has been a very positive influence on me,” says Khurelbaatar.


Battulga Khurelbaatar 是乌兰巴托崛起的重金属乐队 “Growl of Clown” (“咆哮小丑”) 的主唱。这位21岁年轻人的乐队在过去三年里曾在噪音金属节登台。少了社会的压力,金属迷可以更好的表达自己,他认为现在要在蒙古金属乐迷之间建立凝聚力,再也不是一件困难的事。

年轻的金属乐迷也认为这种音乐类型具有积极的影响力,因为它消除了过去的偏见。“关于金属乐这件事,我从来没有后悔过追求它和做我现在正在做的事情。有些人可能会认为如果当初选择了不同的路,他们现在会过得更好。但金属乐对我而言有非常正向的影响。” Khurelbaatar 说。

Ayasiin Salkhi has also graced the stages of Noise Metal Festivals. After the turbulence of their first 20 years as a band, they released their first album in 2004. They’ve also racked up countless performances both at home and abroad. Yet, to Teesh, Noise Metal Festival is still an important event for both his band and Mongolia’s metal community as a whole.

“The festival is helping the Mongolian metal scene to grow further. Hopefully, it will attract more metal bands and attendees from abroad to come and experience Mongolia, to see this scene,” says Teesh. “I want more people to experience Mongolian heavy metal.”

While Mongolia’s heavy metal scene has grown, Uugii is still the main force behind its biggest event. Support from outside the metal scene ebbs and flows; the festival has test-driven three venues in its four years of existence, though none is quite a perfect fit. Promises of sponsorship and more commercial funding for Noise Metal Festival often come and go. He generally bears the brunt of the work and financial responsibilities of organizing it. Last-minute changes to the lineup have happened at every festival. Still, the growing turnout year on year means that things are still going more right than wrong.

Despite the difficulties, Uugii expresses no intention of stepping away from keeping the fest going: “When I think about myself, you know, ten years from now, I’ll probably still be doing Noise Metal Fest. I’ll do it for as long as I can. I don’t really feel like I have any other options except to keep doing it.”

Ayasiin Salkhi 乐队的确为噪音金属节增色不少。即使乐队从成立到现在,20年以来经历各种动荡不安,到了2004年终于发行第一张专辑,现在已获得无数国内外的演出机会。然而对 Teesh 来说,噪音金属节对他的乐队和整体乐界来说,仍然是一件重要的事情。

“这个音乐节正在帮助蒙古金属乐市场进一步发展。希望它可以吸引到更多金属乐队和来自国外的乐迷来看看这个地方。” Teesh说,“我希望能有更多人能体验到蒙古的重金属场景。”

尽管蒙古的金属乐版图已经越来越大,但 Uugii 仍然是活动背后的主力军。外界的支持力量时好时坏,四年来他们在三个场地试办过,尽管没有一个是完全适合的。赞助和商业合作的机会总是来来去去,不太稳定。总体上 Uugii 承担着首要的组织工作和财务责任。每次在最后一刻总会发生阵容上的变化。尽管如此,噪音金属节依然年复一年的成长,意味着这件事情是走在正确的方向上,而不是错误的。

即使困难重重,但 Uugii 并不打算放弃这场盛事:“当我试想十年后的自己,我可能还在办噪音金属节,我会尽可能做到这一点。除了继续做下去之外,我并不觉得自己有其他选择。”

Contributor & Photographer: Bejan Siavoshy

供稿人与摄影师: Bejan Siavoshy

The Old 日本街头的老人

May 28, 2018 2018年5月28日

According to the most recent statistics, as of October 2017, 27.7% of Japan’s population, or around 35 million people, are 65 or older. While Japan’s rapidly aging population has long been an issue for the country, the numbers are still shocking.

Born in Manchester, England, photographer Lee Chapman has lived in Japan for over two decades. His photo series The Old turns his lens onto Japan’s aging society. They still stagger along on traffic-clogged thoroughfares and eke out a living in alleyway shops.

最新统计显示,截至 2017 年 10 月,日本 65 岁以上老年人口为 3515.2 万人,占总人口的 27.7%。虽说对日本老龄化社会所面临的诸般问题早有耳闻,但真正看到数据时,却依然显得触目惊心。

出生于英国曼彻斯特的摄影师 Lee Chapman,已经在日本生活了二十多个年头,他的这个摄影系列《The Old》,正把镜头聚焦于在日本生活的垂垂老者──车水马龙的大路上,他们依然蹒跚地走着;沿街的小店里,他们依然勉力维持着生计。

“I was initially fascinated by Tokyo’s older areas and districts,” Chapman says. “These neighborhoods often have large elderly populations, so a series of photos featuring them just gradually built up.”

Almost none of the individuals featured in this series were deliberately chosen – most were just chance encounters. “They are mostly all people I spotted on the street, in bars, or in restaurants,” he says. “People that to me at least are interesting, and people whose faces, or the situation I photographed them in, seemed to tell a story.”

“我是先为东京较古老的城区所吸引,而这些地方往往聚集着大量的老年人口,因此一系列以他们为特色的照片才逐渐建立起来。” Chapman 说。

所以镜头里的老人们绝大多数都是 Lee Chapman 在街上随机遇到的,而并非经过层层挑选的拍摄对象,“他们基本上都是我在街上、酒吧或餐厅看到的人。他们是对我而言至少有意思的人。他们的脸上,或者我拍下他们的那刻情景里,似乎都在讲述一个故事。”

One particular photograph that’s engraved in Chapman’s memory is his shot of a silver-haired woman rolling up metal shutters.

“I initially saw only her hands and feet, and then as her face appeared, I quickly got the shot,” he says with a grin. “But the main reason it’s one of my favorites is that when she saw me standing there, she immediately – and rather forcefully – commandeered me into helping her . . . After opening it, she invited me inside to chat with her.”

最让 Lee Chapman 感到动容的一张照片故事,是这个拉卷帘门的老婆婆。

“这是我很满意的一张照片。她站在卷帘门背后,起初我只看到她的手和脚,当卷帘门缓缓上升,她的脸最终出现的时候,我当即按下了快门。” Chapman 说,“但我最喜欢这张照片的主要原因之一,是她看到我站在那里,她立即,甚至是不容分说地,请我帮她拉开卷帘。然后老婆婆还邀请我进屋聊聊天。”

She ended up becoming just about the only person in the series Chapman would spend time with. Chatting with her, he learned that this was her former store, but as age began taking its toll, she closed down the shop and converted it into a living space.

“It was a very interesting half an hour or so that I wouldn’t have had without taking that photograph,” he says. “It’s also even more poignant now as I’ve never seen the shutters raised since, let alone seen the lady herself.”

这次经历几乎算是 Chapman 在拍摄这一系列中唯一与之“共度时光”的老人了。聊天里,Chapman 得知照片里拍的是老婆婆从前开的小店,但因为她年事已高,疲于经营,现在这里只算是她的住所,早已不作商铺。


With the sheer amount of elderly citizens in modern Japan, many have voiced concern for their well-being. Must they live the rest of their lives alone? What are the realities of their living situations?

“The lady who I talked with was living by herself and was clearly very lonely,” Chapman notes. “Her kids didn’t live nearby, and she couldn’t get out much, a situation that, given Japan’s aging population, is sadly only going to get more common.”


“就我之前提到的那位拉卷帘门的老太太来看,她一个人生活,显然很孤独。她的孩子不住在附近,她也无法独自出门。” Chapman 说,“鉴于日本人口老龄化的情况,很遗憾这样的事只会变得更加普遍。”

In the middle of the fast-paced city, the old get by at their own inevitably slower rhythm. Leading slow lifestyles, the aging population of Japan can struggle to find belonging in the rapidly developing metropolis. Chapman says that this series has helped him come to terms with the impermanent nature of the world around him.

He tells us, “These areas I often shoot in are changing at an alarming rate and fascinating old buildings are being demolished everywhere. Of course, it’s not just the buildings that are disappearing, but also the people who once inhabited them. This element also makes my work seem more pressing, and in some small way, more important,” he says.

在快速发展的城市夹缝中,老人们用自己缓慢而不得已的节奏生存着。因此拍摄这个系列,让 Chapman 更加意识到了周围世界的无常性。


Website: leechapman.photos
Instagram: @tokyotimes_lee


Contributor: Chen Yuan

网站: leechapman.photos
Instagram: @tokyotimes_lee


供稿人: Chen Yuan

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The Shanghai Literary Review 上海文艺评论

May 25, 2018 2018年5月25日

“When I first came to Shanghai two years ago, I didn’t find a very visible English-language literary community,” says Juli Min, the editor of the Shanghai Literary Review, “so I wanted to create that space.” Twice a year, her journal publishes poetry, fiction, essays, book reviews, and translations, along with an assortment of visual art. Its pieces run the gamut from an essay by Zou Jingzhi, the playwright and screenwriter known for The Grandmaster, to an interview with Eleanor Goodman, the acclaimed translator of Chinese poetry, to paintings by artists who are still at university. It’s become a beacon for creators from around the world, a community both within each printed volume and in the Shanghai bars and cafés where it holds events. This spring has been a flurry of activity: issue no. 3 will come out in June, while a special volume about Chinese cities, titled Concrete, hits the press at the end of May.

“两年前我第一次来到上海,我找不到任何英语的文学团体,所以我就想自己创立一个。”《上海文艺评论》编辑 Juli Min 说道。这本杂志每年出版两期,内容包括诗歌、小说、散文、书评、译文,以及各种视觉艺术。杂志的内容题材广泛,既有《一代宗师》的编剧邹静之的散文作品,也有著名中文诗词译者顾爱玲(Eleanor Goodman)的访谈,甚至能看到还在念大学的年轻艺术家的画作。现在,《上海文艺评论》已经成为全球创意工作者的一盏明灯,它不将自己局限于纸本杂志上,还在上海各处的酒吧和咖啡馆举办活动。今年春季,对杂志来说格外忙碌:第三期杂志将于6月份发行;以中国城市为主题的特刊《Concrete》(《混凝土》),也将于5月底发行。

Of course, you can’t create a community by yourself, and Min has had some help. In late 2016 she founded the Shanghai Literary Review with fellow writers Kenny Ong, Ryan Thorpe, and Mike Fu, and over the last year and a half the journal’s masthead has grown to four more editors—Alex Gobin, Brian Haman, Colum Murphy, Nina Powles, and Fuping Shao—and a rotating cohort of assistants and interns. Together they organize poetry readings, open mics, book clubs, author talks, and an array of events that draw both expats and locals. They regularly collaborate with kindred organizations like Literary Shanghai (a separate group with a similar name) or the storytelling collective Unravel. In April they teamed up with Spittoon, a literary magazine from Beijing, to organize a music and poetry soirée called “Spit-tunes.”

当然,单靠一个人的力量要打造这样一个群体是不可能的, Min 也是如此。2016年末,她与作家好友 Kenny Ong、Ryan Thorpe 以及 Mike Fu 一起创办《上海文艺评论》,经历一年半的时间,杂志目前又多了五名编辑 Alex Gobin、Brian Haman、Colum Murphy、Nina Powles、以及 Fuping Shao,以及一个助理和实习生团队。他们在一起组织诗歌阅读、开放麦 (open mics) 、读书俱乐部、作者会谈,以及吸引到众多外籍和当地文学爱好者的活动。他们也经常与类似组织合作,譬如文艺上海(名称相似的文学组织)、或是 Unravel(每月会定期举办故事分享会的团体)。四月份,他们与来自北京的文学杂志《Spittoon》合作,组织了一个叫做 “Spit-tunes” 的音乐诗歌活动。

Despite the name, the journal isn’t just about Shanghai: its stories and art look far beyond the city, its contributors come from around the world, and its editors are scattered across China, the US, and the UK. Nor does the journal aspire to speak for the city or its readers. “We’ve never fooled ourselves into thinking that we were the voice of Shanghai or representative of China’s literary scene,” clarifies Min. “Our magazine is an English-language magazine, for an English-reading audience. We also don’t think of ourselves as representing expat writers per se, in that we don’t privilege expat voices or stories when selecting works.” Instead, the title is an attempt to create a cosmopolitan space for artists from around the world, particularly those based in Asia.

The Shanghai they claim is both a real city, with its daily rhythms and its grit and glamour, and an imagined space of dislocation and convergence, where people may spend years living side-by-side and never meet. In its small way, the Shanghai Literary Review provides a space for global lives and stories to be shared.

虽然名为《上海文艺评论》,但杂志本身的地域性绝对超越这座城市。编辑遍布中国、美国和英国各地,其中收录的故事和艺术、和作者群也来自世界各地。况且,为上海及所在的读者发言,也并非杂志本身的意图。“我们从未认为自己是在替上海发声,或是代表中国文学界。” Min 说,“我们是一本英文杂志,目标是英文读者。但同样地,我们也不认为自己代表外国作家,因为我们在选择作品的时候不会特别偏向外国作家的作品。” 相反的,之所以取这个杂志名,只是试图为来自世界各地的艺术家,特别是那些位于亚洲的艺术家创造一个世界性的空间。

他们所说的 “上海” 既是指现实中的这座城市,一座快节奏、充满毅力和魅力的城市;也是一个人来人往的想象空间,人们共同生活在这里却从未打过照面,彼此不断错过、相遇、再错过。《上海文艺评论》提供了一个平台,为的是把人们聚集起来,分享这些来自世界各地的生活与故事。

Min and her colleagues have now shepherded two issues to print, and two more are on the way. As soon as she started the first one, she was hooked. “I just love the whole process—reading, editing, layout, proofing,” she says. “It’s a lot of work, but I love seeing text and art come together into something physical, collectible, something you can give to a loved one, something that brings joy. After we did issue one, I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to do more—I had an insatiable appetite to produce.”

Min 和团队已经发表了两期杂志,接下来还有两期正在筹备当中。从她开始制作第一期杂志开始,她就完全着迷了。她说:“我真的很享受整个过程——阅读、编辑、排版、校对。工作量很大,但我喜欢看到文字和艺术结合在一起,变成实实在在、可以收藏起来的东西,一些你可以用来送给所爱的人,以及带来快乐的物品。发行第一期的杂志之后,我总觉得还不够。我想做更多。关于创作,我会有点‘贪得无厌’。”

That appetite led Min and her colleagues to put together a special volume between issues two and three. Concrete, which comes out at the end of May, centers on China’s cities. “I worked on the book together with Alex, our Visual Editor. We settled on the idea of lyric essays paired with photography,” she recalls. “Memoir and photography both capture reality as well as distort it, and we thought that these two forms would work well in conversation.” The result is a distinctly literary and artistic view on China’s breakneck urbanization.

这种 “贪得无厌”,让 Min 和团队决定在杂志的第二期和第三期之间推出一个特刊——那就是将在五月底发行、以中国城市为主题的《Concrete》。“我和视觉编辑 Alex 一起商量如何制作这期特刊。我们最后决定采用抒情散文搭配摄影作品的作法。” 她回忆道,“回忆录和摄影,既能捕捉现实也能扭曲事实,所以我们觉得这两种形式的对话会挺不错的。” 最终的成果就是这本以文学与艺术角度,去讲述中国快速城市化进程的杂志。

Even with the narrow theme, the texts take a range of approaches. “The pieces are incredibly diverse in style, subject, voice, and I’m really proud to have them all,” says Min. “One of my favorites is ‘The Bureaucrats’ Daughters,’ by Lynn Zhao. She writes about her and her friends’ childhoods growing up on Beijing’s Wanshou Road as daughters of high-level Party officials. Though Zhao is a young writer, there’s a great sense of nostalgia that pervades her writing.” That young writers can find a welcome in the journal speaks to its inclusiveness—and its cosmopolitanism.

即使只讲述单一个主题,但杂志内的文字仍然展现出极其丰富的创作方式。Min 说:“这些作品在风格、主题、语调方面非常多样化,我真的很自豪能将它们全部呈现出来。我最喜欢的作品之一是 Lynn Zhao 的《The Bureaucrats’ Daughters》(《官场的女儿》)。作者讲述了自己作为高官党员的女儿和其他同样身份的朋友,发生在北京万寿路的童年故事。虽然 Zhao 还很年轻,但她写作的字里行间弥漫着浓厚的怀旧情绪。” 一本杂志能够欢迎如此年轻的作家,恰恰印证了它的包容性及其世界主义。

The Shanghai Literary Review is cosmopolitan in the best sense of the word: it brings together voices from around the world, both established and novice, and its events are open to all. And with activities spanning at least three continents, it’s hard to keep up with. Concrete will launch in Shanghai on May 31, at an event the journal is putting on with local storytelling group Unravel, while issue 3 comes out in June. The summer and fall will see more events in Shanghai, New York, and London. “What we wanted to do was build a literary community and stay connected to the global literary world,” says Min. By any measure, they’ve succeeded.

《上海文艺评论》很好地诠释了 “世界性” 一词: 它汇集了来自世界各地的声音,其中有些是早有建树的艺术家,有些是刚刚崭露头角的新人。它所举办的活动向所有人开放,足迹遍布三大洲,范围之广很难让人跟上他们的脚步。《Concrete》将于5月31日在上海发行,在杂志与上海故事分享组织 Unravel 合作举办的活动中推出。第三期《上海文艺评论》也将于6月发行。夏秋之际,杂志还将在上海、纽约和伦敦举办更多活动。“我们想要做的是建立一个文学团体,一个与全球文学世界保持联系的社团。” Min 说。无论如何,他们都成功了。

Concrete is now available for pre-purchase on the Neocha Shop.

To pay via PayPal or international credit card, please check out through our Shopify. To pay with AliPay or WeChat, please visit our Weidian. Orders will ship after May 31st, 2018.

《Concrete》现已于 Neocha商店 发行预售版。

如需使用 PayPal 或国际信用卡支付,请转至我们的 Shopify 页面;如需使用支付宝或微信支付,请至我们的微店。将于2018年5月31日后发货。


  • Year of Publication: 2018
  • Pages: 164
  • Size: 17cm x 24cm


  • 出版年份:2018
  • 页数:164
  • 尺寸: 17 x 24 厘米


《上海文艺评论》特刊 “Concrete”



EventLost in Translation: A Storytelling Collaboration with Unravel and the Shanghai Literary Review
Date: Thursday, May 31, 2018
Time: 6:30 PM
Ticket: Advance tickets are available for purchase here.

The Parlour
Block 24, 1F-103
1262 West Yan’an Road (near Panyu Road)
Changning District, Shanghai
People’s Republic of China

活动: Lost in Translation: A Storytelling Collaboration with Unravel and the Shanghai Literary Review
日期: 2018年5月31日(星期四)
时间: 下午六点半
门票: 请点击此处提前购票

The Parlour

Website: shanghailiterary.com


Contributor: Allen Young
Photographer: David Yen

网站: shanghailiterary.com
脸书: ~/shanghailiterary


Contributor: Allen Young
Photographer: David Yen

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Twinkle Twinkle Little Circle 当我患上“失心疯”

May 24, 2018 2018年5月24日
From A Planet of Seas & Mountains / 《山海星球》系列

“I wish everything in this world were round,” writes Yayi in a project statement.

Yayi is a Shanghai-based artist who spends her days designing, doodling, and searching for inspiration in the trivial details of life. Her unique style is characterized by minimal colors, collage elements, and perhaps most distinct of all, an assortment of circles. But why circles?

“I just like it,” Yayi shrugs. “I’ve always thought circles were such a mysterious shape. They’re soft yet plump. They can be energetic or they can be lethargic.”

“希望这个世界上的一切都是圆圆的”,是 Yayi 给某个系列写介绍时说的。目前生活工作于上海的她,日常画画、做设计,采集生活里能够感动自己的细枝末节,画着圆圆圈圈,配上简单的颜色和一些拼贴元素,就形成了她独特的风格。

但真要为“圆”找出个所以然来的话,Yayi 却说,其实只是因为喜欢这个形态罢了。“一直觉得圆是个微妙的形态,是柔软的、饱满的,有时活泼有时慵懒的感觉。”

From Twinkle, Twinkle series /《Twinkle, Twinkle》 系列
From Twinkle, Twinkle series /《Twinkle, Twinkle》 系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列

Yayi describes her process of drawing circles within the confines of a rectangular frame as “daydreaming within a sequestered universe of my own.”

In Passing By, a series of short animated clips, she presents everyday scenes (with circles, of course) from three different perspectives: as a lover of idle walks, as a lover of parks, as a lover of stories. The series is intimate yet playful, inspired by her observations of strolling around the city. From a lone trashcan in an empty shopping plaza to a flashing traffic sign lighting up the darkness of night, Yayi reimagines mundane settings as delightful works of art.

在一方方的小世界里画圆,Yayi 形容是“时不时在自己臆想的‘断层世界里做着‘清醒梦’”。

以“遛弯儿爱好者”、“公园爱好者”和“小故事爱好者”的身份来分类的《路过》系列,Yayi 放上了一些脑回路的场景画面,非常随意,也相当个人化。在生活里看到的某一个场景和画面的延展,比如凌晨商场里的垃圾桶,夏日深夜空旷马路边被交通警示灯反射过的禁止通行路牌,等等。这些过去的画面,被 Yayi 捕捉在记忆里,又重新翻出来构图创作。

From the Passing By series / 《路过》系列
From the Passing By series / 《路过》系列
From the Passing By series / 《路过》系列
From the Passing By series / 《路过》系列

For times when Yayi wants to create but isn’t feeling particularly creative, collage is her go-to medium. “It’s just me piecing together scattered visuals to try and jolt my brain into coming up with new ideas. That’s why I titled one of my collage series Losing My Mind.”

而在想创作又没有想法的时候,Yayi 会玩拼贴。她的回答很温柔得可爱:“算是通过把零碎的画面重组来刺激自己有些新的想法。所以我把我拼贴的系列叫做‘失心疯’。”

From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列

In her collage works, the elements Yayi selects reveal a fascination with films about space. “I suppose there really are quite a lot of movies about space that I’ve loved over the years,” she says, “from  A Trip to the Moon (1902), to the Soviet-era Solaris (1972), to the more recent Coherence (2013).”

She also cites a love for the work of installation artists Olafur Eliasson and Cai Guoqiang. “I recently watched a documentary about Cai Guoqiang’s Sky Ladder. His ongoing Project for Extraterrestrials series is also quite interesting; in it, he plays with the idea of space exploration but through the innocence of a young boy. All of his works are extremely impressive.”

殊不知,拼贴的素材或灵感来源,背后都会或多或少地融入她沉迷的星球和宇宙的元素。“从 1902 年的《月球旅行纪》,到后来苏联的《飞向太空》……再到近几年的《彗星来的那一夜》。关于宇宙和星球题材的电影,仔细想想我喜欢的还真的挺多的。”

她毫不掩饰她对当代装置艺术家 Olafur Eliasson 的钟爱,还有蔡国强。最近看的纪录片有蔡国强的《天梯》。他用男孩天真的一面去表达对外星世界的探索,做的一系列‘为外星人做的计划’行为和装置艺术都是让人印象非常深刻的作品。”

From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From Twinkle, Twinkle series /《Twinkle, Twinkle》 系列
From Twinkle, Twinkle series /《Twinkle, Twinkle》 系列

Her delicate recollections and observations of life, along with her love and longing for outer space, gives Yayi’s circles an ingenious romance.

Depending on the viewer, Yayi’s circles can take on different meanings. Some could see them as symbolic of deeper ideas. Others may just enjoy them simply as circles. Less than a bridge between artist and viewer, for Yayi, art is “an outlet for my own emotions, and hopefully something that resonates with the viewer’s emotions.”

对生活细腻的感知与记忆,对宇宙星球的喜爱与憧憬,让 Yayi 的圆形作品显得玲珑且浪漫。

这些圆,可以被赋予形形色色的含义,也可以干干净净地理解为圆本身。要说 Yayi 所想要搭建的那座桥梁,不过是“我自己的情绪出口,同样也希望大家解读出自己的情绪。”

From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列
From A Planet of Mountains & Seas / 《山海星球》系列

Website: yayifsoso.com
Douban: ~/yayi_ifsoso


Contributor: Chen Yuan

网站: yayifsoso.com
豆瓣: ~/yayi_ifsoso


供稿人: Chen Yuan

Rise of Mongolian Street Art 乌兰巴托的涂鸦印记

May 23, 2018 2018年5月23日

Ulaanbaatar’s booming street art scene has deep roots. Three generations of artists, all still active, have left their mark on the alleyways and underpasses of the city. The earliest got its start in the 1990s, when the artist ANZ – widely regarded as the godfather of Mongolian graffiti, and even today cited as a source of inspiration – began creating his murals. In the mid-2000s, a second generation emerged, with the artists Deez, Eto, Heesco, and others, who were driven by restlessness and a need to make their voices heard. They in turn mentored and inspired the current generation, a group of internet-savvy kids who used online forums to meet up and form crews. Of these, the most well known is probably The Nasty Methods Crew (TNMC), formed in 2014 by the artists Dasher, Sane2, Risky, Emak, and TEM.

蒙古乌兰巴托蓬勃发展的街头艺术,有着源远流长的历史。缘起至今的三代艺术家都仍然活跃着,如今已在城市的小巷和地下通道上留下了他们的印记。最早始于 20 世纪 90 年代,当时艺术家 ANZ ──被普遍认为是蒙古族涂鸦教父,甚至如今还依然是街头创作的灵感来源──已经开始创作他的壁画了。在上世纪中叶,第二代艺术家为不安和渴望被聆听的动力所驱使,Deez、Eto、Heesco 和其他艺术家出现了。这群精通网络的孩子,他们利用网络论坛聚在一起,组成团队,反过来引导并激励了当代人。其中最著名的可能是 The Nasty Methods Crew(TNMC),它是由艺术家 Dasher、Sane2、Risky、Emak 和TEM 于 2014 年成立。


Each member of TNMC has their own style and approach, but they’re united in the belief that by working together they can raise the bar on the local graffiti scene. Some of the artists, like Dasher, believe in preserving graffiti’s original anti-authoritarian spirit: he’s out on the streets, hunting for new (and often illegal) spots for his throw-ups. Others, like Sane2, want to move away from those rebellious roots to shift public perceptions of the art form. Despite their different approaches, the joint goal is to create art that can be enjoyed by all.

TNMC 中的每一位成员都有着各自鲜明的风格和创作方式,但有一种信念让他们走到了一起:团结一致,提升当地涂鸦文化的发展。他们当中有人认为,涂鸦艺术应该延续其反权威的精神,譬如 Dasher,他常常会走到街上,去寻找新的、甚至是被禁止的地方来涂鸦;但像 Sane2 却认为,涂鸦艺术应该抛离这种反叛的根源,改变公众对涂鸦艺术的偏见。虽然创作思维不同,但他们目标相同:创作一种能让所有人欣赏的艺术。

Emak, Tem, Dasher, Sane2

TEM, the newest member to join TNMC, is the man behind Nomadink, the biggest street art festival in the country. The event has boosted public interest in graffiti by bringing together street artists from around the world to work on collaborative murals with Mongolian artists. “I started Nomadink as a way to push modern art to the masses, and the local artists can learn from the experience,” says TEM. Over the years, artists from Korea, Singapore, Malaysia, Australia, and USA have participated and created work throughout Ulaanbaatar.

TEM 是新加入 TNMC 的成员,同时也是蒙古国内最大型的街头艺术节 Nomadink 的创办者。这个艺术节邀请来自世界各地的街头艺术家与蒙古当地艺术家一起合作涂鸦作品,以此来提升大众对涂鸦艺术的兴趣。“创办 Nomadink 的初衷是为了向大众推广现代艺术,同时给本地艺术家提供学习的机会。” TEM 解释道。多年来,通过这个艺术节,来自韩国、新加坡、马来西亚、澳大利亚和美国的艺术家,已在乌兰巴托城市里的各个角落里留下了印记。

CloakWork, Beggie MRCK, Artime Joe, Kenji Chai, Dasher, Mosho, Emak, R.Dog
CloakWork, Beggie MRCK, Artime Joe, Kenji Chai

Surprisingly, given the festival’s success, some of TNMC’s members see a declining interest in street art, and even gloomily complain that the golden age of Mongolian graffiti is over. Today’s internet offers so much entertainment,” says Dasher, shaking his head. “A lot of kids probably see going out and tagging as a hassle, when they can just have fun at home.” Sane2 nods in agreement. Their pessimism may prove premature. In a few years, another generation of artists may come of age – and look to TNMC for inspiration.

意外的是,尽管艺术节本身十分成功,但有部分 TNMC 成员认为,公众对涂鸦文化的兴趣依然在减少,甚至有些沮丧地表示,蒙古涂鸦艺术的黄金时代已经结束了。“因为今天的互联网提供了如此多的娱乐。”Dasher 摇着头说道:“现在的小孩都觉得出去是一件很麻烦的事情,他们宁愿在家玩。”一旁的 Sane2 点头表示同意。但他们的悲观情绪可能来得太早,或许再过几年,新一代的艺术家就会与之接轨,并在 TNMC 和他们的作品中受到启发。

From left to right: Emak, Dasher, Eto, Rusty, Sane2

ANZ, for his part, takes a long view. Even though he notes a growing commercialism in younger artists, he’s still optimistic about street art in his country. “Nowadays, a lot of people look at things with a more commercial mindset, asking ‘How can I sell this? How can I get more attention from this?’” he says. “But I remain hopeful. I’m still impressed by the younger generation, especially TNMC and what they’re doing. They’re the future of Mongolian graffiti.”

对此,已有数十年经验的 ANZ 则以更长远的目光来看待。他表示,虽然自己也注意到年轻一代的艺术家中普遍存在一种商业化的倾向,但他依然保持乐观。“现在人们的想法可能更商业化一点,总是想‘我怎样才能卖掉这幅作品’,‘怎样才能通过作品提升曝光度’。但我还是很乐观,年轻艺术家中还是有很多让我觉得很不错的作品,尤其是 TNMC 这个团队和他们的努力,他们是蒙古涂鸦艺术的未来。”

Dasher & Vers
Emak & Dasher

Contributor: Anand Tumurtogoo
Photographers: Anand Tumurtogoo & Byamba-Ochir Byambasuren
Additional Images Courtesy of TNMC & TEM

供稿人: Anand Tumurtogoo
摄影师: Anand Tumurtogoo & Byamba-Ochir Byambasuren
附加图片由 TNMC 与 TEM提供

Self-Portraits in Clay 为何她的头上顶着一颗火龙果

May 22, 2018 2018年5月22日

Masayo Keizuka, who lives in Sapporo, makes clay sculptures with an almost magical therapeutic effect: spend a while looking at them and you’ll come away with a deep sense of calm. These crafted figurines all have the same bobbed hair, the same long neck, the same sunken shoulders. Asked who the character is supposed to be, Keizuka readily replies, “It’s me.”

住在日本札幌的雕塑艺术家 経冢真代,她的雕塑作品有种神奇的疗愈作用,看着久一点,可以感受到一股深深的平静力量。这些被捏造出来的小生命看起来是同一个人,鲍伯短发、倾斜的肩膀、长长的脖子,问到她们的身份,经种真代毫不掩饰地回答 “她就是我。”

Keizuka says her earliest inspiration came from a pet dog who passed away ago. Later she moved on to human shapes, and eventually settled on this pensive, delicate little girl who, like an actor, is constantly trying on new costumes and stepping into new storylines. “I pour everything I’m feeling into her. She may not look like she has any emotions, but really I just hide them and try not to let them show,” she explains.


A rough surface gives the figures a worldly or even world-weary air. Keizuka specifically chose this natural, unpolished texture. “I tried out a lot of different materials, but in the end I went with clay. I really like how its grain gives the sculptures the sense of being fully alive,” she says.


Perched on each figure’s head is an object or animal that’s whimsical and impossible to ignore. Some of these are random or just for fun, while others are designed for a specific brand or exhibit. Keizuka describes these items as hats, a way of diverting the viewer’s attention. “When I shape these characters, it’s as though I’m putting myself on display in front of a crowd. Sometimes it makes me feel quite vulnerable,” she explains. “I add something to the figure’s head, as if they were wearing a hat. It draws the viewer’s attention away, so they’re not just looking at me at first glance. Maybe I’d rather not have people see through me.”


Website: www.masayokeizuka.com
Instagram: @keizuka masayo


Contributor: Yang Yixuan

网站: www.masayokeizuka.com
Instagram: @keizuka masayo


供稿人: Yang Yixuan

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An Eye for Change 蒸汽朋克眼里的美国文化

May 21, 2018 2018年5月21日

As a child, Pat Lee, the colorist perhaps best known for his comic-book adaptation of Transformers, spent hours leafing through penny-bin comics, taking in all that he could from every corner of the world. Heavily influenced by Japanese works like AKIRA, Gundam, Ghost in the Shell, and Fist of the North Star, Lee integrates manga into a traditional Western style, a skill that landed him his first job at Image Comics and eventually established his reputation in the comics industry.

从小时候开始,Pat Lee 这位以改编《变形金刚》漫画作品而出名的漫画上色师,就喜欢把自己沉浸在漫画的世界里,常常一看就是好几个小时的时光飞逝。他从来自世界各地的漫画书中吸取不同的灵感刺激,其中对他影响最深的是日本漫画,譬如《阿基拉》(Akira)、《机动战士高达》(Gundam)、《攻壳机动队》(Ghost in the Shell)和《北斗神拳》(Fist of the North Star)等作品。他尤其擅长将日本漫画美学融合进传统的西方漫画,这样显着的风格不仅为他带来在美国漫画出版商 Image Comics 的第一份工作,最终也让他在漫画界获得一席之地。

“I kind of teetered off a bit when I was doing Marvel and DC stuff – it was very dark with a strong presence of very heavy blacks,” says Lee. “But I’ve realized I truly love making work that’s a hybrid of Japanese anime and American culture. It’s interesting to fuse things together.”

That’s exactly what he’s done with his ongoing series, Interference. Over the last 6 months, Lee has been gradually transforming images of Western pop-culture icons like Mickey Mouse and Marilyn Monroe into something more foreign.

Lee 说:“每当我给漫威或 DC 创作时,总是感到不太有把握。这些作品风格非常黑暗,像是压抑着一大片深沉的黑色色调。我意识到自己真正喜欢的是将日本动漫和美国文化相结合的作品。把不同的东西融合在一起比较有趣。”

他目前进行中的系列作品《Interference》(《干扰》)正是遵循这一理念来创作。在过去六个月里,Lee 将米老鼠和玛丽莲·梦露这些西方流行文化中的经典形象进行创新的演绎。

Each iteration of a figure changes in subtle ways, challenging the viewer to spot minor alterations, like an iris turned into a camera shutter, or a shoelace that’s actually a fiber-optic cable. While some pieces in the series involve futuristic technology, with aliens and robots seated alongside a bionic Bambi with exposed brain matter, all are a part of a larger narrative about technological development in a structure that mirrors that of a comic book.


Lee, known for his work with Copic markers, primarily uses acrylic for the paintings in Interference, which he often makes in quick succession. “Acrylic is just fun to apply, because it’s not as technical as Copic,” he says. “If you compare the two, acrylic has a kind of glow to it, this shine, texture, tone. It’s a thicker feeling, where Copic is very light, very illustrative. Really, they’re a pair – I have to have both.”

Lee 先前以他用 Copic 马克笔(源于日本的马克笔品牌,因其优良品质深受设计人士喜爱)来作画的作品闻名,但在《Interference》中他改用压克力颜料,这让他的创作过程更加一气呵成。他解释道:“压克力用起来比较有趣,因为它不像 Copic 马克笔那样讲究技巧。如果你认真比较一下这两种媒介:压克力颜料会有一种光泽,更有质感和色调,有一种更浓厚的感觉;而 Copic 马克笔则更加轻盈,更加清晰。应该说它们是一种互补吧,两种颜料我都需要。”

Lee says he doesn’t know what his paintings are going to look like when starting – he works backward and forward without a final image in mind. His process aligns with how he sees the development in technology, be that VR, the sex industry, or personal communications, playing out – in steps, leaps, and sometimes sprints. “I think Interference is about asking if we’re prepared for the technology that’s coming. Is our society ready for these kinds of tools, this tech? Should we be scared about our future, or is it exciting?”

Lee 表示,一开始创作时他不会知道自己最终会画出什么样子,过程中他会不断地来回调整,但不会去预先设定一个最终结果。他的创作方式体现了他对未来科技,像是虚拟现实、性行业或个人通讯等等,如何一步一步、或者说是大步发展的看法。“我认为《Interference》其实是在提问,我们是否已经为即将到来的科技做好了准备?我们的社会是否准备好迎接这些工具和科技?我们应该对未来感到害怕?还是感到兴奋?”

Lee’s work draws no conclusions on its own but asks viewers to actively notice changes, both big and small. Interference can help train our eyes and minds to focus on what’s happening right now, and to ask where we want technology to take us.

Lee 的作品本身并没有提供任何结论,但他要求观众去主动发现其中或大或小的变化。《Interference》可以帮助训练我们的眼睛和头脑,去专注于当下发生的事情,并提出问题:我们到底希望科技带領我们到哪里?

Website: www.patleeart.com
: @patleeart


Contributor: Sarah Forman

: @patleeart


供稿人: Sarah Forman

Hidden Glory 躲起来的“辉煌”

May 18, 2018 2018年5月18日
Edited with VSCO X Preset AL1 / VSCO X 滤镜 AL1 处理

In collaboration with VSCO, we recently explored Shanghai’s Jinhuanghuang secondhand market, one of the last of its kind in the city, to find out what makes it so special. All of the images in this story were edited with the powerful presets and tools that come with VSCO X. Click here to start your free, seven-day trial.

I thought I’d prepared myself, but when I finally found the Jinhuanghuang General Wholesale Market, I was still taken aback.

Jinhuanghuang is tucked away between West Gaoke Road and the elevated highway of South Pudong Road. Even with GPS guidance, the cab driver had trouble finding it. In retrospect, the difficulty of even locating the market’s entrance foreshadowed its labyrinthian interior, where a mishmash of shops hawking old appliances, antiques, and secondhand clothing stretched out everywhere you looked. The people, however, you could count on one hand.

I’d been to the market more than once, back when it was still on Dingxi Road. Yet its new incarnation left me a bit shocked: everything had changed.

我们与 VSCO 携手走进上海仅存的二手服装交易市场之一“金煌煌”,试图向大家记录和呈现这个市场所经历过的辉煌。本文中所有照片都通过 VSCO X 强大的预设及编辑工具。现在就开启你的 7 天免费 VSCO X 试用创意之旅吧。




The “Hidden” Market


Sprawling across two floors, Jinhuanghuang is the successor to two different secondhand markets that no longer exist: one on Yuntai Road in Pudong, on the east side of the river, and one on Dingxi Road in Changning district. It offers all kinds of secondhand wares, but it’s still mainly a destination for the vintage apparel trade, as its alternate English name – “Golden Glory Textile Market” – makes clear.

Oddly, since the market isn’t small, the shops are packed tightly together. The cramped feel, along with a lack of ventilation and daylight, gives the place the damp, musty smell of flea markets everywhere. Still, the shop owners say they’re grateful for the space.





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On the day I visited, I ran into several shop owners who had relocated from the old markets. Still as enthusiastic ever, each one without exception called out to the people passing by: “Come on in and take a look!” When I told them I used to be a regular at the old location, they opened up even more.

“This place is a bit out of the way, but it’s huge,” one shop owner told me in Shanghainese. “It’s actually been over a year since we moved from Dingxi Road.”

“That long?” I gasped. “I only recently heard about this place from a friend of a friend, and I decided to make a special trip out here today.”




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Reportedly closed for fire safety concerns, the market on Dingxi Road was slated for demolition. The plans kept getting delayed, until one day, without warning, it finally did get demolished, and within a few weeks, no trace of the market remained.

“They tore it down so fast. They cleared everyone out in no time at all, and in the last few days, we were selling at fire-sale prices because we had to leave behind what we couldn’t sell,” the shop owner recalled, voice tinged with regret or sadness.



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“This new spot is pretty hard to find,” I said to the shopkeeper. “If one of my friends hadn’t been here before, I would’ve had no idea where to go.”

He laughed. “Yeah. When I first moved in, the whole market was a ghost town. No one came here.”

Even after I found the entrance, I got lost again amid the sprawl of shops. Only after wandering around in circles for a while did I finally stumble across a stairwell next to a stall. Above the dimly lit stairs, looking like a long-lost friend, a sign read “An’xi Fashion Market.”

But now, after a year, patrons of the old market have begun returning, and business has picked up. “Still, it doesn’t compare to what it was like before,” the shopkeeper sighed.





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Less is More


Maybe because I saw so little foot traffic, the clothing selection seemed especially broad. Mountains of second-clothing from overseas sat waiting to be ironed and put up for sale.

Wholesale secondhand markets like this used to be quite large and do a brisk business. Bundles and bundles of clothes would arrive and get sent off again within a few days.

“In the old days, when the market was still on Dingxi Road, it was a madhouse! People would show up just after 9:00 in the morning, and on the busiest days we wouldn’t close till after 11:00,” recalled Xiao Chen, another shop owner. “Back then my son was just a little boy, and now he’s 29!”





“最早的时候,市场还在老定西路靠近愚园路的地方。那时候是真忙,每天早上九点多就有人来了,最热闹的时候要到晚上十一点才好关门。”老板娘小陈与我说道,“那时我的儿子才只有几岁,现在已经 29 了!”

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“Sounds like you’re a veteran!” I grinned.

“Not at all,” she laughed. “The real veterans have all retired. I’m one of the younger ones.”

As we made small talk, I rummaged through her clothing, looking for potential additions to my wardrobe.

Each shop arranges clothes in its own way, mostly because the shop owners all choose their clothing differently. Some shops lay the items out right in front, with clearly marked prices ranging from a few dozen to a few hundred renminbi. Some are more selective, and some specialize in outerwear, intimate wear, or secondhand items from international brands. Sometimes you even find things by Gucci, Louis Vuitton, or Dolce & Gabbana, sold at a fraction of the original price.




这里的衣物分类方式与众不同,主要也是因为各家店主们的选衣定位不同。有很多店铺的衣服直接铺陈在外面,几十块到几百块不等,明码标价;有些店铺则精挑细选,或是专卖外套、内搭,或是主营国际大牌的二手老款,很多诸如 Gucci、LV、Dolce & Gabbana 等国际品牌,也会在此露脸,并且以低于市场价好几倍的价格抛售。

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Xiao Chen says there used to be even more kinds of shops, with some that specialized in leather accessories and clothing. Many of the most famous vintage or buyer shops in town still source items from Jinhuanghuang. “My customers range from older folks out for a deal to merchandisers who come to buy in bulk,” she explained.

When a regular shows up, Xiao Chen brings out the latest items, often still bunched out and wrinkled in large bags. As a favor she lets them comb through the clothing before it even makes it onto the shelves.



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A Hundred Different Styles


In Shanghai, where it can feel as though things get more expensive by the day, the market’s down-home prices are a rarity.

That’s why fashionistas from nearby universities come here to shop: the deals are good and the styles are quirky, with plenty of clothes to choose from. But perhaps an even bigger draw are the shop owners themselves, especially the women, who all have their own unique style and are happy share a few fashion tips.





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That’s especially true of the shop owner Li Zi.

Her shop was one of the main reasons I came, and she certainly lived up to her reputation.

Dressed in a colorful sweater, she excitedly offered fashion advice as I browsed her racks of clothes.

“He’s tall and skinny. I think he’ll look better with loose, baggier clothes,” she told another customer before turning to me. “Those dress pants are a bit flamboyant, but if you pair them with a solid-colored top, I guarantee they’ll look amazing.”





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“You’ve got a real eye for fashion. Do you ever help your kids pick out what to wear?” I asked.

“My son used to look down on these clothes because they were secondhand. But now that he’s got a job and has learned a thing or two, he’s slowly taking an interest. Now he says, ‘Mom, this brand’s too expensive! My boss wears clothes that cost only a few thousand, and what I have on costs ten times as much,” she laughed.

Here, if you’ve got a keen fashion sense, you can create an eye-catching look with seemingly ordinary vintage wear. You don’t need a lot of money to put together an outfit, just patience and personal taste. After a day spent scavenging the market, while some visitors might come away empty-handed, others might walk out with armfuls of loot.





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For all the warmth the shop owners show, they’re noticeably on their guard. Each time I asked, “Ayi, do you have a business card?” the answer was a resounding “no.”

This is because of the legal gray zone these shops operate in. On the one hand, they want more people to know about the market, so they’ll get more customers and do more business. But they’re even more worried that too much exposure might hasten the market’s closure.  “It’s only a matter of time before this place is demolished, too,” they told me.




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As the last of the daylight receded, and I slowly made my way outside, I turn back to take one final look at the market. The neon red sign seems to be using its last remaining strength to illuminate the words “Golden Glory Textile Market.” But once I crossed the hectic traffic of West Gaoke Road, an overpass blocked the market from view. And just like that, it was gone.

天色渐晚,我慢慢踱出市场,回身一看,那块红色的招牌好像用它仅剩的一点微不足道的力气追赶着印着“ GOLDEN GLORY TEXTILE MARKET ”,但一穿过车流不息的高科西路,一切都被巨大的天桥挡住,什么也看不到了。

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Begin your free VSCO X trial today for access to the complete VSCO preset library, newest editing tools, and inspiring educational content.

今天就开启你的 VSCO X 免费试用,获取整套 VSCO 滤镜库、最新修图工具和教程内容吧。

Contributor: Chen YuanShou Xing
Photographer: Chan Qu

供稿人: Chen YuanShou Xing
摄影师: Chan Qu