Bangkok Block Party 曼谷街区的青年庙会

April 30, 2020 2020年4月30日

The kids had been there since noon, just hanging out, waiting to catch a performance that didn’t start until eleven p.m. that night. They flooded the Bangkok Block Party with a single mission: to catch a rare live performance by Korean rapper One in their hometown. “They were all Thai kids,” says Nick Supreda, who first put on the block party three years ago. “I walked up and asked why they were there. I just had to know.” The moment was just one high point in a weekend full of them.

This year’s block party, held on January 31st and February 1st, brought together club music, disco, rap, and rock, each on its own stage. The festival aims to give Thai artists international exposure and to bring the world to Thais. And it’s not just music: it has street art, street food, streetwear, and more, all under the same joyful banner.

大批的年轻人从中午就开始聚集在这里,等待着晚上 11 点才开始的表演,他们来参加 Bangkok Block Party 的目的只有一个:看韩国说唱歌手 One 在曼谷难得一遇的现场演出。该街区派对至今已举办三年的时间,首创人 Nick Supreda 说道:“来这儿的都是泰国本地年轻人,有时候我会去找他们聊天,去了解他们想法。” 此时此刻,好戏才刚刚上演。

今年的街区派对分别在 1 月 31 日和 2 月 1 日举行,提供包括俱乐部音乐、迪斯科、说唱和摇滚音乐表演,每种音乐流派分别设有单独的舞台。该活动旨在让泰国艺术家获得更多国际上曝光的机会,同时将世界不同的音乐风格在泰国推广。这个活动并不局限于音乐,在热闹欢乐的气氛中,同时呈现街头艺术、美食和时尚服饰等不同领域的元素。

The 2020 edition also featured a lot of everyday objects, piled together in a way that became a spectacle. One stage was set up in a street vendor’s food cart, surrounded by towering stacks of colorful plastic chairs. Another stage featured giant cardboard cutouts of roosters and Thai trucker-style designs, while still another was covered with hundreds of vintage tees. “This year’s theme was ngan wad,” says Supreda. The term roughly translates to “temple fair.” “Up north they do these events to raise money in the countryside. I wanted to bring it to the city so Thais wouldn’t forget about it. They’ll do stuff like sell vintage tees for a dollar. So we went there and got a bunch to decorate the stage.”

在 2020 年活动的布置上,许多日常物品被拼凑在一起,设计上显得十分抢眼。其中一个舞台以摊贩餐车的主题搭建,周围摆满高耸的彩色塑料椅子;另一个舞台上则摆放着硬纸板做的巨型公鸡和泰式卡车图案;还有一个舞台上摆满了数百件复古体恤。Nick 说:“今年的主题是 ‘ngan wad’(庙会)。在泰北的乡村,人们常常会举办庙会筹募财富。而之所以将这种传统的形式带到城市,因为我不想让这些泰国传统文化被人们遗忘掉。在乡下的庙会上,复古体恤有时只卖一美元,我们买来一堆,给舞台做装饰。”

Six years ago, Supreda moved from California to Thailand to explore his roots. “I was raised in America, but I was adopted and wanted to learn more about where I came from,” he says. So he packed his bags and took a leap into a new life. When he first arrived in Bangkok, he knew no one and didn’t even speak Thai. He opened a small bar that only fit 20 people. “There was no parking, no restroom, it felt like a container,” he laughs. “I had no background in this, I’ve been learning as I go.”

六年前,Nick 从加利福尼亚回到泰国,追寻自己的文化根源。他说:“我是一个在美国长大的领养孩子,但我一直渴望了解故乡。” 于是,他收拾行装,在泰国展开了新的人生篇章。刚到曼谷时,他人生地不熟,甚至不会说泰语。他开了一家小酒吧,里面只能坐 20 个人。他笑着说:“那里没有停车场,没有洗手间,感觉就像是一个集装箱。我在这方面没有任何经验,只能一边做一边学习。”

Nick SupredaNick Supreda

When he was offered a space in the popular Thonglor nightlife district, he jumped at the chance, leaving the container behind and opening club Blaq Lyte, where he made his name. “It was on the second floor, above a restaurant, and to enter you had to go through the kitchen. We had no signage. On the first day, we shoved 600 people into a space that only fit 300.” Although the police and reporters both came, and his blue hair made the evening news when he was arrested, the opening was an undeniable success. Blaq Lyte drew a mix of foreigners, local art kids, and industry types, and it soon became the afterparty spot for big musicians who flew into Thailand to perform. A similar crowd goes to the block party.

后来,他在热闹非凡的通罗(Thonglor)夜生活区找到一个新的当铺 —— Blaq Lyte 俱乐部,结束了 “集装箱” 式的酒吧时期。“俱乐部位于二楼,下面是一间餐厅,你必须经过餐厅的厨房才能进入俱乐部,那里并没有标牌。开业的第一天,我们在只能容纳 300 人的空间里接纳了600个顾客。”后来警察和记者纷纷赶往现场,那晚 Nick 被警察带走时,他的蓝发出现在了当地的新闻中。但这次的开幕活动无疑是成功的。Blaq Lyte 吸引了来自世界各地的游客、本地年轻艺术家和各个行业的人士,很多到泰国演出的音乐人在演出结束后都会到这里来聚会。这些人也往往是参加街区派对的主要人群。

The kitchen passage that led to the entrance Blaq Lyte 之前通往 Blaq Lyte 入口的厨房走道
The small restaurant that operated beneath Blaq Lyte 之前 Blaq Lyte 楼下的餐厅

Although the club has closed up shop, Blaq Lyte continues as a promotional company that operates out of Supreda’s living room and employs seven staffers, all formerly DJs at the club. The block party is where he pulls together all the friends he’s made over the years into one place to celebrate. “We throw it in January, which is the slow season for performers,” he says. “We’re just like, ‘Hey, want to come hang out and perform in Bangkok?” 

如今,虽然这个俱乐部已经停业,但 Blaq Lyte 仍作为一家活动公司进行运作,并有 7 名员工,办公地点就在 Nick 家的客厅,员工是俱乐部之前的 DJ。在街区派对中,Nick 将多年来结交的朋友们召集在一起。他说:“我们在一月份举办活动,一般表演者在这个月都没什么活儿。我们会问他们 ‘嘿,要不要来聚聚,顺便在曼谷表演一下?’”

Bangkok’s rap scene has also exploded in the past couple of years, and a collection of underground rappers have rolled onto the mainstream stage, earning millions along the way. A number of them are regular faces at the block party, and Supreda has been working with them since before the boom.

“There’s a lot of beauty here in Asia. I want to help Thailand and help develop the scene,” he says. He also wants to expose Thai audiences to Western creative movements. “It’s a developing country, so it’s still growing. That gives me the freedom to try things out, to figure out what’s right and wrong. I’m still just trying to help out.”

在近几年,曼谷的说唱场景获得了蓬勃发展,许多地下说唱歌手纷纷进入主流舞台,开始大噪名声。他们中的许多人都曾是街区派对上的熟悉面孔,Nick 在很早前就一直在与他们合作。


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: @bangkokblockparty
Facebook: ~/bangkokblockparty


Contributor: Mike Steyels
Photographer: Joyce Chen

Chinese Translation: Olivia Li
Additional Images Courtesy of Blaq Lyte

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: @bangkokblockparty
脸书: ~/bangkokblockparty


供稿人: Mike Steyels
摄影师: Joyce Chen

英译中: Olivia Li
附加图片由 Blaq Lyte 提供

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Hijra, the Third Gender 我爱你,谁说要指明一个性别

April 29, 2020 2020年4月29日

The Hindustani term hijra refers to the third gender, an individual who’s neither male nor female. In many parts of South Asia, they face widespread discrimination, and they’re often forced to live together on the fringes of society in hijra-only communities.

Shahria Sharmin, a Bangladesh-based photographer, is friends with many hijras, and a particular conversation with one stuck with her. “One day, I was taking a walk with one of my hijra friends and in our conversation, they mentioned how they desired a handsome husband and a desire to be a bride,” she recalls. “Her traditional mindset of getting married sparked a curiosity inside of me, and made me want to understand the hijras more.”


在孟加拉国的摄影师 Shahria Sharmin 与许多海吉拉社区的人是朋友,她说曾有一段对话,让她深深铭记,“有一天,我和一位来自海吉拉社区的朋友一起散步,那位朋友和我说渴望一个英俊的丈夫,渴望做他的新娘。”

This curiosity led her to create Call Me Heena, a photo series that documents an isolated community of hijras in Bangladesh. “They have created their own world amid a society that so completely ignores them, a society that refuses to see them for who they are.”

“Even at a young age, hijras are discriminated against and abused in school,” Sharmin says. “Their ‘differences’ only worsen in their teenage years. Family and close friends might even turn on them. When their parents find out about their identity they’re often disowned.”

这也诱发了《Call Me Heena》摄影系列的诞生。Shahria 表示道,她被这些“第三性别者”与社会其他部分完全隔绝的生活方式所吸引。“她们在一个完全无视她们的社会中创造了自己的世界,而我们的社会拒绝看到她们。”

“事实上,对她们的歧视和虐待从她们还在上学时就开始了。” Shahria 这样说道,“一旦到了青少年时期,她们的发育特征更明显了,甚至会面临来自亲戚和家庭成员的虐待。直系亲属意识到她们是变性人之后,就会抛弃她们。”

Through gallery showings of the work, Sharmin’s aim is to force the public to acknowledge the hijra people’s existence. “They’re right in front of you,” she says.

Sharmin strives to give each photograph a visual tension that stops viewers in their tracks. In her stark compositions and simple backgrounds, light and shadow become the sole narrative medium. Her camera captures and amplifies her subjects’ feelings: joy, sorrow, loneliness, longing, and togetherness seem to have a force that cuts through the dense fog. More than images of marginalization, Sharmin tries to show how familiar the hijras’ emotional lives are.

可是,当这件作品被公之于众的时候、成为展览的一部分时,就不容忽视了。“它们就在你面前。” Shahria 说,为了引起观众的注意,每幅图片都必须极具视觉张力,这样观众就不会简单地从作品边上路过。她将背景简化,只剩光影作为叙述的媒介。而被拍摄者的情绪与感受,却被镜头一一捕捉放大,喜悦、悲伤、迷惘、孤独、不安、渴望、团结,却仿佛有着冲破浓雾的力量。这些照片的意义也远非仅仅呈现这些被边缘化的人,而是试图向观众传达她们的情感与生活状态,与我们无异。

Sharmin says that she doesn’t often shoot in black-and-white, but it felt fitting for this project. Colors distracted from their story and lessened the overall emotional impact. “This way I could convey their unguarded feelings,” she says. “As far as other members of society are concerned, hijras are people who don’t exist.”

Shahria 坦率地说,这个系列如果使用彩色摄影,拍摄对象的内在故事就会与之冲突,所以她转向了黑白摄影。“这样就能传达出她们感情的自发性——从我的视角看出去,这些第三性别者是不为社会其他成员而存在的人。我想捕捉她们内心的故事,通过我的图像,去呈现她们完整的叙述。这就是我想表达的一切。”

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Contributor: Chen Yuan

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供稿人: Chen Yuan

Digital Mimicry 你与艺术之间只差一块屏幕的距离

April 27, 2020 2020年4月27日

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-April, MadeIn Gallery, on Shanghai’s West Bund, held its first art opening since it closed in January as part of China’s nationwide lockdown. The crowd was smaller than usual, and everybody wore masks. The gallery space, however, felt larger: only a few finished pieces, along with empty canvases, hung on the walls. The exhibiting artist, Ding Li, rehearsed a few brushstrokes on an unfinished piece in front of the absorbed audience. Everything was filmed and live-streamed on Zoom for those who couldn’t attend.

四月中旬的一个周日下午,在长达三个多月的全国封禁终于解除之后,位于上海西岸艺术中心的没顶画廊(MadeIn Gallery)终于举办了首场展览开幕式。观众比往常要少,每个人都戴上了口罩,但画廊却显得更大了:仅有几幅成品挂在墙上,与之一同呈现的是其他空白画布。在看得入迷的观众面前,参展艺术家丁力正挥动画笔创作。现场的展览被拍摄下来,并在 Zoom 平台上直播,与无法亲临现场的观众一起分享。

Named after the opening date and the gallery address, April 12th, No. 106, 2879 Longteng Avenue, Ding’s show displays recent works from his abstract portrait series that feature his trademark thick brushstrokes. Since he moved to the gallery in mid-March, he has been painting onsite and working with the curators to create a show that reflects our strange times.

“Like most artists, I don’t feel comfortable being watched while I’m working. I also have techniques I don’t want to reveal,” Ding says. “But I think that, given the present situation, we can’t resist doing so. The current crisis has made it more necessary for artists to be in front of the public and online.”

At a glance, it seems that Ding works on his paintings with a digital toolkit because of the tube-shaped lines that form his anthropomorphic compositions. He recreates the visual impact of digital art, especially the simple graphics of primitive 3D modeling. He even recreates flaws such as blurriness, distortion, and empty spaces between his lines.

丁力的这场展览《4月12日,龙腾大道 2879 号 106》以开幕日期和画廊地址命名,用他一贯充满个人风格的厚重笔触向观众展示了他最新的抽象肖像作品。自从三月中旬丁力将工作室搬至画廊空间,就一直在现场创作。通过这场展览,他与策展人希望激发人们思考现今这个光怪陆离的时代。



Angela Baby at Juan-les-Pins Beach (2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《朱安雷宾海滩的天使宝贝》(2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画
Young Man 4 (2018 - 2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《男青年 4》(2018 - 2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画
Young Woman 77 (2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《女青年 77》(2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画
Female Teacher (2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《女教师》(2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画

Ding began experimenting with the aesthetics of digital graphics in 2017, when he painted several untitled pieces that were utterly isolated from the world of recognizable forms. In these studies, we see his multiple layers of vigorous brushstrokes, color gradients, and the defused blurred effect of spray cans. The more digital resemblance he seeks, the more intricate his craftsmanship becomes.

丁力从 2017 年开始试验创作这种数码绘画风格的画作,当时他画了几幅无题作品,这些作品与可识别的成品作完全不同,在这些前期实验作品中,呈现出多层的笔触、渐变的颜色,以及喷漆的模糊效果。数码绘图感越要逼真,他使用的绘画技巧就越要复杂。

Untitled 55 (2017) 116 x 93 cm / Oil on canvas, spraypaint《无题 55》(2017) 116 x 93 厘米 / 布上油画、喷漆
Untitled 23 (2017) 30 x 20 cm / Oil on canvas, spraypaint 《无题 23》(2017) 30 x 20 厘米 / 布上油画、喷漆

Ding’s foray into portraits didn’t happen until 2018. His layered lines and color contrasts, either in bright tones or in grayscale, now create the impression of three-dimensional faces. The effect is fun, soothing, and haunting, all at once.

He paints his family and acquaintances, as well as people he knew in childhood. Nondescript titles like Teacher, Graduate, and Old Lady offer viewers only a vague idea of his subjects’ identity. “By giving them names and titles, I hope to emphasize the essential position that these figures hold in our society,” he says.

丁力从 2018 年开始创作这个肖像作品系列,层叠的线条,以及用明亮彩色或灰调形成的色彩对比,勾勒出立体的面容,呈现有趣、平静和令人难忘的画作。


Young Man 25 (2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《男青年 25》(2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画
Auntie (2019) 160 x 130 cm / Oil on canvas《阿姨》(2019) 160 x 130 厘米 / 布上油画
Young Woman under Neon Light (2019) 40 x 30 cm / Oil on canvas《霓虹灯下的女青年》(2019) 40 x 30 厘米 / 布上油画
Young Woman 9 (2019) 80 x 60 cm / Oil on canvas《女青年 9》(2019) 80 x 60 厘米 / 布上油画

In a corner, we see his studio equipment piled between two unfinished paintings. A large wooden board is clamped to a lab table; on top of it lie a mess of materials: used brushes and paint tubes, dirty tissues, solvent and water-spray bottles, turpentine, and a few cups of coffee. There’s also a Marshall speaker and flatscreen television standing on an easel.

Ding uses the screen to display references for his paintings since he also looks for photos of people online. His fascination with the digital world goes beyond its visual aspects: he admires the internet’s openness and interactivity and aims to reproduce these traits in this exhibition.

“I want to demystify the artistic process,” he says. “Artists and galleries need to learn and adapt to these changing times and give the audience a chance to appreciate the process, as well as to ask questions. In the age of screens, the way we work as artists needs to change.” The exhibition and his paintings work in unison: his style imitates digital tools that, in turn, mimic traditional painting tools.

在展厅一隅,他的工作器材堆在两幅未完成的画作之间。一块大木板夹在实验桌上,上面摆满了各种绘画用具:用过的画刷和颜料管、纸巾、溶剂和喷水瓶、松节油,还有几杯咖啡,一个 Marshall 音箱,画架上还装了一台平板电视屏幕。



In the age of social distancing, this seamless interplay of online and offline experiences has become a temporary norm for artists and art institutions striving to keep their audiences engaged. While virtual museums and online exhibitions don’t replicate the thrills of live viewing, audiences seem to prefer a more intimate, informative, and interactive form of consuming art, through live-streamed performances, online studio visits, and Zoom conferences.

As China emerges from the crisis, Ding Li and MadeIn Gallery are experimenting with the possibility of a new dynamics in art that engages the viewer throughout the process of creation.

To keep up to date with upcoming exhibitions or works from Ding Li, visit the MadeIn Gallery website.




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Contributors: Tomas Pinheiro, Colin Yang
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li
Images Courtesy of MadeIn Gallery

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供稿人: Tomas PinheiroColin Yang
英译中: Olivia Li

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Dressed to Transgress 疯”服“多彩

April 24, 2020 2020年4月24日

It’s hard to miss someone dressed in Salad Day threads. The Filipino designer’s clothes are loud and maximalist, an overload of kawaii stitched together by sheer will. His pieces, which are almost entirely one-off and custom, involve dozens of colors and types of fabrics: pink fur sweatshirts, strawberry-pattern bathrobes, frilly aprons emblazoned with Hello Kitty, and makeup coupon ads instead of logos. They gleefully push limits.

“My clothes are party clothes,” says Willar Mateo, the designer behind Salad Day. “If you go to the right party, everyone is wearing my stuff. But it’s almost more fun wearing it out in public because everyone stares.”

菲律宾设计师品牌 Salad Day 拥有超高的辨识度。那些衣服上成堆的可爱元素,被设计师随心所欲地缝合在一起,不禁让人感叹品牌的大胆与鲜繁。缤纷的颜色和布料,令每一件作品看起来都是独一无二的定制品:运动外套上抹过的粉红皮草、草莓样式的浴袍、饰有 Hello Kitty 的褶边围裙,甚至连品牌的 Logo 也被替换成化妆品折扣券的广告。他们对此兴致勃勃,并不断尝试突破。

“我的衣服为派对而生”,Salad Day 的设计师 Willar Mateo 说,“如果你去了对的地方蹦迪,说不定会发现所有人都穿着我做的衣服。但我建议你在公众场合穿着,因为那样你会成为万众瞩目的焦点。”

On a normal day Mateo’s outfits are simple, but he enjoys dressing up, and especially loves to take public transportation to and from the parties. He tells of one night when he and his friends left at three a.m. to grab an early breakfast. All twelve of them climbed into a jeepney with full makeup and wigs. “We love how people stare at us, like we’re crazy. It’s fun!”

虽然 Willar 很喜欢盛装出行,乘搭公共交通参加各种派对活动,但他的日常穿搭却很普通。他说,有一次和朋友在凌晨三点结束派对去吃早饭,12 个人浓妆艳抹,戴着假发,坐上了一辆吉普尼车 (Jeepney),“我们享受人们盯着我们看的样子,在他们的眼里,我们是疯子。这实在太逗了!”

Sometimes it’s hard to get a jeep to stop for him when he’s fully dressed up, but Mateo says the Philippines is mostly tolerant, and he keeps his sexuality, like his clothes, out of the closet. “I identify as platinum-card gay,” he laughs. “Most of my clients are gay boys. Most of my family accepted me, and even though I didn’t tell them, they knew, because I’m a butterfly.” His father, a lieutenant colonel in the army, expected a very macho and conservative boy, so to escape that, his mother sent Mateo to live with his grandmother in the countryside towards the end of elementary school.

有时候因为浮夸的造型,也会遇到拒载的吉普尼车司机,但 Willar 说菲律宾大多数人的态度都比较宽容。在大众面前,他也毫不掩饰自己的性取向,就像他大胆展示自己的服装一样。他笑着说:“我是彻头彻尾的同性恋。我的大多数客户都是男同性恋。我的大部分家人都接受我的性取向,虽然我从来都没有告诉他们,但他们都知道,因为我就是一只花蝴蝶。”Willar 的父亲是陆军中校,他一直希望儿子是具有男子气概的传统男孩。为了避免父子之间的冲突,Willar 的母亲在小学时期的后几年里,把他送去乡下和祖母一起生活。

Mateo spent his adolescence in an isolated village surrounded by fishponds. School was a thirty-minute boat ride away. Needless to say, the move to Manila for college as a teen was liberating. “I met people there who understood me and liked my style,” he says

That joy in being himself, in being an individual, is central to Mateo’s clothing: “I don’t like mass-produced stuff. I want the clothes to be special,” he says. “You don’t toss it into the washing machine, you hand wash it. I like the drama of it. It’s custom-made for you.” Anime and the early 2000s are big inspirations, but he takes ideas from whatever catches his eye. “Right now I’m experimenting with combining high and low fashion. Like, ‘It’s expensive to look this cheap.’”

因此,Willar 的少年时期在一个鱼米之乡的偏僻村庄里度过,他每天都需要 30 分钟的船渡去上学。而当后来搬到马尼拉上大学时,他感觉自己才获得了真正的解放。他说:“那里的人理解我,他们喜欢我的风格。”

这种做出自己、忠于个性所带来的快乐正是 Willar 服装的设计核心,他说:“我不喜欢大批量生产的东西,我喜欢独一无二的。不是那种扔进洗衣机里的衣服,而是必须手洗的衣服。我喜欢这种戏剧性,这样的衣服才称得上为你的量身定制。”

2000 年早期的动漫和时尚为 Willar 的创作提供了许多灵感,但同时,任何让他感兴趣的事物都能激发创作,“目前,我正在尝试将高级与低级时尚相融合。就是要打造那种 ‘看起来便宜,穿起来贵’ 的感觉。”

Radical individualism turns out to be fairly sustainable, too, at least in a world where so much waste is just laying around. “I use a lot of deadstock fabric or manufacturing rejects, because they’ll never be produced again. I also use a lot of fabric scraps; nearly half of my clothes are upcycled, made from pre-used material and scraps.” Mateo’s making the planet a tiny bit more sustainable, and a whole lot more fun.

在这个铺张浪费的世界环境中,Willar 的设计不但讲究强烈的个人主义,同时也具有可持续发展性,他说:“近乎一半的作品都是用旧材料和废料制成的,创作中用的许多废弃面料和瑕疵废品,它们都是不能再复制生产的。同时,我还用到了许多零碎的布料。” Willar 的衣服在具有十足的趣味性同时,更为世界的可持续发展做出了贡献。

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Contributor: Mike Steyels
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li

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供稿人: Mike Steyels
英译中: Olivia Li

Typhoon Day 无人能躲台风过境

April 22, 2020 2020年4月22日

What’s a typhoon day? For Chinese author Lu Yinyin, it’s an unforeseen disruption, a plan that comes to naught, a wound that you conceal, and a blow you can’t avoid. Typhoon Days, a collection of stories by Lu, presents nine women in their twenties and thirties living ordinary, if turbulent, lives. Some of these, like miniature biographies, span several years, while others tell the events of just a few days. Each short sketch brings the characters so vividly to life that you almost sense them standing there before you.

Lu doesn’t seem to control her characters from on high, all-knowing and all-powerful. Instead, she faithfully records their embarrassments, their pain, and their helplessness, piercing their fantasies and throwing open a window to let in the bracing air.



The stories all begin very quickly, plunging readers into the characters’ inner worlds. Small moments unfurl into profound narratives around life’s multifaceted nature. It reads like a friend’s blog, free of pretension or artifice. Readers are given complete transparency.

There’s nothing extraordinary in Typhoon Days, in that the writing is grounded in reality. The stories are of a humbler sort: the lonely single life of an overweight girl taking care of her father; a young woman with doubts about her married lover; a former couple whose hiking plans are interrupted by a typhoon; a working girl who’s too busy to examine her feelings. A brief description suffices because Lu’s stories don’t involve any earth-shattering events. Yet experiences like these make up everyday life for her young protagonists, who focus most of their waking mental energy on making sense of it all. How to deal with these events, how to accept them or extend or put a stop to them are the questions they face; ultimately, they’re struggling against their own obsessions and imagination.



The way these protagonists mutter to themselves will strike a chord with those who tend to get stuck in her head.

About marriage:

It was the first time she’d ever seen someone that age still unmarried. Everyone around her was married, no one lived alone. The man sat back down for a while, then got up and left. She watched him walk out the door, a shiny grease stain on each elbow. She felt as though a line of defense had been broken: there really were people who never found a spouse.

About a complicated relationship:

As he drove, she chattered on about this and that. Sitting next to him, she remembered the time he picked her up from the airport and she said that she wanted some dark chocolate. He reached into his backpack, took out five pieces—different brands, different flavors—and handed them to her from the left, in that angle, in that posture.

About work:

She’d met the boss of the other company once at a meeting. His body, she noticed, existed in different states of time simultaneously: his hands were in the past, recording the suggestion raised a moment ago; his mouth was in the present; his eyes had already reached the future. She could sense that division, and tell that he was there but not here.





The most moving sections of the book come from the characters’ internal monologues, as they observe their own behavior with cruel, self-mocking clarity. That self-awareness is what lets them keep their footing even when they’re pulled into the whirlwind.

Lu’s stories usually don’t end with a climactic revelation but instead stop in the middle. Many things are like that: there’s a moment of understanding, of insight, of letting go. The effects linger, but even people weighed down by their thoughts and feelings still have to go on living.

To pick up a copy of Typhoon Day in Chinese, please click here.




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Contributor: Cain Wu
Photographer: David Yen

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供稿人: Cain Wu
摄影师: David Yen

Tainted Innocence 谁动了那个少女?

April 20, 2020 2020年4月20日

In pastel hues, innocent looking girls engage in a series of transgressive, often morbid acts. In some, they burn, suffocate, and stab their stuffed animals. In others, they experiment with sexual or violent acts on each other, often both at the same time. This is the acrylic world of Kana Miyamoto, a Japanese painter testing boundaries and shedding inhibitions.

色调柔和的画面中,看似天真无邪的女孩做着一些近乎病态的越轨行为:她们用火烧、用手掐甚至用刀刺毛绒玩偶,或是互相进行性与暴力的实验。这些由日本画家宫本香那(Kana Miyamoto)用丙烯颜料勾勒的作品,像是要不断挑战底线,冲破压抑的世界。

Miyamoto’s pieces revolve explicitly around young girls, usually dressed in cute outfits that drift into the realm of naughty. “I’ve liked drawing girls since I was in elementary school,” she says. “I admired cute and fashionable girls, and that’s how I started drawing them.” As she grew older, she continued developing her skills while honing her artistic vision. The characters have become simple vehicles of expression, devoid of guilt or agency.


Originally, her work was an exploration of youth and the savagery of kids. “I was strongly attracted to the reckless cruelty of children and how they’re never blamed, no matter how crazy things get,” Miyamoto says. But eventually, it became a study of cruelty in general. “Humans are so ambivalent towards one another and inconsistent with their values.” 


这种着迷最终演变成了对残忍暴行的整体性探讨, “人类彼此之间如此矛盾,他们的行为与价值观往往是不一致的。”

Miyamoto’s work is a pressure valve of sorts. “I think I am releasing myself by drawing pictures of these free girls,” she says. “I’m a very emotional person.” The sexual themes and violence depicted in her work is a comment on the way an inhibited atmosphere tends to create its own backlash. “Sex becomes a punching bag in a repressed society.” 


The sapphic nature of her work fits neatly into a long tradition of erotic art in Japan that goes as far back as ancient shunga art and continuing through the hentai of contemporary manga. But Miyamoto says it’s not directly influenced by either; her art is about her personal feelings and experiences, and, much of her work is based on childhood memories. In one case, she cites the sexual bullying of a classmate as something that stuck with her for years.

“I was very embarrassed to publish the sexual works at first,” she says, “but now I don’t care much. If people don’t like it, that’s fine. As long as they feel something.”



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Contributor: Mike Steyels
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li

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供稿人: Mike Steyels
英译中: Olivia Li

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Stranger than Fashion 当脑海中的景象成为现实

April 17, 2020 2020年4月17日

Fashion editorials often strive to escape the bounds of reality to pursue a vision of pure fantasy. Photography, though central, is simply one tool among many. The worlds gleefully built by photographer Wei Huan abound with humanoid characters inhabiting blinding, colorful alien landscapes. Models pose in dystopian wastelands or sit in pools of industrial waste as tire fires burn in the background. Others curl up in a warm bedroom, encased in a creamy, dripping bubble.


“The role of photography in fashion editorials,” says Wei, who lives in Guangzhou, “is to stand out like the most beautifully dressed person in the crowd, to quickly attract people’s attention.” To achieve that aim, she dispenses with the rules of any single genre. “I don’t really care if my work is classified as photography. The camera is just a medium, not the ultimate goal.”


Wei started out studying graphic design but switched to photography, which she found more interesting. Working as a creative director after college, she honed her personal style and accumulated enough knowledge of photography and fashion to realize her visions. 

“I don’t need to depend on anybody else to bring my ideas to life. No one knows better what the picture in my mind is than I do,” Wei says. She creates the core vision for each project, yet she still works with a team of trusted and valued collaborators. “A fixed team knows much more clearly what the other person wants, saving a lot of communication costs.”



In post-production is where Wei’s team often dials up the surrealism, digitally adding tentacles or reptilian appendages to her models. But she’s begun moving away from software-assisted image manipulation. In recent years, she increasingly works with stage designers and makeup artists to physically bring these dreamlike elements to life.


Wei enjoys working on fashion editorials because they allow for radical creativity. “I like the constant creativity in fashion,” she says. Still, there are strings behind that funding. “It’s a service, and you work for a client.”

正是因为那些时尚机构不加掩饰的包容心,韋欢十分享受为杂志拍摄的过程。她说:“时尚行业里源源不断的创意令我入迷。” 不过,这种创作背后也有着一定的限制,“毕竟这是一项服务,你终究还是要为客户着想的。”

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Contributor: Mike Steyels
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li

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供稿人: Mike Steyels
英译中: Olivia Li

Set in Stone 是时候用石头许愿了

April 15, 2020 2020年4月15日

In the mountains of South Korea, it’s common to find doltaps—or stone stacks—all along the trails. The closer you get to a temple, the more you find. Some think these piles of stones can ward off bad fortune; for others, they’re makeshift altars of prayer; still others believe that building a doltap can make a wish come true.


In 2016, on a visit to a Buddhist temple in the mountains of Yangsan, Seoul-based artist Ok Kim saw doltaps for the first time. She marveled at their beautiful simplicity and found herself fascinated by the spirituality behind the practice. “People pile up each piece of stone with a wish or prayer in mind,” she says. “They have to pay close attention when balancing them so the stack doesn’t collapse.” These fragile pillars led her to create Merge, an ongoing series of works designed in their likeness.

2016 年,首尔艺术家 Ok Kim 前往梁山区一座佛教寺庙参观时,第一次看到了这些石塔。她折服于这些石塔的简单之美,也对其背后的精神意义十分着迷。她说:“人们在堆砌石头时,内心都会许愿或祈祷,每放一块石头,他们都得专心致志,小心维持石头的平衡,否则整个石堆就会崩塌。”这些小心翼翼保持平衡的石堆,启发了她目前还在创作中的《Merge》项目,这是一系列参照石塔造型打造的雕塑作品。

Merge was originally envisioned to be more expressive than functional, but given Kim’s background in furniture design, practicality was never far from her mind. Her steel sculptures aren’t simply meant to be gazed at—the majority of them are designed to be used as tables and side stools.

最初创作《Merge》时,她主要注重其表现力而非功能性,但因为 Ok Kim 家具设计方面的背景,所以不由自主就会在设计中融入实用性的考量——这些钢材雕塑不纯粹是供人欣赏的艺术品,大多数还能用作桌子和凳子。

Like doltaps, Kim’s sculptures are lopsided, staggered arrangements, but instead of a lifeless gray, she coats hers in a palette of radiant colors. In one sculpture, earthen yellows melt into a swath of pine green, calling to mind the changing leaves of autumn; in another, shades of teal swirl with darker blues on a rippled finish, conjuring imagery of a lake’s shimmering surface on a warm summer day. The colors and textures she incorporates on her sculptures are all inspired by South Korea’s idyllic mountains, where she first came across doltaps. It’s also Kim’s way of paying tribute to the painterly charm of the outdoors.

正如叠石塔那样,Ok Kim 的雕塑有着倾斜的外形,参差交错,但在她作品上,石塔原本的沉闷灰色被鲜艳的色彩涂覆。一件雕塑中,土黄与松绿相交融,让人联想到秋日岑林尽染之景;另一件雕塑,蓝绿与墨兰交织成漩涡般的波纹状,仿佛温暖夏日里波光粼粼的湖面。这些雕塑的色彩设计灵感源自韩国的田园山间风景,那里也是她第一次看到叠石塔的地方,因此这样的用色,也是 Ok Kim 对大自然绝妙配色的致敬。

These colorful sculptures are all varnished by layer after layer of ott-chil, a lacquer made from the sap of ott trees. It’s a traditional technique that’s become increasingly obsolete in modern times. Only a handful of Korean artisans still work with the material, and for good reason: aside from the amount of time required when working with ott-chil, skin contact with the liquid sap can result in severe rashes.

Kim insists on the painstaking technique, even though it can take her up to five months to finish a sculpture. In fact, she’s grown to cherish the difficulty, viewing meaningful parallels between the challenging creation process of each piece and her own struggles in life. “When I was in my late 20s, I didn’t like the way I lived,” she recalls. “I felt like a failure, but looking back, those years were formative. It helped me find my identity and purpose. I’ve had to go through the bad to get to the good. That process is like how I make art now—there are different stages to go through before a new sculpture can become polished and refined.”


虽然每一个雕塑往往要花上五个月的时间,但 Ok Kim 一向坚持使用这种繁复的工艺。事实上,极富挑战的创作过程、与她个人生活的挣扎困厄有着不少相似之处,Ok Kim 已经学着把这样的挑战当做一种财富。她回忆说:“20 多岁的时候,我很不喜欢自己的生活,总觉得自己像一个失败者。但回看过去,那几年我真的成长了很多,也找到了自己的身份和生命的意义。一个人必须经历过不幸才能变得更好。这个过程就像我现在的艺术创作一样,要成就一件精妙绝伦的雕塑,必先要经历几个不同的阶段。”

Just like when building doltaps, Kim makes a wish with the completion of each sculpture. “My wishes have been broad, but they’re things people usually wish for: things related to love, happiness, and family,” she laughs. “My favorite wishes were about achieving my dream of creating art, to be myself no matter what, and to stand firm even in the most difficult of situations. I think they’ve all come true.”

就像在叠石塔时一样,Ok Kim 每完成一件雕塑都会默默许下愿望。她笑着说:“我的愿望很多,但都是很普通的愿望,和爱情、幸福和家庭有关的愿望。我许过最有意义的愿望就是实现艺术创作的梦想,坚持做自己,哪怕在最困难的情况下也要坚定不移,我觉得这些愿望都实现了。”

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Instagram: @okkim_studio


Contributor: David Yen
Photographer: Chris da Canha

Chinese Translation: Olivia Li
Additional Images Courtesy of Ok Kim

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Instagram: @okkim_studio


供稿人: David Yen
摄影师: Chris da Canha

英译中: Olivia Li
附加图片由 Ok Kim 提高

Sci-fi Lookbook 平行世界中的复古潮

April 13, 2020 2020年4月13日

Sci-fi illustrations with characters dipped in streetwear is a bonafide subculture on Instagram, and the combination is a surefire way for artists to get fans. Standing out among that sprawling crowd takes work, and Taiwanese artist Chien-An Chou is levels above the rest.

科幻题材加上街头时尚打扮的角色,兼具这两种元素的插画成为了 Instagram 上的一种热门亚文化,也是一部分艺术家在 Instagram 上的吸粉秘诀。但是,要在众多同类型的艺术家中脱颖而出并非易事,而台湾艺术家周建安显然具备了比他人更胜一筹的本事。

In one image a bun-haired skater girl with bashed-up shins races a train, whipping up a frenetic cloud of dust around her. In another, a girl in baggy gear posts up against a cop car with a cyborg officer glancing out the window. A model in a blue tracksuit and chunky sneakers poses with a grin amidst towering red buildings and floating boom boxes. Racing uniforms, ‘90s polo shirts, souvenir jackets, high socks, and skate shoes pop up repeatedly.

在他的一张插画中,梳着发髻、腿上伤痕累累的滑板女孩正与一旁的火车赛跑,四周扬起阵阵灰尘;在另一张中,一个穿着宽松服装的女孩正靠着一辆警车,坐在里面的机器人警察探出来扫视着。还有一个身穿蓝色运动服和厚底运动鞋的女孩,在高耸的红色建筑和漂浮的立体音箱中,正笑着摆姿势。在他的插画中,赛车服、90 年代的 polo 衫、刺绣夹克、高筒袜和滑板鞋是最常见的元素。

His illustrations aren’t particularly meaningful—they’re pure aesthetics. But it’s work that oozes talent. Every movement pulsates with energy, every pose overflows with moodiness. The characters imagined by Chien-An Chou, always fashionably outfitted, inhabit a parallel-universe version of Taipei. Each vibrantly detailed frame takes three to four weeks to complete, he says, emphasizing the level of commitment behind his work.


Chou has been drawing almost his entire life. Although his parents were supportive, they worried he wouldn’t have a stable future. “Now that I have a certain level of success, their thinking towards painting has changed,” the Taiwanese artist says. He studied at an art school in Taipei and worked in advertising until two years ago, when he made the leap into full-time illustration. “Taiwan is not very friendly to artistic creation,” Chou laments. “Painting is considered a kind of hobby and not a career. I hope to change that perception.”


He’s on the right path so far. All of his characters wear intricately tailored clothes and accessories—originally just pieces he wanted to collect for his wardrobe. But now he’s gone from drawing clothes to putting his illustrations on his own streetwear band, C.A. CHOU.

Chou says that Taiwan still has a way to go in terms of fashion. He hopes that through his clothing label and artwork, he can encourage people to be more expressive and experimental with what they wear. “Few people here dress like this,” Chou says of his characters’ styles. “In the real world, everyone dresses more conservative. This style is simply a small subculture, for now. I’m looking forward to when people can become bolder and more courageous about wearing their own unique styles.”

目前来看,他选择走这条路没有错。他笔下的角色穿着样式各异、细节复杂的衣服和配饰。这些服饰都是他按照自己的喜好来画的。而现在,他更将画中设计的衣服,变成了他的个人街头潮牌 C.A. CHOU


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Facebook: ~/cachouart
Instagram: @c.a.chou


Contributor: Mike Steyels
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li

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脸书: ~/cachouart
Instagram: @c.a.chou


供稿人: Mike Steyels
英译中: Olivia Li

Run ZNC 请你出门左拐,别在这涂鸦!

April 10, 2020 2020年4月10日

When people talk about the best cities for graffiti, Singapore, with its draconian anti-vandalism laws, isn’t usually high on the list. Yet it’s home to one of Asia’s most prominent graffiti artists Slac Satu—who co-founded the Zinc Nite Crew and became famous in a high-profile criminal graffiti case.

Slac got his start when graffiti in Asia was still young. Back in 1998, when neither he nor Singapore knew what graffiti was yet, Slac and his friend Monk began running around the city catching tags by night. They didn’t know anyone doing anything like this, though later they learned that another group called OAC had also been writing.

提到最适合涂鸦的城市,新加坡通常都是榜上无名,毕竟这里的反破坏公物法律极其严酷。然而,亚洲最出色的涂鸦艺术家之一:Slac Satu 正是来自新加坡。他是 Zinc Nite Crew 的共同创始人,因为一起广受关注的涂鸦刑事案件而为人熟知。

涂鸦在亚洲刚兴起时,Slac 就开始参与涂鸦创作。1998 年,他和当时的大多数新加坡人一样,对于涂鸦这个概念还很懵懂。那时候,他常常和朋友 Monk 趁着夜色,奔走于这座城市的不同角落创作 tag(签名)。刚开始,他们以为只有自己在做这样的事情,直到后来他们发现另一个名为 OAC 的团队也在玩涂鸦。

Though he was most inspired by American graffiti, Slac was thirsty for any scrap of knowledge he could find. “Skateboarding magazines had a lot of graffiti in them, so we’d spend hours studying the small pictures,” he recalls. Although they started out bombing—working illegally, getting their work up in highly visible spots—they were also fine-tuning their artsy skills in hidden spots along Singapore’s canals.

美式涂鸦对 Slac 的创作影响最深,他如饥似渴地搜集一切找到的资料学习。他回忆说:“滑板杂志上有很多涂鸦,所以我们常常花很多时间去研究里面的图片。”尽管他们已经开始到街上去“非法”涂鸦——为提升被看见的几率,他们都尽可能地在人流量大的地方画,但同时也一直在沿着运河旁的隐蔽角落,不断磨炼自己的技巧。

The public had no idea what to think in those early days. “At first it was quite chill,” Slac recalls. “A lot of times we’d just paint right out in the open in front of other people. They just watched in silence.” The honeymoon didn’t last long. Vandalism was on everyone’s radar, especially after an American had been sentenced to jail and caning for wrecking some automobiles a few years earlier. But Slac considered himself an artist. “I truly believed I was being creative and putting free art on the streets.” The police didn’t see it that way.

In 2000, the police arrested Slac and three other teammates. “They were already investigating us, but we didn’t know it,” he says. “We were ambushed one night and caught in the act putting our names up. I got away but had to surrender myself the next day.” He faced jail time, but after fighting the case for close to three years, he got off with one year of probation, a 9 p.m. curfew, one hundred hours of community service, and some hefty fines. He was also blacklisted for the next ten years. “When that happens, you end up on a ‘naughty list.’ If you’re looking for work, employers know it and getting a good job becomes a challenge.”

“ZNC was done for,” Slac says. “I was about to quit graffiti.” Luckily a friend signed him up for a graffiti competition, one of the country’s first. “I was stressed about the case, which was still ongoing. But we were just getting started.” So he went—and won.

刚开始,公众对涂鸦的态度还不太明确。“大家的反应都挺平静的。”Slac 回忆道,“很多时候,我们就是这样在大庭广众下涂鸦,旁边的路人也只是默默地看着。”但这种和平没有持续多久,涂鸦开始被视为一种蓄意破坏公物的行为而备受关注。尤其是在几年前,一个美国少年因为涂鸦多辆汽车而被判入狱和鞭刑的案件发生之后,这种情况愈演愈烈。但是 Slac 认为自己只是一位艺术家。“我只不过在进行创意创作,在街上创作免费的艺术品。”但警察却不这么认为。

2000 年,警察逮捕了 Slac 和他的三个队友。他说:“警察原来一早就在调查我们,但我们完全蒙在鼓里。某天晚上我们在涂鸦的时候,警察早就埋伏好,当场逮捕我们。我成功逃跑了,但是第二天还是去自首了。”他面临入狱处罚,在打了近三年的官司之后,他最终获一年缓刑,加上晚上 9 点的宵禁、一百小时的社区服务以及高额罚款。在接下来的十年中,他被列入了黑名单。“发生这种情况后,你就会被加入一个黑名单。如果你要找工作,雇主就会知道这一点,那么想找一份好工作就比较难了。”

Slac 说:“我当时觉得 ZNC 要解散了,也打算不再涂鸦了。”幸运的是,一位朋友帮他报名参加了一场涂鸦比赛,这场比赛也是新加坡国内的首次涂鸦比赛。“我当时压力很大,还在打官司,但我们才刚刚开始。”所以他去参加了比赛,并胜利凯旋。

The victory was a clear turning point for Slac. It led to his first commission and made him reevaluate the possibilities of graffiti. “All of a sudden everybody knew who we were,” he recalls. “The case made the regional news. They were calling us the most wanted crew in the country. The other crews didn’t like that though, and it led to a lot of beef.”

By then the crew consisted only of him and his friend Monk. To keep ZNC going, they needed younger blood, so they started recruiting beyond the borders of Singapore. Soon, Phobia and his crew from Malaysia joined. Shake and his team from Indonesia were next. “We didn’t plan for it to become international; it just took its own course. A graffiti crew from Singapore with its strict laws, starting a worldwide crew? It didn’t seem doable. But I stood my ground for the team. They’re family.” A flame that was about to be extinguished eventually grew to a worldwide collective with 100 members at the time of this writing.

这次比赛获胜对 Slac 来说是一个转折点,也为他带来了第一份工作,他也因此重新评估了自己的涂鸦事业。他回忆说:“突然之间,所有人都认识你,这件案件也成为了当地的新闻。人们称我们是新加坡最受欢迎的涂鸦团队。但这也惹到了其他涂鸦团队,所以也导致了很多争吵。”

当时他们团队里只有两个人:他和朋友 Monk。为了让 ZNC 进一步发展,他们需要吸纳年轻的血液,于是他们开始在新加坡以外的地区招募新人。很快,来自马来西亚的 Phobia 和他的团队加入了 ZNC。紧接着,来自印度尼西亚的 Shake 和团队也加入进来。“我们一开始也没打算走向国际;只是自然而然地就成了这个样子。在新加坡这个严刑峻法的国家组建一支国际化的涂鸦团队?听上去就很不现实。但是我一直为团队坚守立场,我们是一家人。”谁能想到这一枚摇曳的火苗,最终燃烧蔓延成一支拥有 100 名成员的全球化团队。

Around 2002, Singapore unveiled its first legal wall at a skatepark. Two years later it added another, and this became home to Slac and other local writers. Eventually new management started demanding to review mockups of anything that would be painted, stifling their work. He boycotted the space and began hunting for a new one. An art collective offered him another home, and eventually, Slac took that space over, turning it into the country’s new hub for graffiti, The Blackbook.

“I want to keep the crew and the scene tight, but we couldn’t do that without our own space,” he says. “With a studio, we can do so much more, focus so much more. It’s a work hard, play hard kind of mentality.” Blackbook proved to be the final missing piece for the country’s scene. The space has a graffiti shop that carries a wide assortment of paint and tools. There are walls people can paint freely. And people are always there, just hanging out, building bonds, and sharing secrets of the trade. “Our role is simple: keep the scene alive,” Slac says. “The next generation of writers won’t be left to figure it all out on their own like me and most of the pioneers.”

大约在 2002 年,新加坡在一个滑板公园推出了第一面合法的涂鸦墙。两年后,又新增了一面,这里成为了 Slac 和其他当地涂鸦艺术家的创作乐园。后来,新的管理层开始要求审查所有涂鸦的图案,这扼杀了他们的创作自由。于是,他放弃了这个空间,开始另觅新的空间。一个艺术团体为他提供了另一个创作的地方,最终 Slac 接管了这个空间,将其改造成新加坡新的涂鸦中心“The Blackbook”。

他说:“我想让团队和涂鸦界有更紧密的联系,所以我们必须要有属于自己的空间。有了工作室,我们可以做更多的事情,更专注于创作。努力工作,努力玩。”Blackbook 已经成为新加坡涂鸦界不可或缺的一部分。工作室设有一间涂鸦用品店,出售各种各样的喷漆和工具。里面也有一些墙面,让人们自由涂鸦。大家都喜欢到工作室里,聚会闲聊,结识朋友,交流创作的技巧。Slac 说:“我们的角色很简单,那就是让涂鸦界保持活力。让新一代的涂鸦艺术家不需要像我和大多数前辈那样自力更生,自己解决所有问题。”

The authorities haven’t forgotten Slac, though. “There’s no more illegal graffiti in Singapore, that era is dead,” he says. “Whenever there are any new vandalism cases, the cops come knocking on our door. You want to go bombing? Sure, I understand. Just leave Singapore to do it.” 

不过,政府当局并没有忘记 Slac。他说:“新加坡不再存在非法涂鸦了,这样的时代已经过去了。每当出现新的破坏公物事件,警察就会找上门来。’你想上街涂鸦?我当然理解。但请你出门左拐,到新加坡外面去涂。’”

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Instagram: @slacsatu | @zincnitecrew


Contributor: Mike Steyels
Photographer: Gabe Tan
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li
Additional Images Courtesy of Slac Satu

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供稿人: Mike Steyels
摄影师: Gabe Tan
英译中: Olivia Li
附加图片由 Slac Satu 提供