Curator Notes
Zhou Ying
"‘Ao-ai’, thus the hills and rivers turn green."
These few characters, drifting from Liu Zongyuan's peom "The Fisherman," have traversed millennia of mist and waves to hang suspended in the gallery air.
“Ao-ai”,tongue against palate, breathed softly forth. A breath rising from the diaphragm, trembling between teeth. That sound is the instant the oar parts the water's surface: the rhythm of wood against wood, wood against water, water against emptiness. One utterance of “Ao-ai” and all things startle awake, saturated by verdancy. Chen Duxi says that what he paints is precisely that moment between "rhythm" and "cadence"—an immeasurable yet eternally anchored instant.
(I)
I first met Duxi over a dinner. He was roasting a tray of shellfish in his studio, a favor for a neighbor.
The moment I stepped inside, it felt less like entering an artist's studio and more like inadvertently stumbling into an orderly yet chaotic Museum-Archive.
From floor-to-ceiling shelves to broad tables and transparent display cases, space was thoughtfully occupied by various objects. Beside a mineral specimen bearing a primordial aura rested an intricately textured snail shell; beneath an elegant orchid, grains of volcanic rock might be scattered. On the long table, stones smoothed to roundness by flowing water silently preserved the inhalations and exhalations of geological epochs; every turn of their grain spoke of rhythm—they were like solidified waves, water's whispered secrets.
Amidst this interwoven spacetime of objects, Duxi moved with unhurried purpose. Tending to the gradually opening shellfish in the oven, he would simultaneously pick up those items, hand them to me, recounting its origin and story. In that moment, his identity was fluid—artist, cook, collector, storyteller—all merging into one. The spiral of a shell unfurling from its center, each ridge recording the currents, temperatures, and light it had experienced. It was then I suddenly understood: the collections filling his room were not mere "objects," but countless "beings" awaiting the awakening call of "Ao-ai". This studio was the most direct projection of his artistic vision,a life-world brimming with the "breath of things."
I suddenly saw clearly why the artist was so insistent on naming this publication and exhibition "Ao-ai". Nothing could be more fitting. The name speaks not only to his art but also to his mode of engaging with the world—a form of cognition grounded in tactile experience, close observation, attentive listening, and full of bodily warmth.
(II)
Duxi hails from Shu, growing up in Chengdu. The misty wildness, green hills, streams, local customs, and earth of that place shaped his initial way of perceiving the world. For him, the things around him were never objects of detached observation, but existences that breathed along with him. This bodily memory extends into his "Contempalte" series.
The series signifies nurturing. But this nurturing is not about isolation and protection; it is an active cultivation and dialogue.
Uttering "Contempalte", I can almost see the young Duxi bending over a stream. Not just looking, but listening. The moment his feet waded into the water, ripples spread at a nearly imperceptible speed—that was a miniature "Ao-ai".
With the same focus, he tends to each plant, observes each stream stone, and likewise cultivates the lines and colors under his brush. The coiling, pausing, and extending of his lines trace the growth patterns of plants, the textures of water ripples, the congealing momentum of mountain rock. What we see is not a depiction of natural forms, but a channeling of their internal "spirit-resonance".
"It is not I who paint water," he once said, "but water teaching me how to become water."
(III)
What moves me most are those unfinished images. Like the pause between breaths—between the "exhalation" and "inhalation," leaving silent "negative space"; lines overlapping each other, stratifying into complex temporal layers.
"Your Body: Wisdom Tooth" is an incipient sound emanating from the depths of the body. It is not a portrait of a tooth, but a symbol of growth, pain, and the budding of consciousness. Layered lines resemble strata shifted by air currents, curling inward, yet expanding outward. They echo the spine, yet also pulse like a heartbeat. Interweaving reds and fleshtones flow like blood and “Chi” through the texture; a circle of warm bluish-green envelops the nascent darkness—a force is breaking through its shell. It is an "Ao-ai" not yet fully uttered, awakening amidst latent pain, rhythm amidst hesitation.
"The process is more real than the result."
He pointed to the faint traces at the painting's edge and said, "Just like the ancient riverbed beneath the current one. 'Ao-ai' is not an isolated sound, but the resonance between water flow and oar."
(IV)
In a contemporary context, "Your Body: Blue-Blooded Paleo-organism" (working title) can be seen as a form of "inward pictorial practice." It no longer depicts the body, but uses the body as a medium to portray the process of "perceiving oneself."
That vertical central axis is both like a spine and a growing stem—symbolizing the ascent and conduction of "Chi." The work overall presents a meditative symmetry, as if questioning: Does the form of life ultimately return to a balance of energies?
The image hovers between anatomical diagram and totem. The main structure resembles a section of an organ turned inside out from the body, or perhaps the fossilized remnant of an ancient creature. Layers of red, orange, and green create an internal pulse, like the resonance of blood, nerves, and breath. Fine cracks on the surface suggest the pressure of time—the body's boundaries constantly generating, rupturing, healing, just as consciousness renews itself.
Here, art becomes a method of self-observation, a translation between body and spirit. The breathing of lines, fissures, and colors collectively forms a portrait of an "inner creature": belonging both to the individual and to a larger life system.
(V)
Reading this manuscript late at night, I seemed to hear countless dialogues: the robust simplicity of Han dynasty stone reliefs conversing with the exquisite detail of Indian miniatures; the polychrome splendor of Dunhuang murals conversing with the drapery folds of Greek sculpture; the chaos of primordial times conversing with the clarity of this very moment. All these voices ultimately converge into the clear, crisp sound of Liu Zongyuan's poem, becoming its millennial echo.
The publication of Duxi's, spanning twelve years of his work's submersion and gestation, is not creation, but response—a response to those ceaseless, rising and falling sounds of "Ao-ai". It is not merely the literal sound of an oar, but the rhythm of all things in operation, an incantation that animates life and color. The growth rings of a shell are its "Ao-ai”, the diffusion of water ripples is its "Ao-ai”, the seepage and friction of ink and brush on silk as well.
Closing the book, the sound still reverberates in my ears—"Ao-ai”.
It is not a beginning, nor an end, but a moment within the process, the pivot of every transformation.
(VI)
Reflecting on the identity of the "artist," here with Chen Duxi, it has never been a profession of creating spectacles, but rather resembles an ancient ritual: he is the shaman, the messenger, and the translator.
He translates the invisible wind into the swaying of bamboo shadows; the inaudible pulse of the earth's veins into the grain of stone; the unnameable passage of time into the folds of water ripples. Those shells, seeds, and stones in his studio are his lexicon for "collating proofs" with nature.
His creation is a sustained summons—awakening the long-dormant resonance between thing and thing, between thing and time.
Now, the gallery is tranquil, paintings hang on the walls.
Somewhere, a drop of water falls from the tip of a fern leaf, stirring ripples in a puddle…
Chen Ying
October 2025, with the soft purring of my cat.
策展人手札
文/周颖
Zhou Ying
"‘Ao-ai’, thus the hills and rivers turn green."
These few characters, drifting from Liu Zongyuan's peom "The Fisherman," have traversed millennia of mist and waves to hang suspended in the gallery air.
“Ao-ai”,tongue against palate, breathed softly forth. A breath rising from the diaphragm, trembling between teeth. That sound is the instant the oar parts the water's surface: the rhythm of wood against wood, wood against water, water against emptiness. One utterance of “Ao-ai” and all things startle awake, saturated by verdancy. Chen Duxi says that what he paints is precisely that moment between "rhythm" and "cadence"—an immeasurable yet eternally anchored instant.
(I)
I first met Duxi over a dinner. He was roasting a tray of shellfish in his studio, a favor for a neighbor.
The moment I stepped inside, it felt less like entering an artist's studio and more like inadvertently stumbling into an orderly yet chaotic Museum-Archive.
From floor-to-ceiling shelves to broad tables and transparent display cases, space was thoughtfully occupied by various objects. Beside a mineral specimen bearing a primordial aura rested an intricately textured snail shell; beneath an elegant orchid, grains of volcanic rock might be scattered. On the long table, stones smoothed to roundness by flowing water silently preserved the inhalations and exhalations of geological epochs; every turn of their grain spoke of rhythm—they were like solidified waves, water's whispered secrets.
Amidst this interwoven spacetime of objects, Duxi moved with unhurried purpose. Tending to the gradually opening shellfish in the oven, he would simultaneously pick up those items, hand them to me, recounting its origin and story. In that moment, his identity was fluid—artist, cook, collector, storyteller—all merging into one. The spiral of a shell unfurling from its center, each ridge recording the currents, temperatures, and light it had experienced. It was then I suddenly understood: the collections filling his room were not mere "objects," but countless "beings" awaiting the awakening call of "Ao-ai". This studio was the most direct projection of his artistic vision,a life-world brimming with the "breath of things."
I suddenly saw clearly why the artist was so insistent on naming this publication and exhibition "Ao-ai". Nothing could be more fitting. The name speaks not only to his art but also to his mode of engaging with the world—a form of cognition grounded in tactile experience, close observation, attentive listening, and full of bodily warmth.
(II)
Duxi hails from Shu, growing up in Chengdu. The misty wildness, green hills, streams, local customs, and earth of that place shaped his initial way of perceiving the world. For him, the things around him were never objects of detached observation, but existences that breathed along with him. This bodily memory extends into his "Contempalte" series.
The series signifies nurturing. But this nurturing is not about isolation and protection; it is an active cultivation and dialogue.
Uttering "Contempalte", I can almost see the young Duxi bending over a stream. Not just looking, but listening. The moment his feet waded into the water, ripples spread at a nearly imperceptible speed—that was a miniature "Ao-ai".
With the same focus, he tends to each plant, observes each stream stone, and likewise cultivates the lines and colors under his brush. The coiling, pausing, and extending of his lines trace the growth patterns of plants, the textures of water ripples, the congealing momentum of mountain rock. What we see is not a depiction of natural forms, but a channeling of their internal "spirit-resonance".
"It is not I who paint water," he once said, "but water teaching me how to become water."
(III)
What moves me most are those unfinished images. Like the pause between breaths—between the "exhalation" and "inhalation," leaving silent "negative space"; lines overlapping each other, stratifying into complex temporal layers.
"Your Body: Wisdom Tooth" is an incipient sound emanating from the depths of the body. It is not a portrait of a tooth, but a symbol of growth, pain, and the budding of consciousness. Layered lines resemble strata shifted by air currents, curling inward, yet expanding outward. They echo the spine, yet also pulse like a heartbeat. Interweaving reds and fleshtones flow like blood and “Chi” through the texture; a circle of warm bluish-green envelops the nascent darkness—a force is breaking through its shell. It is an "Ao-ai" not yet fully uttered, awakening amidst latent pain, rhythm amidst hesitation.
"The process is more real than the result."
He pointed to the faint traces at the painting's edge and said, "Just like the ancient riverbed beneath the current one. 'Ao-ai' is not an isolated sound, but the resonance between water flow and oar."
(IV)
In a contemporary context, "Your Body: Blue-Blooded Paleo-organism" (working title) can be seen as a form of "inward pictorial practice." It no longer depicts the body, but uses the body as a medium to portray the process of "perceiving oneself."
That vertical central axis is both like a spine and a growing stem—symbolizing the ascent and conduction of "Chi." The work overall presents a meditative symmetry, as if questioning: Does the form of life ultimately return to a balance of energies?
The image hovers between anatomical diagram and totem. The main structure resembles a section of an organ turned inside out from the body, or perhaps the fossilized remnant of an ancient creature. Layers of red, orange, and green create an internal pulse, like the resonance of blood, nerves, and breath. Fine cracks on the surface suggest the pressure of time—the body's boundaries constantly generating, rupturing, healing, just as consciousness renews itself.
Here, art becomes a method of self-observation, a translation between body and spirit. The breathing of lines, fissures, and colors collectively forms a portrait of an "inner creature": belonging both to the individual and to a larger life system.
(V)
Reading this manuscript late at night, I seemed to hear countless dialogues: the robust simplicity of Han dynasty stone reliefs conversing with the exquisite detail of Indian miniatures; the polychrome splendor of Dunhuang murals conversing with the drapery folds of Greek sculpture; the chaos of primordial times conversing with the clarity of this very moment. All these voices ultimately converge into the clear, crisp sound of Liu Zongyuan's poem, becoming its millennial echo.
The publication of Duxi's, spanning twelve years of his work's submersion and gestation, is not creation, but response—a response to those ceaseless, rising and falling sounds of "Ao-ai". It is not merely the literal sound of an oar, but the rhythm of all things in operation, an incantation that animates life and color. The growth rings of a shell are its "Ao-ai”, the diffusion of water ripples is its "Ao-ai”, the seepage and friction of ink and brush on silk as well.
Closing the book, the sound still reverberates in my ears—"Ao-ai”.
It is not a beginning, nor an end, but a moment within the process, the pivot of every transformation.
(VI)
Reflecting on the identity of the "artist," here with Chen Duxi, it has never been a profession of creating spectacles, but rather resembles an ancient ritual: he is the shaman, the messenger, and the translator.
He translates the invisible wind into the swaying of bamboo shadows; the inaudible pulse of the earth's veins into the grain of stone; the unnameable passage of time into the folds of water ripples. Those shells, seeds, and stones in his studio are his lexicon for "collating proofs" with nature.
His creation is a sustained summons—awakening the long-dormant resonance between thing and thing, between thing and time.
Now, the gallery is tranquil, paintings hang on the walls.
Somewhere, a drop of water falls from the tip of a fern leaf, stirring ripples in a puddle…
Chen Ying
October 2025, with the soft purring of my cat.
策展人手札
文/周颖
“欸乃一声山水绿。”
这七个字，自柳宗元的《渔翁》中荡出，穿越千年烟波，此刻静静悬浮在展厅的空气里。
欸乃（ǎo-ǎi）——舌抵上颚，轻吐而出。气息自腹腔升起，于齿间颤动。那声音，是船桨划开水面的一瞬：木与木、木与水、水与空的韵律。一声“欸乃”，万物惊醒，绿意浸染。陈督兮说，他所画的，正是那“韵”与“律”之间——无法度量却永恒锚定的瞬息。
壹
初识督兮，始于一次晚餐。那时他受邻居所托，在工作室烤一盘贝壳。
我踏入他工作室的瞬间，仿佛不是走进一位艺术家的画室，而是无意间闯入一座有序而无章的“博物档案馆”。
从地面延伸至天花板的搁架，从宽大的桌面到透明的玻璃柜，每一处空间都被各样物事妥帖占据。一块带着洪荒气息的矿石标本旁，静卧着一枚纹理繁复的螺蛳壳；一株清雅兰草之下，或许散落着火山岩的颗粒。长桌上，石头被水流抚得圆润光滑，沉默地封存着地质年代的吐纳；每一道纹理的转折，都在诉说着节奏——它们如凝固的波浪，是水留下的私语。
督兮在物与物交织的时空中，不疾不徐地忙碌着。一边照看烤箱中渐渐张口的贝壳，一边随手拿起某件物什，递给我，并娓娓道出它的来处与故事。那一刻，他的身份在流转——艺术家、烹饪者、收藏家、讲述者，融为一体。贝壳的螺纹自中心旋出，每一道隆起都记录着它所经历的洋流、温度与光线。那时我忽然明白：他满屋的收藏，并非“物”，而是无数等待被“欸乃”之声唤醒的“生灵”。这间工作室，正是他艺术观最直观的显影——一个充盈着“物之气息”的生命场域。
我忽然明了，此书此展，艺术家执意命名“欸乃”，再恰切不过。这名字，不仅关乎艺术，也关乎他与世界交往的方式——那是一种亲手触摸、近身观察、侧耳聆听、充满体温的认知。
贰
督兮来自蜀地，成长于成都。那儿的云雾野气、青山溪流、风物泥土，塑造了他最初感知世界的方式。对他而言，周遭事物从不是被观察的客体，而是与他共同呼吸的存在。这种身体的记忆，延伸至他创作的“持颐”系列。
“持颐”者，保养之意。但这保养，并非隔绝与守护，而是积极的涵养与对话。
念出“持颐”二字，我仿佛看见少年督兮俯身溪流。不只是看，更是听。双足蹚入水面的刹那，涟漪以几乎不可察的速度扩散——那正是一种微型的“欸乃”。
他以同样的专注照料每一株植物，观察每一块溪石，也以此涵养笔下的线条与色彩。线条的盘旋、顿挫与延展，是植物的生长轨迹，是水波的纹理，是山石的凝结之势。我们所见的，并非自然形态的摹写，而是对其内部“气韵”的引渡。
“不是我在画水，”他曾说，“是水在教我如何成为水。”
叁
最令我动容的，是那些未完成的画面。如呼吸的间隙——在“呼”与“吸”之间，留有静默的余白；线条彼此覆盖，层叠出复杂的时间地层。
《尔躬-智齿》是一幅来自身体深处的启声。它并非牙齿的写照，而是成长、疼痛与意识萌发的象征。层叠的线条如气流推送的地层，向内卷曲，又向外舒展。既似脊柱的回响，又如心跳的涌动。红与肉色交织，如血与气在肌理间流动；那一圈温润的青绿包裹着暗处的新生——一股力量正破壳而出。那是一声尚未完全发出的“欸乃”，隐痛之中孕育觉醒，迟疑之中孕生律动。
“过程比结果真实。”
他指着画边隐约的旧迹说，“就像河床下的古河道。‘欸乃’不是孤立的声响，而是水流与橹桨的共振。”
肆
在当代语境下，《尔躬-鱟》可视为一种“内观的图像实践”。它不再描摹身体，而是以身体为媒介，描绘“感知自身”的过程。
那条垂直的中轴线，既如脊柱，也似生长的茎干——象征着“气”的升腾与传导。作品整体呈现出一种冥想式的对称，仿佛在追问：生命的形态，是否终将回归能量的平衡？
画面介于解剖图与图腾之间，主体结构仿佛自体内翻出的器官截面，又似古老生物的化石残影。红、橙、绿的层叠形成内在的脉冲，如血液、神经与气息的共鸣。表皮的细微龟裂，暗示时间的压力——身体的边界不断生成、破裂、愈合，如同意识在更新自身。
在此，艺术成为一种自我体察的方式，一种身体与精神的互译。线条、裂痕与色彩的呼吸，共同构成一个“内在生物”的肖像：既属于个体，也属于更大的生命系统。
伍
深夜翻阅书稿，我仿佛听见无数的对话：汉画像石的浑厚与古印度细密画的精微在对话，敦煌壁画的斑斓与希腊雕塑的褶皱在对话，洪荒的混沌与此刻的清明在对话。所有的声音，最终汇入柳宗元那清越的橹桨声，成为千年后的回响。
督兮这本出版物，跨越收集了他作品“岁星一周”的沉潜，不是创作，而是回应——回应那些此起彼伏的“欸乃”之声。它不仅是字面的橹桨声，更是万物运转的节律，是点化生命与色彩的咒语。贝壳的生长纹是它的欸乃，水波的扩散是它的欸乃，笔墨在绢布上的渗透与摩擦，亦是它的欸乃。
合上书，那声音仍在耳畔回荡——欸乃。
它不是开始，也不是结束，而是过程中的一瞬，是每一次转变的契机。
陆
回望“艺术家”这一身份，在陈督兮这里，它从不是创造奇观的职业，而更像一种古老的仪式：他是巫者，也是信使和译者。
他将不可见的风，译作竹影的摇曳；将不可闻的地脉脉动，译作石头的纹理；将不可名状的时间流逝，译作水波的褶皱。他工作室中那些贝壳、种子与石头，便是他与自然“对证”的词汇表。
他的创作，是一场持续的召唤——唤醒物与物、物与时之间，沉睡已久的共鸣。
此刻，展厅静谧，画悬于壁。
某处，一滴水自蕨叶尖坠下，在水洼中激起涟漪……
周颖·策展人手札
二零二五年十月完稿于狸奴清鼾声