This exhibition is dedicated solely to painting, presented in an art museum setting. As you can see, 11 artists are participating, each showcasing two pieces—one large, one small. When asked about the theme and selection criteria for the artworks, I simply told the young post-85 generation painters: there’s no set theme; just choose two works you’re satisfied with. Sometimes, being satisfied with one’s own work can be the hardest task—at least, that’s my view.
I didn’t want to impose a rigid theme. This, I reminded myself, is the privilege of a curator: to avoid creating a “prompted essay.” Back in school, I despised the idea of a “standard answer,” realizing by the age of ten that when Lu Xun wrote those famous lines, he likely hadn’t intended for them to be so narrowly interpreted. I’ve disliked standard answers—and tests—for as long as I can remember. Now, as an adult in the professional world, I sometimes look at the words I’ve typed, wondering if they are intentionally layered in meaning. See? Standard answers can be unreliable. Life itself is filled with misunderstandings, and history even more so.
This exhibition is titled “Respective Structures: The Presence and Absence of Paintings.” Let’s start with “Respective Structures.” This theme carries forward from an exhibition I curated in Taipei this past spring, “Respective Structures: The Quest of Young Artists.” I chose to reuse the phrase “Respective Structures” because, as I once wrote, “In 1966, New York hosted a group exhibition still regarded as the first large-scale display of Western minimalism, titled Primary Structures: Younger American and British Sculptors. Among the participants were future icons like Carl Andre, Dan Flavin, and Donald Judd. Minimalism emerged in the 1960s, with artists often coming forward as collective movements defined by distinct schools and styles.”
But in today’s globalized, post-internet world, each individual is so distinct that even as a curator, I cannot categorize or summarize these eleven young artists. And even if I could, I am certain they would resist any attempt to label them under a single banner. Therefore, whether in homage to that groundbreaking exhibition 58 years ago, or as an expression of my hopes for these eleven painters’ future paths, I’ve dared to designate “Respective Structures” as the first half of this exhibition’s title.
What Is the “The Presence and Absence of Paintings”? Let’s start with painting itself—this exhibition is indeed dedicated exclusively to the medium of painting. Why only painting? Why not installations, sculptures, or video art? In recent years, both galleries and museums in China have leaned heavily into painting as a favored medium. On weekends, for instance, visitors in the 798 Art District will find that most exhibitions center on paintings. This trend is even more pronounced at auction houses, where the coveted “prime lots” in evening sales are almost always paintings. Not too long ago, just six or seven years back, large-scale installations—those multimillion-dollar ones—were still prominently featured at Hong Kong’s evening auctions. But now, anyone familiar with the secondary market knows that if a catalog showcases a large, “academic” installation piece, it inevitably sparks a bit of concern: who, after all, will buy it? And even museums, long revered as bastions of academic rigor, have visibly increased the number of painting exhibitions… So what’s driving this phenomenon?
The answer? To put it plainly, commerce.
Yes, it’s largely driven by commercial considerations. But is commerce inherently wrong? As Andy Warhol once said, “Good business is the best art.” Last year, Cecily Brown became the first living female artist to hold a solo exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York—no one questioned why she chose only to display paintings. When Mark Rothko’s solo exhibition opened at the Louis Vuitton Foundation in Paris, after five years in the making, it captured worldwide attention without a single critique of the absence of sculptures. Is it painting that’s at fault? Or is it commerce? Or, perhaps, are galleries and museums themselves to blame?
So let’s use this painting-only exhibition to commemorate an era filled with painting exhibitions. This is, once again, what I told myself. Thus, we have “painting” and nothing else. But what about “Presence and Absence”? Archeological findings tell us that painting has been around for tens of thousands of years. Our ancestors—prehistoric humans—sketched images of fish they caught and birds they hunted on cave walls, marking the birth of painting. To this day, art schools around the world see a steady stream of applicants eagerly choosing painting as their field. You and I, back in our elementary or middle school days, likely found ourselves doodling absentmindedly during class. Seen in this way, painting is indeed a part of life—not only does it exist, but it’s also surprisingly widespread.
Then I wonder—perhaps this “presence” is only an “apparent presence,” or even an “apparent absence.” In the adult world, after all, a life without painting is quite normal. For 99% of the people on this planet, painting doesn’t directly improve their lives; they can live just fine without it. Yet, undeniably, the top work in the Louvre is Mona Lisa, a consensus that has held globally for at least the past 50 years. Our Song and Yuan dynasty paintings, the West’s Guernica—whether acknowledged or not, painting still holds a revered position in the hearts of many. Even though, 185 years ago, it was pronounced that “painting is dead,” painting, up until this moment, has “held on.” Not only has it survived; it thrives, perhaps poised to live on for decades or centuries more, with ease.
Is painting truly “present” or “absent”? Is it essential, or irrelevant? Through this exhibition, we, along with the artists and the museum, aim to capture this moment in history through these 22 paintings—these works that hover between "presence and absence". Yet, beyond this, I want to talk about something even more critical: passion.
It has been so long—too long—since we encountered a painting that truly moved us. It’s like Picasso in his later years, after being canonized, still wishing he could paint like a child. Perhaps seeing painting with a fresh, untrained eye could be a path forward. What happens when we “know” painting too well? We deliver instant verdicts on artworks with effortless certainty: viewing an exhibition, swiftly identifying the “best” piece; flipping through a PDF, our thumb reaches the end, and within 20 seconds, we’ve chosen the “highlight” of the show. We’ve become too “professional” and only getting more so… but then what?
Is this an issue? Is it "our" problem? Or is it a problem with painting itself?
Returning to the experience of viewing, I find myself hoping for just a little more “passion” in painting. Basquiat, of course, was passion, but I see passion in Fan Kuan, in Munch, in Bada Shanren, in Tuymans… It’s hard to define what exactly makes up this standard of passion. But when passion appears, it’s unmistakable—it hits us as if bracing for a battle, with pupils dilated, breathing quickened, heart racing, brain waves stirring—resistance is impossible. The emotional surge is essential; rational analysis can wait.
It is often said that sincerity is an unbeatable quality; let’s assume that’s true. If time could be stretched out indefinitely, I’d suspect that sincerity isn’t quite the same as we think; passion is the true sincerity, because passion, every single moment, is the truest form of sincerity.
Qi Chao
Beijing, October 20, 2024
