Learn to Be a Water
2022
Mixed-media installation | Dimensions variable.
steel, electronic components, ceramic heating plate
single-channel video
Video: 4K, color, 22'49'' Mandarin subtitle
在這件作品中，裝置蒐集大氣中的水氣，凝結成可見的水滴，滴落在加熱器上，再次蒸發，回歸無形。從氣態到液態，再歸於氣，水在循環中顯影與消隱，彷彿語言、思考、記憶——在這無限的範圍裡抽取、具現又歸隱。訴說，就是具身。如雨，如鏽⋯⋯
作品運作一個週而復始的微型氣候裝置：鐵件懸吊於空中，內部藏有壓縮機與冷凝管，吸收空氣中的濕氣，凝結成水滴。水滴落下，擊中下方的陶瓷加熱片，蒸散消隱，再度釋還於空氣。
我生活的城市基隆，是一座總在濕氣中呼吸的濱海城市，窗，是我們與世界之間的轉接鍵。開窗既是換氣，也是一種暫時放棄控制的行為，讓不可見的水氣進入，滲透牆壁與皮膚，也動搖「內部」與「外部」的秩序。水氣因此成為一種完美的邊界隱喻：它無聲流動，無形存在，卻能時時重新劃定我們與世界的關係方式——一間既開著窗戶，也開著除濕機的房間。
若水是一種語言，它是否書寫著每一處邊界的模糊？若水是一種存在，那它是否持續提醒我們所有關於「我」的輪廓都是暫時、可逆、滲透的？身體的膜在濕度中膨脹、生成，乾燥與濕潤交錯是我們與環境的關係性結構。
我們需要倚靠萬物的記憶才得以存在，每片樹葉落下的聲音都飽含意義；每滴露水垂落都是啟示，任何生物的微動，都是一個生態系的震動。而我們身在其中——所有大地裡的神秘與神奇。不耗盡言說，止於所當止，讓沈默保留在自身的軌道裡，泰然肅靜，真空印乎萬有，徐靜而後動。
站在一條河流前，我總想起蘇軾的《觀潮》：
盧山煙雨浙江潮，
未到千般恨不消。
到得還來別無事，
廬山煙雨浙江潮。
逝者未去。時間被彎成一個圈，一瞬間，看到水的無所不.在，因此意識到——自己正在水裡呼吸。
錄像裡，我將身體置入濕氣瀰漫的自然中，學習成為一滴水。這不是合一的狂想，而是一種透過模仿揭露差異的行為實踐。行為成為儀式，而模仿的不可能揭示了我與水各自的存在品質。水是一種閾限的物質，它在氣與液之間遊移，在物質與感知之間變形，流逸於邊界、語言、意志之外。而鏽，是水與金屬親密摩擦後留下的痕跡，是時間滲入物質之中的刻寫。變動不只是流動，也可以是黏著；柔軟不只是穿透，也可以是沉積。水，在此既是動力，也是記憶。既是語言的隱喻，也是沈默的證據。
In this work, an installation collects moisture from the air, condensing it into visible droplets. These fall onto a heating plate, evaporate, and return to the invisible. From vapor to liquid, and back again—water appears and disappears in cycles, much like language, thought, and memory—extracted from an infinite expanse, materialized for a moment, then withdrawn. To articulate is to embody—like rain, like rust.
The piece operates as a cyclical microclimatic system: a steel structure is suspended in mid-air, housing a compressor and condenser that absorb ambient humidity and condense it into droplets. The droplets descend and strike a ceramic heating element below, evaporating upon contact and returning to the air.
I live in Keelung, a coastal city that breathes in humidity. The window becomes a hinge between body and world. Opening it is not only a gesture of ventilation, but also a temporary relinquishing of control—allowing the invisible to seep in, permeate walls and skin, and unsettle the distinction between interior and exterior. In this way, moisture becomes a potent metaphor for the boundary itself: it moves silently, exists without form, yet continuously redraws our relation to the world—specifically, the paradox of a room with both an open window and a running dehumidifier.
If water were a language, could it inscribe the blurring of every edge? If water were a mode of being, would it not keep reminding us that every contour of “self” is temporary, reversible, and porous? The membranes of the body expand and reform under humidity. The alternation between dryness and dampness shapes our structural relationship with the environment.
We rely on the memory of all things in order to exist. Every leaf that falls carries meaning; every drop of dew is a revelation. The slightest motion of a living being disturbs the entire ecological field. And we, immersed in it, are never apart from the mystery and strangeness of the earth. To not exhaust articulation, to stop where stopping is due—to let silence follow its own orbit, poised and tranquil: the void imprinting itself upon all things, stillness preceding every movement.
Standing before a river, I often recall Su Shi’s poem Watching the Tides:
Verdant mountains in mist, the tides of Zhejiang—
before you arrive, a thousand regrets;
once there, nothing remains—
just Lushan’s mists and Zhejiang’s tides.
The departed have not left. Time folds into a circle. In a single instant, I saw the omnipresence of water, and realized—I was breathing inside it.
In the video, I place my body into the humidity of a natural environment and attempt to learn how to become a drop of water. This is not a fantasy of unity, but a performative practice in which difference is revealed through imitation. Action becomes ritual, and the impossibility of imitation exposes the distinct qualities of my being and water’s. Water is a threshold substance: it drifts between vapor and liquid, mutates between material and perception, and slips beyond boundary, language, and will. Rust, meanwhile, is the trace left by an intimate friction between water and metal—a writing of time seeping into matter. Change is not only flow; it can also adhere. Softness is not only penetration; it can also sediment. Here, water is both动力 and memory—both a metaphor for language and evidence of silence.
leaen to be a water (still) 1/13
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Installation view 10/13
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