[轉貼]我的藝術家朋友 ─ 林葆靈 ｜[Repost] My Artist Friend — Lin Bao Ling

(《美育》193期, 2013年5月/6月號 Pg 78-83)

Aesthetic Education, Issue 193


（↓ English version below）

My Artist Friend, Bao-Ling Lin

葉乃菁│ Nia-Ching YEH
台南市南新國中專任視覺藝術教師

他是我的朋友，他是藝術家，他的名字叫林葆靈。

如果身分證上有職業欄的話，林葆靈的一定是填上藝術家，沒有羞赧，不會懷疑。（圖 1）

葆靈以後會越來越偉大，趁他還沒那麼遙不可及的時候，我來寫他。

也許遙不可及的不是葆靈，是我的心；我看葆靈從來就是看他的人，直到有一天我正視他的作品，突然覺得令人敬畏起來。

藝廊也好、藝文記者也好，有些人寫葆靈，會提到他的外型；我不知道藝術家的外型也可以被人著墨這麼多，如果你問我，我會說：看起來快被風吹跑的傢伙。（圖 2）然後是他的得獎經歷，如果你問我，我會說：獲獎無數。然後是他的求學經驗，這我沒那麼清楚，我看其他人的網誌或是藝廊的報導才知道，葆靈沒受過多少正規的教育，所謂的體制下的教育，我知道了以後跟他說：難怪你會這樣。

認識葆靈是因為山，還有自以為是的攀關係。登山社的活動「草嶺古道會師」，然後我看到葆靈的名字，以為是美術系大學部的學妹，林葆靈！林葆靈是哪一隻？打算用學姊的氣勢來為學妹「搓頭」，而且發現他的名字正著唸倒著念都行，葆靈怯怯的舉了手，我愣了一下，不認識的男生，是男生，而且是同屆美術研究所他組的同學，我尷尬了一下，但馬上回復盛氣凌人的蠢樣：林葆靈是男生的名字！？你確定你叫林葆靈！？

沒有標準答案，也不需要標準答案的葆靈，在創作上是自由的。難能可貴的的是，葆靈很早就知道自己要做甚麼。我們很少有人在很早的時候就知道自己要做甚麼，至少在我這一代是；葆靈聽到很多人活了一把年紀，學了一堆東西，卻仍不知道自己能做甚麼的時候，就會脫口而出：台灣的教育是失敗的，你們花了太多時間學沒有用的東西，而且不知道自己要的是甚麼。如果從這一點來看的話，台灣的教育果然是失敗的。

葆靈的家庭很支持他創作，葆靈的家庭教育對多數人來說也許是奇特的，也的確很少見，家裡兩兄弟都在家自學，並隨著父母到處旅行，很晚才進入所謂體制內的教育，認識葆靈時，覺得他講話有口音，問他是哪裡來的僑生，他說不是僑生，只是學齡時期大部分都待在新加坡；「為什麼選新加坡？」我問，「因為那個時候我爸想說把新加坡當成一個跳板，可以跳到世界各地的一個跳板，沒想到就黏在跳板上了。」這是葆靈式幽默。（圖 3）

因為知道自己要做的是甚麼，葆靈從來不誇下海口，好比說他在新加坡時，說他未來想回台灣開畫展，他就真的開了；在台北求學時，他說未來想在紐約開畫展，他也真的開了，他說的是他要執行的計畫，而不是遙不可及的夢想，光是這一點，葆靈十分令人敬畏。（圖 4）

葆靈的創作主題很多時候是城市，而且是晚上的城市，我沒辦法說葆靈是喜歡城市還是喜歡城市裡其他甚麼的；葆靈也喜歡山；常常失眠的葆靈說在山上比較好睡，曾有學弟開玩笑說葆靈愛山，是因為爬山可以好幾天不洗澡，你看他滿頭亂髮就知道；後來我才知道葆靈其實是不喜歡肥皂，很多人工合成的東西他都不喜歡，但是他的畫作卻充滿了人工的燈光，浮光掠影的，像顛倒的星空，一般認知上喧鬧繁華的城市之夜，到葆靈的畫裡，成了一種疏離的靜謐。（圖 5）

我看到有網誌裡說葆靈在夜晚的城市裡迷路了，我說葆靈你還要迷路多久？葆靈說：嗯，還要一陣子。葆靈創作城市的夜景，已經有九年了，問他為什麼要畫城市的夜晚？「嗯，可能是因為我晚上都睡不著吧。」夜晚是副交感神經作用的時候，往往感性先於理性，葆靈曾在他的碩論裡面提到「夜的黑色意象與稍縱即逝的光影讓我很有共鳴與感觸，夜的『低調、隱約、內省和自閉特質』似乎某種程度上對應了我自身的性格。」

葆靈的碩論裡提到「光明的黑暗，黑暗的光明」，對葆靈來說，很多東西、很多時刻、很多人…總是包含著一體兩面，強大的背後可能隱含著脆弱，快樂的背後有可能由悲傷來支持，有暗才能知亮、有影必然有光；在葆靈的畫作中，總是處處可以見到「矛盾統一，對立相生」的手法與感觸。我看葆靈的畫作，總有一種過於靜謐的喧囂，或是過於喧囂的靜謐，即便在葆靈的畫作中看到人，卻往往也只是景的一部分。（圖 6）

要理解光， 就要知道黑暗；無法忽略朋友正向光明的背面，其實蘊含巨大的憂傷；葆靈最擅長的也許不是只有傾聽，但他的確是一個傾聽者，他曾經對我說，我們這種會發洩負能量的人其實比較健康

「那你怎麼辦？大家都向你倒垃圾。」「畫畫吧。」

創作是葆靈壓力的來源之一，也是他的宣洩之一。

葆靈的作 品可以撼動人，我想有一部分是因為葆靈的創作都是從心出發，葆靈遵從自己的心來畫畫、來進行各種創作上的嘗試、來與人交往，我看葆靈很多時候是沒有性別的，就像山社的人有時候私下形容葆靈是仙人；不過仙人歸仙人，有時候是調侃，因為葆靈從沒吃過肉，碰到肉是會吐的，有時上了山，帶了來路不明的素料，就會故意說：這不知道有沒有摻到葷食，葆靈我好想看你吐喔……（圖 7）

葆靈的畫作裡有水、有霧、有雨、有雪，濕氣很重，像罩了一層薄紗看世界，又似有流動的湮鬱，我曾玩笑的說他的作品像發霉的老照片，但一閉上眼睛，卻又歷歷在目，像真實的夢境，或是跟夢境一樣真實；葆靈跟著自己的心畫畫，所以他的作品很澄澈，不矯造，如果你曾經跟他有一樣的感觸，他的作品會直通觀者的心靈，像他金車新銳油畫獎第一名的作品「紫與黃的夜曲」，我的學生看到他的作品，問我這張畫怎麼了，我說他一直哭一直哭，坐在公車上，看到外面在下雨，跟外面的天氣一起淅瀝嘩啦。（圖 8）

其實我從來沒看過葆靈哭，他其他極端的情緒我也沒看過，但是他的畫作會，他的塗鴉也會，你甚至會看到他狡詰的笑容，或是自負的神情，這個因為要去領獎而經常拒絕我們登山邀約的葆靈，實在該自負的，「你怎麼又要去領獎了？」這是我研究所時期對葆靈很常有的一個印象。（圖 9）

「我們都是油麻菜籽命，期待有一天能夠成為葵花油。」我第一次聽到，差點笑出來，葆靈轉述另一個畫家朋友的話，那個時候我們正好聊到劉興欽。我不盡然理解這句話的意義，但職志是成為一個專職畫家對不少美術系畢業的人來說，需要很大的勇氣；追求夢想，甚麼時候變成一個令人害怕的東西？堅定無懼，是一個甚麼樣的境界？那麼，如果能夠一面哀哀叫，一面不遲疑的前進，好比登山過地形，因為不能撤退，唯有前進，是不是也算一種堅持？因為你知道你不能坐在地上踢腳大哭說：我不走了！葆靈不是那種會坐在地上踢腳大哭的人，但無懼不代表勇敢，我不認為葆靈沒有害怕的東西，但是他面對自己很坦然，面對別人也很坦然，葆靈很真，並努力不去傷人（歐，誰知道呢，也許該去問問他前女友），不過與其說葆靈去傷人，還不如擔心會遇到惡意的來人。

看葆靈的畫作有時候像是在探索甚麼，水氣淋漓，或是朦朧曖昧，不管甚麼時期，總也可以找到一點這種氣味，沒把話說盡了的那種曖昧，讓人留了許多想像空間；早些時候的葆靈畫夜景，其實是五彩繽紛的，後來顏色漸漸少了，剩下藍色、紫色，特別是紫色，好多好多的紫色，「後來那些顏色去哪裡了？」「那些顏色自然而然就漸漸不見了，我也不清楚為什麼，之後或許會回來也說不定，很多事都是不斷地輪轉交替，對我來說色彩斑斕並不一定代表歡愉快樂，如同笑著的人也未必開心，妳知道的。阿信也寫道『是誰說藍色就等於憂傷 你看看天空和海洋』」。（圖10）

把顏色抽離，就像把聲音抽離一樣，再絢爛的城市之光，如果只能以一種顏色認定，就像少了配樂的默劇，演員張牙舞爪，卻只能靠想像來進入情境；葆靈畫作中的城市燈光斑斕多姿，卻似乎沒有聲音，或是罩了一層隔音玻璃，看葆靈的畫作其實有不少探索的樂趣，從葆靈的眼睛看城市流光，也能從他的畫作看回自己的眼睛，在城市待很久的人，其實很容易從葆靈的作品中找到共鳴。

我是這樣看葆靈作品的，當我認真看葆靈的作品、看他的人，我竟忍不住向其他朋友炫耀起來：我認識不得了的人呢！我甚至向學生預示：未來藝術與人文課本說不定會看到葆靈的作品！至少我看葆靈走藝術這條路，沒有惶惶然，只有期待，因為相信自己的能力，也懷抱夢想，就像那個畫家朋友說的話：「我們都是油麻菜籽命，期待有一天能夠成為葵花油。」

葉乃菁（2013）。〈我的藝術家朋友-林葆靈〉。《美育》，193期, 頁78-83-1

轉自:http://ed.arte.gov.tw/uploadfile/periodical/3209_P78-83.pdf

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

我不記得我有說過「台灣的教育是失敗的」那麼嗆的話😅

總的來說

覺得是很乃菁式的書寫

也實在過譽了

感到很慚愧

也很謝謝乃菁 ☺️

-

My Artist Friend — Lin Bao Ling 

By Nia-Ching YEH 

Full-time Visual Arts Teacher at Tainan Municipal Nan-Hsin Junior High School

He is my friend, he is an artist, and his name is Lin Bao Ling.

If identification cards included an occupation field, Lin Bao Ling’s would undoubtedly read "Artist"—without a hint of bashfulness or a shred of doubt. (Figure 1)

Bao Ling will only grow grander in the future. While he is still not entirely out of reach, I want to write about him.

Perhaps what is out of reach is not Bao Ling, but my own mind. I had always viewed Bao Ling simply as the person he is, until one day, when I truly looked closely at his artwork, a sense of awe suddenly washed over me.

Galleries and art journalists alike often mention his physical appearance when writing about him. I never knew an artist's appearance could draw so much commentary. If you were to ask me, I would say: he looks like a guy who is about to be blown away by the wind. (Figure 2) Then there is his award history; if you ask me, I would say: countless accolades. And then there is his educational background—something I wasn't entirely clear on until I read other people's blogs or gallery reports. Bao Ling did not receive much formal, conventional schooling. When I found out about his lack of institutionalized education, I told him, "No wonder you are the way you are."

I came to know Bao Ling through the mountains, alongside a bit of my own self-assertive attempt to network. It happened during a mountaineering club event called the "Caoling Historic Trail Gathering." I saw the name "Lin Bao Ling" and assumed it belonged to a female underclassman from the Department of Fine Arts. Lin Bao Ling! Which one is Lin Bao Ling? I fully intended to use my status as a senior to give this junior a playful piece of my mind—especially since I noticed his name reads the same forward and backward.

When Bao Ling timidly raised his hand, I froze. A guy I didn't know. He was a guy, and a classmate from another track within our same year in the Fine Arts graduate program. I felt awkward for a split second, but immediately reverted to my overbearing, foolish self: "Lin Bao Ling is a guy’s name?! Are you sure your name is Lin Bao Ling?!"

Bao Ling, who has no standard answers and needs none, enjoys complete freedom in his creation. What is truly remarkable is that he knew exactly what he wanted to do from a very early age. Few of us know what we want to do so early on, at least not in my generation. Whenever Bao Ling hears about people who have lived a long time and learned a mountain of things yet still have no idea what they can do, he blurted out: "Taiwan's education system is a failure. You waste too much time learning useless things without ever knowing what you actually want." From that perspective, Taiwan's education is indeed a failure.

Bao Ling's family is incredibly supportive of his creative path. To most people, his family's approach to education might seem peculiar, and it is indeed rare. Both brothers were homeschooled and traveled everywhere with their parents, entering conventional institutional education quite late. When I first met Bao Ling, I noticed he spoke with an accent and asked if he was an overseas student. He said no, explaining that he had simply spent most of his school-age years in Singapore. "Why choose Singapore?" I asked. "Because back then, my dad thought of Singapore as a springboard to leap to the rest of the world. Who knew we'd end up stuck to the springboard?" That is classic Bao Ling-style humor. (Figure 3)

Because he knows exactly what he wants to do, Bao Ling never makes empty promises. For instance, when he was in Singapore, he said he wanted to return to Taiwan to hold an art exhibition in the future, and he actually did. While studying in Taipei, he said he wanted to hold an art exhibition in New York in the future, and he actually did that too. What he speaks of are action plans he intends to execute, not distant, unreachable dreams. On this point alone, Bao Ling is deeply admirable. (Figure 4)

The central theme of Bao Ling's creations is often the city—specifically, the city at night. I cannot say whether Bao Ling loves the city itself or something else within it. He also loves the mountains. Suffering frequently from insomnia, Bao Ling notes that he sleeps much better up in the mountains. A junior once joked that Bao Ling loves the mountains because climbing allows him to go days without bathing—you can tell just by looking at his wild, unruly hair. I later found out that Bao Ling actually dislikes soap; he dislikes many synthetic things. Yet, ironically, his paintings are filled with artificial lights, fleeting reflections that look like an inverted starry sky. The night of a bustling city, typically perceived as noisy and prosperous, transforms into a form of detached tranquility within Bao Ling’s paintings. (Figure 5)

I once read a blog post claiming that Bao Ling had lost his way in the nocturnal city. I asked him, "Bao Ling, how much longer are you going to stay lost?" Bao Ling replied, "Hmm, probably a while longer." Bao Ling has been painting urban nightscapes for nine years now. When asked why he paints the city at night, he says, "Well, maybe because I can't sleep at night." Nighttime is when the parasympathetic nervous system takes over, where sensibility often precedes rationality. Bao Ling once mentioned in his master's thesis:

"The dark imagery of the night and its fleeting light and shadow resonate deeply with me, stirring profound emotions. The 'low-profile, subtle, introspective, and reclusive qualities' of the night seem to correspond, to some extent, with my own personality."

Bao Ling's thesis also explores the concepts of "bright darkness, dark brightness." To him, many things, moments, and people always encompass two sides of the same coin. Hidden behind strength may lie vulnerability; behind happiness, there may be sadness holding it up. Light is only known because of the dark, and shadow inevitably implies light. In Bao Ling's artwork, techniques and sentiments reflecting "the unity of contradictions, where opposites generate one another" can be observed everywhere. Looking at his paintings, I always perceive a clamor that is far too tranquil, or a tranquility that is far too clamorous. Even when human figures appear in his pieces, they are often merely a part of the scenery. (Figure 6) 

To understand light, one must know darkness. It is impossible to ignore that behind a friend’s bright, positive facade often lies an immense sorrow. Perhaps Bao Ling's greatest strength isn't just listening, but he is undeniably a profound listener. He once told me that people like us, who vent our negative energy, are actually healthier. 

"Then what about you? Everyone dumps their trash on you." 

"I paint." 

Creation is both one of the sources of Bao Ling's pressure and his ultimate release. 

Bao Ling's work can deeply move people, and I think a large part of that is because his creations always stem directly from the heart. He follows his own heart to paint, to attempt various creative experiments, and to interact with people. Most of the time, I perceive Bao Ling as almost genderless, much like how people in the mountaineering club privately describe him as an "immortal being." But immortal or not, it's often a tease. Because Bao Ling has never eaten meat and vomits if he touches it, whenever we went up the mountains with vegetarian rations of ambiguous origins, people would intentionally tease: "I wonder if there's any meat mixed in this... Bao Ling, I really want to see you throw up..." (Figure 7) 

Bao Ling's paintings feature water, mist, rain, and snow. They carry a heavy humidity, looking as though one is viewing the world through a thin veil, or as if there is a shifting, lingering melancholy. I once jokingly told him that his works look like moldy old photographs, yet the moment I close my eyes, they appear vividly before me—like a real dream, or as real as a dream itself. Because he paints from his heart, his works are incredibly clear and entirely unpretentious. If you have ever shared his exact sentiments, his work will strike a direct chord with your soul. Take his piece Nocturne in Purple and Yellow, which won first place in the King Car New Talent Oil Painting Award; my students saw it and asked me what was wrong with the painting. I told them: he kept crying and crying, sitting on a bus, looking at the rain outside, weeping along with the weather. (Figure 8) 

In truth, I have never actually seen Bao Ling cry, nor have I seen him display any other extreme emotions. But his paintings do, and his doodles do too. You might even catch a glimpse of a mischievous smile or a proud look in them. This Bao Ling, who frequently turned down our mountaineering invitations just to go collect an award, truly has the right to be proud. "How are you going to collect another award again?" That was a very frequent impression I had of Bao Ling during our graduate school days. (Figure 9) 

"We are all born with the fate of oilseed rape, hoping that one day we can become sunflower oil." The first time I heard this, I almost laughed out loud. Bao Ling was relaying the words of another painter friend, back when we happened to be chatting about Liu Xing-chin. I didn't fully comprehend the meaning of that sentence then, but dedicating one's life to becoming a full-time painter requires tremendous courage for many fine arts graduates. When did pursuing a dream become something to fear? What kind of realm is it to remain steadfast and fearless? If one can loudly complain while advancing without hesitation—much like navigating treacherous terrain while climbing, where retreat is impossible and the only way out is forward—does that count as a form of perseverance? Because you know you cannot just sit on the ground, kick your legs, and cry: "I'm not walking anymore!" Bao Ling is not the type to sit on the ground and throw a tantrum. But being fearless does not mean one is without fear. I don’t believe Bao Ling fears nothing, but he is completely honest with himself and equally honest with others. He is authentic, and he tries his best not to hurt people (oh well, who knows, maybe we should ask his ex-girlfriend). Then again, rather than worrying about Bao Ling hurting someone, it's wiser to worry about him encountering someone with malicious intent. 

Looking at Bao Ling's paintings sometimes feels like embarking on an exploration. Dripping with moisture or hazy and ambiguous, a hint of this atmosphere can always be found regardless of the period—a kind of ambiguity that leaves things unsaid, leaving vast room for imagination. In his earlier days, Bao Ling's nightscapes were vibrant and multicolored. Later, the colors gradually receded, leaving mostly blues and purples—especially an abundance of purple. "Where did all those colors go?" "Those colors just naturally and gradually disappeared, and I'm not entirely sure why either. Maybe they'll come back later. To me, many things are constantly rotating and alternating. A kaleidoscope of color doesn't necessarily represent joy and happiness, just as a smiling person isn't necessarily happy, you know. As Ashin wrote, 'Who says blue equals sorrow? Just look at the sky and the ocean.'" (Figure 10) 

Stripping away color is much like stripping away sound. No matter how dazzling a city's lights are, if they can only be defined by a single hue, it becomes like a silent movie stripped of its soundtrack; the actors gesticulate wildly, yet one must rely entirely on imagination to enter the scenario. The city lights in Bao Ling's paintings are brilliant and multi-faceted, yet they seem entirely devoid of sound, as if encased behind a sheet of soundproof glass. There is a great deal of exploratory joy to be found in viewing his work. Through his eyes, we observe the flowing light of the city, and through his paintings, we can look back into our own eyes. People who have lived in the city for a long time will easily find a profound resonance within Lin Bao Ling’s artwork. 

This is how I see his work. When I seriously look at his art and at him as a person, I cannot help but brag to other friends: "I know someone truly incredible!" I have even predicted to my students: "In the future, you might just see Lin Bao Ling's work in your Arts and Humanities textbooks!" At the very least, seeing him walk this artistic path, I see no anxiety—only anticipation. Because he believes in his own capabilities and holds fast to his dreams, just like those words from his painter friend: "We are all born with the fate of oilseed rape, hoping that one day we can become sunflower oil." 

Citation: 

Yeh, N. C. (2013). My Artist Friend — Lin Bao Ling. Aesthetic Education, (193), 78-83. 

Source: http://ed.arte.gov.tw/uploadfile/periodical/3209_P78-83.pdf

-

I don't recall ever saying 'Taiwan's education is a failure,' haha.

It’s written in such a classic Nai-Ching style.
But overall, Nai-Ching is too generous with her praise.
I feel quite humbled, and I’m also very grateful to her.