與Jackson Pollock的緣份

我對超現實主義一向感興趣:潛意識是否有訴說的可能?大學時讀過少許洛夫的評論,洛夫詩歌創超現實主義的先河,那時我聽過「自動寫作」這個概念,很新鮮,很有趣,人心裡的冰山怎樣在意識皮層出現,再轉變成可述說的語言呢?

上年三月,在圖書館貪得意借來了一本畫冊,是Jackson Pollock的作品集,由藝術書老字號taschen出版社出版。第一章第一個對頁就是Pollock最重要的作品Mural。偌大的畫布上佈滿粗豪又零亂的黃黑色線條,遠看看不清是什麼,近看既像人,又像鳥。線條重覆,但很有動感,像舞蹈,令人看著想跳舞。

Impressionism和Neo-impressionism的作品都要求人近看的。如莫內的作品,近看是顏色的重疊,遠看則整個在草原的女人、荷花湖的靜謐氛圍立即浮現出來;又如Georges Seurat的畫作,刻意運用對比色調,近看時只見顏色的撞碰,一點一點保持距離,遠看時對比色調襯托出具體的輪廓,令人汗顏——neo-impressionism畫家們對顏色和線條的研究真有如科學家一般執著和仔細。

美人當然近看才好看。impressionism和neo-impressionism喚起觀者「驀然回首,那人卻在燈火欄柵處」的讚嘆,有如解迷一般,有著敘事上的美。但Pollock的作品,那有如舞蹈般的動感筆觸,卻把觀者的凝視抽離,使人遠看不行,近看了,雖然有頭緒,又被帶離具體視象,想猜也猜不中。大概他作畫時也不知道將會畫什麼,只是任意讓線條和意識碰撞。

Pollock正正是超現實主義的代表畫家。自己也不知自己畫什麼,不就像幼齡孩子在畫畫,什麼也畫一通,不知所以然?

Pollock是一個傳奇人物。四兄弟中排最小,媽媽對他過於保護和控制,令他又愛又恨,長期借醉酒來處理家庭的創傷。小時候學畫,素描基本功學不好,曾被勸轉向運動方面發展,但他醉心以畫畫表達內心的情感。在學畫的過程中,墨西哥畫家對他影響很大。當時美國畫家為了發展獨立於歐洲的畫風,常於墨西哥原始藝術中找靈感。年少的Pollock為了學畫,也參加過墨西哥畫家David Alfaro Siqueiros的工作坊,在自由奔放的墨西哥畫風影響下,Pollock學會了pouring與dripping的畫法,也學會在想象力的框架下進行controlled accidents。他又從Picasso身上學會了超越國籍的世界語言,不窒礙於同期美國畫家民族主義式的畫風重建工程,他認為,現代藝術的角色,是用新的技術表達時代,把情緒融入於表達,而不只敘述情緒。

他畫過不同風格的作品,但Mural是他的大成。雖說是Mural(中文譯為壁畫),但在書中很難看出其大小。這幅畫是替收藏家Peggy Guggenheim畫的。當時他只有一天時間,必須在限期前完成這幅巨畫,將會掛在Guggenheim家的entry hall裡。如此緊迫的時間,Pollock發揮他的無窮創意;而正是這幅趕死線的畫,讓他在一夜之間擠身美國最頂尖的藝術家之列。

剛過去的聖誕節,我在柏林旅行期間有幸遇到Pollock的畫展,與這位畫家真有說不出的緣份。原本我們打算到另一間博物館,怎料在地鐵裡看到廣告,正正是Mural的一部分,我們二話不說走去看。是一個小型展覽,在一座銀行大樓的地下展覽廳,但遊人如鯽。展出的畫作不多,最重要的展品正是 Mural。整個畫展以 Mural為中心,簡略地介紹Pollock如何受不同畫家影響,最後畫出Mural。佇立現場,不禁讚嘆真跡與印刷品是兩回事,Mural佔了展廳的一面牆,我走近看,那些像人又像鳥的pattern,其實更像人;真跡裡pouring和dripping的技巧更明顯,可清楚看到顏色的覆蓋、顏料未乾時流下來的水滴漬,但也看出畫家不是把顏料胡亂揮灑一番,畫家的筆觸仍然清晰可見,那些黑色伴以綠色的contour是最好的證明。這些筆觸,是畫家情感的內化,我遠觀Mural,也能感受到畫家的情感的流動。

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這就是在想象力的框架下進行的controlled accidents嗎?

「自動創作」很容易被誤解為不假思索,超現實主義是藝術家暫時壓抑意識(consciousness),讓潛意識的視象湧出來,成為創作的源頭,但藝術家如何遊離於不受控的潛意識與有意識的藝術創作之間?我想到尼采的《悲劇的起源》提到酒神和太陽神的互補,酒神代表人的慾望、潛意識,能把我們毀滅,太陽神則是規律、敘事,規範酒神,把酒神的創造力量引導出來,轉化成藝術品。大抵自動創作不完全是鬼上身那種「自動」,只有酒神,人會精神分裂,失去語言,失去思考。

畫展裡停在Mural,Pollock後期的畫作我無緣看到。Pollock成名後,畫風更自由奔放,dripping和pouring更明顯,可見的筆觸不見了,只有顏色的揮灑。不過我還是喜歡Mural時期的他。現代藝術常被批評,到底怎樣才算是藝術?我不懂回答,不過作為普通的欣賞者,喜歡不喜歡,有如緣份,欲說即忘言,還是忘記太陽神,還諸酒神吧。

P.S.

  1. 當天的展覽,Mural正對面的,是Pollock妻子Lee Krasner的Another Storm,尺寸與Mural一樣大。Lee Krasner跟Pollock同是超現實主義畫家,她帶Pollock認識當時出名的畫家,Pollock成名她是功不可沒的。畫中可見她同樣運用了pouring的手法。我個人喜歡Another Storm更多。Krasner雖然比Pollock早成名,但一直活在丈夫的影子下。

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2. 當天還展出四十年代超現實主義的照片,現在看來,像是電腦合成照。由於Pollock 畫成Mural只有一天一晚的時間,他沒有太多時間沉思,只好靠這些照片激起靈感。

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In front of Fate

Today, in a wedding ceremony, which was the time for the new couple to deliver their speech of bliss, I am deeply impressed by what the bride said, “I gave born in a family of love. I thanks to my parents who love me no matter who I am and what I have done. They don’t judge me by my mistakes and allow me to try, to make things wrong….”

I still remember when I was six to seven years old perhaps, that my mum was watching a documentary about mental retard, and she said all those people don’t worth a life because they are burdens to the normals. They can’t go to toilet themselves, they can’t even eat drink speak themselves and always need to be taken care of. I turned to her, with my little puzzled head a little on one side, and ponder with myself, me, as a daughter of her, if unluckily got an accident or else I lose all my normality and being a mutt, will you still love me? Or if I am born with all those defects, am I able to live to my age?

Maybe my mom was just joking at that moment. But from my very beginning of life, I seldom feel the complete love from my parents, even though I know they DO love me. They use their way to love, tight clasp of my specialty, forbidding me to do this and that, urging me to study and scaring me with cliché remarks, if you do this or that you would be a useless beggar on the street in the future blah blah blah. I never forget the time whenever my exam papers or my dictation books were released how terrified I was, because I was afraid of being punished by my parents. But I had been working hard, I never recede, I never take a nap at school, why I still need to pursue excellence, perfection, but not just being who I am?

After the ceremony I met a friend, long time no seen. We talked about our work and family. He has similar family background with me, but much worse, that everybody in his family are in fight, both physically and mentally, and he loses sleep always, can’t work and study properly. His spiel of sorrow and anger about his family nearly flooded me in our conversation, but I still stood there, because I sensed his loneliness. He deeply needed someone to talk and share with. I may not be a good listener but I do try, opened up my mind to carry his blue. I feel pity with him. Man in this brilliant age should be shone with youthfulness and hope, but bitterness keep shut up in a case like a rare fiddle and accelerating. I haven’t told him anything of my family and tried to comfort him with my fragmentary words. He asked me, am I too weak? Why am I so easily affected by my family? I don’t know how to answer but just shout in mind, me the same! Me the same! Family is a lifelong burden that you could never get rid of, and hidden in your every drop of sweat, every flow of blood. I dare not to tell him my stories. Mutual pity is not a good thing for patients.

Happy or sad, bliss or curse, that’s not something in our hands. We are nothing in front of fate.

I am sure

Nobody knows what I am doing now. It seems like I am doing nothing except teaching innocent children as a part-time tutorial teacher, low paid, not reputable, like someone invisible on the street. I don’t really care how my ostensible life is seen, which like the only changing thing in my life is how many creepy parents I have dealt with and how slow the students I have encountered. My life is placid as an intact lake surface, no waves, no turbulence, no ripple. But whatever my life is, whoever the small potato I am, I love my life in zest.

I can’t prove myself I am capable to write, though my dear friends always praise me, and I don’t know the compliments, or even flattery, as I call it, is as true and sincere as our friendship is. But I do love them, at least for the fact that they hardly dare to hurt me. I know very little things, I am not as intelligent as my fellows, but what I am sure is I am not seeking anyone to concur with me, but on the other hand, shaping my own character, my speciality with my own hands and words. I have strong faith in my words, my sentences, even though I am not seen, not recognizable, no sheer on me, and it is just like what happened to Pollock’s young age, a little boy who fond of painting but poor in draftsmanship and even advised to go into tennis or football, and he thought, “although i feel i will make an artist of some kind i have never proven to myself nor anybody else that i have in me.”

Now, into the future, I am a writer-to-be, or even writer at this moment. Escaping the social network like Jonathan Franzen, living in my little ivory tower, I keep searching my own styles, my own ways of writing, broadening my horizon in literature, training my English. I once tried to find some professional supervision on writing, but it did fail, or maybe writing is the most solitary stuff that no one can teach or willing to share with you. So, then, I teach myself and I am sure I can succeed.