A Fine Day for a Walk: Review of Lin Ting-Yu's Solo Exhibition Bark! Bark! Hello! This is lucky. It’s true.

 MrGeckoBiHu
January 2023

I recall watching a short video over a decade ago, demonstrating their research findings on the relationship between visual cortical activity and dynamic imagery by neuroscientists at UC Berkeley. The study aimed to advance understanding of how specific brain activities correspond to the images being viewed. My general understanding of the demonstration is as follows: they recorded the brain activity data of participants while watching certain videos and applied some form of hypothetical encoding for three visual characteristics—shape, edge, and motion—creating a translation system (a “dictionary”). Then, they recorded the brain activity data of participants watching a new short video while this translation system randomly processed 5,000 hours of YouTube videos, converting them into 'brain activity data.' The researchers then identified the 100 videos from the 5,000 hours 'brain activity data' most closely matched the participants' activity while watching the new video. These 100 videos were “averaged and fused” into a “reconstructed video”, which was juxtaposed with the original video to assess the system's accuracy.

Regardless of its validity, I have always found a certain poetic quality in this “reconstructed video” composed of random imagery. Firstly, of the imagery themselves: when attempting to reproduce a human figure, the images seem to possess an impressionistic texture; when attempting to replicate simple shapes, text cards, or more detailed compositions, the imagery exhibits a flickering, noisy, mottled texture, reminiscent of works by J.M.W. Turner or Wade Guyton. Secondly, of the ghostly relationship between the “reconstructed video” and the “original” video. When I first saw the footage, I assumed it was some kind of “direct” systematic translation; later, I realized it was indirect, more akin to a “creative construction”—like a hand trying to touch its destined entangled counterpart through a glass (or parallel universes), or a memory mistakenly recalled by a stranger's mind. Though I'm unsure whether “ghostly” holds any meaning for the scientists, as the relationship between a drop of ink in water and an image of a fighter jet seems purely graphical, it nonetheless brings to mind Salvador Dalí's The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory, with its fish and bullets.

What intrigues me most, however, are the residual artifacts of those images, formed after the synthesis of those 100 videos due to their random encounters. These artifacts, unrelated or only partially related to the “original” visuals, stand out—layering like ghostly, semi-transparent shadows vibrating around the half-formed possessed original. Yet, like torn flesh, these artifacts still reveal unrelated fragments of information. Together with the imagery that were never the original, they meld into a new image akin to resurrected corpse-meat stitched together. In this way, the act of “translation” itself, with its inherent “impurity”, “materiality”, and “randomness”, inevitably transforms into something far more mutated than its original model—much like the storyline of The Fly. It may even become something entirely different, carrying a deeper message. Scientists might claim that these residual forms are meaningless errors or imperfections, not facts of any kind. But artists seek a deeper “translation”, where these remnants themselves serve as a deeper truth.

To me, Lin Ting-Yu's paintings embody a form of “translation”, though what he translates is not one image into another mechanically but “desire” itself from the depths of the subconscious ocean. Yet he does not eschew figuration. In fact, Lin often uses figuration as a dramatic guide in his paintings, employing organic variation processes to “translate” himself outwards. This captures what he considers the “residuals of desire” as the “truth”—a non-static “process of becoming figurative”, a vivid distillation akin to a Cronenbergian object, continuously and viscerally “distilling alive”.

The random and spontaneous occurrences in life, the subtle unease stems from the possibility of them being pulled secretly by some unknown force, the mundane texture and their flashes of extraordinariness, their material and ideological adhesions, the illusionary falsehood and the truth within that falsehood—all coalesce in the layering of black ink glue and shredded tissue paper. Together, they form a shared relationship as residues of consciousness, dissolving into one another while becoming guides or residues of each other. And through a childlike graffiti motion, they extend onto the canvas as cave paintings bearing witness—witnessing a blackness, a bird, or ghostly truths clinging as remnants.

The difficulty lies in ensuring they do not become something else (a critique, a jest); harder still, it must retain curiosity and attention toward the ordinary and the smallness of life (in Lin's case, especially animals) while also gazing into the possibility of desolation.

Viewing Lin Ting-Yu's Taking a walk reminds me of Lou Reed's Perfect Day. Lin attempts to capture something beautiful emerging from the unease and a deep suspension—like encountering a headless ghost smiling at the camera in a collapsing room. Such humor suggests the thought: “Oh, we can still smile after all (even if lucky isn't true).” Childlike doodles of a square dog and lovely sunlight, playground tires in a park, emerging from the cracked, tense textures, from the subconscious depths of blackness. It's akin to Lou Reed's endearingly off-key yet intimately warm voice, where something struggles and wrenches the heart, melting within blankets. It reveals the illusionary void yet brings inexplicable comfort. This tension hovers in all his works, sometimes hidden, sometimes evident.

Another piece, The Cornered Beast Is Still Fighting, features a dog-figured beast stretching its simple lines within a block of white at the lower left. The white block extends to the right as if powerfully propping up a foreground, while within the void beyond the block, geometric shapes—too specific, ominously floating like threatening intentions, as though about to form an M.C. Escher-like labyrinth in the depths of blackness. Under the eclipse, an absurd creature stretches its arthropod legs, greeting me with a joke—or are these claw marks of bitter memories of futility? The strong dramatic tension flirtingly draws focus.

At times, insignificant animals in daily life are illuminated with a luminous gaze. They often humorously emerge in abstraction, as though a friendly tap greeting tense shoulders (Bird Feeding, Mosquito). Or they press the shutter toward the subconscious, bringing forth a memory we vaguely recall but never truly had, in a welcoming celebratory return that overwhelms us to tears (Golden Square, No. 31, Sec. 2, Seaside Rd, Night Watch).

His works lie between surrealism and abstract expressionism yet carry a contemporary, direct immediacy, along with a dramatic sense of intimacy. This intimacy, I think, stems from a shared subconscious perception: behind memes and trolls, amidst social network feeds, algorithmic logic, and the ideological howls competing to expose themselves, jokes might be truths, and truths might be jokes.

Lin wraps the only colored piece in the exhibition around a square sofa, inviting visitors to sit casually. Titled So Far So Good, it serves as if a direct echo of the exhibition's discourse—a straightforward, almost absurd pun (“sofa so good”), paralleling the story of Chris Evans' dog, but also as if a depiction of the day that the weather suddenly turned, within which the artist was facing an uncertain future: So Far So Good. And within the exhibition's title, Bark! Bark! Hello! This is lucky. It’s true., “Dodger” (Chris Evans' dog's name) was replaced with “lucky”. But where does this “lucky” come from? Are we “lucky”? Is this “lucky” true? And then we receive the message of luck: This is lucky. It’s true! So Far So Good.

This shadowy unease, seemingly simmering in every corner of Lin Ting-Yu’s works, suggests that even if the dog on the poster—its legs stretched wide, eyes staring—is a “non-existing fake dog”, it’s still a picture of a dog. Doesn’t it still bark Bark! Bark!? This is Lin Ting-Yu’s memetic humorous response to the contemporary mind. This, I think, is where the approachable nature of his works came from. He cherishes it, relying on a resilient mind capable of facing the deepest blackness, for it is within this resilience that humor derives its strength.

散步的好日子：
評林亭聿個展〈Bark! Bark! Hello! This is lucky. It’s true. 〉


文／壁虎先生
January 2023

我曾記得看過一個距今已十多年前的短影片，是柏克萊大學的大腦科學家對大腦視覺皮層活動與動態影像之間關係的一個研究成果展示，這個研究試圖在怎麼樣的大腦活動意味著什麼樣的影像正在被觀看這個問題上進行推進。我對這個展示影片的大致理解是這樣：他們紀錄受試著觀看一些影片時所釋放的大腦活動資料並進行了與三個視覺特質（形狀、邊緣跟動態）的某種假設編碼，建立了一套轉譯系統（字典）。然後他們又紀錄了受試者觀看一段新短片的大腦活動資料，同時這套轉譯系統隨機觀看了五千小時的YouTube影片，將這五千小時的影片轉譯成「大腦活動資料」。研究者便從這五千小時的「大腦活動資料」中，找出和受試者觀看新短片時的活動資料最接近的一百部短片，將這一百部短片「平均融合」成一個「重構短片」，這個「重構短片」便被與受試者觀看的那段新短片並置，以檢視系統的準確度。

無關乎它的有效性與否，我一直感到這個由隨機影像構成的「重構影片」中有著某種充滿詩意的東西。一是來自影像本身：當它試圖再現一個人像的時候，它形成的影像彷彿有某種印象派的質地，而當它試圖再現一個簡單圖形、字卡或是更細緻的構圖，構成影像表現出某種充滿顫動、噪點的斑駁紋理，又彷彿一幅透納（JMW Turner），或者Wade Guyton；二是來自「重構影片」和原型影片之間的鬼魅關係。第一次看到這段影像，我一直以為它是某種「直接」的系統轉譯，後來才發現它其實是間接的，更接近某種「創造性建構」，彷彿一隻試著隔著玻璃（或者平行宇宙）觸摸牽動自身命運糾纏對象的手掌，或者，一個錯誤地被另一個人的陌生大腦所記起的記憶，儘管我不太確定「鬼魅般的」對科學家們是否會有任何意義，畢竟在一滴水中油墨和一架空中戰機的影像之間，似乎只存在圖形上的關係，然而我又在這裡想到了達利（Salvador Dali）那裡，想到《記憶的堅持的解體》（The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory）裡的魚和子彈。

但我想我最感興趣的或許是由那一百部短片因隨機遭遇而在合成後形成的影像殘留物，那些無關乎原型視覺形狀或只部分符合，因而突出來的，如同鬼魅般以半透明的黑影形式層層疊加附身在半成形的原型周圍的顫動，卻依然宛如撕下的帶血肉塊般，還能看見其各自互不相關的殘片訊息，而他們又和不再亦不曾是原型影像的形體，共融成一個如屍肉縫製在一起而復活的新圖像；是以「轉譯」這個動作本身，因其「不乾淨」、其「物質性」、其「隨機性」，而必然地成為另一個遠比其母原型更「變異」之物，就像是《變蠅人》（The Fly）中的情節那般，甚至成為一個完全不同的，更深意義上的訊息。科學家或許會說，那些殘餘形狀，是無意義的偏誤或不完美，不是任何意義上的事實。然而藝術家尋求的，是一種更深的「轉譯」，在那裡，殘餘物本身便作為一種更深的事實。

對我來說，林亭聿的畫作正是在體現某種「轉譯」，然而他處理的並不是一個圖像與另一個圖像的機械式轉譯，而是在更深的潛意識深海中，對「慾望」本身轉譯。不過他並不排斥具象，事實上，林亭聿往往善用具象作為某種在畫作中產生戲劇性的指引，並透過具象的有機變異程序，將他「自己」轉譯出去，以捕獲那些作為真正的「事實」的「慾望殘留物」，一個非靜止的「具象化之過程」本身，一個活生生的濃縮，宛如柯能堡（David Cronenberg）式物件那樣，持續「活生生的濃縮著」。

那些生活中事物的隨機偶發或自發，和他們可能被某種未知之物所隱隱牽動的不安，庸常質地和他們的不庸常之閃現，他們的物質和意識形態黏附，虛幻假謬與假謬中的真實，因而於黑色的墨膠水與撕碎的衛生紙的層疊黏貼中，以一種共同作為意識殘留物的關係形式，在交錯成為彼此的指引物或殘留物的過程中彼此消溶，並以一種童心未泯的塗鴉般的動作被延展到畫布上，成為一種具有見證意味的洞穴壁畫，見證一種黑色、一隻鳥之間，作為附著著真相鬼魅的殘留物。

它的難，在於它必須不變成其他東西（一種評論，一個戲謔）；然而更難的，是它必須依然保持對庸常微小事物和生命的好奇與注目（在林亭聿這裡，尤其對動物的注目），卻又同時注視著荒蕪的可能。

觀看林亭聿的〈散步〉，令我想起Lou Reed的〈Perfect Day〉那首曲子。林亭聿試著紀錄下一種從不安、深邃的懸而未決中浮現出的，一種很美的東西，像是在塌縮的房間中撞見正對著鏡頭微笑的無頭幽靈，那樣的幽默感。原來我們還有能力微笑啊（即便lucky isn’t ture），這樣的一個念頭。孩童無邪塗鴉般的一條方塊狗和美好陽光，公園裡的遊樂輪胎，浮現在龜裂緊繃的紋理中，從黑色的潛意識深處，就像是Lou Reed有點滑稽地走調卻又因此充滿親密溫暖的嗓音，然而其底蘊中，又有什麼在掙扎中撕心裂肺，卻又被包進棉被裡融化的東西，明瞭身處幻覺虛空，卻又感到莫名地安心，這樣張力或顯或隱地浮現在他的所有作品中。

另一件〈困獸猶鬥〉，一隻狗形之獸在左下的一塊白色中拉長自己簡單線條的身子，白色方塊向右延伸出去，彷彿強而有力地支撐出一個前景，而方塊之外的景深太虛之中，過度明確的塊狀幾何彷彿某種虎視眈眈的不祥意圖漂浮，彷彿正要在幽深的黑色裡形成一個MC Escher式的迷宮空間，而日蝕之下，是一隻伸長肢腳的荒誕生物，正要用一個玩笑跟我打一聲招呼？還是一切關於徒勞記憶的苦笑爪痕？焦點被強烈的戲劇張力曖昧地勾引著。

也有的時候，那些生活中微不足道的動物被熠熠發光地注視著，他們往往在抽象中幽默地現身，彷彿緊繃的肩膀遭遇了友善的拍肩招呼（〈當食吐埔〉和〈蚊子〉）；又或者，他們彷彿對潛意識按下快門，而一個我們共同隱隱記得卻又不曾真正存在過的記憶，以一種我們難以抑制的豐足得令人落淚的形式，迎來節慶般的回歸（〈黃金廣場〉、〈濱海路二段31號〉、〈夜巡〉）。

他的作品介於超現實表現與抽象表現主義之間，卻又有種非常當代的直接親切感，跟一種帶有戲劇性的私密性。我想一個這份親切感來自一種，我們潛意識中的共同感知：在迷因和山怪背後，在塗鴉牆、運算邏輯和競爭著暴露自身的意識形態嚎叫聲景之中，玩笑可能是事實，事實也可能是玩笑。展覽中的唯一一件彩色作品，林亭聿直接用它包裹一張方形沙發，讓看展者可以恣意坐下休息，彷彿正是一個與「散步」的對作。這件名為〈So Far So Good〉幾乎是展覽論述的一個直接呼應，既是一個直白得無俚頭到近乎長輩的諧音梗（「sofa’s so good」），有如那個關於「真的」克里斯·伊凡（Chris Evans）的狗的故事，卻又似是藝術家描述自身在面對不確定的未來的乍暖還寒的那天，So Far So Good，而展覽的名稱〈Bark! Bark! Hello! This is lucky. It’s true.〉中，「克里斯·伊凡」的狗「Dodger」的名字被換成了「lucky」。這個「幸運」又來自何處？我們是「幸運」的嗎？這個「幸運」是真實的嗎？然後我們收到幸運的訊息：This is lucky. It’s true! So Far So Good. 這個晦暗不安，彷彿在林亭聿的每張作品深處虛爆著，然而即便海報上的那隻跨出雙腿瞪大眼睛的狗是一隻「不存在的假狗」，它依然是一張狗的圖，發出Bark! Bark! 的叫聲不是嗎？這是林亭聿的謎因式幽默對當代心智的回應，我想這正是他的作品的親切之處，他珍惜這個，而它仰賴一種能夠面對最深的黑的強韌心智，是在這種韌性之中，幽默才能獲得了它的力量。