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墨書 Inktalez
It was Tuesday, and I glanced at the time; there was about a quarter of an hour until the presentation began. Gao Jun from the third floor had taken me there before, and it was only a ten-minute walk from here. I had only learned about Performance Art online before, and it seemed quite alternative. This time, with someone I knew as the speaker, my interest was piqued, so I decided to go and see for myself.
When I arrived at the small lecture hall, there weren't many attendees—about fifty or sixty people scattered across nearly three hundred seats. Since I was alone and not an official student, I chose a secluded corner towards the back.
Zhao Feng was on stage fiddling with some props, while Jiang Ping stood beside him, looking like his assistant. Was that little girl locked up at home again? Was she hiding behind the window, sadly watching the world outside?
Lost in my thoughts, Zhao Feng began his opening remarks on stage:
“First of all, I want to thank everyone for coming to my lecture. In China, many people view Performance Art as a freak show or even a menace. In fact, you and I share at least one fundamental commonality: we all try to use art as a medium to present something to the world. The tools you use might be a brush, a camera, or a sculpting knife; more modern ones include computers and so on. Performance artists are more direct; we use our bodies to express deep thoughts about time, space, and concepts.”
He paused for a moment before shifting gears: “Alright. Those of us in the arts are generally not good at using words to describe things. Now, let’s move on to my demonstration.” With that, he extended his left hand, forming a half-fist around the edge of the podium, his knuckles slightly raised as he presented it to everyone. Once in position, he nodded to Jiang Ping.
Jiang Ping picked up a sharp knife from a tray on the table; from below the stage, I could see there was also a white plastic bottle and a large bottle of vinegar on the tray. As I wondered what these items were for, Jiang Ping gently drew the knife across Zhao Feng's raised knuckles, creating a cut about two centimeters long. Since Zhao Feng's hand was stretched outward, the wound gaped open, and blood immediately began to seep out.
A wave of commotion surged through the audience; I felt a chill run down my spine and instinctively covered my own knuckles. Zhao Feng remained remarkably calm: “Please hold on; my demonstration hasn’t officially started yet.” He then gripped his left wrist tightly with his right hand as if it were about to slip from his control. “In a moment, please help me keep time; this demonstration will last one minute.”
Jiang Ping took a small spoon and scooped out some white powder from the bottle. Looking at Zhao Feng for confirmation, he nodded and said, “Let’s begin!”
Jiang Ping bent down carefully and sprinkled the powder onto Zhao Feng's left hand wound. Upon contact with the blood, the powder reacted violently with a flurry of tiny bubbles forming at the cut while releasing wisps of vapor.
Zhao Feng frowned and silently grimaced in pain; although his left wrist was tightly held, it trembled violently. Jiang Ping watched her husband with a smile full of encouragement.
Everyone in the audience was as stunned as I was; in that vast lecture hall, all that could be heard was the faint hissing sound emanating from the wound.
At last, someone broke the suffocating silence, shouting, "Time's up! One minute is over!"
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