因为记忆和梦想是现实的一部分。个人体验有着广泛的社会背景。
所以：我的艺术在大街上，在镜头中，在随手翻开辞海时看到的第一个单词里，在废墟，在超市，在性爱后的瞬间，在帮助别人的自我感动中，在脑海里突然空白的时刻，在网络上，在阴霾的日子，在文明海上的波光里， 在《百年孤独》从哥伦比亚起航后，在欢乐时，在床上，在十八层深度睡梦中，在眼泪夺眶而出的热度里，在酒后，在玛丽莲. 梦露读哲学书时，在他者的目光中，在托老子出走的牛背上，在车窗外灯火开始移动的瞬间，在青花古瓷内敛的光里，在夜空，在告别时，在抽象数字背后，在轮下，在书房，在呢喃的低语里，在旧报纸上看到昔日恋人的征婚广告时，在不带走一片云彩的消然来去中，在春天，在地平线上，在数完钞票后，在触到单恋情人手的瞬间，在突袭来的羞感里，在安迪. 沃荷名利双收又溘然长逝时，在一个色情笑话中，在汽车离合器的接触点上，在抚摩你头发的指尖，在电话铃响的刹那，在林彪最后登机前的回望里，在溥仪买门票进故宫时，在风中，在诱惑中，在如述如泣的小提琴声中，在夏天，在拥抱时的臂弯，在毕加索的每一次吻里，在新年钟声的倒记时里，在出浴时的虚空快感里，在寂寞里，在秋天，在身不由己时，在发现假乞丐偷走你的同情心时，在裁判终场哨响时，在成为公众人物又复归于个体时，在旧友相逢时，在极目远眺时，在无奈时，在赌桌上拿到21点时，在泰坦尼克号沉没时，在咽下最后一口气时，在飞机安全落地时，在冬天，在流浪中，在漫天大雾中，在穿过走廊时脚步的回音中，在李白的酒中，在股市曲线的心电图中，在苍老美女的眼眸中，在对阳光与阴影的感受中，在上海滩的歌舞升平中，在漂逝的烟圈中，在蘑菇云中，在冥冥之中，在女人的尖叫声中……总之，我的艺术无所在，而又无所不在！
我仅有一个梦想，就是让我笔下的同志们带着这一团乱麻的世界，在许多年以后，替我去看望未来的人们。
我的艺术——寻找秩序
我的艺术更是一种不断寻找秩序的艺术。我常想，把每一个人从生下来到死的活动轨迹在地图上画出来，我们就可以看到无数的相遇和分离，无数偶然之中，聚合的理由被高度关注。在这里，群类的分离与重组，事物的发生、发展、死亡……每一刻的每一种存在，都是被缘分安排的奇遇。我寻找属于今天这个时代的秩序，并且把偶然性作为方法论，来诠释无处不在的普遍联系。
My Art - Omnipresence
Memory and dreams are a part of reality; therefore the experience of the individual has a broad social background.
Therefore: my art is on the street, in the lens, in the first word I see when I flip open the dictionary, amongst ruins, in the supermarket, in the afterglow, in the satisfaction of helping others, in the moments when your brain feels empty, on the internet, in gloomy days, in the glory of human civilization, when I realised that “One Hundred Years of Solitude” was written in Columbia, in joy, in bed, in sleep eighteen layers deep, in the heat of bursting into tears, after getting drunk, in Marilyn Monroe’s reading philosophy books, in the eyes of others, in Laozi riding an ox when he left home, in the moment that the train starts and the lights outside begin to move, in the inconspicuous glamour of blue and white porcelain, in the night sky, in farewells, behind abstracted numbers, under the wheels, in the library, in whispered words, when you see your ex-lover’s lonely hearts ad in an old paper, in coming and going without taking a thing, in the spring, on the horizon, as you finish counting out notes, or touch the hand of the one you secretly love, the sudden rush of shame, in Andy Warhol leaving this world after gaining fame and fortune, in a dirty joke, in the touch of the clutch pedal, in the fingertips that touch your hair, in the moment when the phone begins to ring, in Lin Biao’s last look before he boarded his plane, when Pu Yi bought a ticket to get into the Forbidden City, in the winds, in seduction, in the plaintive voice of the violin, in summer, in the crook of arms that embrace, In Picasso’s every kiss, in the countdown before the ringing in of the new year, in the vacant pleasure after a bath, in silence, in autumn, when you are helpless, when you find that a fake beggar made off with your sympathy, when the referee blows the whistle at the end of play, when a celebrity falls back into obscurity, when old friends meet, when you stare into the distance, when there’s nothing you can do, when you hit a 21 on the gambling table, when Titanic sinks, when a last breath is drawn, when the plane touches down safely, in winter, in the life of a wanderer, in days of mist, in the echo of footsteps in the corridor, in Li Bai’s wine, in the Stock Market’s ECG curve, in the eyes of a faded beauty, in observing chiaroscuro, in singing and dancing on the Bund in Shanghai, in curling rings of smoke, in mushroom clouds, in obscurity, in the cry of a woman . . . in a word, my art is in no particular place, but omnipresent!
I have only one dream, that the people under my brush might take this world of confusion and in years to come look out at the people of the future on my behalf.
My Art – A Search for Order
More than anything, my art is an art which searches for order. I often think that if we drew lines on a map for all the places that a person travels to; for everything one person does from when they are born to when they die, we would see innumerable meetings and partings, amongst innumerable coincidences, I observe from a height the reasons why these things come together . The many instances of parting and being reunited, the beginning of an event, its development, its death . . . every instant of every kind of existence are the chance encounters arranged by our individual portion of fate. I search for the order that belongs to the era of today, taking coincidence as a theory of methodology that can explain its everyday connection with the omnipresent.