FUTURE ANCESTORS

Our reality moves in cycles. Through the right lens you can see waves of creation and destruction moving through everything. The creation of art seems to be a magnet for a subsequent devouring, an energy that is craved by the machine. After a couple times around, you know it’s coming. But these days the cycle seems to be in hyper-drive. 

Over the course of the last eight years in my studio space in Atlanta, I saw the cycle transpire. For a couple years, I was just off the map in what was considered an abandoned building. People that walked by just didn’t see my building. It was a non-place, somewhere in between places. People would pass by going from one place to another lost in their thoughts or distractions. I enjoyed being invisible for a while, getting to know the context, observing. I was exploring myself and my art without being scrutinized or judged. And then I decided to begin actively expressing myself with the building. It was exciting to slowly be discovered by passersby.

I made friends with the entire community and enjoyed being a part of the neighborhood as it started to thrive. But I slowly started to pick up on another type of voyeur. The type that pulled up in big white trucks and parked for periods of time in the near distance, facelessly observing from air-conditioned interiors and buttoned-up collared shirts. Eventually, I lost my creative space to the capitalist driven phenomenon that has been commonly identified as gentrification. I was uprooted, un-stuck, and floating so I decided to move halfway around the world to explore a context as far removed from my own as I could.

I was accepted to be a resident artist with Red Gate Gallery, a 27 year old contemporary art gallery in Beijing founded by Brian Wallace (Australia). It was the first private gallery for contemporary art in Beijing and is ranked in the top 500 galleries in the world. The gallery inhabits a Ming Dynasty Watchtower, one of the few remaining remnants of the original wall that surrounded Beijing. 

Red Gate nurtures an ongoing international artist community. I am in residence with three other artists that represent Belgium, U.S.A. (Harlem), and Austria, seen here with the Residency Director, Jen Lindsay (USA, NH). When we are not creating art, we spend a lot of time with each other, getting to know each other, where we come from, exploring and engaging with Beijing.

The surprise that I found was that although Red Gate Gallery continues to be incredibly successful, it was also in the midst of being uprooted. The Chinese Bureau of Cultural Relics was reclaiming the 550 year-old Watchtower and the gallery was being put out on the street.

Meanwhile the established Arts District, referred to as 798, has gone through it’s own cycles. Located in a former electronics warehouse district, 798 became the area that artists started moving to in the early 2000’s. It was the perfect place to get low rent and large spaces, the ideal formula for young artists to commit themselves to their art. As the energy built, people started flocking, galleries followed, then more people, lifestyle shops, coffee bars, and tourists. As all-things-chic started taking over the spaces, rent went through the roof. 

Goodbye artists, and goodbye to the energy that made it happen. But as the cycle comes full circle, Red Gate has found itself in an unusual position as it has kept it’s heart close to the street by working with emerging artists and continually supporting and engaging with what is happening. Red Gate now finds itself presented with the opportunity to return to this district with a space that it sees as having the potential to re-inject an authentic vitality to a context that has become diluted.

All of Beijing is witnessing intense growth. Residents of entire neighborhoods are being put out on the street. Entire blocks are ripped up inside of a day, making way for high-end development; the Chinese equivalent of yuppie-condo multi-use living that is blanketing cities in the United States. 

There is a particular texture that is targeted for extinction, areas that have an organic nature and are not legally classified. Areas that tend to house a “poor” class and are typically filled with what are referred to as migrants, people that have moved to Beijing from rural areas. My studio is in such an area, and there is an exciting energy to the state of lawlessness. This is the context that is my natural habitat, that inspires me, sets me free, and that, unfortunately, doesn’t last.

My art here became a response to this impermanence. I created artwork that I could carry out into Beijing and place directly in the city. A type of moving installation that travels with me on foot, slung over my shoulder to be set up for a period of time and then to move on. Art that claims a place as its context, both blending and standing out to create a moment of timelessness. 

Art that moves on, staying ahead of the onslaught of the wrecking ball, evading the tip of the claw.

In the midst of my time creating art, I caught the first hint of an imminent armageddon. On my way to eat with a new friend at a favorite restaurant, we stepped out of my studio in to what was typically a 24-hour buzzing ball of chaotic energy only to find a ghost town. Restaurant after restaurant was closed and as we neared our destination we slowly discovered that the doors of every single restaurant in the entire village were locked. White pieces of paper stamped with red stars were glued to the glass double doors. And then a couple days later the emptiness was filled by unrest. The entire village had been slated to be razed.

Art will survive. It is in the spirit. It is a part of our nature. It is a part of the flow. From the first scratches on rocks and marks on cave walls, art is an act that speaks to the metaphysical, a conversation about an ever deeper reason for being. It acknowledges The Self as woven in to an expanding universe that is built out of the unknown. As art continues to be labeled and commodified, harnessed and used, bought and sold, it will continue to evolve, evading the confines that a world places on it. Art will continue to break its bonds within reality as it perseveres to witness the world continually devours itself.

Creating art is not about making something pretty or painting something that looks like something else. It is infinitely deeper than that. It is an exploration in to the unknown, a conversation between the artist and their self, wrestling and coaxing a shadow, fumbling blindly through a dark cave with fingertips searching for treasure to bring out to the light. Using a tiny waterproof penlight to explore and illuminate a vast ocean.

Art is made with unknown intention. It is an act that listens to its self as it happens. There is no imitation in the act of creating art, only inspiration. An artist expresses and explores their unique self within the collective self, using their entire being.

Creating art in itself changes reality. Reality is not the same after something, anything, is created within it. This is a part of the wonder and why art is crucial to our world. On whatever level, when something new is brought in to the world or created, the field of reality is fundamentally changed by the new thing that is now within it. It places a new structure within the larger structure. It creates new connections and different flows and our metaphysical web is altered. Consciousness evolves.

The process, on the whole, isn’t particularly pleasurable. It takes bravery and confidence to allow the discovery, because you have to question everything and expose yourself to not only yourself but to the world, to stand naked in front of an audience, to endure whatever happens. It doesn’t matter what it looks like or sounds like, it matters that it happens.

Art is an act that becomes a physical entity, be it sound, motion, light, or mass, an act or series of acts that come from somewhere between creation and destruction, blossoming and decay. 

It is a process of figuring out how to allow oneself to be completely free and to do whatever you want to express or explore. Staying nimble with a loose flow is the ideal. Again, you work with your entire being. The profound nature of the work of art is in how it happens. The act becomes the object. It is an artwork. 

As you draw near completion, you start to feel it. It starts to vibrate and you resonate with it. It resonates with you. The art is within the piece and it emanates it’s own being. And each piece in turn creates the new iteration of the artist.

I had no preconceived notion of what kind of art I was going to make in China. Preconceived notions will only get in the way of new experience. It will never be what you expect, nor will it be what you are used to. A dramatic change in context makes everything inspirational. There’s an awakening when you travel, leaving behind the environment that you are so used to seeing that it has become muted. 

When I walk the streets in Beijing, everything seems to be changing all around me. It’s like nothing is solid. The sidewalks are being ripped up, buildings are being reshaped, shops close, shops open, signs appear, objects block the way, other objects vanish… it’s all like a blur spiraling around me and I can tell this has been happening for a long time. It shows in the patina of the walls and the strange layers of buffing. That’s what it seems like is constantly happening to everything: something goes up and then it is buffed out, leaving ghost prints behind.

Objects litter the landscape. A lot of objects are like signs or markers. They claim the space, shaping the perception of the environment. Form is of negligible substance here, almost like being inflatable. What may appear as a traffic barrier is easily picked up and moved. So it seems with just about everything here.

I started to think about making forms to place in the environment. Creating art that appears to have a weight but is actually hollow. Art that I can move around in the environment, inhabit a space but disappear as quickly as it arrived. My paintings have been becoming increasingly sculptural but they have continued to hang on the walls. These new works are hopping right off the wall, taking on their own structure.

The creative process is always intense for me. I tear myself down to the beginning and piece it all back together. It’s strange to go through. There are exhilarating periods, but crisis and catastrophe are par for the course. It’s important to not get derailed by the unknown and to remain focused and nimble. The process is vital and every artwork changes me.

Beijing has an intense energy. Everything is in motion all around and at all times. You have to be aware constantly when you are out on the streets. It’s a steady flow and doesn’t seem to have any rules. Traffic is an amalgamation of cars, buses, bicycles, scooters, delivery guys, weird enclosed three-wheeled vehicles, people crisscrossing, horns honking and everything is coming from all directions. It doesn’t move anything like we are used to back home. It’s more like erosion or some kind of weather pattern. Pedestrians build up and a car will creep through, blocking a lane, and then the flock of pedestrians will use the car as a shield and next thing you know they’ve completely taken over the crossing. Then the oncoming cars or a bus will beep their way through. There is no sense of entitlement to space, people cut right in front of each other, or are constantly filling in gaps and there is no fuss. All of this motion spins lawlessly around and all the while the Emperor’s throne sits motionless at the very center of it all, in the Forbidden City.

When the rush is on, the sidewalks are packed, the streets are packed, the subway is packed… Cars are riding in bike lanes, motorcycles are coming up the wrong way… Bicycles passing in front of you. The only thing you shouldn’t do is stop. When you are crossing a street, vehicles will aim right at you assuming you will not be there by the time they get to you. It’s a little intimidating at first but once you get in to the flow, it moves very efficiently and is actually kind of fun. I’ve only been hit once. When I recall watching the mindless cellphone-absorbed pedestrians stepping out on to the Flat Shoals crosswalk in East Atlanta, I still grin. I remember them looking up as 40 mph oncoming traffic screeched to a stop and be like “Hey, I got the right of way!” Not here.

I’ve been beating the streets and constantly exploring. The infrastructure is mindboggling. Telephone cables are wadded from pole to pole in giant messes. The entire environment seems to be in flux, a constant upheaval.  Shops fill in around telephone poles (some poles stick right through the façade) and over sidewalks. Beijing has been booming and buildings are torn down daily with new ones going up. Gentrification is as real here as it seems to be everywhere. The balance between historic structures and new high-rise living is precarious, with ancient structures being ripped up on the reg.

People are always outside. They congregate in open spaces, courtyards outside where they live, or are just generally wandering. It feels more communal. Grandparents are tending to babies and kids are running around. Everyone is interacting. The Chinese are typically very friendly but they can also be quite blunt. Communication is difficult, but there always seems to be an understanding and an appreciation for foreigners, especially those that are genuinely engaging. The cultural difference is immense but we are really enjoying it here.

With all of the energy buzzing, inspiration is immediate and it is off to find solitude in my studio. I’m in a village part of Beijing called Fei Jia Cun. Ready to make art…

Hello! My name is Carl Janes and I am an artist from Atlanta, Georgia. This summer I lost my creative space, locally known as The Secret Spot, to gentrification. I had spent 8 years there, converting an abandoned building in East Atlanta Village in to a cultural landmark. My art evolved in, on, and around the little building and I transformed along with it. I got to know my community and made many friends. I also got to know and support many artists through my space. But there was an inevitability that revealed itself as the community around it grew and property prices soared. The dream of ownership faded quickly and I had to cope with the reality that one day I would lose what had become my sacred ground. I decided I had no choice but to treat it as a transition, like a snake shedding its skin, and to use the experience to grow.  

I decided it was time to explore the world. I didn’t sign up for a tropical paradise experience or some kind of eco-adventure. As a relevant contemporary artist, I wanted to dig in to what is going on in our world, how it is changing, what is driving the change. I wanted to see for myself what is happening and to figure out how I could help build bridges and to share understandings across cultural barriers. The world is ours to mold, as it is ours to be molded by. I want to create art that manifests a positive reality, a global understanding, and a conscious future.

There are many things that drew me to China. The main thing that piqued my interest was the concept of Qi. To the Chinese, Qi is something that is very real. It is talked about as conventionally as water. But to a western consciousness, it simply doesn’t exist. Qi is loosely translated as energy but that doesn’t come near to fully describing the phenomenon. If you talk about Qi in the States, you can come off hokey or flighty but it is taken very seriously here. It is real and it flows through us and through the universe. I discovered Qi through studying Tai Chi at the Mei Zhong School in Decatur. I started five years ago, and for years there was talk of “feeling the energy” and letting it “flow.” I just kind of went along with it until suddenly I started feeling it. Along with the talk of “energy,” there was also this talk of a Master in China. I thought, well, that’s fancy. Then one day he showed up. My interest in Chinese culture continued and I began reading books about calligraphy, lattice design, and patterns. I began taking language classes, a language so foreign that I had nothing to relate it to. I saw Qi everywhere. It is in the tones as the language is spoken, the brush strokes as it is written. Qi was a discovery. 

As an artist, I started seeing Qi as the essence that flows through me and out of my brush. It is what Jimi Hendrix unleashed through his guitar. It is what breakdancers do with their bodies. It is what poets release with their words. It flows from within and it emanates out, a part of a metaphysical chain reaction that vibrates and resonates everywhere. The world is in a very dynamic state right now. A fissure runs through it as many underlying foundational problems have affected the surface everywhere. Political arguments and disagreements have grown increasingly polarized, social and civil issues on every front have grown to seismic levels, and leadership has been replaced with reality television. Natural disasters, war, the plight of migrants, the list continues. A fragility has been exposed and the global stage of influence and power is shifting dramatically. 

My wife and I, along with our 4 year-old daughter, decided to move to China. We wanted to have a fully immersive, extensive, global-cultural experience. We plan to be here for a year. I was awarded an artist-residency with Red Gate Gallery, my wife will teach (and explore other professional opportunities) and our daughter will go to school. We live in a very Chinese part of Beijing and there is no English being spoken. We see about 3 foreigners a day, maybe 1 from the US a week. I’m looking forward to sharing my observations with you this month and the art that it inspires.