Jamie Hilder
Looking	
  and	
  Laughing:	
  Ken	
  Lum	
  at	
  the	
  Vancouver	
  Art	
  Gallery	
  
	
  
An	
  uncomfortable	
  kind	
  of	
  looking	
  is	
  required	
  of	
  visitors	
  to	
  Ken	
  Lum’s	
  survey	
  
exhibition	
  at	
  the	
  Vancouver	
  Art	
  Gallery.	
  It	
  begins	
  before	
  they	
  enter	
  the	
  gallery	
  space	
  
proper,	
  as	
  they	
  walk	
  up	
  the	
  stairs	
  of	
  the	
  rotunda,	
  where	
  they	
  encounter	
  Four	
  French	
  
Deaths	
  in	
  Western	
  Canada	
  (2011),	
  a	
  piece	
  Lum	
  made	
  specifically	
  for	
  this	
  show.	
  The	
  
work	
  consists	
  of	
  a	
  collection	
  of	
  enlarged	
  death	
  notices	
  printed	
  onto	
  the	
  gallery	
  walls	
  
describing	
  lives	
  of	
  people	
  born	
  in	
  France	
  who	
  died	
  in	
  western	
  Canada.	
  The	
  
obituaries	
  are	
  in	
  English	
  and	
  do	
  not	
  immediately	
  announce	
  themselves	
  as	
  connected	
  
by	
  anything	
  but	
  their	
  genre;	
  each	
  maintains	
  a	
  fidelity	
  to	
  the	
  charge-­‐by-­‐the-­‐word	
  
brevity	
  of	
  the	
  form,	
  the	
  banal	
  descriptions	
  of	
  a	
  life	
  expressed	
  in	
  a	
  hundred	
  words	
  or	
  
less.	
  	
  
	
  
The	
  discomfort	
  for	
  the	
  reader	
  arrives	
  in	
  the	
  same	
  way	
  it	
  would	
  if	
  he	
  or	
  she	
  were	
  to	
  
read	
  the	
  obituaries	
  in	
  a	
  newspaper,	
  where	
  the	
  eye	
  scans	
  involuntarily	
  for	
  familiar	
  
names	
  and	
  cannot	
  help	
  imagine	
  how	
  her	
  or	
  his	
  own	
  life	
  would	
  read:	
  which	
  
relationships	
  warrant	
  mention?	
  Which	
  accomplishments	
  best	
  represent	
  a	
  life	
  lived?	
  
To	
  whom	
  would	
  the	
  task	
  of	
  composing	
  the	
  notice	
  fall,	
  and	
  could	
  that	
  person	
  be	
  
trusted	
  to	
  get	
  things	
  right?	
  Is	
  it	
  possible	
  to	
  get	
  things	
  right?	
  The	
  discomfort	
  is	
  
magnified	
  by	
  the	
  uncertainty	
  around	
  whether	
  or	
  not	
  these	
  texts	
  were	
  found	
  or	
  
written	
  by	
  Lum.	
  If	
  they	
  are	
  found	
  texts,	
  they	
  are	
  morbid.	
  If	
  they	
  are	
  composed	
  by	
  
Lum	
  to	
  mimic	
  death	
  notices,	
  they	
  are	
  still	
  morbid,	
  but	
  with	
  a	
  dark	
  humour	
  that	
  is	
  
typical	
  of	
  Lum’s	
  work.	
  Found	
  or	
  composed,	
  they	
  offer	
  an	
  appropriate	
  physical	
  and	
  
thematic	
  entrance	
  to	
  a	
  challenging	
  body	
  of	
  work	
  spanning	
  more	
  than	
  three	
  decades,	
  
one	
  that	
  emphasizes	
  awkward	
  encounters	
  with	
  text	
  and	
  image	
  and	
  the	
  production	
  
of	
  identities	
  and	
  anxieties	
  in	
  a	
  historical	
  moment	
  in	
  which	
  lives	
  can	
  begin	
  in	
  one	
  
national	
  context	
  and	
  end	
  in	
  another	
  and	
  still	
  be	
  considered	
  so	
  commonplace	
  as	
  to	
  
border	
  on	
  the	
  unnoticeable.	
  	
  
	
  
But	
  the	
  uncomfortable	
  looking	
  that	
  Lum’s	
  work	
  demands	
  is	
  also	
  a	
  pleasurable	
  
looking:	
  it	
  provides	
  the	
  viewer	
  with	
  a	
  problem,	
  but	
  one	
  that	
  he	
  or	
  she	
  feels	
  might	
  be	
  
solvable.	
  Of	
  course	
  the	
  problems	
  are	
  not	
  in	
  the	
  strictest	
  terms	
  solvable,	
  and	
  in	
  most	
  
cases	
  not	
  even	
  concretely	
  identifiable.	
  Lum	
  is	
  very	
  good	
  at	
  productively	
  harnessing	
  
the	
  discomfort	
  of	
  his	
  audiences.	
  It	
  is	
  the	
  sustained	
  puzzling	
  that	
  captures	
  the	
  viewer	
  
and	
  prolongs	
  the	
  moment	
  of	
  surprise	
  and	
  possibility.	
  The	
  uncomfortable	
  looking	
  
initiates	
  a	
  critical	
  position	
  that	
  functions	
  well	
  in	
  a	
  gallery	
  environment,	
  where	
  the	
  
space	
  acts	
  to	
  encourage	
  efforts	
  at	
  social	
  engagement	
  that	
  might	
  be	
  discouraged	
  in	
  
other	
  situations.	
  In	
  this	
  way	
  the	
  social	
  consciousness	
  in	
  Lum’s	
  work—issues	
  of	
  class,	
  
race,	
  national	
  and	
  cultural	
  identity	
  are	
  foregrounded	
  throughout—draws	
  the	
  
audience	
  into	
  ideas	
  that	
  do	
  not	
  operate	
  in	
  the	
  same	
  manner	
  that	
  they	
  do	
  in	
  the	
  
dominant,	
  media-­‐driven	
  political	
  discourse,	
  where	
  cynicism	
  and	
  panic	
  trump	
  
history	
  and	
  complexity.	
  	
  
	
  
This	
  play	
  between	
  uncomfortable	
  looking	
  as/and	
  pleasurable	
  looking	
  comes	
  out	
  in	
  
the	
  relationship	
  between	
  Lum’s	
  public	
  projects	
  and	
  his	
  gallery-­‐based	
  work.	
  Included	
  
in	
  the	
  exhibition	
  are	
  two	
  performance	
  pieces	
  from	
  early	
  in	
  Lum’s	
  career,	
  both	
  of	
  
Published in Yishu: Contemporary Chinese Art (November / December 2011): 97-105.

Jamie Hilder
which	
  depend	
  on	
  witnesses	
  recognizing	
  repetitions	
  that	
  confound	
  explanation.	
  In	
  
Entertainment	
  for	
  Surrey	
  (1978),	
  Lum	
  stood	
  on	
  a	
  slope	
  by	
  an	
  overpass	
  on	
  a	
  highway	
  
between	
  Vancouver	
  and	
  one	
  of	
  its	
  suburbs	
  for	
  an	
  hour	
  each	
  morning	
  for	
  the	
  
duration	
  of	
  a	
  work	
  week.	
  Cars	
  passed	
  him,	
  and	
  those	
  who	
  kept	
  a	
  regular	
  commuting	
  
schedule	
  recognized	
  a	
  pattern,	
  expecting	
  him	
  to	
  be	
  there	
  each	
  morning.	
  The	
  
highway	
  commute	
  is	
  difficult	
  and	
  strange,	
  temporally	
  and	
  spatially,	
  since	
  the	
  
distance	
  between	
  subjects	
  is	
  increased	
  in	
  relation	
  to	
  other	
  spaces	
  of	
  everyday	
  life.	
  
There	
  is	
  no	
  opportunity	
  for	
  interaction	
  or	
  intimacy	
  beyond	
  the	
  car	
  horn,	
  mouthed	
  
obscenities,	
  and	
  hand	
  gestures	
  that	
  arise	
  only	
  when	
  something	
  threatens	
  the	
  flow	
  of	
  
traffic.	
  On	
  the	
  fifth	
  and	
  final	
  day	
  of	
  the	
  performance,	
  Lum	
  replaced	
  his	
  body	
  with	
  a	
  
life-­‐sized	
  cut-­‐out	
  image	
  of	
  himself,	
  perhaps	
  a	
  lamentation	
  of	
  the	
  impossibility	
  of	
  
connecting	
  with	
  his	
  audience	
  (beyond	
  the	
  waves	
  and	
  honks	
  he	
  received),	
  but	
  
perhaps	
  also	
  as	
  a	
  mark	
  of	
  jealousy	
  for	
  the	
  relationship	
  commuters	
  have	
  to	
  images	
  on	
  
billboards	
  or	
  buildings	
  as	
  they	
  drive	
  past.	
  The	
  strangeness	
  of	
  seeing	
  a	
  man,	
  stone-­‐
faced	
  and	
  in	
  the	
  same	
  clothes	
  in	
  the	
  same	
  spot	
  every	
  morning	
  for	
  four	
  days—a	
  scene	
  
that	
  suggested	
  a	
  threat	
  to	
  the	
  pedestrian	
  in	
  a	
  high-­‐speed	
  space,	
  but	
  also	
  potentially	
  a	
  
person	
  suffering	
  from	
  mental	
  illness	
  or	
  instability—could	
  have	
  only	
  become	
  more	
  
bizarre	
  with	
  that	
  split-­‐second	
  realization	
  that	
  he	
  was	
  only	
  a	
  two-­‐dimensional	
  
representation.	
  Then	
  the	
  questions	
  come:	
  Was	
  the	
  figure	
  always	
  two	
  dimensional?	
  
Was	
  I	
  the	
  crazy	
  one?	
  Why	
  would	
  anyone	
  do	
  such	
  a	
  thing?	
  	
  
	
  
Witnesses	
  of	
  Lum’s	
  other	
  early	
  performance,	
  Walk	
  Piece	
  (1978),	
  might	
  have	
  faced	
  a	
  
similar	
  perplexity.	
  For	
  this	
  work	
  Lum	
  paced	
  back	
  and	
  forth	
  on	
  a	
  fifteen-­‐foot	
  path	
  
positioned	
  between	
  two	
  buildings	
  at	
  Simon	
  Fraser	
  University	
  for	
  the	
  duration	
  of	
  one	
  
work	
  day.	
  The	
  piece	
  was	
  visible	
  from	
  a	
  walkway	
  connecting	
  buildings;	
  observers	
  
who	
  passed	
  by	
  only	
  once	
  might	
  have	
  seen	
  Lum	
  walking,	
  or	
  turning	
  and	
  pacing.	
  
Those	
  who	
  returned	
  some	
  time	
  later	
  and	
  saw	
  him	
  again	
  might	
  have	
  experienced	
  a	
  
feeling	
  of	
  the	
  uncanny,	
  and	
  their	
  scrutiny	
  of	
  the	
  pacing	
  figure	
  would	
  have	
  been	
  
rewarded	
  by	
  further	
  confusion	
  springing	
  from	
  Lum’s	
  metronomic	
  pace.	
  When	
  
documentation	
  of	
  the	
  work	
  is	
  shown	
  in	
  a	
  video	
  and	
  accompanied	
  by	
  a	
  text	
  panel	
  
within	
  a	
  gallery,	
  the	
  discomfort	
  of	
  the	
  live	
  performance	
  dissipates.	
  Gallery	
  viewers	
  
imagine	
  an	
  art	
  labour	
  that,	
  through	
  a	
  long	
  tradition	
  of	
  performance,	
  often	
  entails	
  
redundant	
  or	
  non-­‐productive	
  activities,	
  but	
  those	
  who	
  saw	
  the	
  work	
  in	
  its	
  
immediate	
  context	
  would	
  not	
  have	
  had	
  the	
  privilege	
  of	
  such	
  categorization.	
  The	
  
question	
  then	
  becomes:	
  How	
  can	
  the	
  tools	
  of	
  critical	
  art	
  function	
  within	
  and	
  affect	
  
everyday	
  life?	
  To	
  the	
  extent	
  that	
  Lum	
  requires	
  his	
  audiences—both	
  the	
  
retrospective,	
  gallery	
  audience,	
  and	
  the	
  immediate,	
  situated	
  witnesses	
  of	
  the	
  
performance—to	
  imagine	
  different	
  kinds	
  of	
  labour,	
  he	
  also	
  challenges	
  them	
  to	
  
consider	
  how	
  work	
  is	
  collectively	
  imagined	
  at	
  different	
  scales.	
  How	
  do	
  we	
  account	
  
for	
  the	
  invisibility	
  of	
  certain	
  labour	
  in	
  a	
  globalized	
  economy	
  (where	
  do	
  our	
  products	
  
come	
  from?	
  How	
  many	
  of	
  us	
  work	
  in	
  manufacturing?),	
  as	
  well	
  as	
  that	
  of	
  class	
  
divisions,	
  which	
  often	
  also	
  possess	
  a	
  racialized	
  character,	
  a	
  character	
  Lum’s	
  work	
  
carries	
  as	
  a	
  result	
  of	
  his	
  being	
  a	
  Canadian	
  of	
  Chinese	
  descent	
  living	
  in	
  a	
  time	
  and	
  
space	
  (Vancouver	
  and	
  its	
  suburbs	
  over	
  the	
  past	
  thirty	
  years)	
  of	
  sometimes	
  quiet,	
  
sometimes	
  loud	
  xenophobia	
  and	
  racism?	
  
	
  
Published in Yishu: Contemporary Chinese Art (November / December 2011): 97-105.

Jamie Hilder
It	
  is	
  that	
  space	
  that	
  Lum’s	
  work	
  operates	
  in—that	
  space	
  both	
  inside	
  and	
  outside	
  the	
  
gallery—that	
  provides	
  so	
  much	
  of	
  the	
  energy	
  in	
  the	
  current	
  exhibition.	
  The	
  
furniture	
  sculptures	
  on	
  display	
  operate	
  within	
  a	
  disjunctive	
  space:	
  they	
  are	
  
obviously	
  mass-­‐produced	
  and	
  therefore	
  not	
  on	
  display	
  for	
  their	
  design	
  qualities,	
  but	
  
they	
  are	
  arranged	
  in	
  a	
  way	
  that	
  shifts	
  their	
  meaning.	
  Instead	
  of	
  being	
  in	
  a	
  showroom	
  
or	
  bulk	
  flyer	
  that	
  represents	
  the	
  ideal	
  domesticity	
  for	
  a	
  family	
  striving	
  to	
  achieve	
  a	
  
kind	
  of	
  commercial	
  normalcy,	
  sculptures	
  like	
  Red	
  Circle	
  (1986)	
  and	
  Corner	
  Bed	
  
(1990)	
  present	
  closed-­‐off	
  spaces	
  or	
  impossible	
  arrangements.	
  There	
  is	
  a	
  sense	
  of	
  
domestic	
  exclusion	
  or	
  awkwardness	
  to	
  the	
  work,	
  as	
  if	
  the	
  codes	
  of	
  living	
  had	
  been	
  
short-­‐circuited	
  by	
  the	
  movers.	
  The	
  furniture’s	
  larger	
  cultural	
  function—as	
  a	
  way	
  to	
  
quickly	
  gauge	
  the	
  social	
  standing	
  of	
  the	
  occupants	
  of	
  a	
  space—has	
  been	
  rejected.	
  In	
  
this	
  way,	
  the	
  idea	
  of	
  “homeness”	
  becomes	
  complicated;	
  the	
  furniture	
  on	
  display	
  
appears	
  to	
  come	
  from	
  those	
  stores	
  that	
  can	
  furnish	
  an	
  entire	
  home,	
  so	
  there	
  is	
  a	
  
homogeneity	
  of	
  style	
  that	
  is	
  the	
  mark	
  of	
  a	
  new	
  life	
  in	
  a	
  new	
  place,	
  where	
  there	
  has	
  
not	
  been	
  the	
  opportunity	
  to	
  accumulate	
  goods,	
  or	
  to	
  pass	
  things	
  down	
  from	
  
generation	
  to	
  generation.	
  The	
  furniture	
  signals	
  a	
  subjectivity	
  that	
  comes	
  out	
  of	
  
newness,	
  rooted	
  in	
  objects,	
  distributed	
  in	
  the	
  mass	
  circuits	
  that	
  carry	
  both	
  goods	
  
and	
  people	
  around	
  the	
  globe.	
  	
  
	
  
Lum’s	
  series	
  of	
  Portrait-­‐Logos	
  complement	
  the	
  furniture	
  sculptures	
  in	
  that	
  they	
  use	
  
the	
  domestic	
  genre	
  of	
  professional	
  family	
  photography,	
  in	
  combination	
  with	
  the	
  
vernacular	
  of	
  corporate	
  design	
  and	
  sign	
  production,	
  to	
  represent	
  an	
  economy	
  of	
  
identity,	
  one	
  that	
  operates	
  in	
  an	
  unfree	
  market	
  of	
  culture.	
  Amrita	
  and	
  Mrs.	
  Sondhi	
  
(1986),	
  which	
  on	
  the	
  right	
  shows	
  a	
  young	
  woman	
  seated	
  above	
  and	
  resting	
  her	
  
hands	
  on	
  the	
  shoulders	
  of	
  a	
  person	
  who	
  appears	
  to	
  be	
  her	
  mother,	
  and	
  	
  which	
  on	
  the	
  
left	
  displays	
  a	
  yellow	
  and	
  green	
  logo	
  that	
  uses	
  the	
  surname	
  SONDHI	
  to	
  bisect	
  a	
  
globe,	
  serves	
  to	
  match	
  the	
  idea	
  of	
  the	
  family	
  as	
  enterprise	
  with	
  that	
  of	
  the	
  enterprise	
  
as	
  family.	
  As	
  Michel	
  Foucault	
  argues	
  in	
  The	
  Birth	
  of	
  Biopolitics,	
  with	
  the	
  rise	
  of	
  
neoliberalism	
  came	
  the	
  dissolution	
  of	
  borders	
  between	
  the	
  domestic	
  and	
  
commercial	
  spaces.	
  Economic	
  theory	
  inserted	
  itself	
  into	
  the	
  everyday;	
  relationships	
  
became	
  networks	
  and	
  families	
  became	
  micro-­‐enterprises,	
  with	
  contracts	
  between	
  
spouses	
  and	
  parents	
  and	
  children	
  operating	
  as	
  they	
  would	
  between	
  manufacturers	
  
and	
  distributers.	
  All	
  immigrants	
  became	
  entrepreneurs	
  who	
  invested	
  their	
  human	
  
capital	
  in	
  the	
  risk-­‐heavy	
  undertaking	
  of	
  living	
  in	
  a	
  new	
  space,	
  with	
  new	
  people,	
  and	
  
without	
  access	
  to	
  full	
  national	
  or	
  familial	
  infrastructure.	
  Amrita	
  and	
  Mrs.	
  Sondhi	
  
alludes	
  to	
  that	
  condition,	
  with	
  the	
  idea	
  of	
  the	
  younger	
  generation	
  pushing	
  itself	
  up	
  
from	
  the	
  shoulders	
  of	
  the	
  previous.	
  Amrita’s	
  shortly	
  cropped	
  hair,	
  in	
  contrast	
  to	
  her	
  
mother’s,	
  suggests	
  a	
  rejection	
  of	
  traditional	
  roles	
  not	
  only	
  for	
  women,	
  but	
  for	
  much	
  
of	
  what	
  defines	
  the	
  old	
  world.	
  The	
  background	
  of	
  the	
  portrait	
  also	
  implies	
  a	
  
domestic	
  space	
  that	
  takes	
  its	
  design	
  cues	
  from	
  waiting	
  rooms,	
  with	
  a	
  muted	
  abstract	
  
print	
  in	
  an	
  unassuming	
  gold	
  frame	
  hung	
  between	
  a	
  hotel-­‐style	
  lamp	
  and	
  the	
  
ubiquitous	
  fern,	
  all	
  in	
  front	
  of	
  a	
  wall	
  papered	
  in	
  a	
  beige	
  pattern	
  doing	
  its	
  best	
  to	
  go	
  
unnoticed.	
  	
  
	
  
The	
  Shopkeeper	
  Signs	
  series	
  uses	
  the	
  dissolution	
  of	
  the	
  public	
  and	
  the	
  private	
  to	
  
again	
  question	
  how	
  each	
  bleeds	
  into	
  the	
  other.	
  Using	
  the	
  movable	
  plastic	
  letters	
  that	
  
Published in Yishu: Contemporary Chinese Art (November / December 2011): 97-105.

Jamie Hilder
allow	
  for	
  the	
  composition	
  of	
  specific	
  messages	
  within	
  the	
  semi-­‐permanent	
  tablet	
  of	
  
a	
  shop	
  sign	
  visible	
  to	
  passing	
  foot	
  and	
  vehicle	
  traffic,	
  Lum	
  presents	
  a	
  narrative	
  in	
  
which	
  the	
  personal	
  inserts	
  itself	
  into	
  the	
  public	
  through	
  the	
  insufficiency	
  of	
  
commercial	
  dialogue	
  to	
  satisfy	
  the	
  emotional	
  needs	
  of	
  the	
  proprietors.	
  The	
  jarring	
  
effect	
  of	
  the	
  work	
  comes	
  out	
  of	
  the	
  appearance	
  of	
  a	
  specific	
  voice	
  in	
  a	
  space	
  that	
  is	
  
designed	
  for	
  marketing,	
  for	
  the	
  announcements	
  that	
  complement	
  a	
  business’s	
  
operations:	
  sales,	
  promotions,	
  new	
  products.	
  When	
  personal	
  messages	
  appear	
  in	
  the	
  
same	
  textual	
  format,	
  using	
  the	
  same	
  limited	
  space	
  and	
  style,	
  questions	
  about	
  how	
  
language	
  operates	
  in	
  the	
  landscape	
  of	
  the	
  urban	
  and	
  suburban	
  everyday	
  move	
  to	
  the	
  
foreground.	
  That	
  Lum	
  uses	
  mostly	
  small	
  businesses	
  that	
  have	
  a	
  visible	
  link	
  to	
  
immigrant	
  or	
  minority	
  communities—the	
  sign	
  for	
  Taj	
  Kabab	
  Palace	
  includes	
  a	
  
statement	
  about	
  the	
  conflict	
  in	
  Kashmir,	
  the	
  sign	
  for	
  Hanoi	
  Travel	
  includes	
  a	
  
reference	
  to	
  the	
  “people’s	
  war,”	
  and	
  Ebony	
  Eyes	
  Beauty	
  Salon	
  adds	
  “All	
  Power	
  to	
  the	
  
People!”	
  to	
  theirs—again	
  points	
  to	
  the	
  ways	
  in	
  which	
  subjectivities	
  are	
  produced	
  
within	
  and,	
  at	
  times,	
  against	
  contemporary	
  business	
  structures.	
  	
  	
  	
  
	
  	
  
A	
  similar	
  concern	
  for	
  the	
  coming	
  into	
  being	
  of	
  contemporary	
  global	
  subjects	
  is	
  
behind	
  Lum’s	
  work	
  using	
  mirrors,	
  several	
  of	
  which	
  are	
  included	
  in	
  the	
  current	
  
exhibition.	
  In	
  Photo	
  Mirrors	
  (1998),	
  where	
  small,	
  snapshot	
  photographs	
  are	
  placed	
  
on	
  the	
  inside	
  of	
  larger,	
  wood-­‐framed	
  mirrors	
  that	
  would	
  not	
  be	
  out	
  of	
  place	
  in	
  
bedrooms	
  or	
  foyers,	
  the	
  viewer	
  feels	
  as	
  if	
  s/he	
  is	
  looking	
  into	
  someone’s	
  personal	
  
mirror.	
  There	
  is	
  a	
  discomfort	
  in	
  seeing	
  one’s	
  reflection	
  in	
  a	
  gallery,	
  where	
  visitors	
  go	
  
to	
  look	
  at	
  things	
  produced	
  at	
  a	
  remove	
  from	
  their	
  daily	
  lives.	
  Finding	
  one’s	
  self	
  at	
  the	
  
centre	
  of	
  a	
  mirror	
  while	
  looking	
  at	
  its	
  periphery,	
  with	
  one’s	
  face	
  becoming	
  larger	
  
and	
  more	
  detailed	
  the	
  closer	
  one	
  peers	
  at	
  the	
  small	
  photographs,	
  is	
  a	
  different	
  
experience	
  than	
  catching	
  a	
  glimpse	
  of	
  one’s	
  self	
  in	
  the	
  reflection	
  of	
  a	
  glass-­‐framed	
  
painting	
  or	
  photograph.	
  The	
  latter	
  reflection	
  carries	
  a	
  pleasure	
  of	
  affirmation,	
  like	
  
the	
  smooth	
  and	
  casual	
  narcissism	
  produced	
  by	
  the	
  glossy	
  surfaces	
  of	
  Apple	
  
computer	
  and	
  mobile	
  devices	
  screens.	
  It	
  has	
  always	
  been	
  part	
  of	
  Lum’s	
  project,	
  
however,	
  to	
  provide	
  ways	
  for	
  viewers	
  to	
  uncomfortably	
  encounter	
  themselves.	
  This	
  
is	
  most	
  pronounced	
  in	
  House	
  of	
  Realization	
  (2007–11),	
  where	
  a	
  text	
  by	
  the	
  
thirteenth-­‐century	
  Turkish	
  poet	
  Yunus	
  Emre	
  is	
  printed	
  backwards	
  on	
  a	
  wall	
  
opposite	
  a	
  large	
  mirror.	
  Viewers	
  have	
  to	
  read	
  the	
  text	
  via	
  the	
  mirror,	
  meaning	
  that	
  
they	
  have	
  to	
  read	
  through	
  or	
  past	
  themselves;	
  they	
  are	
  forced	
  to	
  see	
  themselves	
  as	
  a	
  
part	
  of	
  the	
  text	
  and	
  to	
  perceive	
  themselves	
  reading.	
  But	
  the	
  “realization”	
  of	
  Lum’s	
  
title,	
  to	
  which	
  Emre	
  refers	
  in	
  his	
  poem	
  in	
  the	
  line	
  “we	
  witnessed	
  the	
  body,”	
  comes	
  
when	
  the	
  viewer	
  moves	
  past	
  the	
  text	
  and	
  mirror	
  and	
  is	
  guided	
  down	
  a	
  corridor	
  and	
  
around	
  a	
  corner	
  into	
  a	
  large	
  space	
  behind	
  the	
  mirror.	
  The	
  mirror	
  is	
  in	
  fact	
  a	
  two-­‐
way	
  mirror—the	
  tool	
  of	
  interrogators,	
  witnesses,	
  psychologists,	
  and	
  focus	
  groups.	
  
Upon	
  entering	
  this	
  space	
  behind	
  the	
  mirror,	
  the	
  visitor	
  realizes	
  that	
  s/he	
  was	
  being	
  
watched	
  while	
  s/he	
  watched	
  herself	
  in	
  the	
  act	
  of	
  reading,	
  and	
  that	
  s/he	
  is	
  now	
  
watching	
  other	
  visitors	
  study	
  the	
  work	
  in	
  a	
  performance	
  of	
  critical	
  investigation.	
  
The	
  viewer	
  is	
  forced	
  into	
  a	
  voyeuristic	
  relationship	
  with	
  other	
  viewers,	
  having	
  first	
  
been	
  an	
  unwitting	
  victim	
  of	
  involuntary	
  scrutiny,	
  and	
  must	
  experience	
  a	
  bizarre	
  
complicit	
  shame	
  when	
  having	
  to	
  face	
  the	
  person	
  s/he	
  has	
  been	
  watching	
  as	
  they	
  
pass	
  each	
  other	
  at	
  the	
  entrance/exit	
  to	
  the	
  viewing	
  chamber.	
  	
  
Published in Yishu: Contemporary Chinese Art (November / December 2011): 97-105.

Jamie Hilder
	
  
This	
  is	
  the	
  uncomfortable	
  looking	
  that	
  is	
  also	
  a	
  pleasurable	
  looking.	
  The	
  disruptive	
  
power	
  of	
  Lum’s	
  work	
  to	
  acclimate	
  visitors	
  to	
  the	
  uneasiness	
  inherent	
  to	
  problems	
  of	
  
racism,	
  class	
  barriers,	
  exploitation,	
  and	
  commercial	
  subjectivity	
  functions	
  as	
  a	
  
primer	
  for	
  the	
  social	
  necessities	
  beyond	
  the	
  gallery.	
  The	
  shocks	
  and	
  surprising	
  
laughter—there	
  are	
  a	
  lot	
  of	
  laughs	
  in	
  this	
  exhibition—are	
  designed	
  to	
  spur	
  
questions	
  about	
  the	
  role	
  of	
  the	
  social	
  in	
  everyday	
  life.	
  How	
  do	
  our	
  rituals	
  and	
  habits	
  
depend	
  on	
  ignoring	
  other	
  people	
  in	
  the	
  name	
  of	
  privacy	
  or	
  politeness?	
  What	
  voices	
  
are	
  present	
  in	
  logos	
  and	
  signs?	
  Which	
  voices	
  are	
  excluded?	
  What	
  are	
  we	
  allowed	
  to	
  
represent,	
  and	
  what	
  resists	
  our	
  attempts	
  to	
  categorize	
  or	
  understand?	
  Why	
  do	
  we	
  
laugh	
  and	
  then	
  feel	
  bad	
  for	
  laughing,	
  then	
  laugh	
  again	
  and	
  feel	
  bad	
  again?	
  Why	
  does	
  
feeling	
  bad	
  feel	
  so	
  good?	
  These	
  are	
  the	
  questions	
  Lum’s	
  exhibition	
  leaves	
  us	
  with,	
  
and	
  they	
  are	
  to	
  be	
  taken	
  seriously,	
  even	
  when	
  they	
  are	
  funny.	
  	
  	
  
	
  
	
  
	
  	
  

Published in Yishu: Contemporary Chinese Art (November / December 2011): 97-105.