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Wang Dongdong

 

 

    王东东

    1983年阴历三月生于河南杞县。大学时读哲学,后转入中文系。现为北京大学中文系博士研究生。有诗歌、批评与翻译作品发表。

 

 

 


    小堡村


    如果不知道历史,会认为这里的村民懦弱:
    听凭500KV高压线穿过家园。但事实是
    高压线毁掉了麦田,留下一片空地,才允许建立了村庄。

    虽然,高压的物质第一性不是村庄的意识第一性,
    也不是我的意识第一性。有更多的能人行走在
    高压线上空。隐形村长掌握这一切:反的,诡辩的镜像。

    我忘了走过去,电磁波起跳的水边。一架机械趴在工地
    围困的湖心。一只狼狗在栅栏无聊寻人。屋里的人
    躺伏躲避高压电。垂直于电流睡觉。闲暇时用身体帮忙输电。

    午餐。空旷的展厅。我们吃从天津带来的螃蟹,
    手拿螯钳实施一种教育。安静。墙上的巨幅油画,异国
    画家的签名突然颖悟:高压线下的艺术是软弱的艺术。

    然而,一位画家会宣称他需要电塔,一个巨人模特
    梳子似地梳着高压线。女画家的每一张画画的
    几乎都是年轻的女画家。可年轻时她并不画画,而是写诗。

    我们对女画家嚷嚷:“不要画花了,就画人。”
    意思是她可以只画沉溺的自己。在返回时我产生
    幻觉:高压线上挂满了乘人的缆车,一辆接着一辆。

    “世界小堡”意谓只有世界,没有小堡;但更顽固的村民
    笃定:只有小堡,没有世界。这里教会我们如何思想。
    虽然只是思想的剩余品。也可能,未完成的思想构成了现实。

    遗憾的是,我忘了看女画家从俄罗斯带来的无名大师的风景画。
    我的一对朋友要到远方要孩子吗?
    让小孩不会对车窗外的一片草场喊:“草原!”虽然那样也很好。

    2013,3

    附:北京宋庄的小堡村最早因建成高压走廊,始将其下的部分耕地改成“建设用地”,一些艺术家来此“买地”居住形成“艺术村”。

 

 

    Wang Dongdong

    Born in 1983 in Qixian, Henan province. He began his undergraduate career studying philosophy, but later transferred to the Chinese Language and Literature Department. He is currently a doctoral student in Chinese Language and Literature at Peking University. He has published poetry, translations and works of criticism.

 


    Xiaobao Village


    Those who don’t know the history might think the peasants here cowardly,
    letting a 500kv high tension line run through their backyards. Truth is,
    the line ran through a wheat field, burned it out, then they built houses.

    Even though the line’s material primacy isn’t the villager’s perceptive primacy,
    nor mine. Many more talented people walk through the air above the line.
    The invisible village head controls it all: the backwards, specious mirror image.

    I forgot to go to the shore the electromagnetic ripples touch. A machine lies in the center
    of the lake the worksite surrounds. A Rottweiler at the fence sniffs for footprints.
    People inside lie flat to avoid the charge. Sleep suspended from the current. Volunteer
    their bodies as conductors.

    Lunch. Empty exhibition hall. We eat crabs brought back from Tianjin.
    With shell pliers we administer an education. Quiet. Expansive oil painting on the
    wall  the foreign painter’s signature suddenly intelligent: art beneath a wire is weak art.

    Yet, an artist will proclaim he needs an electric tower, a giant model
    combing the high tension line like hair. A female painter seems to paint nothing but
    young female painters. When she was young she didn’t paint, she wrote poems.

    We clamor at the female painter: “Don’t paint flowers, paint people.”
    Which is to say, she can paint her drowned self. Going back, I see an
    illusion: the high tension line hung with gondolas, one after another.

    “The world’s Xiaobao,” means only the world, no Xiaobao; but the stubborn villagers
    confirm: only Xiaobao, no world. This place teaches us how to think. Though it may only     be the leftovers of thought. Perhaps, incomplete thought constitutes reality.

    Unfortunately, I forgot to see the landscape the female painter brought back
    by the famous Russian artist. Are two of my friends going abroad to have a child?
    Train the child not to look at fields out the window and shout, “Grasslands!”
    though that would be nice as well.

 

 

 

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