text by Nita Lo
Purity: Made Possible by Mastery of Oriental & Occidental Aesthetics
Minimal Art readily comes to mind when one first comes across Richard Lin’s works. But a closer scrutiny does not seem to justify such a superficial presumption. When approached with inquiries of the sort, Lin would respond disapprovingly: “I hadn’t even heard of the term when I set out in my career.” That is, Lin does not have the slightest intention of endorsing any attempt by latecomers to rank him among artists in pursuit of minimalism.
It is said that the term “Minimal Art” was coined by British philosopher Richard Arthur Wollheim (1923-2003). It was picked up throughout the art community after he first used the phrase as the title of his essay that was published in the January 1965 issue of Arts Magazine . Minimalism is a movement associated with developments in post-World War II Western Art, most strongly with American visual arts in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Artists are supposed to break down and remove all the complex elements of expression visible to the human eye in their works. These include color-mixing on the palette meant to dictate visual responses, perspective intended to mislead visual perception of spaces, and whatever discernible objects that may directly lead to the viewer’s emotional swings or result in a specific response in the mood--such as a political theme or an intentional kitsch for commercial goals. For minimalists, all pictorial clues—man’s facial expressions and body movements and whatever other suggestive items—deserve to be removed as they are affected rather than natural. Their emotional implications are so complex that they tend to command a predominant role and thus tarnish the perpetual value of an artwork.
Lin’s earliest works are a number of abstract paintings easily reminiscent of abstract expressionism done in the late 1950s (mostly in 1958). These include the “Flow” series (1957-1959), oil-on-paper works that resemble Chinese ink and wash paintings featuring a dripping effect attained at random; and his 1958 oil paintings accorded such highly descriptive titles as “Waves,” “Clear Sky,” “Solar Eclipse,” “Black Forest,” etc., all of which are characterized by touches and colors tinged with the artist’s temperamental alternations and emotional swings. In 1958, Lin also started a new series of works where colors of black and white tones were matched together or overlapped. Within the finite frames of his canvas, Lin arranged black and white blocks in such a way as to highlight their contrast in depth. Neatly done lines and margins were intended as horizons for ushering in the viewer to a realm of peace and quietude. Not only bringing out the essence of minimalism, Lin displayed a distinctively personal trait of standing aloof from the mundane world.
Minimalism: Traces Gradually Dissolving from the Picture
At first glance, Lin’s works are likely to incur some inexplicable anxieties on the part of the viewer. One may even enter into a state of “nothingness.” But staying on the spot and watching them long enough, one can gradually discover that they are really not so detached and inaccessible. In fact, he has reserved a lot of room for the viewer to engage in some form of soliloquy. To be sure, concrete, recognizable images are entirely absent from his works. But there are also some traces that seemingly dissolve from the picture in a gradual manner, thus drawing a distinction between his works and most other abstract paintings.
It is difficult to fully grasp the importance of Richard Lin as an artist simply by admiring his works. His profound prowess in artistic creation accumulated over the years must be traced to his hard work toward forming a style uniquely his own. It takes the test of many long years to have accomplished his simplicity with precision. In a way, the simplicity of his virtually expressionless works is misleading in that there is no way the viewer can thereby infer how extraordinary a life he has experienced, how he has learned both Oriental and Occidental cultures, and how it must feel like when he exposed himself to the world of Western art by actually living in the West. But ultimately the defining imprint on his career has been marked by his own unique thinking and character. It is a depth of wisdom one can hardly expect to gauge simply by looking at his works.
Given his training in the discipline of Western architecture in the U.K., it is only natural for Lin to familiarize himself with geometric and structural elements characteristic of the Bauhaus style when he was young. But one must be persevering and patient enough to take all those primitive geometric structures to the next level and master the transformation of various pragmatic design elements originally developed for architecture into pure art. Leaving only the least possible and most important pictorial elements in one’s works—following in the footsteps of modernists and trying to make real the concept of “less is more”—is no easy task. For more than two decades until the early 1980s, Lin devoted himself to creating works of this genre. What he ultimately attained accordingly is a professional proficiency in the use of white, an achievement universally acknowledged throughout the art community.
As is only fitting to his almost legendary life path, Lin is uncompromising and even revolutionary in character. As such, he is always ready to adopt exceedingly stringent criteria in criticizing his own creations as well as those of others. It is far from extraordinary that most of us may never get to know what the supreme state of things he yearns for really is—it defies any attempt at interpretation by worldly words. But one can probably refer to what Constantin Brancusi said: “Simplicity is not an objective in art, but one achieves simplicity despite one's self by entering into the real sense of things.” As can be expected, his unwavering adherence to simplicity in art is mirrored in his exact approach toward tiny details in everyday lives: “In his studio, all the tools are placed in such a way as to remind one of the barracks where everything is kept clean and tidy. Brushes are lined up neatly. Meticulous care is taken as to where the paint tubes are kept. The surface of the desk can almost double as a mirror. As for the paintings, there is simply nothing left for us to fuss about.” 1
Basically, what Lin wants to relay through his works is quite simple. Some philosophical concepts, however, seem to assert themselves regardless of the works per se. Very complex chains of thoughts appear to be running under the surface of the seemingly simple works. Somehow the viewer must be kept in front of the works longer than it usually takes so that they can join the artist in thinking about and discussing them a bit more; that is, the two parties are to conduct an interchange of thoughts and emotions. As must be required of art lovers from Utopia, one is supposed to leave behind all that is treasured in the earthly world and permit new possibilities and dimensions to assert themselves. Lin seeks to present his ingredients—both their outer appearance and inner texture—in a most primitive light. All those diverse, hardly enduring colors are discarded, leaving behind only white. His “White Series” are expertly rendered by taking advantage of all the layers this very color has to offer. Sometimes it is seemingly transparent, but on other occasions it is apparently not. For him, white can also be thick or thin, and heavy or light. It readily reminds one of the “five colors of ink” in Chinese landscapes: dry, wet, thick, thin and dark. From both physical and spiritual perspectives, such fine layers of nuance attest to his success in breaking away from the confinement of the plane. The “No Beginning No End Series—Infinite Mountains,” a highlight of his solo exhibition at the Spring Gallery in 1984, constitutes a case in point. Let’s turn to the quite lively description of Lin’s works by poet and art critic Lo Men for reference:
“At this very moment, we can identify a charming and even almost eternal tranquility’ in the picture. On one hand, all life forms are sobered from the overflow of sensibilities into a calm world of reason. On the other hand, all varieties of motions are stilled into complete stillness. Whatever is still moving is really a form of invisible motion—birds flying without any wings spotted, rivers flowing when they are really not flowing, clouds floating by when they are really not floating. All beings are assimilated into an original ‘form’ of similarity and unity. This ‘form’ is precisely the simplest and ultimate prototype that minimal art can possibly expect to achieve ever. Bringing out the eternity and perfection of all existences, it is bound to infatuate the ‘spiritual’ eye rather than the ‘physical’ eye.” 2
From “White” in Paintings to “Penetration” in Space
In 1984, Richard Lin announced that he was ceasing painting—bidding farewell to his canvas and all those painting tools that had kept him company for decades—as he found it almost intolerable to continue wielding his brush. It is always his belief— both now and then—that no new works can come by until some changes are made to the instruments and materials used in his creation. After experimenting with all possible variations of white and approaching the dialectic between the abstract and the tangible from any number of perspectives, Lin seems to have attained some sort of extreme both in form and content. “There is no painting further. Any attempt to keep trying can only lead to self-repetition—a dead end.” 3
Over the years Lin’s fastidiousness in art has been extended to as far as the purity of materials used in his creation. There is no way he can live with ready-made moulds hollowed out of plastics, plywood originating from thin layers of wood glued together under pressure, or any other material that has taken on some form of artificial decoration through the use of paint. It’s precisely the kind of stringent control one will expect of a minimalist. But the very same exacting approach must have denied him quite a few other possibilities in choosing materials that best fit his intended effect. At any rate, Lin likes to use primitive industrial materials. And the truth is that one can hardly detect any sign of the artist being bothered by a dilemma over the choice of materials—be it his installation art pieces making use of modular materials or small-scale geometric sculptures that look like toy blocks. With a tinge of pride, he shows to his visitors custom-made tenoned frames mostly to be found in the U.K. All those pieces of spotlessly white canvas held by the meticulously crafted frames are really not meant for painting. He takes his time to come up with a number of formations by tracing the lines of floor tiles at his home. “The canvas is to be found everywhere” is exactly how he’s been feeling these days.
At his home at Dali, Taichung County, he is often absorbed in making micro landscape sculptures, either on or under the dining table. Fond of browsing around at factories making all kinds of materials, Lin will collect cut-off and odd pieces and then use them as modular pieces or building blocks for shaping one “minimal” form or another. Literally,
he will arrange them the same way as children will play with their toy blocks. Wherever there are vertical or horizontal lines--along window frames, edges of tables or dividing lines of floor tiles, the artist will find a way to line up his army of modules. He then arranges all these geometric groupings in such a way that they can virtually engage in an interaction of shadow and light against their surroundings. This interplay is then photographed as the artist seeks to capture that split second of artistic excitement. The result is that the “white” in the picture is somehow transformed into some sort of “penetration” in space. The “Existence and Variation,” series for instance, stand out as a seemingly inexhaustible source of inspiration; these pieces have been rearranged and realigned any number of times over the years.
In June 2009, Lin held a solo exhibition at the Xue Xue Gallery in Taipei. On display were large installation pieces created out of “components” and “units” he had acquired from home-furnishings retailer Ikea: glittering stainless steel mailboxes that could be lined up to stretch over an indefinite distance or piled up high as a massive block. Too many possibilities remained to be explored. The only complaint he kept mumbling was that how to dispose of all those components after the exhibition would be quite a headache. In fact, even before he announced his decision to cease painting, Lin had long taken to this mode of sculpture in which it is possible to change formations at random so long as it is fitting to the supporting materials adopted. It is virtually a kind of relief sculpture that varies in depth. Setting out with smaller objects whose modularity enables easy arrangement and admustment, he grows increasingly ambitious and tries to expand some of them into larger pieces— an organic growth rich with tension and daring in their designated environment.
Yesterday’s Revolutionary Yearning vs. Today’s Quietude
A romanticist by nature, Lin has scribbled many thoughts long hovering on his mind on the back of banks’ withdrawal notes. Far from organized but potent all the same, they are crucial clues for the artist to trace his own chain of thinking. In a similar vein, it is not uncommon for most of us to find some maxims in our appointment books. His romantic trait sometimes finds it way into the titles of his works. Exhilarated and enthusiastic, the artist will give his personal elaboration on some of the titles that appeal to him more than others. This, in turn, must have been derived from his longtime liking—almost a nostalgia—for Chinese literature. But the fact is that Lin tends to show impatience over all sorts of mundane chores, naming his works included. In most cases, he would rather hand over the task to others. A reporter once asked him why his minimal works would take on such seemingly incongruous titles as “Heaven and Earth,” “Clouds and Water,” “You and Your White Camellia Flowers,” “That Winter,” etc. Wouldn’t it mislead the viewers? The artist retorted candidly: “Those are only some terms, names given by friends, so that galleries can have the paintings sold. Besides, it is up to people what they would like to think.” 4 Likewise, the artist cannot care less about the rise and fall of artistic movements or doctrines. “He doesn’t think that paintings can be categorized by school or doctrine. All those terms coined for the sake of ‘dissemination’ really amount to nothing.” 5 One may also refer to what British art critic Roger Fry (1866-1934) said: “To one who feels the language of pictorial form, all depends on how it is presented, nothing on what.” 6
Launching himself into the art world in 1958, Richard Lin became internationally known when he presented his “White Series” at “Documenta III” in Kassel, Germany in 1964. Always assured and proud of himself, Lin is an artist who refuses to be tied down by any bonds—one who never identifies himself with any movement, organization or school. He is born a revolutionary, so to speak. Over the years Lin has contemplated one central issue: “What kind of works is an oriental artist supposed to come up with?” He recollects jokingly that when he was young, he even had the ambition to form a revolutionary party of artists who would jointly combat peers sticking to tradition, reluctant to break away from their stagnant status quo or content with imitating nature in their ink and wash or oil paintings. Fortunately he had opted to stay in the U.K. and thus been spared the hardship during Taiwan’s “White Terror” era in the late 1940s and the 1950s, a time when anti-tradition modern art was above all a taboo. On top of the high standing commanded by his family in Taiwan, chances are that the rebellious and revolutionary artist could easily attract entirely unbearable political intervention. And his readiness to have others interpret his works as they see fit must have provided much room for people to fabricate whatever implications in accordance with their own plotting. Keeping quite a distance away from Taiwan’s political turmoil, he was thus able to expose himself to the purity of Western philosophy and enjoy an environment where freedom is always taken for granted. And this must explain why his works are so simple and pure—so removed from all those undesirable vulgarities of the mundane world.
The 78-year-old Richard Lin conveys the image of an old gentleman while wearing his white suit and smoking a cigarette. He is no longer that hot-tempered young revolutionary who would always express himself sonorously and reject any impurities from his thoughts. With Yen-Hsiao Liang—his humorous, firm and patient wife who always places him at the center of their lives—keeping him company now, Lin still has the same sharpness and fastidiousness about all things of beauty and quality. But his character has softened a great deal just as his hair has grayed all over. Sometimes he will not mind seeking out excuses to console himself when things do not turn out the way he wants. With a touch of Zen, “One is Everything” is how he is calling his first solo exhibition to be held at the public museum of fine arts in Taiwan. Maybe it is an indication that after having walked the path opened only to artists for over half a century, Lin has eventually discovered the ultimate truth he’s been looking for all these years.
Since his return to Taiwan more than a decade ago, Lin has been trying to build a kingdom of the arts—one that will be uniquely his own—in his homeland. He would like to take both his peers and the younger generation to comprehend the essence of art that he has long appreciated. But many friends who were once close and understanding to one another have turned their back and set out in their respective path. A profound sense of loss can be felt even if Lin still has the will to compete and fight. But why bother? Lin, after all, despises drawing a distinction between movements and schools. In the beginning, people may share a common belief and band together as fellows. But over time some are likely to find themselves superior to most or trapped behind an insurmountable barrier, making their own departure and breakup of the group inevitable in the end. Now left to being his own king, Richard Lin continues to command the supreme post in his kingdom.
(Nita Lo / Assistant Researcher of Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts)
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1.Qin Qing, “White Kingdom—Richard Lin & His Paintings,” China Times, November 9, 1982.
2.Lo Men, “Architect of Pure Spaces—Richard Lin’s Paintings,” The Commons Daily, November 29, 1983.
3.Lin, Qingxuan, “Infinite Mountains—Richard Lin’s ‘Existence and Variation,’” Times Magazine, Vol. 220, February 15, 1984, p. 56.
4.Qiu Yan-ming, “White Prayers—Legendary Painter Richard Lin,” United Daily News, October 28, 1983.
5.Qiu Yan-ming, “White Prayers—Legendary Painter Richard Lin,” United Daily News, October 28, 1983.
6.Liu Wen-tan, Modern Aesthetics (Taipei: The Commercial Press Ltd., 1993), p. 127. |
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