春宵苦短

“若你望着群星，我是其中一颗，那我愿变作天空，好得千万只眼睛来望着你。” ——柏拉图向千眼巨人阿格斯的呐喊

尹子昂曾言：“我要酒神的迷狂与日神的清澈。”迷狂不是混乱，而是生命力的奔涌，清澈则是来自心底对艺术该有的透亮。两种渴望在短暂的夜幕中达到一种奇妙的平衡，在夜里，艺术家从不使力挣扎，他放弃任何抵抗愿望，沉入黑色中，一直往下沉，因为那里有他需要的，那些惊奇的，恐惧的，黏腻甚至带有辩证的美。对于美而言，至关重要的不是在那璀璨的须臾片刻中，而是可能瞥见到回忆里的遗失之物。

静夜沉沉，浮光霭霭，近看时，尹子昂绘画中的笔触时而如呼吸般轻柔，勾勒出光影的颤动，时而如激流般汹涌，堆积出岩层般的肌理；远观时，我们又能获得森林、野兽、昆虫、肢体还有月亮和星辰种种；这种介于抽象与具象之间的语言，像极了夜的本质——它既包容万物，又消解形态；既给予庇护，又催生不安。他笔下的来自夜的启示，从不是一种逃避。相反，它是一片丰饶的混沌：欲望在此生灭，记忆在此重组，它们在此交融成“有色的生命漩涡”，直至最终塌陷成为黑洞，使之奇迹般的缩短了一个心灵宇宙与另一个心灵宇宙的距离。

艺术家认为真正的绘画应当直接作用于观者的肉体感官，而非通过大脑的理解。向内观察自身对于图像的反应是创作中必不可少的步骤：当一笔下去，所见的视觉与微妙的触觉乃至整个身体是否被某种未知的力量所悸动？这是他为何动笔的必要条件，有则穷追，无则毁弃。直面内心的感受，使尹子昂的绘画过程更像是一种生成论的实践，图像不是事先预设好的，而是在不断试探与调整中慢慢浮现。这情形与艺术家所迷恋的钓鱼过程何其相似。在月色下，在潜意识与显意识的灵魂湖面，艺术家以鱼竿为笔，颜色为饵料，在一次次来回挥臂中，去追寻那古老的约会——绘画作为他的对象，作为亘古的语言，被感知，被等待。

春宵苦短是艺术家深夜作画时的喃喃低语，也不时地刺激到那些早已健忘的古老记忆。那是关于生命之初，我们诞生于同一片混沌之夜，并裹着黏液的胎衣，嵌着星尘的残渣。我们仍要在天地之间徘徊一些时间，意大利的谚语：Per l'amaro e il dolce（为了苦也为了甜），请珍视夜里的每一次的悸动，以及感受举头的星群与遥远的未知胎动。尹子昂：春宵苦短策展人：高郁韬

“When thou lookest on the stars, my star, oh! would I were the heavens and could see thee with a thousand eyes.” —— As cited by Hegel in Lectures on Aesthetics, Vol. III, attributed to Plato’s cry to Argus, the Hundred-Eyed Giant 1 YIN Zi’ang once said, “I want both the Dionysian frenzy and the Apollonian clarity.” Frenzy is not chaos, but the surging vitality of life; clarity is the luminous transparency that art demands from the depths of the soul. These two longings reach a delicate equilibrium beneath the brief veil of night. In the dark, the artist does not struggle or resist; he relinquishes every impulse to fight and sinks into the blackness — ever deeper — because there lies what he seeks: the wondrous, the fearful, the viscous, even the dialectical beauty. For him, what is essential about beauty does not reside in its dazzling moments of brilliance, but in those fleeting glimpses of what might have been lost in memory. In the stillness of the night, where light drifts and shadows breathe, YIN Zi’ang’s brushwork alternates between the gentleness of a breath — tracing the quiver of light — and the turbulence of a torrent — building layers like strata of rock. Viewed up close, one feels the texture of touch and light; from afar, forests, beasts, insects, limbs, the moon, and constellations emerge. His visual language hovers between abstraction and figuration, echoing the essence of the night itself — both inclusive and dissolving, both sheltering and unsettling. The revelations that arise from his night are never acts of escape; rather, they are fertile chaos:

desires ignite and fade, memories fragment and reform. They merge into “a colored whirlpool of life,” collapsing at last into a black hole — miraculously shortening the distance between one inner universe and another. The artist believes that true painting should act directly upon the viewer’s bodily senses, not through intellectual comprehension. To observe inwardly one’s own reactions to an image is an indispensable step in creation: when the brush touches the canvas, does the vision seen and the tactile subtlety felt — the entire body even shake under some unknown force? This is the condition necessary for him to paint: if it appears, he pursues it relentlessly; if not, he abandons the work. Confronting the feelings within makes YIN Zi’ang’s painting process a kind of ontogenetic practice — the image is not premeditated, but slowly emerges through continual probing and adjustment. This process resembles the act of fishing, which the artist deeply adores. Under moonlight, on the lake of the subconscious and the conscious, he casts his line — the brush — using color as bait, seeking through each rhythmic motion that ancient tryst: painting as his counterpart, as an eternal language — to be sensed, to be awaited. YIN Zi’ang: Hold Back the Dawn Curated by GAO Yutao

1 引自于G.W.F. Hegel: Aesthetics. p. 153 但是学术界指其为 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel 的“伪引 用”Diogenes Laertius 的

Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers(Book III, Plato section) 或误归柏拉图。

“Hold back the dawn,” he murmurs while painting deep into the night — the phrase stirs something ancient — buried, but not gone. They speak of the beginning of life, when we were all born from the same primordial darkness, wrapped in a viscous membrane, encrusted with remnants of stardust. Still, we linger — suspended between heaven and earth. As the Italian saying goes, Per l'amaro e il dolce — “for the bitter as well as the sweet.” Cherish every tremor of the night, and feel, with an upturned gaze, the stirring of distant stars — and the first, unseen pulse of the unknown.