Cai Guo-Qiang

Foolish Man and His Mountain

Realized projects are like bright fireworks in the sky. Unrealized projects are the dark nights. Both are both parts of the artist's work. But the dilemma is that when people look up at the sky, they want to see fire flowers, not darkness.

Realized works leave behind substantial documentation. After a while, such images begin to replace the memory of the project itself. For this reason, an unrealized project stays with me, paradoxically, much longer - I remember it through the original imagining the work. Tatsumi Masatoshi, my technical assistant, often says, "when it works, it's an accident; when it doesn't, it's the inevitable."

In Australia, I failed miserably on two consecutive occasions. The first project, for the Asia Pacific Triennale in Brisbane, was called Dragon or Rainbow Serpent: A Myth Gloried or Feared: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 28 (1996). My idea was to detonate gunpowder fuse in mid air. It then comes down like a bolt of lightening into the water, like serpents through the river, climbing up onto land, across roads, and finally disappearing underneath a bridge - very much like the Rainbow Serpents in the Aborigines folklore. Before the opening, we were working on an empty lot outside the pyrotechnic company, while the company staff were inside the factory disposing of some unused firework shells from the night before. I was sitting in the shade of a truck, quality-checking our fuse connections, when I heard Bang! Bang! Bang! from inside the factory. I saw everyone running away from the factory, and I followed. I could feel the heat and force of the explosions behind me, pushing me forward. We ran all the way to a nearby highway, and looked back. Explosion after explosion was going off in the factory and spreading onto the lot where we'd been working. I could see that our work would have passed the quality test: all the fuses blew up perfectly with no interruptions, all the way to the edge of the highway. I saw the wife of the company president crying. I asked her where the bulk of the fireworks was being stored. She suddenly remembered and ran back to the lot and drove away the truck that I was working by. After the explosions subsided the fire department opened the truck and found it was loaded with three tons of gunpowder. Had it exploded, we would have all perished. She saved her husband too, who was still inside the building. Though severely burnt all over his body, miraculously he was able to walk out of the factory alive.

Amazingly, Asia-Pacific Triennale invited me back for the next edition. But after three years, I no longer wished to complete that first project. I gave a new proposal, which was also set on the river. This proposal was to link together ninety-nine aluminum boats, forming a long chain, pulled by a motorboat that would glide across and down the river. Each boat was to be filled with an alcohol mixture that would burn at a low temperature, producing a glowing blue flame. I wanted the event to take place around 10 o'clock, when it's completely dark out. As the guests leave the Queensland Art Gallery, where the opening was held, they would see a long, quiet line of bluish glowing light winding down the river. The idea was good and technically feasible. After many discussions with many experts, it was agreed that the last boat should have some kind of device to keep it from tipping over. Since all the boats are linked together, if one is overturned, the rest would follow. A keel was installed to the bottom of the last boat for balance. Somehow, the keel got bent out of shape. But no one realized this at the time. On the evening of the event, we set the boats into the river. What a sight! All together the chain stretched over 100 meters in length. Gliding over the first turn everything was smooth, but at the second turn, the last boat tipped over and sank! The domino effect dragged the other ninety-eight boats, one by one, down to the bottom of the river. I was sitting in the motorboat that led the dragon. And from where I was, it was an awesome sight. As each boat was being pulled down, it rose up like a tombstone, then slowly sinking into the water, dragging the next boat with it. Within two minutes the dark water had swallowed all the boats. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Had this happened closer to where the audience was, everyone would have thought it was great - as though it were planned. But no one saw any of it. Only my family, along with a few museum people, could see the sinking dragon. My wife cried, but my daughter said, "Why? It's so much better this way!" Everyone else waited in the cold for forty minutes to see the dragon, but no dragon would arrive that night. A few days later, the work to salvage the sunken boats began.

Gunpowder projects are difficult, but other kinds of projects have suffered too and never saw the light of day. Like Yu Gong Yi Shan, or Foolish Man Moving the Mountain.* In 1996, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum was organizing an exhibition on 5,000 years of Chinese civilization called "China: 5,000 Years". There was going to be a section of contemporary art and I was invited to participate. The main exhibition borrowed the finest works from the best museums in China and many national treasures would be on display. My idea for the exhibition was to borrow some huge boulders from a mountain top in China, hire local farmers or workers to roll the rocks down the mountain, ship the boulders to New York, displaying them in the museum, along with the national treasures. When the show closed, I'd send them back to the mountain in China, where the workers would push the rocks back up the mountain exactly where they were originally found. But after a year's preparation the museum decided to cancel the contemporary section of the exhibition altogether because of political pressures. And so that was it. No project. Still now, every time I see the curator, we laugh and say what a pity it was that such a foolish but delightful project was never realized.

_______________

*The title comes from the famous Chinese story of Yu Gong Yi Shan, literally meaning "foolish man moving the mountain". The basic story goes that an old man had a big mountain in front of his house that blocked his view. One day he started to dig at it, taking the rocks away. He had his sons and grandsons helping him in the digging. Everyone laughed at him and called him foolish, but he said, "I may not be able to do it myself, but I have my children, and my children have their children. One day we will move the mountain."

Additional Writings by the artist

Cai Guo-Qiang: Day Dreaming. "Wild Flights of Fancy". Taipei: Cherng Piin Gallery, 1998. 4-17.

Cai, Guo-Qiang. "A Little About Me and Peasant Da Vincis." Guilin, China: Guangxi Normal University Press, 2010.


	TEXTS Articles Essays Interviews Writings by the artist	Foolish Man and His Mountain Realized projects are like bright fireworks in the sky. Unrealized projects are the dark nights. Both are both parts of the artist's work. But the dilemma is that when people look up at the sky, they want to see fire flowers, not darkness. Realized works leave behind substantial documentation. After a while, such images begin to replace the memory of the project itself. For this reason, an unrealized project stays with me, paradoxically, much longer - I remember it through the original imagining the work. Tatsumi Masatoshi, my technical assistant, often says, "when it works, it's an accident; when it doesn't, it's the inevitable." In Australia, I failed miserably on two consecutive occasions. The first project, for the Asia Pacific Triennale in Brisbane, was called Dragon or Rainbow Serpent: A Myth Gloried or Feared: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 28 (1996). My idea was to detonate gunpowder fuse in mid air. It then comes down like a bolt of lightening into the water, like serpents through the river, climbing up onto land, across roads, and finally disappearing underneath a bridge - very much like the Rainbow Serpents in the Aborigines folklore. Before the opening, we were working on an empty lot outside the pyrotechnic company, while the company staff were inside the factory disposing of some unused firework shells from the night before. I was sitting in the shade of a truck, quality-checking our fuse connections, when I heard Bang! Bang! Bang! from inside the factory. I saw everyone running away from the factory, and I followed. I could feel the heat and force of the explosions behind me, pushing me forward. We ran all the way to a nearby highway, and looked back. Explosion after explosion was going off in the factory and spreading onto the lot where we'd been working. I could see that our work would have passed the quality test: all the fuses blew up perfectly with no interruptions, all the way to the edge of the highway. I saw the wife of the company president crying. I asked her where the bulk of the fireworks was being stored. She suddenly remembered and ran back to the lot and drove away the truck that I was working by. After the explosions subsided the fire department opened the truck and found it was loaded with three tons of gunpowder. Had it exploded, we would have all perished. She saved her husband too, who was still inside the building. Though severely burnt all over his body, miraculously he was able to walk out of the factory alive. Amazingly, Asia-Pacific Triennale invited me back for the next edition. But after three years, I no longer wished to complete that first project. I gave a new proposal, which was also set on the river. This proposal was to link together ninety-nine aluminum boats, forming a long chain, pulled by a motorboat that would glide across and down the river. Each boat was to be filled with an alcohol mixture that would burn at a low temperature, producing a glowing blue flame. I wanted the event to take place around 10 o'clock, when it's completely dark out. As the guests leave the Queensland Art Gallery, where the opening was held, they would see a long, quiet line of bluish glowing light winding down the river. The idea was good and technically feasible. After many discussions with many experts, it was agreed that the last boat should have some kind of device to keep it from tipping over. Since all the boats are linked together, if one is overturned, the rest would follow. A keel was installed to the bottom of the last boat for balance. Somehow, the keel got bent out of shape. But no one realized this at the time. On the evening of the event, we set the boats into the river. What a sight! All together the chain stretched over 100 meters in length. Gliding over the first turn everything was smooth, but at the second turn, the last boat tipped over and sank! The domino effect dragged the other ninety-eight boats, one by one, down to the bottom of the river. I was sitting in the motorboat that led the dragon. And from where I was, it was an awesome sight. As each boat was being pulled down, it rose up like a tombstone, then slowly sinking into the water, dragging the next boat with it. Within two minutes the dark water had swallowed all the boats. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Had this happened closer to where the audience was, everyone would have thought it was great - as though it were planned. But no one saw any of it. Only my family, along with a few museum people, could see the sinking dragon. My wife cried, but my daughter said, "Why? It's so much better this way!" Everyone else waited in the cold for forty minutes to see the dragon, but no dragon would arrive that night. A few days later, the work to salvage the sunken boats began. Gunpowder projects are difficult, but other kinds of projects have suffered too and never saw the light of day. Like Yu Gong Yi Shan, or Foolish Man Moving the Mountain.* In 1996, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum was organizing an exhibition on 5,000 years of Chinese civilization called "China: 5,000 Years". There was going to be a section of contemporary art and I was invited to participate. The main exhibition borrowed the finest works from the best museums in China and many national treasures would be on display. My idea for the exhibition was to borrow some huge boulders from a mountain top in China, hire local farmers or workers to roll the rocks down the mountain, ship the boulders to New York, displaying them in the museum, along with the national treasures. When the show closed, I'd send them back to the mountain in China, where the workers would push the rocks back up the mountain exactly where they were originally found. But after a year's preparation the museum decided to cancel the contemporary section of the exhibition altogether because of political pressures. And so that was it. No project. Still now, every time I see the curator, we laugh and say what a pity it was that such a foolish but delightful project was never realized. _______________ The title comes from the famous Chinese story of Yu Gong Yi Shan*, literally meaning "foolish man moving the mountain". The basic story goes that an old man had a big mountain in front of his house that blocked his view. One day he started to dig at it, taking the rocks away. He had his sons and grandsons helping him in the digging. Everyone laughed at him and called him foolish, but he said, "I may not be able to do it myself, but I have my children, and my children have their children. One day we will move the mountain." Additional Writings by the artist Cai Guo-Qiang: Day Dreaming. "Wild Flights of Fancy". Taipei: Cherng Piin Gallery, 1998. 4-17. Cai, Guo-Qiang. "A Little About Me and Peasant Da Vincis." Guilin, China: Guangxi Normal University Press, 2010.