An exhibition has never been something that one person can complete alone.
Besides being an artist, in recent years I’ve also been working at a gallery — changing from the person who draws pictures into the person who asks other people to draw pictures. During the day, I clock in at work on time and look after exhibitions, catching questions coming from artists and clients coming from every direction, like a node that is constantly being called upon. At night, I return to the studio and switch back into the role of creator: preparing surfaces, painting, mixing pigments, or simply zoning out. The compression of time has turned me into a lemon — repeatedly squeezed, yet still trying hard to force out more lemon juice.
“Potato” is a name people have called me for a long time. The name carries a sense of harmlessness and slowness. Potatoes grow underground. They do not need to be seen, but continue accumulating energy beneath the soil. Potatoes are stored, transported, processed, and eventually become part of other people’s daily lives. In some ways, I’ve become used to existing like this — being moved between different kinds of work and roles, being consumed by labor and creation at the same time, while also continuously regenerating myself. The title sounds a bit like a joke, but it is also gradually becoming a description of a kind of weightless way of living.
Inside The Potato Solo Exhibition, an exhibition by Ms. Potato is taking place. The gallery staff has arrived. The installation team has arrived. Mr. Guo, who delivers the artworks, has arrived too. But Ms. Potato herself is still on the way.