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图书在版编目（CIP）数据

失败者／邱志杰著．—桂林：广西师范大学出版社，2020.1 ISBN
978-7-5598-2494-3

Ⅰ．①失… Ⅱ．①邱… Ⅲ．①艺术创作－文集Ⅳ. ①J04-53

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广西师范大学出版社出版发行（ 广西桂林市五里店9号 邮政编码：

541004 ）

出版人：黄轩庄

全国新华书店经销

开本：710 mm × 960 mm 1/16

印张：32.5 字数：456 千字

2020 年1 月第1 版2020 年1 月第1 次印刷

定价：148.00 元
目录
1. 版权信息
2. 前言：如是成为“失败者”
3. 浙江美术学院的激浪派
4. 韩老师的素描课
5. 为什么要创建ART218
6. 忍不住要煽情一下
7. 《九曲1：大眼睛》纪事
8. 《九曲2：毛毛虫的爱情》
9. 《九曲3：影子戏》
10. 《木乃伊之死》和现场艺术
11. 《木乃伊之死》剧本
12. 梦工场戏剧的起承转合
13. 总体艺术游西湖
14. 在安养的48小时，新“安养八景”
15. 西递、宏村写生者调查
16. 《理想国1：你还记得苏联吗？》
17. 华西村居民幸福指数调查
18. 让乡村重新出现在我们的视野中
19. 裂变的狮子
20. 曲阳人物谱（部分）
21. 从曲阳石雕看中国当代社会文化心理
22. 书法的问题：困兽之斗还是凤凰涅
23. 西藏题材绘画调查报告
24. 为什么去那里
25. 贫困设计博物馆计划
26. 这样成为“无知者”
27. 图像和叙事中的旅行者
28. 艺术作为一个饭碗
29. 从产业的眼光来理解艺术生产
30. 艺术作为一种行业
31. 意见
32. 《人间地理杂志》
33. 答学生研究课题札
34. 代后记：两场讲座和两代人
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 前言：如是成为“失败者”

收录在这本书中的文字，是我从2003年开始在中国美术学院（简
称“国美”）教书到2016年调任中央美院为止，这13年间所做的事情的
记录。有的直接是当时的工作文本，如剧场的脚本；有的是当时的笔
记；有的是社会调查项目完成之后形成的调查报告，其中不少内容都
可以算是原始档案。那些年中和我一起做事情的同学们，今天已经成
为各校教师或各行业翘楚，分布在世界各地。大家倘读到这些文字，
回想起那些“闪亮的日子”，应能忆起初心，鼓舞一番志气，再来笑对眼
前的大大小小的麻烦。

整理这些文字的时候，我发现这13年我在中国美院所做的工作主
要围绕着三件事情展开。

最重要的是社会调查和文化研究方法的实验。2003年我刚到国
美，第一件事情就是让学生们利用暑假调查各自家乡的中山公园。这
个工作后来发展成2012年上海双年展的特别项目“中山公园计划”。然
后是“北京地下室招待所调查”，再然后是“总体艺术医院调查”（这些项
目在这本书里甚至没有收录）。我的社会调查改变了美院传统的下乡
模式，成为总体艺术工作室的核心课程，形成了一套有效的工作方
法。每次都是抱着投影机下乡，白天陪着同学们出去做调查，晚上上
课到深夜，13年间足迹遍及中国的新疆、西藏、台湾地区和印度。一
代代的学生，在无垠的大地上，脱胎换骨，成男成女。

2013年10月在景德镇调查陶瓷产业的时候，景德镇正在开瓷博
会，旅馆爆满。难得地找到一家能容纳60个学生的便宜旅馆，却没有
够大的会议室。于是每晚150元包场租了楼下的麻将馆开会上课。我记
得第一晚讲“摆脱幻觉性绘画的历史桎梏”。隔壁传来猜拳声，隔壁的隔
壁的隔壁，生意清淡的小姐们在粉灯下消磨青春。而楼上包间的麻将
客高举着椅子挤过学生们，上楼开战。景德镇之夜生机勃勃！前一天
价格谈判时，麻将馆老板娘很是担心我们租场地是要上传销课，满腹
狐疑。开课那天，偷偷躲着听了我们几耳朵绘画课，感动得不行，态
度大变。下课后跑过来，说我连上三个多小时的课，“原来真的是好
人”。第二天再上课，老板娘就切了果盘送来。

每次社会调查项目，总能收获一批志同道合的青年，因为一起下
到过底层，从此亲如家人。但也正因为社会调查课程，老邱工作室的
苦和累都是出名的，吓跑了不少文艺青年。每次大二期末学生分流选
工作室，喜欢玩iPad和iPhone的同学们都会选姚大钧的工作室，大钧那
边永远第一。电影青年都会选杨福东的实验影像工作室。选总体工作
室的总是和杨福东的那边上上下下。

2016年我离开中国美院，调任中央美院。2018年，中国美院跨媒
体艺术学院来北京的时代美术馆办了一个展览。我去看，看到了四种
东西：大钧的工作室继续做VR做声音表演继续崇拜坏像美学，高世强
的文艺影像继续深沉凝重，老管工作室发展出了机械装置，牟森的工
作室做着多媒体巨构。而我在国美耕耘了13年的社会调查似乎连一点
影子都没有留下。这时候我才第一次意识到，我在国美的教学实验其
实是失败了。

我在国美做的第二件事情是实验剧场。回国美教书之前，我在北
京和“后感性”的兄弟们发展出了一种游移在实验剧场、媒体表演和事件
艺术边缘的所谓“现场艺术”，但这种集体行动面临着被要兴起的艺术市
场解构的危机，艺术市场只需要自爱的个人。于是我不死心地把“现场
艺术”的理想带到国美，开始用剧场作为总体艺术的输出形式，我把它
叫作“总体剧场”。我带着学生们做了《木乃伊之死》《谜宫》《九曲》
系列、《奖状》系列、《理想国》系列、《独立时代》等很多表演。
此外，还有很多学生个人的剧场项目，都各有动人心魂的力量。第一
个用剧场作为毕业创作的似乎是叶楠，接着是牛珂和宋振，然后是陈
晨，然后是贺冰、子月、小鱼……

我之所以选择“总体剧场”作为社会调查、文化研究、媒介研究和理
论思考之后的输出形式，是因为这种方式最能打通个人与群体、虚构
与现实、身体和话语。在这里，每个参与者都必须拿出身体和心灵来
激烈地碰撞，必须交出自己，没有躲闪余地。在这样的现场里，正如
在田野中，青年们迅速地成长，我可以听到他们细胞分裂、骨骼生
长、皮肤脱落时的咔咔作响声。

也是在2018年时代美术馆的那个展览上，看着那些舞台模型和文
学，我意识到牟森的多媒体巨构并不是我的“总体剧场”。再回想，我倾
注了巨大心血的“模特队”小组已经烟消云散，“居委会”小组已经烟消云
散，贺冰的单人表演也烟消云散。我意识到，我在国美的“总体剧场”的
实验也是失败的。

我在国美做的第三件事情是带策展学生，这件事情是和高士明、
张颂仁一起做的。这件事情某种程度上非常成功——我们的学生曾经屡
获青年策展奖，也曾经年纪轻轻就担任上海双年展的联合策展人。我
们的“展研”（今天的正式名称叫“艺术与社会思想研究所”）同学们虽然
经常处于自学状态（因为导师太忙），但水平之高傲视国内所有真真
假假的策展专业学生。最难得的是他们心志之高、品位之纯洁令人欣
慰。颂仁带来的“亚际书院”和“中土西天”、士明力推的“人间思想”、卢
杰的“长征”等项目都标示着一种纯洁的高度和思想的力度。在策展专
业，我的主要工作是确保学策展的学生懂艺术，这一点或许也有部分
做到了，但是我依然有一种失败感。

2013年，参加杭州一个叫作“林泉”的以山水画为概念核心的展览
之后，我曾经给高士明写了一封信，信中说：“我有点担心你现在接活
太密。你成了策展包工头，学生们就成了策展民工，没有办法发展自
己的策展计划……任务交给他们之后，我们难免口头上当作例子谈起我
们爱的那些艺术家，然后……然后就算我们装低调假民主，再三强调说
这只是建议，完全由你们自己来把握，但事实上他们是不会反对的。
我们提到过的那些艺术家当然都会最显眼。我想是否可以索性更放手
一点，完全让小朋友们自己弄呢？”

事实上，我在口头上比文字中更为激烈地建议士明，越是打心眼
里重视的好学生，越是要让他们离开自己，到江湖上闯荡一番，今后
他们才会带着满身的伤痕和狼性回来，回报母校。或许不回来，不回
来更好，我们培养他们不就是去改变世界的吗？杭州的这些展研同
学，见识、思辨、心志、写作、言谈、执行力都不错，唯一的缺陷就
是胆气。这在某种程度上是因为导师太强大，总是把太有意思的项目
分发给他们做，他们就会很自然地守在学校，守在老师身边。派他们
到上海弄个西岸双年展，到中国美术馆弄个国美校庆展或者王冬龄个
展，他们都能力极强经验丰富。但那都是被“派”，他们自己从心里长出
来的项目，是否就在这样的一次次地被“派”之中消磨了？

唐晓林和刘潇曾经跟着我在曲阳下乡。看着那些被采石坑挖断的
田野，一种“国在山河破”的悲怆在我们心中共鸣。我们谈到乡村的被夺
名，匠人的真诚和表演，发展与持守的冲突。刘潇在那里誓言要做
《国道计划》，要从上海到她家乡贵阳的320国道做一系列的项目。我
当时激动了，我认为这是国内青年策展人中心志最高、视角最锐利也
最接通这个国家和时代的地气的设想，是一个或许有机会超越《长
征》的构思。可接下来就是刘潇忙西岸、忙上双、忙纤维三年展，现
在成为艺术管理专业的中流砥柱，深受学生们爱戴的老师……可是“国
道”呢？今天刘潇已经不接我关于“国道”的话茬了。而晓林的“国道”又
在哪里？帮我做了上双“中山公园计划”的文珊的“国道”又在哪里？如果
这些“国道”没有延展，我在中国美院的策展教育工作，又失败了。

2008年10月，我曾经开着我的路虎卫士从北京到广州，去参加士
明和颂仁策划的广州三年展“向后殖民说再见”，沿路用刻了字的轮胎在
道路上印下“如何成为‘失败者’”的墨迹。那是一条2米宽、2000多公里
长的版画长卷。

其实并不是做过了那么一件作品，就真的懂得了如何成为“失败
者”。在中国美院的教师生涯中，当然还有些许成功时刻，但面对这三
重的大失败，我将何以自处？

我们回到美术学院教书，本不是为自己谋一个饭碗，找一个退休
的地方，而是把学院当作改造世界的实验室。这个讲台是用来发出呐
喊，呼唤同志，是用来与那些包围着我们的毁灭性的力量争夺青年。
这根教鞭，每天都是打在自己身上。所以十几年来不眠不休，殚精竭
虑。我在中国美院教书，曾经从早上8点上课上到第二天深夜3点，然
后请学生们吃夜宵，小睡一会儿，第二天早上接着上课——士明形容我
上课的风格是“粉身碎骨”。但我虽然投入，其实并不专制。我是强烈要
求学生们把自己当作成年人来看待的。所以推行头脑风暴和自我组织
的教学，所以推行课题式的自我研究计划和大型计划，所以后来实验
剧场叫作“群个作品”而不能变成集体创作，所以不断地带着年轻人下乡
看社会现实遭遇各种人生史，都意在唤醒年轻人为自己负责，为自己
选择，并成为积极的贡献者。这条思路，至今在中央美院发展成一门
叫作“换位教学与自主学习”的课程。然而我们的目标在世界在中国在人
生，这目标远远超出了教学和艺术，而这是一所艺术学校，总体艺术
的理想，只是在谈论艺术的温度中慢慢发酵。然而我们注定愿望太迫
切，用力过猛，这个意义上，失败早已不可避免。失败感，是因为心
愿无尽。

蔡元培、林风眠先生的国立艺专是成功还是失败？“美育代替宗教”
是成功还是失败了？“调和中西艺术，创造时代艺术”的理想是成功还是
失败？艺术大众化的理想呢？艺术运动社的理想呢？吴大羽先生的“势
象艺术”的理想呢？潘先生的“两峰对峙、拉开距离”呢？ 2019年夏天，
我读到董希文先生的言语，他说：“我这辈子，想画的画都还没有来得
及画。”一部校史，看起来竟是一部失败者的历史。那是因为这座学院
在它的源头处，就远远地溢出了艺术，就是无尽的愿力。

生也有涯，移山填海之事，岂有成败！我的社会调查课程可能已
经渗透到了整个国美的下乡的方法中。“总体剧场”中规模最大的是
2011年的《理想国2·华西村》，那次大戏成了把牟森吸引到中国美院
的机缘。那天晚上， 15个“乌托邦市集”地摊在草坪上铺开，牟森拉着
我说：“你们这里是黑山学院啊！”而策展的同学们一定会以各自的方式
完成他们自己的“国道”，即使不是以我们所熟悉和所能理解的那种方
式。总体艺术工作室的思想和实践最后必是杀身成仁。正所谓“呕血心
事无成败，拔地苍松有远声”。我在国美教过的那些学生，从来不是那
种坐直升机平步青云大红大紫的著名青年艺术家。我并不以为这是失
败，那是因为他们根本不按照这个艺术圈既定的游戏规则和刻板的青
年艺术家想象来工作，他们要做的事情更大，他们要走的道路更远，
我依然相信他们会为这座学院带来真正的荣耀。
 2012年我策划上海双年展。开幕的第二天早上，《纽约时报》的
艺评家霍兰·柯特问我：“告诉我，为什么我在这里看到的，和在纽约听
说的中国艺术完全不一样，到底发生了什么？”我告诉他其实大家做了
不少事情，只是没有被叙述。我和他讲了这么多年来发生在当代艺术
教育中的种种事情。他说：“如果一个学校居然能够有高士明、张颂
仁、杨福东、张培力、耿建弈、邱志杰这样一群人在一起教书，那就
是梦想啊！”然后他突然伤感起来，说：“We don’t have Black
Mountain College anymore.”我顺着他的目光，望向瑞京宾馆青翠的草
木，遥想黑山学院。富勒带着人在搭圆顶，阿尔伯斯在讲色彩，康宁
汉带着人在草地上跳舞，池塘里有人泡在水中练瑜伽，劳森伯格正在
山下的小镇上捡垃圾。人来人去的黑山学院，24年星流云散的黑山学
院，又岂有成败！

《一字一石·成败》在日本金泽 2018
 2006年我和同学们一起做《谜宫》总体剧场，整理台词的时候发
现了梁启超先生谈成败的一段话，我经常不厌其烦地用来推荐给学
生。梁任公曰：

凡任天下大事者，不可不先破成败之见。然欲破此见，大非易
事。必知天下之事，无所谓成，无所谓败，参透此理而笃信之，则庶
几矣。何言乎无所谓成？天下进化之理，无有穷也，进一级更有一
级，透一层更有一层，今之所谓文明大业者，自他日观之，或笑为野
蛮，不值一钱矣。然则所谓成者果何在乎？使吾之业能成于一国，而
全世界应办之事复无限，其不成者正多矣；使吾之业能成于一时，而
将来世界应办之事复无限，其不成者正多矣。况即以一时一国论之，
欲求所谓美满、圆好、毫无缺憾者，终不可得，其有缺憾者，即其不
成者也。盖世界之进化无穷，故事业亦因之无穷，而人生之年命境
遇、聪明才力则有穷。以有穷者入于无穷者，而欲云有成，万无是
处。何言乎无所谓败？天下之理，不外因果。不造因则断不能结果，
既造因则无有不结果，而其结果之迟速远近，则因其内力与外境而生
种种差别。浅见之徒，偶然未见其结果，因谓之为败云尔，不知败于
此者或成于彼，败于今者或成于后，败于我者或成于人。尽一分之心
力，必有一分之补益，故惟日孜孜，但以造因为事，则他日结果之收
成，必有不可量者。若怵于目前，以为败矣败矣，而不复办事，则遂
无成之一日而已。故办事者，立于不败之地者也；不办事者，立于全
败之地者也。苟通乎此二理，知无所谓成，则无希冀心；知无所谓
败，则无恐怖心。无希冀心，无恐怖心，然后尽吾职分之所当为，行
吾良知所不能自己，奋其身以入于世界中，磊磊落落，独往独来，大
丈夫之志也，大丈夫之行也！[1]

2018年9月我在日本金泽二十一世纪美术馆做个展。我把梁任公在
日本写下的这一段话，以“一字一石经”的做法，一个字一个字地刻在
600块鹅卵石上，并将其散放在美术馆内外周边，散在整座城市的各种
角落中。这些卵石有的已经被带到了其他城市。但不管它们如何离
散，它们曾经聚集在一起，成就一篇雄文。

感激在杭州肝胆相照的同志们和同学们。
2019年7月8日
 浙江美术学院 [2]的激浪派

考上浙江美术学院（简称“浙江美院”）之前，我在福建的时候，
跟着漳州市书法圈的老爷子们学书法。好几位老先生，都是用闽南的
大红砖在院子里一字铺开，每天用水在上面练字，这是他们的日课。

有时候老师们和南山寺的和尚聊天，聊起这里曾经有过一个禅
僧，每天用毛笔在空中画梅花，从未在纸上落一笔。

中学时我还大量临摹汉印，临摹了近千个。小孩儿钱不多，临摹
一个用印泥在纸上印出来看看效果，就磨掉，接着临摹下一个。一块
印石越磨越薄，可以刻不少印章呢。这些印象，都被我带到美院。

1990年我在浙江美院接触到很多达达、激浪派、博伊斯、过程艺
术等的资料，当时主要是依赖浙江美院图书馆不知道从哪里弄来的过
期的台湾《艺术家》和《雄狮美术》杂志。10元一本，我攒了四五十
本，在当时是巨大的财富——我记得1988年刚入学的时候，家里每个
月给60元，学校发补贴18元，这样每个月78元，我就是班上最富的学
生了。可能是到了二三年级的时候开始画一些插图、连环画挣钱，才
买得起那些书。这批书对我影响很大，从中认识了达达、博伊斯、激
浪派。这些经验，在我中学时代阅读的马克思、尼采、萨特的逻辑
上，最终把我引向激浪派。后来在台湾见到《雄狮美术》的何政广先
生，我还特别为此感谢了他。
 邱志杰《重复书写一千遍〈兰亭序〉》 1990—1995

激浪派本来是一种兴起于德国的美国化艺术现象，其实是不与波
普艺术的消费主义同流合污的，是反中产阶级意识形态的一种个人游
击队行动。它有着一种从日常生活的平凡中发动小革命的弥散性和激
进性。但它的插科打诨的幽默感和博伊斯的悲情其实格格不入，当年
在浙江美院时我对此细微差别并没有真正意识到。我喜欢激浪派，很
大程度上是被“人不能两次踏进同一条河流”那句古希腊哲言所感染。
它和我在书法中、在《金刚经》中、在中国诗词中体会到的鸿爪雪
泥、白驹过隙、沧海桑田、过眼云烟的人生空漠感奇异地接通了。

在美院见到了激浪派，回忆起少年时代看到的老爷子们用水练字
的情景，于是我就开始做《重复书写一千遍〈兰亭序〉》。在一张纸
上一遍遍地写，那张纸先是变成波洛克式的抽象画，到第八十几遍的
时候就全黑了。再往上写，已经变成一片厚重的墨片，随时会折断。
于是停住。换一张纸用淡墨重新写。花了5年时间，终于写完了当初
发愿时要写的1000遍。刚毕业那5年，颠沛流离，这张纸跟着我从杭
州回到福建，再来到北京。但是还没写满1000遍的时候就先展出了，
一举成名。到现在有时会被一些谈论当代艺术和书法的关系的人奉为
经典。现在要是我的学生说他们没钱做作品，我就会拿这件事情嘲笑
他们。我当时用了一张纸、一支笔、一瓶墨汁，材料费没有超过5
元。年轻人，需要的首先是纯洁和勇敢，然后才会有运气。
 邱志杰在浙江美院期间创作《重复书写一千遍〈兰亭序〉》

同时我的毕业创作是《大玻璃：关于新生活》，被归入政治波
普。其实《大玻璃：关于新生活》也是激浪派，来自约翰·凯奇的影
响。人在大玻璃迷宫里面走，构成了玻璃上的丝网版画形象的流动的
背景，正是“人不能两次踏进同一条河流”的写照。其实约翰·凯奇做过
一个小装置，是在平行的玻璃上笼了一些字母，似乎从不同角度会组
合出一些有意义或无意义的词语。

2015年，有德国人看了我在威尼斯双年展展出的《邱注上元灯彩
计划》，说是看到了激浪派，决定把马修纳斯奖发给我。这么毒的眼
光，值得尊敬。这个奖，得来开心。

2015年
 韩老师的素描课

1991年秋天，我大三那年终于等来了老韩的素描课。

老韩是韩黎坤老师，刻霸悍的黑白木刻，画古雅的斑驳石头。我
对他的书法印象很深，所以对他的课有期待。

我自己，从大二下学期画素描的时候就开始不安分。长期作业，
既要写实，又企图搞点艺术，同时我又不愿意学弗洛伊德或巴尔丢
斯，我在图书馆里面找到一个叫作佩尔斯坦的美国画家，每次在教室
里抢座位我都抢离模特很近的位置，画大透视，构图撑满纸面，纸张
的边缘有时候会把头和脚切割掉，在画面里面造成一种逼迫感。这样
比较不唯美，当时，那种感觉似乎比较能兼容我在素描课之外自己研
究的博伊斯和激浪派。后来我用这种风格发展出块块画法，画了这次
展出的《故事》系列等素描创作。

到了韩老师的课堂上，我用一年半时间开始了一场嚣张的实验，
并得到了极大的纵容。

韩老师的课是短期作业，过去的惯例是一个上午一张对开或全开
人体。我画到最嗨的时候是一个上午三张，通常是两张。这种短期作
业，当时的浙江美院流行的画法是用炭精条或木炭条，遇到方折的地
方用锋利的中锋线条，遇到人体结构圆转的地方把炭条倒下来横扫出
调子。这种画法以国画系为中心流行，据说和浙派人物画有关，其实
也和版画系前辈舒传曦先生从东德带回来的画法有关。总之，既能够
写实地画在人体结构上，又对于对象的色调有所提炼，有点像中国画
的笔墨，所以在浙江美院这样画素描很正宗。但是我对这种风格十分
不以为然。我想要故意对着干。想要尽量画得丑，画得吃力。

说实话，我略微有点担心这种目标会让老韩受不了，然而并没
有。当时为了在造型上摆脱掉摄影的影响，我临摹了不少陈老莲的
画，画人体写生的时候，也把陈老莲的复印品钉在画板右上角，号称
要在写生中把人体画出一种陈老莲感。没想到这一招让老韩很赏识。
陈老莲的人物造型，有一种胳膊肘朝外撇的感觉，你可以说是稚拙，
或者说是高古。总之，老韩认这个。于是我发现，韩老师虽然是在毛
文艺时代受的教育，骨子里却是中国文人。于是我越发嚣张起来，开
始往画板上钉南传佛教佛像的图片，把人体画成泰国缅甸似的宽肩膀
瘦腰。老韩没有表态，拿着炭笔，冲到班上画得比较没自信的一位同
学的画上面开始题字。

他总是这样，坐在那里看大家画，有时突然大手一拍大腿：“某某
某，快停快停，这样刚好，再画下去就砸了！”然后冲过去，抢过那位
同学的炭笔，帮人在画上面写某年某月某日某某某画于浙江美院。而
我从来没有享受过这种待遇。韩老师似乎从没有在我的画面上题过
字。于是我非常自恋地把他的题字理解成对弱势学生的加持。但是，
每次留校作业，往往还是我和老应、老曹的留得最多。老应是我们班
上画得最唯美的，我是班上画得最暴烈最丑的。

三年级下学期赶上教室装修，于是韩老师的素描课延到了四年级
上学期。这对于我意义重大。读书的时候，别看三年级下学期和四年
级上学期只差一个学期，学生的理解力差很多。到了四年级的时候，
我终于画出了自己满意的画。

三年级我画了一批参考卢奥、马蒂斯、马约尔风格的圆乎乎、黑
乎乎的人体之后，自己觉得圆而厚实的造型很难避免装饰性。而我决
心彻底和装饰性决裂。于是重新从科克斯卡、凡·高的素描里面找营
养，拼命把外轮廓线画得方方硬硬的疙疙瘩瘩的。我总结出一套“整体
荒谬、局部写实、夸大细节”的造型原则，终于画出了当年浙江美院史
上最丑的人体。为了追求画得吃力，我还到处找那种质量不好的、画
不太出来的炭笔来用。没想到，这么变态的玩法，老韩还是吞下了。
搞得我有点小挫败感。不是吗？连老师都觉得你好，也没啥前卫的。
大玻璃布展：左起陈亮洁（背影）、张俊、曹晓阳、杨福东（背影）、邱志杰 1992

到了我做毕业创作的时候，所有这些素描实验就都往大玻璃上搬
了。当时我受约翰·凯奇影响，想要用大玻璃做迷宫，为了勉强能够算
是版画系的毕业创作，就用丝网版画往上面印形象。各个系的毕业创
作，少有这么大规模，我又一次得意于这样的方案可能会被毙掉。为
了做交换，我用两个月时间很认真地刻了一张八路军古典木刻，参加
“纪念延安文艺座谈会50周年美展”，得了奖。然后去和老韩谈。我挑
拨离间说：“人家油画系都笑我们版画系是插图系，我来整一把大的，
怎么样？”韩老师笑而不语。一年素描课上下来，我在他面前已经很嚣
张了。谁让他总是拿着大厚巴掌把你肩膀拍得生痛，搞一副哥们义气
的效果呢？

总结起来，韩老师的素描课有三个特点。一是大工作量，不主张
往细节死磕，讲气场。和别的素描老师叫着大家要画进去不同，他总
是叫着停下来。这种风格，可能也和他骨子里的文人画气质有关。这
种大工作量的特点，在他的训练之下，我一直保持到现在。
 第二个特点是，功夫在诗外，他很注重画外的品位和教养。所以
他喜欢往人家画面上题字，他也看得惯我拿着陈老莲和佛像改造人体
写生。他更注意的其实不是一张画面的得失，而是一个人能力的成
长。记得有一次他坐在那里，泡着我带到教室里的铁观音，幽幽地
说，其实素描的最高境界，应该是站在正面画侧面，站在侧面画背
面，站在背面画那边那个侧面。我们班同学心气高，第二天当即尝
试。其实谁都做不到，企图站在侧面画正面的时候，难免要跑回正面
偷看一眼。于是教室里人忙成一团，时有相撞。传奇的素描场面固然
没有如愿到来，但是就在这个从正面跑到背面，看一眼再跑回画面前
的几米的距离中，我们理解了什么是素描。

多年之后，我和南非素描动画大师威廉·肯特里奇聊天，他说他每
每在画面上画几笔，走回照相机按一下快门，再走回来画几笔，也就
是在那几米之间走来走去的时候，理解了绘画是什么。

韩老师的第三个特点，则是更加重要的，那就是他纵容，甚至助
长了我们的张狂。到了我三年级的时候，佟飚、曹晓阳入学读一年
级，在302宿舍形成了学生中的“反动学术权威”的小核心。各种实验，
吸引一些各系的同学聚集，在学校招摇过市，嚣张得很。我们这伙活
宝，只要到教室里去画素描，老韩随手就递过来一包白色的“箭牌”。
似乎是感激我们给他面子去画画。最荒诞的是，有一回油画系同学请
我们去看画，我们动手就改，把两个教室的画全给改了一遍。第二
天，油画系主任胡振宇先生在走廊里面找韩老师告状。说邱志杰他们
破坏油画系的教学秩序。我听见老韩在走廊里很夸张地骂：“这还得
了，这必须严肃处理。”然后这位大佬走进教室来找我：“你干的？”我
点点头。他狠狠地朝我竖了一下大拇指走了。

韩老师教到我和老应这个班的时候，就没有拿示范作业来教室。
他对我们说：“我在系里已经找不出可以给你们当作示范作业的作品
啦。你们已经是版画系史上画得最好的了。拜托你们这学期多画一
些，我好留下来给以后的同学当范画哦！”于是我们班的熊孩子们都疯
了。如今回想，我深刻地觉得当年年少无知，被老韩忽悠了。我绝对
相信，等他教到曹晓阳、佟飚他们班的时候，会毫不犹豫地把我和老
应、老曹出卖的。他会再次这么说的。
 西藏速写 1991

还是胡振宇先生，有一次来找老韩借示范作业，是借给和我们同
届的楼笙华他们班当示范作业。老韩居然没有从版画系的库存中拿
画，他从我们班拿。且是直接略过老应、老曹和我这种自以为是高手
的人，拿了我们班上最不自信的一位女同学的两张画，交给了油画
系。

这个动作，当年我们都觉得不可理喻，真的很荒诞，今天约略能
理解先生的用心良苦了。

我们自己在青年时代，并不知道自己的自信心曾经被长者们何等
小心翼翼地保护着。我们的轻狂，曾经无数次地被宽容。我们的野
心，曾经一再地被信任。

在浙江美院版画系与韩黎坤教授交谈 1991
 正是这种宽容和保护，成就了一座伟大的艺术学院，是韩黎坤老
师，和其他像他一样的老师，护持着传统，怀揣着种子，等待着未
来。让当年的浙江美院，成了我们永远的精神故乡。

转眼我们这群当年的调皮捣蛋白专路线学生，都已经慢慢靠近韩
老师当年教我们的年龄，也各自担起了和他当年相似的职位，承担相
似的责任。我们需要提醒自己的是，我会像他那样对待年轻人吗？

我们活着，我们的老师们就不会死去。我们的学生们在，我们就
不会死去。

2016年6月28日 于北京机场
 为什么要创建ART218

2003年春天里的一天，皮力给我打电话，说他的IP被“美术同盟”
网站封了，原因是那个网站的版主在论坛上面发了一个帖子，说：“格
林纳威也算是个艺术家？”小皮老师不知趣，跟了一个帖子说：“人家
是美术学院学绘画毕业的，人家就是个艺术家。”斑竹恼羞成怒，遂下
毒手。那时候，艺术网站已经很大程度上取代平面媒体，成为艺术圈
的朋友们的主要信息来源。很多重要的学术讨论也在网站的论坛上面
展开。特别是“美术同盟”这个网站的论坛，几年来先后发生了关于“暴
力行为艺术”的讨论，关于“蔡国强威尼斯收租院侵权案”的讨论，很多
圈内的人都化了名或者不化名地在上面开战，实在是热闹非凡。于是
媒体的制作者慢慢地在心理定位上产生了变化，由服务者的定位变成
了裁决者和施与者。慢慢地开始要求有面子，他的身份试图从一个媒
体编辑转变成批评家和策展人。

当然，没有一定的学术眼光是当不好一个媒体的编辑的，也没有
谁规定过要达到什么学术水准才有资格写文章当批评家，或者跳出来
策划展览；或者说发表过多少篇文章，才算得上是一个批评家。但是
我认为，媒体的编辑和批评家或者策展人还是有区别的。这种区别主
要是立场上。一个批评家可以立场鲜明地批评不同的立场，如果他手
中握有一个重要媒体，他可能会把他的好恶带进编辑工作里面，他的
媒体所反映出来的艺术现状可能会是“隐恶扬善”的。我们期待他有君
子之风，给不同立场的言论以发言的机会。当然，媒体可以有倾向
性，甚至可以有专门为某个立场某种人辩护的“同人杂志”，但这样的
媒体会丧失它的重要性和读者群，在媒体满地都是的情况下，这样的
倾向性明显的媒体是有建设性的，也是一种必要的生存策略。但是当
媒体数量还很少的时候，一个万众瞩目的媒体，人们难免会要求它的
公允公正。越是重要的媒体，越是要避免这种过分明显的倾向性。“美
术同盟”的权力在于大家都看都投稿，如果它慢慢地变得专制和狭隘，
它就会慢慢地丧失它的权力。那是自杀。
 “美术同盟”的自杀行为越来越严重。艺术界的事件，报道、不报
道或者报道多少，越来越多地取决于个人好恶。2003年11月中国美术
学院75周年校庆，组织了大型的亚洲当代艺术展。这个展览是国内策
展人比较早地走出去邀请国外艺术家来国内展出的展览，也请来了很
多高级别的大师，像日本的矶崎新、土耳其的白康等人。应该说这个
展览的重要性是不言而喻的。但是这个展览在“美术同盟”网站一点报
道也看不到，我问过中国美院的宣传人员，他们说，给“主编”打过三
次电话，但也没给予报道。相反，西安的一个在城乡接合部的小出租
屋里组织的小活动可以出现很多篇文章的系列报道。我无意比较两个
活动的学术价值的高低，更不会认为大的活动就是更好的活动，只是
觉得活动好坏的评判权应该是在读者手里，媒体的第一责任应该是呈
现事实而不是过滤事实。

中国美院组织的“亚洲时间”展览后来巡回到深圳画院、香港艺术
馆等地展出，展出的主体是我所制作的系列纪录片。在香港展出的时
候还创下了观众观展的纪录。在深圳展出的时候，由深圳画院向大众
媒体发了消息，千龙新闻网等都做了报道。后来这个报道也在“美术同
盟”网站上面出现了，我不知道是深圳画院的严善淳直接给的还是从别
的新闻网站上面转载的。有趣的是，新闻稿的内容被改过了。

原来有一句“资深的中国录像艺术家邱志杰全程参与了考察过程并
拍摄了”被删掉了。这新闻稿是我本人写的，我自以为把自己写成“资
深”而不是“著名的录像艺术家”或者“优秀的录像艺术家”是很公道的，
没想到这也不行。文章里配发的一张海报也被用photoshop把我的名
字这一部分做了虚化处理，photoshop里面这个技法叫作“羽化”。我觉
得，如果说媒体本身有立场，有选择性，它可以选择不报道某一类新
闻，但是它没有权利报道的时候篡改新闻的内容，进行歪曲的报道。
我知道我一定是什么地方得罪了该网站的主编，这样的处理显然是针
对人而不是针对事情来的。自我膨胀的人是很容易被得罪很容易受伤
的，我们懒得去追究其根源。

我开始设想，如果由我来负责一个类似的媒体，有什么办法来防
范类似的权力集中的过程呢？我不能够把信任寄托在我的人格上面，
这不可靠，权力是一种危险的东西，它会慢慢地腐蚀拥有它的人。因
此，必须有一种制度的保证。2004年春天，有一次在杭州到上海的火
车上我忽然想到了一种“自助”发稿的模式。

“亚洲时间”在香港艺术馆和深圳画院展出 2004

我设想这是一个只有记者没有编辑的媒体，它的后台开放，谁都
可以在上面发表文章。这就像一种自助的聚餐，每个人都只带一盘菜
来，如果来了300个人，那么每个人都能吃到300种不同的菜。把发表
文章的权利下放到每一个读者，或者说，每一个读者就是作者，它最
大的好处就是大民主。我们只要把这个模式推广开来，其实自己并不
需要花费特别的时间去组稿。很多媒体发愁的稿源问题自然解决。

当时设想，这种模式可能出现的问题会有以下这样几个。第一，
稿件的质量不高，因为发上来的稿子并没有经过编辑的学识“把关”，
难免会鱼龙混杂。有一些稿件会是廉价的自我吹嘘自我宣传。解决这
个问题的办法是我们还是得有意地组织一些好的新闻来往上面放。而
且寄希望于以后影响扩大，好的稿子越来越多。第二，如果以后参与
的人多起来，很可能会出现新闻更新速度太快的问题。重要的新闻和
不重要的新闻混在一起，而且很快就会被新登录上去的更新的新闻挤
到看不见的地方去。解决这个问题的办法是把好的稿子放到推荐栏目
里面去。我们作为编辑的权利限制在这里，就是保有进行推荐的权
利。别人自助投稿贴上去的稿件通常都不会去删。当然，恶意破坏的
可能性始终是存在的，只是至今没有出现过。那样的东西出现当然要
删。

后来接触了维基百科，发现这是一样的想法，并不是我的天才的
发明。为此，我很高兴。

2004年4月，我和吴俊勇合作把这个网站建了起来。运行到现在
已经接近一年了。在没有做什么宣传、完全靠口耳相传的情况下，一
年中访问量达到了200多万人次。一开始，所谓的自助发稿，实际上
主要还是我们的自己人在网上发东西，现在渐渐有了别的人来往上面
贴东西。比例还不是很大，但是在一点一点地增长。我们也把这种大
民主的模式放大，网站里面的各种艺术网站的链接也都是读者们自己
发上去的。还开设了艺术家地址库等，都是同一条思路。

现在来总结出现的问题，有这么几个——

1.论坛里面，难免我们的熟人比较多，特别是我的很多学生在上
面混。如果出现不同意见，容易遭到围攻。这是我很不愿意看到的，
一直在尽力避免。可有时候就是会出现，一旦出现就很容易形成不好
的印象。一天皮力就抱怨说：“在你们那里要是骂你，还不被你的学生
们骂死！”我听了非常难过。要解决这个问题，可能应该有意地进行一
些宣传，让各种各样的人都进来。我们自己，要有意地少发表意见。

2.自助管理模式，要对网站的操作进行一些研究。否则摸不着头
脑就会乱发。网站集中营和艺术家地址库都有这种发错位置的情况发
生。虽然我们有操作范例在上面，还是难免出现问题。不知道技术上
有否可能再进一步简化？

3.网站的运行速度一直有很大的问题，非常影响访问效果。再三
改进，还是应付不了增长的需求。

2005年
 忍不住要煽情一下

刚收到华森的短信，说：“邱老师你和刘信勇联系上了没有，我有
个美能达带标头，需要的话，我去北京带给你，去印度多拍些好照
片，呵呵。”

刚才还有小钟发的帖子，说他有个尼康FMl0，要寄给我。

我给华森回复短信如下：“谢谢华森，我很高兴，你们先学会了如
何做人，我真的非常高兴。”

一天下午，法国蒙彼利埃中国艺术双年展的主策展人和两个副策
划人在我家见面。我约来了丰江舟和石青，刘韡昨天他们看了，乌导
没来，张慧上课没来。丰江舟和石青看了一下午，后面的一个多小
时，我就着电脑中存的图片给他们讲了一遍中国艺术的总体格局，还
有“后感性”概念等，然后说，下课。讲的时候，林祖强提醒我说，“你
得留点时间放你的录像”，我一笑略过了。

林祖强是我十几年前在杭州时的老朋友了，去年在巴黎重逢，每
天在老小资萨特同志混的那家花神咖啡馆狂喝到天亮。他又把我叫去
他的法国国际电台做采访，帮我扬名立万，他现在在巴黎混得不错，
混成了这个双年展的副策划人，由于他是中国人，自然就成了重要的
操控者。这次的事他在两个月前就和我联系过。一天见面，介绍卢杰
给他，大谈《长征》，拉去看798厂。后来到家里，叫来别人，最后
也没给他们看自己做的东西。这样的事早就不知道发生多少次了，每
次有人要来看我的东西，买我的东西，总是拉来一帮人看大家的，然
后把自己给虚了。有那么多别的东西可谈——后感性、录像艺术、书
法、《长征》，现在又有展示中心、总体艺术，最后才轮到自己。老
栗说：重要的不是艺术。对我来说，艺术大抵还是重要的，嘿嘿，重
要的不是自己罢了。
 有一次在网上跟朋友聊天，说起我出道得那么早，帮过那么多人
成名，让人踏在自己的肩上，把多少人送进了大展成了明星之类。我
说：“我们的明星们如果有良心有记性，以后我最惨也能混个中国艺术
终身成就奖呀。”当然，我绝不可能那么惨。我虽未暴发坐直升机，这
些年却也稳步上升，没走过下坡路，坐直升机的才会跌下来的。这么
说我很有些大师气象，而当年跟我同时出道的人废的废、休的休，还
在一直往前走的真少。这话让人生气，带着俺一贯的狂气，人却也驳
不倒我。呵呵，爽。

说实话，不是没有怀疑过。

有时候，朋友们说：“老邱你应该去当××大展的策展人，你是最
好的。”我心里忽然一阵难过，你奉献多了，以后每个人都理所当然地
想，你就应该为人民服务。其实他们想的都是，你去当策展人，展出
我，帮我出名。我也是艺术家呀，而且其实是比你们都好的艺术家
呀！

有一阵子自己就想：我只花了1/4的时间在自己的作品上，大量的
精力用于写文章、策展、帮别人的忙，只是为了改善环境，为了中国
艺术的大局着想，以为可以牺牲小我成就大我。其实牺牲了小我成就
的未必是大我，而是成就了他人而已，这些他人成就之后，有良心的
领你的情，没良心的还会反咬你一口，这些事正反面都是有过实例
的。其实，我对中国艺术所能做的最大的贡献可能并不是忙着折腾这
么多事，而是把自己的作品做好，把自己搞“成功”……要帮中国艺术，
与其浪费自己的时间去帮别人，不如帮我自己，因为在同辈中我的基
础最好，知识结构最好，悟性最好，最勤奋，目前已经占据的地形也
最有利。榜样的力量是无穷的，我的“成功”模式所能造成的正面影响
没准更大，对中国艺术的贡献可能也就更大，老蔡和永砅不就是这
样？

这样想着，就一再地发誓不再干这些清道夫的工作，当然我累成
这样，也有性格上的弱点，不是我贪心，只是不能拒绝，只是看不下
去。发多少次的誓，事到临头有时还会挺身而出。但还是推了不少
事，有些事在别人看来或许还能带来权力，是很多人求之不得的。
 然而有时又想，斤斤计较于成败得失，岂是我辈中人所为！我上
面的那套想法自私了，短视了。以一生而视，固然有所谓成败得失，
以人类历史乃至宇宙史观之，全是过眼云烟和沧海一粟，我们中国人
是活在家国、道义的认同之中的，每一个人、每一代人都只是草稿纸
和垫脚石，只能但求心之所安了。何况地藏菩萨有言：“我不下地狱，
谁下地狱……”更何况，历史如何写是把握在后人手中的，今世一时的
成败判定又焉能长住不坏？你以为没价值的，也没准日后正是你的价
值所在……既然一时还勘不破因果也就遁不出生死流转，对人生做理
性的规划是不可能的，也就只好率性而为了。

“北京地下室招待所调查”期间中国美院师生在北京 2004

做《长征》是那样，回浙美教书也是那样，前方祸福不可知，我
也并不想知。这是少年时从辛弃疾那里得来的蛮勇：“此身自断天休
问，独倚危楼。独倚危楼。不信人间别有愁。”可以明确地预知的是，
自己会一如既往地玩命，会一如既往地拥有一些煽情的感召力，也会
一如既往地计划了100件事只能完成五十几件。波依斯说：“我用工作
滋养自己。”那是在丢盔弃甲时种下的福田。

让人高兴的是，事情没有那么坏，人还是很容易滋生感情的动
物。（我的老师说，人是讲道理的动物。此说是补充，然则相通，动
感情也是从讲道理中来的）所以有了这些事和这些话，比起这些体
验，重要的当然不是艺术（老栗的原意说的是社会）。

很高兴的是——这是这次一回美院就开始了的一种高兴，我事先
对青年人的估计太过恶劣了，大家用很多细节、事实告诉我，每一代
人都是一样的。从佛陀的时代，到我，到……要成正果，就要像佛陀
那样纯洁，我们也许因此受伤害。那是因为，无欲，大家暂时都还做
不到。真煽情……

2004年3月
 《九曲1：大眼睛》纪事

接任务

2004年10月21日，星期四。与高士明一起乘火车赴上海，下午1
点30分到达，立刻前往上海广电局开会。开会的有广电局和广电集团
各个部门的负责人。会上谈的事情是：11月21日世界电视日，国家广
电总局发下来红头文件，要各个地方做相关的活动，活动主题是“电视
产业”和“数字电视”。他们策划了一些在电视频道里面的纪念活动，还
有在《新民晚报》上的“人与电视”征文活动之类的项目。由于今年的上
海双年展的主题正好是“影像生存”，他们就想到了在上海双年展里面做
一个特别项目。上海广电局是上海双年展的顶头上司，双年展的海报
上写着文广局是“指导单位”。对美术馆方面来说，双年展开幕过后，媒
体报道了一阵子难免冷下来。在闭幕之前有一个项目，可以再掀起一
个小高潮。于是这就将成为上海双年展的最后一个特别项目。

高士明说，得知这个消息，他立刻就想到了我。只有我能够在艺
术家的立场之外做工作，而且这个工作需要比较有历史感、具有文化
研究和社会学眼光的人。我又一贯忍辱负重，顾全大局，适合做这种
介于作品和委托项目之间的事情。我得知这件事是在两个星期以前，
当时高士明只说是可以搞到中国最早的电视机、最早的电视新闻用来
做作品，其他的细节语焉不详。但就是这个能够用上最老的历史资料
放进作品里面去，这就足够让我感兴趣了，也就随口答应了。到上海
来开会才知道了更多的具体情况。

10月20日，我就稍微想了一下这个项目的做法。这样一个东西做
成我自己特别个人化的作品不太好。一个是因为特别个人化的话，用
在这样的历史纪念性的项目上，有一点撒娇的意思。就算我能做好也
显得太突出自我。我在上海双年展上已经在美术馆里面展有作品，又
做了人民公园的开幕表演。如果闭幕的时候再出一次个人的风头肯定
要遭人议论，当然，这我倒是不在乎。我倒是考虑，我那些学生去上
海双年展帮助布展，非常辛苦，还遭受了不少委屈。这个项目可以让
他们参与进来。我现在正在给他们上录像艺术课，做一个与电视有关
的大的项目，也是题中应有之义。再者，我这个班的学生，有一半以
上做过“中山公园计划”和“北京地下室招待所调查”项目，已经有了一定
的对文化研究的理解。这次的电视历史的项目，正好又是一次很好的
锻炼。那一班来过上海双年展帮忙的学生，已经开始对大展体制的工
作方式有相当的了解，相信他们能够胜任。当然，还需要我来做全局
的把握。所以，我自己心里对这个项目的执行者的设想就是：我+总体
艺术工作室的全体学生。

《九曲1：大眼睛》在上海双年展 2004

我设想让学生回家做关于电视与中国人的生活关系的调查。比
如，每个人可以问家长几个问题：“爸妈，你们第一次看电视是什么时
候？”“我们家买第一台电视机是什么时候？”“我们家的第二台电视机是
什么时候更换的？”“我们家打算何时更换成数字电视？”等等。33个学
生差不多可以覆盖全中国若干种阶层的家庭。这些资料，加上上海广
电局所能提供的各种电视机，应该就能够构成一个大的装置的基础。

另外，我还想到了廖文峰的家乡是江西农村一个很穷的村庄。记
得当初我教他们班做“中山公园计划”的时候，文峰居然告诉我说，他们
那里没有中山公园。我说，随便找一个公园也可以，他说他这辈子还
从来没有进过公园呢！这个农村来的学生很有点小天才，也很用功。
我设想以他为主，在他的家乡花树村做一个普查，让江西边远农村的
村民讲述他们所知道的上海。这个上海的形象，当然主要是通过电视
传播到江西农村的。这个项目还包括村民的电视拥有量等的调查，到
展出的时候还可以发展成江西的现场和上海美术馆之间网络实时转
播。这个项目可以作为整个大项的插件出现。

在火车上和高士明谈了这个初步设想。他很认同，又提出“给未来
留言”这个设想，我一听就笑了。连接江西农村和上海，是利用了电视
的远程传播功能，能够用空间性的因素编织进来当然是最理想的了，
我也设想过，只是怎么来作为一种艺术语言呈现，是要动一番脑筋
的，远不是提出一个激动人心的概念就够了。

在上海广电局的会场上，看了广电局发下来的红头文件，我们这
个项目被叫作“影像与时代：数字/电视图文资料展”，心里很担心领导
心里面所想的，和我们想要做的可能有很大的差距。他们想要的很可
能是一个黑板报一样的“46年来新中国电视产业发展成果展”，而我们
的角色只是展览布置者。如果那样的话，这回又是一个很痛苦的任
务。没有想到，领导竟然开口就说：“高老师邱老师你们在上海美术馆
做的这个，就应该是一个装置。”这可真让我大吃一惊，这个官员懂得
“装置”这个词！这些领导又提出，人民公园里的那个数码电视产品的展
示，绝对不要有商业促销的意味（底下办事的人这么想），应该模拟
电视机和数字电视机并置，都装上实时摄像头，让参观者能现场体验
数字电视的优势所在。模拟一个演播室的现场，而这正是我替他们设
想的。我这边松了一口气。
 细节由文广局里的郭和我细谈。从会上，我就发现这个人懂行。
原来他是上海戏剧学院毕业的，一直是上海双年展的支持者。

郭出了不少主意，怎么调用上海电视系统的资源，还把各个相关
部门和负责人的电话给了我一份，让我直接联系，有问题就找他。最
后商定：26日我到上海看电视台的所有最先进的设备，也可以找一些
老的设备。我可以先提出要征用，能不能拿出来再说。老的影像资
料，也找一个人负责提供。

上海电视台在1998年纪念中国电视40周年的时候做过一个专题片
《谁持彩练当空舞》，里面有中国电视发展史和一些影像素材，第二
天高士明带回杭州给我。

10月27日要报出初步的方案。11月6日，方案定案给领导。如果通
过，开始设计和印刷小画册。11月11日可以开始布展。11月18日领导
来审查。展期是11月21日到28日，到双年展闭幕为止。

郭还是对“艺术家”不太放心，一再地交代：这样的东西不能只考虑
艺术。高士明连连说：“这件事情只有他能办。”我心里面很明白，这种
公共项目，要面对群众，要面对领导，同时毕竟是上海双年展的项
目，也不能不用国际艺术界的标准来衡量。规模要大，高科技，制作
精致，政治正确，同时还得深刻。说难是难，说不难，其实也不难。
发动群众，是最好的办法。

从文广局出来，和高士明一起沿着北京东路向西走。路边都是卖
仪表仪器的小店，我很想进去看看。士明说：“这是做装置的人的前提
啊，先是对这些东西有欲望才行。”和他分手后，我找了几家小店，想
要问有没有玻璃三棱镜，都说没有。随后，我直接到火车站乘车回杭
州。
 总体艺术工作室的头脑风暴会议 2004

车上想到，做这件事情，对学生们今后找工作应该是很有好处
的。文广集团有充足的财力和器材，今后我们办新媒体的事情，最好
要和这样的公司合作。我答应许江要做的“关于新媒体专业人才的社会
需求的调查”，正好也可以趁这个机会开始做。

头脑风暴

10月22日，星期五。

早上上课。到最后，把上海的这件事情告知了所有同学。对大家
来说都很突然，甚至都来不及表示出什么兴奋。我要求大家下午消化
一下，下午4点30分在教室集中，每个人拿出自己最初步的设想。
 4点30分人到齐。我给新到工作室的二年级同学讲了“头脑风暴法”
的原则。三年级和四年级的学生与我工作了一年，对这种残酷的游戏
已经很了解了。我的方法是，要求就某个特定议题，每个人当众提出
自己的计划，第二个人不得评论或反驳之，也不得重复，必须提出新
的方案。这样越到最后发言的难度越大，进行几轮之后，就一定会有
特别精彩的方案出现。其实，最后的结果只是进行综合就很不错了。
这个办法每每行之有效，也正好借这个机会介绍给新来的学生。

我先介绍了自己已有的设想，然后高年级学生开始报方案。我惊
奇地发现，新来的这些人中颇有一些能适应这种办法，好像比现在这
批人去年的情况还要好。

《九曲1：大眼睛》构思期间课堂讨论的黑板 2004

中间大家去食堂吃了晚饭，立刻回到教室继续工作。有很多想法
或者和他人重复，或者本身不可实施，或者和这件事情扯不上边，都
由我执行裁决权加以否决。被否决的人必须重新报出，直到被认可他
的某个点子为他人至今所未提出，算是起码有所贡献方休。小李沙被
否决多次，痛苦不堪。最后轮到的报想法的人说：“都让别人给说光
了。”最后报的卢德磊和耿姗姗，都是有待发展的想法。今天我也是借
机演示了一下，怎么由一个有缺陷的想法出发，通过工作的推进，最
后成为一件可以成立的作品。这期间反复试错，反复试验。我说：到
晚上10点想不出来，你们俩就请大家吃夜宵吧！气氛顿时紧张。最后
是全班一起绞尽脑汁帮着想。

已经过了10点。其间有一个新媒体的学生参与，这个人还不错。
又有一个油画系的学生，颇为自信得意地大谈自己的想法，被我借题
发挥，给我的学生们讲了糟糕的艺术理论能有何种肤浅的结果。

学生们提出的各种创意（略）。

10月23日，星期六。因为决定在下个星期二带着孙大棠和宋振去
上海看电视台的器材，这一天提前上了下个星期的课程。为了尽快让
学生们动手自己拍片子，我必须把该讲的基本原则提前讲完。我们的
特种部队还没有训练出来，就只好先拉出来打仗了。然则在项目中教
学，在战争中学习战争，这本来就是我们做这个工作室的想法。

今天一口气讲了剪辑的原则、非编软件的用法，等等。中午吃饭
的时候，接到乌尔善的短信，说他的片子在韩国釜山国际电影节得了
影评人大奖。下午就给学生们看这部片子，用他当例子讲影片的剪辑
技巧。

受挫

10月26日。6点30分到学校，将昨夜批改了的纪录片方案贴在墙
上，与孙大棠、宋振到火车站乘车到上海。10点在威海路参观东方电
视台数码演播室和上海台的新闻演播室，方式还很古老。数码，只不
过是换汤不换药。下午4点赶到广电局培训中心，发现所谓当年筹建电
视博物馆，其实没有上马，收集工作根本就没有开始，只有一封计划
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by plain expression. The book is self-conscious in a good sense; not,
as has often hitherto been the case, in a bad one.

IV
If we notice such a change of attitude in The Silverado Squatters, we
shall find it even more fully revealed in the volume of his letters for
an American magazine which appeared under the title of In the
South Seas. Some of the letters were withheld, as too tedious; even
now, the book is frankly called dull by many staunch admirers of
Stevenson. To others, however, it must surely appear otherwise. It is,
in effect, a sort of glorified log; but a log of real enterprise and
adventure in a marvellous part of the world. Stevenson heroically
tried to penetrate to the heart of the South Seas. He was caught up
by the islands and their people, and was bent upon making them
known to those who lived afar. In the political intrigues so honestly
described in his letters, Stevenson may, indeed, appear to throw
away the importance of his own genius; but the sacrifice is made in
obedience to his deepest convictions of right. He still sees himself as
the point of focus; but we do not resent that when we find ourselves
so clearly in his train. Even while his friends were urging him to give
up the Samoan politics which threatened to become the King
Charles’s head of his correspondence, he continued to live amid the
difficulties from which he felt that he could not in honour withdraw.
And although the Samoan period had its fluctuations of talent, it was,
upon the whole, the time when his boyish love of game took on a
keener zest of earnest and made him indeed a man. The period
marks a further decline in the more strictly romantic nature of his
work, as we may later on be able to discuss in comparing St. Ives
with earlier and more triumphant experiments in that field; but it
opens the path for the sober realism (if that word may here be used
without sinister connotation) of the torso known as Weir of
Hermiston, a fragment in which it is usual to find the greatest
promise of all. This is all of a piece with the increasing purpose of
Stevenson’s way in life. It is a good sign when a professional author
forsakes romance in favour of reality; for romance may be conjured
for bread-and-butter, while reality withstands the most persuasive
cajollery. Stevenson was the professional author in his
collaborations, and in such work as St. Ives; but in In the South Seas
as in Weir he is writing truth for the love of truth, than which there
can be no more noble kind of authorship.

V
In San Francisco, as we have seen, Stevenson chartered a
schooner-yacht, and went to the South Seas in pursuit of health. On
board ship he was always happy; and he made more than one
cruise, in different ships, among the Gilbert, Paumotuan, and
Marquesan groups of islands. He also stayed for periods of varying
length in the three groups of islands, became familiar with the
manners of the natives, realised their distinctions, and made many
new friends among them. His mind was entirely occupied with them;
he saw everything he could, and learned everything he could, his
shrewd Scots habit of inquiry filling him with a satisfied sense of
labour. A big book, proving beyond doubt the entire peculiarity of the
South Sea islands and their islanders, was planning in his mind; a
book which would soundly establish his reputation as something
other than a literary man and a teller of tales. In the South Seas, as I
have already mentioned, was found dull by friendly critics; yet it is full
of observation and of feeling. It is the wisest of the travel-books, and
the most genuine, for Stevenson has put picturesqueness behind
him for what it is—the hall-mark of the second-rate writer; and he
has risen to a height of understanding which adds to his stature.
There is, in the portrait of Tembinok’, a simplicity which is impressive:
throughout, there is a simple exposition of a fascinating subject, a
kind of life remote from our experience, a civilisation strict and
dignified, minds and habits interesting in themselves and by contrast
with our own. The book may not be the epitome of the South Seas
for which the chapters were planned as rough notes; other writers
may have known more than Stevenson knew of the actual life of the
islands. It is true that he frequented kings’ palaces, and that his
acquaintance with common native life was very largely a matter of
observation caught up in passing, or by hearsay, or by the
contemplation of public gatherings. That is true. What we, as readers
endeavouring patiently to trace the growth of Stevenson’s
knowledge, must, however, remember above all things, is that the
book is really a finer and a more distinguished work than An Inland
Voyage or Travels with a Donkey. It has not the grimaces of the first,
or the pleasing delicacy of the second. It is a better book than The
Amateur Emigrant and Across the Plains. It is fuller and richer than
The Silverado Squatters. What, then, do we ask of a book of travel?
Is it that we may see the author goading his donkey, or putting
money by the wayside for his night’s lodging; or is it that we may see
what he has seen? With Stevenson, the trouble is, I suppose, that,
having thought of him always as a dilettante, his admirers cannot
reconcile themselves to his wish to be a real traveller and a real
historian. Perhaps they recognise that he had not the necessary
equipment? Rather, it is very likely that, being largely uncreative
themselves, they had planned for Stevenson a future different from
the one into which gradually he drifted. All creative writers have such
friends. We may say, perhaps, that a man who was not Stevenson
could have written In the South Seas, though I believe that is not the
case. But if we put the books slowly in order we shall almost
certainly find that while Travels with a Donkey is a pretty favourite,
with airs and graces, and a rather imaginary figure charmingly posed
as its chief attraction, In the South Seas is the work of the same
writer, grown less affected, more intent upon seeing things as they
are, and less intent upon being seen in their midst. There is the
problem. If a travel-book is an exploitation of the traveller’s self, we
can be charmed with it: let us not, therefore, because we find less
charm in In the South Seas, find the later book dull. Stevenson is
duller because he is older: the bloom is going: he is not equal
intellectually to the task he has set himself. But there is a greater
sincerity in the later travel-books, an honest looking upon the world.
It is surely better to look straight with clear eyes than to dress life up
in a bundle of tropes and go singing up the pasteboard mountain.
Stevenson’s admirers want the song upon the mountain, because
they want to continue the legend that he never grew up. They want
him to be the little boy with a fine night of stars in his eyes and a
pack upon his back, singing cheerily that it is better to travel
hopefully than to arrive. That is why Stevenson’s best work is,
relatively speaking, neglected in favour of work that tarnishes with
the passing of youth. And it is all because of the insatiable desire of
mediocrity for the picturesque. We must be surprised and startled,
and have our senses titillated by savours and perfumes; we must
have the strange and the new; we must have a fashion to follow and
to forget. Stevenson has been a fashionable traveller, and his sober
maturity is too dull; he has lost his charm. Well, we must make a new
fashion. Interest in a figure must give place to interest in the work. If
the work no longer interests, then our worship of Stevenson is
founded upon a shadow, is founded, let us say, upon the applause of
his friends, who sought in his work the fascination they found in his
person.
 IV
ESSAYS
I
There have been some English essayists whose writing is so
packed with thought that it is almost difficult to follow the thought in
its condensation. Such was Bacon, whose essays were by way of
being “assays,” written so tightly that each little sentence was the
compression of the author’s furthest belief upon that aspect of his
subject, and so that to modern students the reading of Bacon’s
essays resembles the reading of a whole volume printed in Diamond
type. There have been English essayists whose essays are clear-cut
refinements of truth more superficial or more simple. Such was
Addison, who wrote with a deliberate and flowing elegance, and
whose essays Stevenson found himself unable to read. There have
been such essayists as Hazlitt, the shrewd sincerity of whose
perceptions is expressed with so much appropriateness that his
essays are examples of what essays should be. There has never
been in England a critic or an essayist of quite the same calibre as
Hazlitt. It was of Hazlitt that Stevenson wrote, in words so true that
they summarily arrest by their significance the reader who does not
expect to find in Walking Tours so vital an appraisement: “Though we
are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like Hazlitt.” And,
in succession, for there would be no purpose in continuing the list for
its own sake, there have been essayists who, intentionally resting
their work upon style and upon the charm of personality, have in a
thousand ways diversified their ordinary experience, and so have
been enabled to disclose as many new aspects and delights to the
reader. Such an essayist was Lamb. Hazlitt, I think, was the last of
the great English essayists, because Hazlitt sought truth
continuously and found his incomparable manner in the disinterested
love of precision to truth. But Lamb is the favourite; and Lamb is the
English writer of whom most readers think first when the word
“essay” is mentioned. That is because Lamb brought to its highest
pitch that personal and idiosyncratic sort of excursion among
memories which has created the modern essay, and which has
severed it from the older traditions of both Bacon and Addison. It is
to the school of Lamb, in that one sense, that Stevenson belonged.
He did not “write for antiquity,” as Lamb did; he did not write
deliberately in the antique vein or in what Andrew Lang called
“elderly English”; but he wrote, with conscious and anxious literary
finish, essays which had as their object the conveyance in an alluring
manner of his own predilections. He quite early made his personality
what Henley more exactly supposed that it only afterwards became
—a marketable commodity—as all writers of strong or acquired
personality are bound to do.
Since Stevenson there have been few essayists of classic rank,
largely because the essay has lost ground, and because interest in
“pure” literature has been confined to work of established position
(by which is meant the work of defunct writers). There has been
Arthur Symons, of whose following of Pater as an epicure of
sensation we have heard so much that the original quality of his fine
work—both in criticism and in the essay—has been obscured. There
has been an imitator of Stevenson, an invalid lady using the
pseudonym “Michael Fairless”; and there have been Mr. Max
Beerbohm, Mr. E. V. Lucas, Mr. Belloc, Mr. Chesterton, Mr. Street,
Mr. A. C. Benson, and Mr. Filson Young. These writers have all been
of the “personal” school, frankly accepting the essay as the most
personal form in literature, and impressing upon their work the
particular personal qualities which they enjoy. Some of them have
been more robust than others, some less distinguished; but all of
them are known to us (in relation to their essays) as writers of
personality rather than as writers of abstract excellence. An essay
upon the art of the essay, tracing its development, examining its
purpose, and distinguishing between its exponents, might be a very
fascinating work. Such an essay is manifestly out of place here; but it
is noteworthy that, apart from the distinguished writers whose names
I have given, nearly all the minor writers (that is, nearly all those
whose names I have not mentioned) who have produced essays
since the death of Stevenson, or who are nowadays producing
genteel essays, have been deeply under his influence. It is further
noteworthy that most of those who have been so powerfully
influenced have been women.

II
From the grimly earnest abstracts of knowledge contributed by
Bacon to the art of the essay, to the dilettante survey of a few
fancies, or memories, or aspects of common truth which ordinarily
composed a single essay by Stevenson, is a far cry. But Stevenson,
as I have said, belonged to the kind of essayist of whom in England
Charles Lamb is most representative, and of whom Montaigne was
most probably his more direct model—the writer who conveyed
information about his personal tastes and friends and ancient
practices in a form made prepossessing by a flavoured style. To
those traits, in Stevenson’s case, was added a strong didactic strain,
as much marked in his early essays as in the later ones; and it is this
strain which differentiates Stevenson’s work from that of Lamb and
Montaigne. Montaigne’s essays are the delicious vintage of a ripe
mind both credulous and sceptical, grown old enough to examine
with great candour and curiousness the details of its own vagaries:
many of Stevenson’s most characteristic essays are the work of his
youth, as they proclaim by the substitution of the pseudo-candour of
vanity for the difficult candour of Montaigne’s shrewd naïveté. He
was thirty or thirty-one when the collection entitled Virginibus
Puerisque was published. A year later there followed Familiar
Studies of Men and Books. He was only thirty-seven (Montaigne was
thirty-eight when he “retired” from active life and began to produce
his essays) when his third collection, Memories and Portraits,
obviously more sedate and less open to the charge of literary
affectation, completed the familiar trilogy. Although Across the Plains
did not appear until 1892, many of the essays which help to form that
book had earlier received periodical publication (the dated essays
range from 1878 to 1888); while some of the papers posthumously
collected in The Art of Writing belong to 1881. So it is not unfair to
say that the bulk of Stevenson’s essays were composed before he
reached the age of thirty-five; and thirty-five, although it is an age by
which many writers have achieved fame, is not quite the age by
which personality is so much matured as to yield readily to
condensation. Therefore we must not look, in Stevenson’s essays,
for the judgments of maturity, although we may find in Virginibus
Puerisque a rather middle-aged inexperience. We must rather seek
the significance of these essays in the degree in which they reveal
consciously the graces and the faultless negligé of an attractive
temperament. We may look to find at its highest point the illustration
of those principles of style which Stevenson endeavoured to
formulate in one very careful essay upon the subject (to the chagrin,
I seem to remember, at the time of its republication, of so many
critics who misunderstood the aim of the essay). And we shall
assuredly find exhibited the power Stevenson possessed of quoting
happily from other writers. Quotation with effect is a matter of great
skill; and Stevenson, although his reading was peculiar rather than
wide, drew from this very fact much of the inimitable effect obtained
by references so apt.

III
One note which we shall find persistently struck and re-struck in
Stevenson’s essays is the memory of childhood. From Child’s Play to
The Lantern-Bearers we are confronted by a mass of material
regarding one childhood, by which is supported a series of
generalisations about all children and their early years. So we
proceed to youth, to the story of A College Magazine; and so to
Ordered South. Then we return again to An Old Scotch Gardener
and The Manse, where again that single childhood, so well-stored
with memories, provides the picture. Now it is one thing for
Stevenson to re-vivify his own childhood, for that is a very legitimate
satisfaction which nobody would deny him; but it is another thing for
Stevenson, from that single experience and with no other apparent
observation or inquiry, to generalise about all children. While he tells
us what he did, in what books and adventures and happenings he
found his delight, we may read with amusement. When, upon the
other hand, he says, “children are thus or thus,” it is open to any
candid reader to disagree with Stevenson. Whether it is that he has
set the example, or whether it is that he merely exemplifies the
practice, I cannot say; but Stevenson is one of those very numerous
people who talk wisely and shrewdly about children in the bulk
without seeming to know anything about them. These wiseacres
alternately under-rate and make too ingenious the intelligence and
the calculations of childhood, so that children in their hands seem to
become either sentimental barbarians or callous schemers, but are
never, in the main, children at all. Stevenson has a few excellent
words upon children: he admirably says, “It is the grown people who
make the nursery stories; all the children do, is jealously to preserve
the text”: but I am sorry to say that, upon the whole, I can find little
else that is of value in his general observations.
It is open to anybody to reconstruct a single real childhood from
Stevenson’s essays, and no doubt that is a matter of considerable
interest, as anything which enables us to understand a man is of
value. Curiously enough, however, Stevenson’s essays upon the
habits and notions of children seem to suggest a great deal too
much thought about play, and too little actual play. They seem to
show him, as a little boy, so precocious and lacking in heart, that he
is watching himself play rather than playing. It is not the preliminary
planning of play that delights children, not the academic invention of
games and deceits; it is the immediate and enjoyable act of play. Our
author shows us a rather elderly child who, in deceiving himself, has
savoured not so much the game as the supreme cleverness of his
own self-deception. That, to any person who truly remembers the
state of childhood, may be accepted as a perfectly legitimate
recollection; and it is so far coherent. That his own habit should be,
in these essays, extended to all other children whatsoever—in fact,
to “children”—is to make all children delicate little Scots boys, greatly
loved, very self-conscious, and, in the long run, rather tiresome, as
lonely, delicate little boys incline to become towards the end of the
day. Unfortunately the readers of Stevenson’s essays about little
boys have mostly been little girls; and they are not themselves
children, but grown-up people who are looking back at their own
childhood through the falsifying medium of culture and indulgent,
dishonest memory. Culture, in dwelling upon interpretations and
upon purposes, and in seeing childhood always through the
refraction of consequence, destroys interest in play itself; and if play
is once called in question it very quickly becomes tedious rigmarole.
Stevenson’s essays must thus be divided into two parts, the first
descriptive, the second generalised. The first division, sometimes
delightful, is also sometimes sophisticated, and sometimes is
exaggerative of the originality of certain examples of play. The
second is about as questionable as any writing on children has ever
been, because it is based too strictly upon expanded recollections of
a single abnormal model. You do not, by such means, obtain good
generalisations.

IV
Something of the same objection might be urged against
Stevenson’s rather unpleasant descriptions of adolescence. These
again are not typical. Stevenson himself was the only youth he ever
knew—he never had the detachment to examine disinterestedly the
qualities of any person but himself—and we might gain from his
descriptions an impression of youth which actually will not bear the
stereoscopic test to which we are bound to submit all
generalisations. To read the essays with the ingenuous mind of
youth is to feel wisdom, grown old and immaculate, passing from
author to reader. It is to marvel at this debonair philosopher, who
finds himself never in a quandary, and who has the strategies of
childhood and of youth balanced in his extended hand. It is to
proceed from childhood to youth, and from youth to the married
state; and our adviser describes to us in turn, with astonishing
confidence, the simplified relations, which otherwise we might have
supposed so intricate, of the lover, the husband, and the wife.
Nothing comes amiss to him: love, jealousy, the blind bow-boy, truth
of intercourse—these and many other aspects of married life are
discoursed upon with grace and the wistful sagaciousness of a
decayed inexperience. But when we consider the various arguments,
and when we bring the essays Virginibus Puerisque back to their
starting-point, we shall find that they rest upon the boyish discovery
that marriages occur between unlikely persons. Stevenson has not
been able to resist the desire to institute an inquiry into the reasons.
He cannot suppose that these persons love one another; and yet
why else should they marry? Well, he is writing an essay, and not a
sociological study, so that—as the result of his inquiry—we must not
expect to receive a very distinct contribution to our knowledge. We
may prepare only to be edified, to be, perhaps, greatly amused by a
young man who may at least shock us, or stir us, if he is unable to
show this fruitful source of comedy in action. We are even, possibly,
alert to render our author the compliment of preliminary enjoyment,
before we have come to his inquiry. What Stevenson has to tell us
about marriage, however, is a commonplace; even if it is a
commonplace dressed and flavoured. It is that “marriage is a field of
battle—not a bed of roses”; and it is that “to marry is to domesticate
the Recording Angel.” “Alas!” as Stevenson says of another matter,
“If that were all!”
I wonder what it is that makes such phrases (for they are no more
than phrases, phrases which are not true to experience, and which
therefore can have no value as propositions or as explanations) give
so much pleasure to such a number of readers. How can we explain
it, unless it be simply by the explanation that Stevenson has been
idolised? This book, Virginibus Puerisque, has been a favourite for
many years, sanguine, gentle, musical, in the deepest sense
unoriginal. It is the most quoted; it is the one which most certainly
may be regarded as the typical book of Stevenson’s early period.
Surely it is because a half-truth, a truth that may be gobbled up in a
phrase and remembered only as a phrase, is easier to accept than a
whole truth, upon which the reader must engage his attention? It
must, I mean, be the trope that lures readers of Virginibus Puerisque
into acceptance of thought so threadbare and ill-nourished. Such an
essay as Æs Triplex seems by its air to hold all the wisdom of the
ages, brought steadfastly to the contemplation of the end to which all
must come. If it is read sentimentally, with the mind swooning, it may
give the reader the feeling that he has looked upon the bright face of
danger and seen death as no such bad thing. For a moment, as it
might be by a drug, he has received some stimulation which is purely
temporary. The essay has not changed his thought of death; it has
not transformed his fear of death into an heroic love; it slides
imperceptibly, unheeded, from his memory, and remains dishevelled
forever as “that rather fine thing of Stevenson’s,” for which he never
knows where to look. Only its phrases remain for quotation, for use
in calendars, common thoughts turned into remembrances and
mottoes ready for the rubricator. When an ordinary person says, “It’s
nice to have something to look forward to,” Stevenson is ready with,
“It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, and the true success is
to labour.” There is all the difference between this and that advice of
Browning’s that “a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.” Stevenson
has not sought to invigorate the toiler, he has not caught up with
optimism the spirit of mankind: what he has done is to make a
phrase for the boudoir. There is no philosophic optimism in
Stevenson’s essays: there is sometimes high spirits, and sometimes
there is a cheerful saying; but at heart the “teaching” of these things
is as prosaic as is the instruction of any lay preacher.
When the more solemn sort of subject, such as death, comes to be
dealt with, we find Stevenson, the actor, falling into the feeling of his
own intonations, gravely reassuring, like a politician explaining a
defeat. When he is describing acts of bravery, as in The English
Admirals, his love of courage rises and his feelings seem to glow;
but the phrases with which he adorns the tale and with which
eventually he points the moral are phrases made to be read, not
phrases that break from his full heart. They are not the phrases
made, will he nill he, by his enthusiasm; they are such phrases as
are publicly conveyed from one king or statesman or commander to
another upon the occasion of some notable event. I do not mean that
they are as baldly expressed, though I think they are often as baldly
conceived. They are very handsomely expressed, too handsomely
for the occasion, if one agrees with Bob Acres that “the sound should
be an echo of the sense.” Although it may be true that, as Stevenson
says, “people nowhere demand the picturesque so much as in their
virtues,” for a self-respecting author to give them the picturesque for
that reason seems to me a most immoral and, in the end, a most ill-
judged proceeding. Cultivation of the picturesque, fondness for
phrase, is inevitably productive of falseness; it is literary gesture, a
cultivable habit, such as the habit of any vain person who flickers his
hands or persistently turns the “better side” of his face or character
to the beholder. The first instinctive vanity develops rapidly into a
pose, and pose can never be much more than amusing.
Appropriateness of phrase to meaning is lost in the sense of phrase,
honesty of intention does not suffice to cover inexactitude of
expression. Unconsciously, Stevenson often approved a phrase that
expressed something not in exact accordance with his belief; he was
misled by its splendour or its picturesqueness or its heroic virtue. So
it is that the parts of Stevenson’s essays which at first drew and held
us breathless with a sort of wonder, cease at length to awaken this
wonder, and even seem to degenerate into exhibitions of knack, as
though they were the sign of something wholly artificial in the writer.
They grow tedious, like the grimaces of a spoilt child; and we no
longer respond to that spurious galvanism which of old we mistook
for a thrill of nature.
To Stevenson’s less elaborate essays the mind turns with greater
pleasure. We are displeased in Virginibus Puerisque by the excess
of manner over matter: wherever the matter is original the manner is
invariably less figured. Our trouble then is that, as in the case of
such essays as The Foreigner at Home and Pastoral, where the
matter is of great interest, there is produced the feeling that
Stevenson has not developed it to its fullest extent. His essay on the
English, to take the first of the two we have named, is partial and
incomplete—faults due to lack of sympathy. Its incompleteness
seems to me more serious than its partiality; and by
“incompleteness” I do not mean that it should have been more
exhaustive, but that it does not appear quite to work out its own
thesis, but presents an air of having been finished on a smaller scale
than is attempted in other parts. In exactly the same way, the
Pastoral engages our interest completely, and then, for the reason, it
would seem, that the author’s memory runs short, the portrait is left
suddenly. It is not left in such a state that the reader’s imagination
fills in every detail: the effect is again one of truncation.
The best of these essays are probably those two, which are written
in the vein of Hazlitt, on Talk and Talkers. Here the matter is ample;
and the manner is studiously moderate. I note, by the way, that Sir
Sidney Colvin mentions the composition of this essay at about the
time of Stevenson’s proposal for writing a life of Hazlitt; so that it
would not be very reckless to say that the manner of Talk and
Talkers may be due to a contemporary familiarity with Hazlitt’s
essays. However that may be, these two essays in particular have
distinguished qualities. They have point, character, and thought.

V
The two essays which conclude Memories and Portraits, respectively
entitled A Gossip on Romance and A Humble Remonstrance, are by
way of being essays in constructive criticism, showing why the novel
of incident (i.e. the romance) is superior to the domestic novel. The
former belongs to 1882, the latter to 1884. A Gossip on Romance
expresses for “Robinson Crusoe” a greater liking than that held for
“Clarissa Harlowe,” and concludes with great praise of Scott; A
Humble Remonstrance shows Stevenson entering, with something
of the Father Damien manner, into a debate which was at that time
taking place between Sir Walter Besant, Mr. Henry James, and Mr.
W. D. Howells. Besant’s arguments were contained in an essay on
“The Art of Fiction,” which may still be had as a negligible little book;
Mr. Henry James’s reply, a wholly delightful performance, is reprinted
in “Partial Portraits.” The point was that Besant wanted to express
his amiable and workmanlike notions, that Mr. Henry James
preferred to talk about the art of fiction, and that Stevenson, who
seems never to have felt entire approval of the subject-matter of Mr.
James’s books, felt called upon to rally to the defence of his own
practices. Unfortunately he could not do this without savaging Mr.
James and Mr. Howells, and this, while it makes the essay a rather
honest, unaffected piece of work, does not increase its lucidity.
But we may very well turn at this point to notice that Stevenson’s one
legitimate book of essays on specifically literary subjects—Familiar
Studies of Men and Books—illustrates very well his attitude to the
writers in whom he was interested to the point of personal study. The
nine subjects of the essays in this book do not seem to us at this
time a specially interesting selection; and indeed the essays
themselves are not remarkable for originality or insight. It does show,
however, some range of understanding to wish to write upon
subjects so varied as Hugo, Burns, Whitman, Thoreau, Villon,
Charles of Orleans, Pepys, and John Knox. It is true that Stevenson
(the Hugo essay is perhaps an exception to this) never gets very far
away from his “authorities” or from quotations from the works of his
subject; and that his criticism is “safe” rather than personal; but these
facts, while they interfere with the value of the essays as essays,
give them the interest of being single and without parallel in
Stevenson’s output. They show that he was a good enough
journeyman critic to stand beside those who write essays on literary
subjects for the reviews. They conform, as far as I can tell, to the
standard of such work; they are useful and plain, and some of them,
but not all, are interesting. In each case the interest is chiefly a moral
interest; it is the “teaching” of the various writers, the moral vagaries
of the different delinquents, that engage the critic’s attention.
It must be borne in mind that Stevenson was not primarily a literary
critic. His flashes of insight were more remarkable than his
considered judgments, because, as I have suggested elsewhere in
this book, he had not the kind of mind that takes delight in pursuing a
subject to its logical conclusion. He had the inventive, but not the
constructive mind, and he had the nervous and delicate man’s
intolerance of anything requiring sustained intellectual effort. I
imagine that in reading books he “read for the story,” and that his
perception of qualities in the telling (apart from the excellence of the
story) was spasmodic. It may be noticed as a defect in Familiar
Studies of Men and Books that no character, apart from traditional
character, as in the case of Pepys, emerges from any of the essays:
we are given accounts and criticisms of, for example, Burns; but we
do not have them flashed out at us as real men. Stevenson, I think,
had a very poor sense of character. In all these essays there is the
same defect, an air of flatness, of colourlessness, such as we may
find in any case where character has not been imagined.
Stevenson also required idiosyncrasy in a character before he could
grasp it. There was for him no interest in normality of character,
which somehow he did not grasp. Once he apprehended a
personality all was different; then, every touch told, as we may see in
the picture of old Weir, or even in Silver. If he grasped the character
he could see it admirably; but it had to be “knobbly,” for quiet,
unpicturesque men baffled his powers of reproduction. He could
admire, but he could not draw them. There is a very curious instance
of this in the Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin, which is worth commenting
on here. That memoir is in some ways perfunctory; as a whole it
belongs to the same uncharacterised class of portrait-studies as
these Men and Books. Jenkin is poorly drawn, so that he might be
anybody. But there are passages in the Memoir which are the most
moving passages that Stevenson ever wrote. They do not relate to
Fleeming Jenkin, who is all out of focus: they relate to the parents of
Jenkin and his wife. Jenkin’s personality, it would seem, was never
grasped by Stevenson; these vignettes, on the other hand, are quite
poignantly real and quite pathetically beautiful.

VI
The characteristics of Stevenson’s essays are in general, as I have
tried to indicate, characteristics of manner rather than of matter.
Happy notions for slight papers need not be detailed—there are
many, which have in their time provoked great enthusiasm, and
which will continue to give pleasure because they are a little
whimsical in conception and very finished in performance. These
essays owe their charm to the fact that Stevenson was often writing
about himself, for he always wrote entertainingly about himself. He
was charmed by himself, in a way that the common egoist has not
the courage or possibly the imagination to be. Henley will tell you
that Stevenson took every mirror into his confidence; an amusing
and not at all distressing piece of vanity. His whole life was
deliciously joined together by his naïve and attractive vanity. His
essays, the most personal work of any he wrote, are filled with the
same vanity which brought him (and kept him) such good friends. It
was not the unhappy vanity that drives friends away, that is
suspicious of all kindness: Stevenson had been too much petted as
a child to permit of such wanton and morbid self-distrust. He was
confident, but not vulgarly confident; vain, to the extent of being
more interested in himself than in anything else; but he was not
dependent upon his earnings, and success came early enough to
keep sweet his happy complacency. His essays show these things
as clearly as do his letters. His essays “are like milestones upon the
wayside of his life,” and they are so obviously milestones, that all
readers who are fascinated by autobiography, particularly if it be
veiled, have been drawn to Stevenson as they are drawn to an
attractive, laughing child. My own opinion is that Stevenson has sent
his lovers away no richer than they came; but there are many who
could not share that view, because there are many who are thankful
to him for telling them that “it is better to be a fool than to be dead.” I
think Stevenson did not know what it was to be either a fool or dead.
That state of nervous high spirits which is a part of his natural
equipment for the battle, which lent even his most artificial writing a
semblance of vivacity, prevented him from ever being dead (in the
sense of supine or dull, as I suppose he meant it); and I cannot
persuade myself that Stevenson was ever a fool.
It is for these reasons that I regard all such phrases in Stevenson’s
essays as pieces of purple, as things which, however they please
some readers, are in themselves inherently false and artificial. That
they were consciously false I do not believe. Stevenson, I am sure,
had the phrase-making instinct: such a thing cannot be learned, as
anyone may see by examining the work of merely imitative writers: it
is a part of Stevenson’s nature that he crystallised into a figure some
obvious half-truth about life, and love, and fate, and the gimcrack
relics of old heroisms. It is equally a part of his nature that he fell
naturally into a sententious habit of moral utterance. Morality—as we
may realise from the lengthy fragment called Lay Morals—
preoccupied him. But it was morality expressed with the wagged
head of sententious dogma. Finally, it comes to be true that, by
whatever means, by whatever labour the art was attained,
Stevenson was, above everything else, a writer. “There is no
wonder,” said Henley, in the notorious review of Mr. Graham
Balfour’s biography, “there is no wonder that Stevenson wrote his
best in the shadow of the Shade; for writing his best was very life to
him.”

VII
As a writer, then, let Stevenson be regarded in the conclusion of this
chapter upon his essays. As a theoretical writer he gives his
deliberate example in that one essay On some technical elements of
Style in Literature; and his theories have aroused bitter comment.
Because Stevenson found certain combinations of consonants
recurrent in selected passages, it was assumed by his critics that he
lived in a state of the dreariest kind of pattern-making. That, of
course, was a mistake on the part of Stevenson’s critics, because
Stevenson was a prolific writer, and could never have afforded the
time to be a mere hanger-on of words. What Stevenson did was first
to realise that a prose style is not the result of accident. He saw that
an evil use of adjective and over-emphasis weakened style; and he
realised that a solved intricacy of sentence was part of the instinctive
cunning by which a good writer lures readers to follow him with ever-
growing interest into the most remote passages of his work. He was
a careful writer, who revised with scrupulous care; and some
sentences of Stevenson, meandering most sweetly past their
consonants and syllables and “knots,” to their destined conclusion,
are still, and I suppose always will be capable of yielding, a pure
delight to the ear. Those who do not take Stevenson’s pains will
qualify his denunciation of the “natural” writer, because a natural
writer is one whose ear is quick and fairly true: he is not necessarily
producing “the disjointed babble of the chronicler,” but he is
incapable of the fine point of exquisite rhythm which we may find in
Stevenson’s best writing. That writing, various though it is (various, I
mean, in “styles”), remains true to its musical principles. It is the
result of trained ear and recognition of language as a conscious
instrument. It has innumerable, most insidious appeals, to disregard
which is a task for the barbarian. It is patterned, it is built of sounds,
—“one sound suggests, echoes, demands, and harmonises with
another,”—all in accordance with the expressed theory of Stevenson.
We will grant it the delights, because they are incontestable. Let us
now question whether it has not one grave defect.
All style which is so intricately patterned, so reliant upon its music, its
rhythm, its balance, gratifies the ear in the way that old dance music
gratifies the ear. The minuet and the saraband, stately as they are,
have their slow phrases, and flow to their clear resolution with
immemorial dignity; they are patterns of closely-woven figured style,
than which we could hardly have an illustration more fit. They are
examples of style less subtle than Stevenson’s; but in Stevenson’s
writing there is no violence to old airs and the old order. His writing is
only “a linkéd sweetness long drawn out,” and in its differentiation
from the old way of writing is to be found, not a revolution, not
anarchy, but a weakness. Stevenson’s style, graceful, sustained
though it is, lacks power. It has finesse; but it has no vigour. The
passages to which one turns are passages of delicious, stealthy
accomplishment. They are passages which suggest the slow
encroaching fingers of the in-coming tide, creeping and whispering
further and further up the sand; and our watchful delight in the
attainment of each sentence is the delight we feel in seeing the
waves come very gently, pushed on by an incalculable necessity,
until their length is reached and their substance is withdrawn. There
is no tempestuous certainty in Stevenson’s writing; there is not the
magnificent wine of Shakespeare’s prose, which has marvellous
strength as well as its delicate precision. Stevenson’s style, clearly
invalidish in his imitators, has in itself the germs of their
consumption. It is quiet, pretty, picturesque, graceful; it has figure
and trope in plenty; but it has no vehemence. You may find in it an
amazing variety of pitch and cadence; but at length the care that has
made it betrays the artificer; at length the reader will look in vain for
the rough word. That is the pity of Stevenson’s style—not that he
should have sought it, and exercised it, and made language quite the
most important thing in his writing; but that his very artfulness should
have yielded him no protection against the demand of nature for
something which no care or cunning can ever put into style that does
not carry its own impetus.
 V
POEMS
I
The Scottish temperament is compounded of such various and
unlikely ingredients that very many of those who charge Scots with
hypocrisy and sentimentality are guilty of something like frigid
intolerance. Hypocrisy, in the sense of self-deception, is too common
a thing among all men to be charged particularly against the Scots;
sentimentality, in the sense of false or artificially heightened emotion,
is, in the same way, the prerogative of no particular nation or body of
persons. It is very likely true that hypocrisy and sentimentality are
among the failings of the Scots: but among their virtues may be
found both integrity and sincerity as well as loyalty to an idea or to a
conviction. What points the contradiction is that the Scots, in every
meaning of that word, are very sensible. They are very clearly aware
of all circumstances tending to their own advantage; they are very
appreciative of good actions contributed by other persons to that
advantage; and they are very easily moved. They are easily moved
by encounter, in unusual circumstances, with the Scots tongue (by
which I mean that accent in speaking English, and those terms,
grammatical or verbal, which are peculiar to Scotsmen); and they are
extraordinarily moved by the word “home,” by the thought of family
and by certain sounds, such as music heard across water, or
particular notes in the voice of a singer—especially when the singer
happens to be the person who is moved. But they are not singular in
these susceptibilities, although they may provide a notorious
example of them. In each case the emotion is easy, sympathetic,
instantaneous; in each case it takes the form of tears. Those who cry
are, as it were, drunken with a certain impulse of humility; they may
be as distressing as a drunken person grown maudlin; but,