Chapter 44
The invitation from Iceland was like a boulder thrown into a torrent, instantly changing the speed and direction of everything.
Accepting the invitation meant that for the next three months, I would once again leave my familiar surroundings and delve into a country renowned for its extreme natural conditions and unique geomagnetic activity, to address the proposition of "artistic narrative in a post-biological era." This perfectly aligned with my ongoing exploration of "field," essentially moving the laboratory onto an epic stage.
Assistant Lin quickly got to work, handling the complexities of visas, insurance, and coordinating domestic affairs. He showed no surprise at my departure and efficiently arranged everything. The foundation's operations were also pre-arranged to ensure smooth operation during my absence.
Wang Rui seemed even more excited than I was when he heard the news. "Iceland! The geomagnetic anomaly! The electromagnetic environment there is a perfect natural laboratory! Can you bring some simple sensors and record some local data? This could be very helpful in understanding how materials behave in these unusual environments!" He immediately began to list the types of data and simple equipment he might need.
Chen Hui's response was, as always, concise and to the point: "The project background has been verified. The sponsor's qualifications are reliable, and the research partner is strong. Be mindful of extreme weather and data security. A portable, high-sensitivity magnetometer is available, and recommended models have been sent to my email."
I looked at the magnetometer model she recommended—it's a pricey piece of specialized equipment commonly used in geological exploration and space physics research. Her support was always so specific and hard-core.
The studio needed to be reorganized and sealed. The equipment from "Field I" was carefully disassembled and packed for travel. Books and notes on biology and information theory filled a box. Wang Rui's list of sensors and the magnetometer recommended by Chen Hui also joined the luggage queue. The entire process felt like an inventory and migration of intellectual equipment.
Before leaving, I visited my mother. She was deeply concerned about my journey to a "snowy and icy" place. She nags me about staying warm and staying safe, and even secretly slips several packs of hot packs into my suitcase. I listen patiently, without a trace of impatience. This earthly, heartwarming concern is the solid foundation that gives me the courage to venture into the unknown again and again.
The plane soared into the sky with a resounding roar, leaving the lights of Beijing behind. Over ten hours of flight, crossing time zones and continents. As the plane began its descent, I peered out the window and saw that legendary land—vast expanses of black volcanic rock covered in mottled snow, winding glaciers like the earth's silver veins, and the deep blue ocean crashing against a jagged coastline. A raw, desolate, yet powerful beauty overwhelmed me.
Reykjavík, the world's northernmost capital, is a place of tranquility and solitude, with its colorful cottages dotted amidst a vast natural landscape. The residency program offers a residence and studio on the city's edge, housed in a former fishing boat warehouse. The building is tall and rugged, with windows offering views of the icy North Atlantic Ocean and the snow-capped mountains in the distance.
The project coordinator was an Icelandic woman named Eleanor. She was tall, with a bright smile and the tenacity typical of polar dwellers. "Welcome to the end of the world, Mr. Zhang," she said, shaking my hand firmly. "The nature here is itself the greatest artist. I hope it will inspire you."
The next day after settling in, even before I’d fully recovered from the jet lag, I eagerly began exploring. I didn’t start making anything right away, but instead, like a voracious student, I took in everything about this land, my camera and sketchbook.
I stood on a black sand beach, watching as huge waves swept up chunks of ice, repeatedly washing over the black sand, leaving behind ever-changing patterns of foam. I hiked across the tundra, beneath kilometers of moss, thick as a carpet, a million shades of gray-green under the overcast sky. I gazed at geysers that periodically spewed vast columns of vapor into the gray sky, like the earth's steady breathing. Late at night, wrapped in a thick down jacket, in the wilderness, far from light pollution, I watched the green and purple aurora dance silently across the sky, a grand manifestation of cosmic energy.
All of these things—the waves, the tundra, the geothermal heat, the aurora borealis—are dynamic processes operating within a grand grammar. They are direct manifestations of physical laws, chemical cycles, and planetary processes, far larger, more complex, and full of unpredictable wildness than the tiny circuit in my studio.
I was deeply moved, and at the same time, I felt an unprecedented creative anxiety. Faced with such a magnificent natural landscape, any human artistic intervention seemed insignificant and futile.
I told Chen Hui about this anxiety via email.
Her response was quick, still calm. "Your role isn't to compete with nature, but to act as a transformer. Use your senses and tools to capture and translate those invisible or unnoticed fragments of 'grammar.' Just like you did with the circuits, only on a different scale."
Her words woke me up.
I began to adjust my strategy. Instead of trying to “paint” or “respond” to the landscape, I tried to “measure” and “listen” to it.
I took out the sensors Wang Rui had prepared and the magnetometer Chen Hui had recommended. With Eleanor's help, I placed them at the edge of a black sand beach, deep in the tundra, and even near an active fumarole. They recorded minute changes in temperature, humidity, air pressure, and geomagnetic disturbances.
The data stream is cold and dull. But when I import this data into my computer and juxtapose it with the ambient video and natural sound recordings I've taken simultaneously, a curious correspondence begins to emerge. Tiny fluctuations in the Earth's magnetic field seem to be vaguely synchronized with the shifting patterns of the aurora; the spectral characteristics of ocean waves have some inherent connection to the visual patterns of breaking foam.
I felt as if I were deciphering an incredibly complex dynamic code written using natural phenomena.
Meanwhile, other artists in the residency program began arriving. There was a composer from the Netherlands specializing in sound ecology, an installation artist from Japan working with bioluminescent materials, and a performance artist from Brazil fascinated by fungal networks. Our backgrounds varied widely, but we all shared a deep interest in themes like "postbiology," "systems," and the intersection of nature and technology. Our evening discussions were often lively and illuminating, the collision of perspectives from diverse fields constantly expanding my cognitive horizons.
I began to conceive of my residency work. I didn't want to create an isolated object placed in a gallery. I wanted to create a "perception enhancer," a temporary installation that would help viewers more intuitively experience the hidden "grammar" of this land.
I envisioned a structure: using locally collected black basalt blocks, I would build a simple spiral base with a resonance chamber. In the center of the base, I would install a device that would convert real-time environmental data (such as geomagnetic fluctuations and infrasound) into specific frequency sounds and corresponding light effects.
When the audience approaches or sits on the stone seat, he/she will not only be able to see the surrounding natural scenery with his/her eyes, but also "hear" and "feel" the subtle "breathing" of the earth's magnetic field under his/her feet, or the low-frequency "heartbeat" transmitted by distant waves that is usually not captured by human ears, through his/her ears and skin.
This will be an interface connecting the inside and the outside, an attempt to transform the invisible power of the "field" into an experience that can be perceived by the flesh.
Once the plan was finalized, execution was another challenge. Finding the right stone in Iceland, communicating with local craftsmen about construction, and installing it outdoors in inclement weather... every step was fraught with difficulty. Eleanor and the local team provided tremendous assistance. Their practical approach and deep understanding of nature were truly valuable.
When the installation was finally completed in an open area near the black sand beach where the ocean, volcanoes and sky could be seen simultaneously, it happened to be a night with strong aurora activity.
I hadn’t invited many people, just a few artists from my residency program and local collaborators, and we stood in the cold night, bundled up in our clothes.
I activated the device.
At first, there was only the sobbing of the wind through the cracks in the rocks and the eternal roar of the waves.
Then, an extremely low hum, more audible to the chest than the ears, slowly rose from within the stone pedestal, synchronized with the slight vibrations on the surface. Simultaneously, the light band embedded within the stone pedestal began to follow this hum, emitting a very subtle blue-green halo that corresponded to the real-time geomagnetic data.
At this moment, above the sky, the aurora began to dance appropriately, and the green and purple light curtains rolled and flowed, forming a silent harmony that transcended scale with the artificial, faint halo on the stone base.
No one spoke.
Everyone was stunned by this strange experience that connected the planetary scale with personal perception.
At that moment, I knew I had captured it.
Not the aurora itself, nor the ocean waves or the geomagnetic field.
It is the possibility of transforming a grand "grammar" into a concrete, intimate bodily tremor.
The residency period is still very long.
But the first and most crucial "punctuation" has been quietly completed at this moment, under the cold night and northern lights of Iceland.
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