Snow Deer 雪鹿
Poetry-Translation-Performance Apparatus
Chapbook, 15 × 18 cm, 16pp., April 2026
This publication and performance were created for the Kitchen at the Dutch Art Institute’s April 2026 Confluence in the Netherlands. The work is guided by the question:
“Is an egg a tomato?”
本出版物与表演为荷兰艺术学院（Dutch Art Institute）2026年4月在荷兰举行的 Confluence 中的“Kitchen”项目而创作。作品由一个问题引导：
“一个鸡蛋是一个番茄吗？”
I came home and found a bath towel I had left behind three years earlier—pale sky blue—still folded exactly as it had been. My parents rarely use bath towels. I touched it; it was dry. For years, it had remained a piece of sky. A sky left to dry for that long is no longer sky, yet the fold had somehow kept it there.
Since the 1990s, China’s rapid urbanization has filled everyday life with low-saturation, plastic-toned objects: stationery, toys, slime, cleaning cloths, bath towels. Cheap, imitative, interchangeable. Dismissed because replaceable. They gather in homes, classrooms, and street corners until their very familiarity makes them disappear.
Within a strict school system, I collected these things because they left me a little room. I blew ink from pen refills into water bottles—viscous, half-dissolved, never settling. When everything else was standardized and made collective, these bottles were mine alone: floating, toxic, small.
These colors absorbed more than they released. They settled like snow—lightly, evenly, everywhere—covering surfaces, muffling sound, holding time still. They were the only material available for a private life, and also what kept thinning that life out.
I refused none of it. I let everything remain. None of it ever reached me.
Written and translated between places and temporalities that no longer receive me.
我回到家，看见一条三年前留下的浴巾——浅天蓝色——依然保持着原来的折法。父母很少使用浴巾。我伸手摸了摸，它是干的。多年来，它一直是一小块天空。一片被晾干如此之久的天空，早已不再是天空，但那道折痕似乎仍将它留在那里。
自20世纪90年代以来，中国快速城市化让日常生活充满低饱和、塑料质感的物件：文具、玩具、史莱姆、抹布、浴巾。廉价、仿制、彼此可替换。正因为随时可以被替换，它们也很少被认真看待。它们聚集在家中、教室与街角，熟悉到最终从视线中消失。
在严格的学校体系里，我收集这些东西，因为它们为我留下了一点空间。我把笔芯里的墨水吹进水瓶中——黏稠、半溶解，始终无法沉定。当其他一切都被标准化、被集体化时，这些瓶子只属于我：漂浮着，有毒，而微小。
这些颜色吸收的，总比释放的更多。它们像雪一样落下——轻、均匀，无处不在——覆盖表面，压低声音，让时间停滞。它们是私人生活中唯一可用的材料，同时也在不断将这种生活稀释。
我没有拒绝其中任何一样。我让它们全都留下。却没有一样真正抵达过我。
写作与翻译发生在那些已不再接纳我的空间与时间之间。
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