GUO JIAN

Guo Jian’s artistic practice is fundamentally an act of disenchantment: breaking the black filter of sunglasses, tearing open the disciplined façade of military uniforms, and exposing the shared mechanisms of desire between Playboy imagery and revolutionary propaganda. This creation is not a mere game of symbols but rather forces viewers, through the dismantling and reassembling of objects, to confront concealed historical truths. When an entire generation revelled blindly in the dark behind ideological sunglasses, when bodies beneath uniforms were already penetrated by the violence of their era, these acts of transgression labelled as “pi” (defiant coolness) might well be evidence of individuality growing in the cracks of perception. The characters in Guo Jian’s works often present stereotyped features akin to Cultural Revolution-era propaganda posters. Such stereotypical portrayal not only demonstrates unconscious compliance within a collectivist context but also underscores the suppression of individuality by ideology. Through this formulaic visual expression, the artist highlights the subtle yet profound control exerted by social conditions over individual psychology and behaviour, thus revealing the unconscious state of individuals beneath powerful social norms and idealistic narratives. Guo Jian employs his personal traumatic memories to burn through the thick veil of collective consciousness, bringing those obscured, beautified, and forbidden elements back to their raw, blood-stained reality on the canvas.

“In the later years of the Cultural Revolution, my classmates and I wore military caps every day and constantly schemed ways to bunk off school. In fact, school was suspended entirely for a whole year. One day, a classmate suddenly brought in a pair of sunglasses, and we were incredibly excited. At that time, sunglasses were typically depicted in films or Cultural Revolution literature as a hallmark of villains. However, revolutionary heroes, when disguising themselves as villains for revolutionary purposes, also wore sunglasses and were praised as exceptionally heroic and stylish. In our locality, the earliest ordinary young people who dared openly to wear sunglasses were viewed as being influenced by bourgeois capitalism, labelled as 'poisonous weeds' and little hooligans. Becoming delinquent was fashionable among our group, caught between revolutionary idealist literature and the bourgeois temptation. Back then, we didn't have the word 'cool'; instead, we used 'pi,' which essentially meant very cool. With sunglasses, you gained the dual 'pi' of being both revolutionary and villainous. Wearing military uniforms and caps, smoking a cigarette, and sporting sunglasses, you could swagger around town like those young 'pi' hooligans with sunglasses, perms, or 'Afro' hairstyles, going around confidently to 'shua mazi' (an old slang for picking up girls). In our area, 'mazi' was a term that combined both 'bad girl' and 'pretty girl.' Sunglasses then were mostly poor quality—so dark you could hardly see anything, truly as black as ink. The pair my classmate brought was exactly this type. Seeing him look so 'pi,' I imagined I'd look just as 'pi' wearing them.

One day at the park, we saw a girl much older than us smoking cigarettes and playing on the elephant slide with boys younger than ourselves. My experienced classmates threw the sunglasses to me, urging me, an inexperienced rookie, to approach her. Thinking the sunglasses would not only make me 'pi' but also hide my shyness, I boldly walked up. When I reached her, judging by her black cloth shoes seen through the narrow gap beneath my sunglasses, I realised I was dangerously close—about the distance of a slap. As I awkwardly greeted her, a sudden blur flashed through the darkness of my sunglasses, and before I could react, a sharp slap struck my face, knocking the sunglasses off my head like a black sack. As they flew off, I needed two seconds to adjust from darkness and dizziness to the dazzling sight of the girl in front of me. Standing against the light, she smiled disdainfully and said, 'You little bastard, trying to act 'pi'? Now piss off!' Embarrassed and humiliated, I ran back to the roaring laughter of my classmates. Wearing low-quality sunglasses, you’re practically blind—unable to see or even remember danger.

When my father was conscripted at 14, he had no idea his own father and two uncles were being persecuted and ultimately executed as landlords. By the time he returned home after his service, his father and uncles were gone, his mother had remarried and moved far away, and the family home had been confiscated by the village committee. When I enlisted at 17, my parents and I knew clearly that I would be going to war. My parents believed military service could change our family’s misfortunes caused by our undesirable background, despite knowing war was dangerous. However, I had no real understanding of the dangers involved. My generation grew up watching war films, believing being a soldier was romantic—heroes who were invincible and admired by all. It was absolutely more 'pi.' I don't know how many others were like me; I just knew once I wore the uniform, no girl would dare slap me again. I was now the most 'pi.' At that time, being the most 'pi' was synonymous with being the 'most lovable.' The commonality between my father’s generation and mine was that we were all blind idealists, propelled or compelled by our times. Whether simply to survive or to live more romantically, we ignored obvious dangers and harm right before us. Thus, I created this series of sunglasses-related artworks exploring idealism. Being a blind idealist, you not only fail to see dangers and harm but also become numb to the absence of love.

During my secondary school years, many revolutionary songs we had sung just the previous day suddenly became labelled as counter-revolutionary 'yellow' songs overnight—such as 'Praise the Red Plum,' 'Katyusha,' and 'Moscow Nights.' We secretly copied and read them beneath desks, hidden behind Chairman Mao’s writings and textbooks. Later, in the military and university, I secretly copied novels such as 'A Girl's Heart' and furtively read Zhang Xianliang's 'Half of Man is Woman,' always hidden behind Mao’s texts. Playboy magazine symbolises popularity and desirability, and is the world’s most famous adult magazine. The characters on posters, textbooks, and magazines I grew up with were as popular as those Playboy cover models, differing only in being serious versus vulgar. By juxtaposing and overlapping them, I created a contemporary visual effect. Here Playboy has no erotic connotation but rather signifies a playful, reciprocal exchange as passive consumer objects. By merging visual elements popular in distinctly different contexts, I aim to reconstruct a contemporary mode of viewing and reading.”