C. Tai Tai is an immigrant artist based in Chicago, with roots in other parts of the US (New York, California), Taiwan, and Latin America. Historically, she has also performed under the name Tina Wang. Negotiating a freedom in self expression with the fragility of conformity and belonging (to society) are key themes in her work. By inconveniencing the resistant body with burdensome organic and inorganic objects, she challenges assumptions about where these objects belong, who belongs with them, and their relationship to living bodies.
Tianjiao Wang is an artist and currently a second-year graduate student in the Department of Visual Arts at The University of Chicago. Curiosity and a desire for intimacy fuel Tianjiao's drive in her image-making. She establishes affinity by revisiting people, objects, and landscapes. Her practice encompasses various mediums, including photography, film, and installation.
Tianjiao Wang
Matthew Jesse Jackson's MFA seminar 21st Century Art has unexpectedly helped me understand the artworks of C. Tai Tai. In our class, we read nine books, each of which to some extent described C. Tai Tai's work. This sparked in me a desire to write about how these books connect to taitai's artworks. As an amateur in writing and reading, my aspiration is solely to become proficient in creating art. Though it may sound naive, I embrace it wholeheartedly.
On "(swim/survival/sink/soft) TANKING"
I've tried several attempts to describe the kind of performance art that C. Tai Tai does to people around me. Until now, I still cannot be certain if narrating her performance in the order of events/facts is the optimal way to retell it. Chapter 1 of C. Tai Tai's "(swim/survival/sink/soft) TANKING": C. appears at one end of the open-air corridor on the third floor, dressed in an inflatable dinosaur costume, cradling a blue plastic basket filled with weeds. She walks from one end to the other, moving slowly, occasionally tossing the weeds from the basket to either side, letting them fall onto the ground below on the outdoor platform.
The reason this is not the most optimal description is that in the process of these events, there are unexpected moments that have the chance to steal your breath away. Such moments need to be experienced by gazing directly at them, not through language.
During Chapter 2 of "(swim/survival/sink/soft) TANKING", you saw her crawling. But it is not a simple act of crawling. The rough surface creates friction with her skin and the fabric of her clothing. The friction pulls at her, causing her pants to slide down below her hips, revealing the inner layer of flesh-toned leggings. C.'s performance, no matter how many elements or complex movements, allows the audience to find clues from these rich elements, clues to 'what we are seeing.'
The title of this performance is quite friendly; I imagine the performance space as a large fish tank, where swimming makes sense, survival occurs in water, sinking happens, and organisms are soft. I can make sense of it in a very brutal way. However, what fascinates me is the moment I described earlier during chapter 2, the friction of removing pants - this doesn't fall into any easy sense. Such unexpected moments are for the audience, which I believe are still within C.'s expectations. She crawls slowly, and I dare not look. While it wasn't me who pulled down her pants, nor anyone else, I am afraid to fixate my gaze on her. I was standing on the third floor of the Logan, while she was on the ground floor outside. This physically elevated position makes me uncomfortable.
At the same time, as an audience member with the primary task of observing/looking/witnessing, I become a mere bystander to everything unfolding. All the previous elements, within the fish tank, where swimming, organisms, weeds, sinking, softness... still exist, I, however, passively become an indifferent character. Between her slow movements and my scrutiny, it feels like a crime scene. I violate her with my gaze and a sense of inability to intervene. It is this "dare not look" aspect that makes it transcend my conventional 'art collection.' Usually, I seek art that I appreciate, that I understand, that I can relate to. But how am I supposed to comprehend a scene where a woman is sprawled on the ground with half-slipped pants!? At this moment, I realize that the performer is my friend, someone I care for and love genuinely. But how do I differentiate between the two? My emotions are torn because I do not know how to navigate this situation. How should I view it? From what standpoint?
It is impossible to conclude the boundaries of performance. The object loses its physical material boundaries. Because when you saw C. throwing plants from the third-floor corridor, the plants still retain their inherent shape. But as they descend through the air, following a parabolic trajectory, influenced by factors like distance, speed, the sound of impact, the weight pressing upon the ground, and the fragments scattered on the surface, they carry the properties of the plant while simultaneously stretching, influencing, and transforming other entities. So, you can't simply focus on the object. How it arrives, evolves, and departs all become integral parts of the equation.
Similarly, even though the performance takes place in the courtyard, you cannot overlook the surrounding architecture that envelops this expansive space. Nothing is spared, nothing is innocent. The Reva and David Logan Center for the Arts was constructed ten years ago. This modern building features extensive floor-to-ceiling glass usage. The double-story corridor on the east side of the courtyard is particularly notable for its entirely glass exterior, causing the building to both reflect and refract light during the day. The elements of glass and the shape of the Logan building together form the tank in C.'s performance.
I was there when she was rehearsing. I was waiting for her to finish so we could go eat together. It was a weekend at Logan Café, crowded with people. I noticed some were watching her, but I didn't pay much attention. I presumed everyone knew that Logan was a context for artistic exploration, where any object, deed, or scene would be allowed. During the break, she suddenly came over and told me that the front desk informed her that some woman at Logan Café wanted to come and inspect the courtyard. They thought she was a crazy woman. They subtly implied that her attire and behavior were inappropriate.
The boundaries of art and the world collided violently yet splendidly. It was a collision of fragments, scattered and falling upon me at that moment, in my heart. I couldn't distinguish my identities and emotions mixed together. Before being an artist, I am first and foremost a person who cares about my friend, and caring means I don't want to see her harmed physically or emotionally. So, I couldn't accept the complaints of those people in the café. Their haughty demeanor made me uncomfortable. However, I also found joy in this scene. The works of C. Tai Tai, as an artist, have always questioned and challenged the conventional way of perceiving the world in my opinion. The most wonderful thing is that these moments can happen beyond the realm of art, in rehearsals, in everyday life, in places untouched by sunlight.
I had a math background, and math students do not talk about 'otherness'. But after engaging in art practice, I realized that "otherness" is a commonly used term here. I have no theories or background, but in the courtyard, C. Tai Tai, being observed by the café's assumed well-educated and privileged intellectual women, was seen as the "other." They didn't accept, acknowledge, or allow her existence. They didn't even dare to approach directly and inquire; instead, they exercised their usual authority through intermediaries. I firmly concluded that they didn't actually care about what happened in the courtyard or the person within it because care doesn't require intermediaries. The boundaries of their world are hard stone walls. Fortunately, C. Tai Tai possesses the magic of erosion. Erosion takes time and strength, qualities that I have never doubted C. Tai Tai possesses. I appreciate her because when you first encounter her practice, you may not realize that she intends to penetrate those stone walls. She won't even tell you that's what her work is about. It's only when you spend time with her works that you discover she is breaking down your walls, allowing light to enter.
On "Mold Resiliency"
You see that mold, emitting a smell that keeps you away. I know it's not intentional. The artist didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, didn't mean to make you share a room with an unpleasant odor. But she embraced it. You find it repulsive, you dislike it, and you discard it. But what do you truly love? What do you want to hold on to? Why do you judge it this way? It makes you feel ashamed. The world is not just your crystal; it's also someone else's onion. I am not satisfied. My dissatisfaction is like the core of the emancipation project in de duvre's writing. The biggest issue with her work is that she can never escape "beauty." It's an almost paradoxical trap. It's no longer just an aesthetic judgment; it's an inevitable prejudice. When someone breaks through your stone wall, that kind of power, how can you say it isn't beautiful? I cannot despise it, dislike it, or discard it. I can only preserve it, cherished in the deepest corners of my art collection. I know she cannot be replaced.
Matthew's class is incredible. I'm filled with enthusiasm every Friday for the three-hour session. Sitting in the classroom, I haven't made the world a better place, nor have I become a better artist by reading a few more books. But my art collection has grown. This class has liberated me. Thank you, Matthew, De Duve, Ranciere, Joselit, Sterlyro, Blom, Ngai, and Darby for not letting me miss C. Tai Tai.
The artwork leaves me in awe and wonder, with a mesmerizing and mysterious sensation that renders me motionless, both startled and profoundly moved.