Tian Liang 田亮

This painting has been worked on by some twenty‑to‑thirty people, though I have not kept count. Yet it raises an unavoidable question: when the marks left by numerous enthusiastic contributors are mostly covered over, what is the point of making these marks in the first place? It feels akin to the popular catchphrase of our time: “Human life is inherently meaningless…” When meaning is dissolved, does meaning still exist?

As I keep painting, driven almost by instinct to bring forth unforeseen, unpresupposed images, I too heavily cover what previous painters have laid down. Does this mean I am still building my own personal Tower of Babel, or am I banishing painting into a realm of far greater uncontrollability?

In mid‑May, I turned the canvas face‑down and moved it upstairs. I pulled it out again these past few days to resume painting. Lines from Homer’s epics keep echoing in my mind: O mortal man, where is my home? How shall I reach it…

240 cm × 180 cm
Painting
Acrylic and oil on canvas