© Jie Shao
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  • Under Table
    2022
  • Pack/Unpack
    2022
  • Alley, Ghost, and Eighty Cents
    2022
  • “No, it is opposition,
    2021
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  • Table Corner
    2021
  • A Unit
    2021
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  • translation
  • Public Space
    2022 translation
  • Railing Codex
    2022
  • The Collective Alice, or, on Fear, Death, Multitudes, and Pain
    2021 translation
  • Pararailing
    2020
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Pack/Unpack

2022

"No, it is opposition,

2021

Alley, Ghost, and Eighty Cents

2022

Under Table

2022

A Unit

2021

Table Corner

2021

The Collective Alice, or, on Fear, Death, Multitudes, and Pain

2021

Public Space

2022

Upcoming

Resident Artist at NARS Art Foundation, New York, US

April - July, 2023

  • Installation shots

  • Holding
    2021
    cast brass, chemical paint
    3.7 × 3.5 × 38 cm
    (1.4 × 1.3 × 15 in)

  • Alternating
    2021
    cast brass, chemical paint
    31 × 49 × 4 cm
    (12 × 19 × 1.5 in)

  • Downward
    2021
    cast brass, chemical paint
    31 × 18 × 78 cm
    (12 × 7 × 30 in)

  • Door, or, less than clavicle, more than needle
    2021
    metal sculpture holder, stainless steel, cast brass
    Dimension Variable

  • Dome
    2021
    cast brass, chemical paint
    21 × 29 × 5 cm
    (12 × 12 × 8 in)

  • It
    2021
    ceramics, gold overglaze
    18 × 22 × 6 cm
    (6 × 8.6 × 2.4 in)

  • “No, it is opposition,
    2021
    zine
    21 × 29 × 5 cm
    (8 × 11 × 2 in)

You inhabit two bodies.
‍
One is examined.
One senses.

One activates space.
One measures the created.

One bears every emotion.
One integrates all equipment.

Hands holding a cylinder, are you floating?
Knees bent into triangles, are you cowering?
Elbows pressing an oblong, are you prostrating?
Torso circling an axis, are you holding your breath?

Intersecting clavicles point to air,
then to you—
a nameless body with no escape
bound up in dissected geometrics.

It is funny how a copper needle calls forth a sense of tenderness.

Things manifest through concealment.
Arrows drown in a lake, making ripples.
Wax melts into a mold, casting inversions.
Tools disappear into repetition, growing into limbs.

Use your body’s negative space to say no.
Cover your ears with your hands,
and let the emptiness in-between flow,
implicitly opposing
congealment at the other side of the dome.

A spider weaves
into hundreds of pavilions in the mirror,
yet circles to nowhere in a palindrome.

On the crosswood,
a body waiting to be reproduced
feels its pain in advance.

—Lux Yuting Bai

“No, it is opposition,

2021