Panel Recap | Wandering Plants: Horticulture, Colonialism, and Cross-Cultural Histories

 

This panel begins with Rubén Montesinos' visual research project, The Horticultural Guide, to explore the complex relationship between plant mobility and colonial history. Rubén's project examines features, forms, species, and other elements to reveal the mutability of horticulture in urban landscapes, highlighting its role as a tool for socio-cultural expression.

 

The discussion covers topics such as horticultural practices in Mexico City and their colonial connections, the global migration of crops like pineapples and its economic and cultural impacts, and how artists Minerva Cuevas and Ryan Villamael reflect on the relationship between plants and colonialism in their exhibitions. It also focuses on plant mobility and cultural fusion in the Americas, Southeast Asia, and China, with particular attention to the unique social relations formed by Chinese communities in Southeast Asian pineapple plantations.

 

Additionally, drawing on Gilles Clément's The Garden in Motion, the discussion will incorporate examples of productive landscapes in China to further explore the temporality and mobility of plants, showcasing the profound impact of horticulture within diverse historical contexts.

 

Lin Haodong: Welcome everyone to our panel discussion. I’m Lin Haodong, the director of Stasis Space. I’m delighted to have Hang Ping and Jiang Yao from Plant South Salesroom, as well as Zheming in Canada, join us for this session. This panel is based on our current exhibition, 园艺指南 A Guide on Gardening; therefore, before we start, let me introduce the exhibition.

   

This exhibition focuses on a horticultural project in Mexico by Spanish artist Rubén Montesionos. The project captures various oddly-shaped shrubs found on the streets of Mexico City. Using these shrubs as a starting point, the project explores not only the plants themselves but also the class-related aspects of Mexico City. For these reasons, we’ve invited Zhinan Shop and Zheming to participate in this discussion. To kick off, I’d like to share an image that serves as a starting point for our conversation.

   

This image is something I stumbled upon while designing the exhibition poster. It depicts the wedding of Louis XV’s son, a masquerade ball with a cosplay theme. The participants dressed as all sorts of strange and interesting things. If you look closely, you’ll notice some dressed as Chinese or Turkish figures and even as shrubbery. This type of costume connects to the themes of our exhibition. For instance, some visitors have asked why these shrubs are trimmed into the shapes of cats and dogs. This image makes for a perfect introduction to today’s discussion.

   

Let me now invite Zheming to speak about horticulture in Mexico City.

   

Taro Zheming: The oddly shaped trimming styles you mentioned actually first appeared in Roman times, but they were revived in Europe during the 16th century, eventually becoming increasingly elaborate. Initially, the trimming styles were simple shapes like pyramids or spheres, but they evolved into highly extravagant designs, including spirals, animals, and even human figures. The film Edward Scissorhands depicts this concept beautifully, showing how Edward’s scissor hands are particularly adept at sculpting shapes, much like cutting hair. This style of pruning was extremely popular in Europe, becoming a form of cultural competition among European nations. It spread from France to the Netherlands and eventually to England, developing into distinctive styles in each country.

   

What fascinates me about A Guide on Gardening is its exploration of a Spanish photographer discovering these highly European pruning styles in Mexico. My background is in landscape design and garden history, so I often photograph similar phenomena on the streets. What’s intriguing about this book is its postcolonial lens, where a Spanish photographer revisits a phenomenon birthed under colonial influence.

    

One reason for the prevalence of this European gardening style in Mexico is the Spanish colonization that began in the 16th century. Throughout the colonial period up until independence, Spanish influence deeply shaped Mexican gardening, urban planning, and architecture. If you ever visit Mexico City, you’ll see many gardens with distinctly European styles, featuring meticulously trimmed hedges. In square-shaped plazas, you might find intricately sculpted shrubs anchoring each corner as focal points.

     

Pruning these shrubs is much like cutting hair; it requires regular maintenance to preserve their shape. This means significant time and financial investment to maintain, say, a cat-shaped bush. Without regular trimming, the shape deteriorates, and the design becomes unrecognizable. The more frequent and elaborate the pruning, the more it demonstrates a family’s wealth. To some extent, this became a subtle yet ostentatious way of flaunting one’s financial or social status—an understated form of wealth display.

 

Lin Haodong: During my interview with Rubén, he mentioned the two points you raised earlier. While wandering the streets of Mexico City and taking photographs, he observed that in wealthier neighborhoods, pruning was done more frequently—about every two to three months. The shrubs in affluent areas appeared much more well-kept, while those in less affluent neighborhoods were pruned less often. Regarding the influence of gardening styles in Mexico City, Rubén also questioned whether these European-inspired pruning techniques existed before Spanish colonization or if they emerged afterward.

   

When we talk about shrubs, we’re not just discussing plants but also their broader implications. With that in mind, I’d like to invite Zhinan Shop to share their perspective on the relationship between plants and colonization from a global historical lens, or any other related topics.

 

Lin Haodong: Exactly. As Jiang Yao mentioned earlier, a key point lies in the perspective of observation. For Rubén’s project, if we view it narrowly, it could be understood as a colonial perspective—a Spaniard returning to Mexico City. However, if we focus solely on the artworks themselves, the core subject of the project is the shrubbery in the images. Yet, I find the environment behind the shrubs particularly compelling. For instance, the buildings in the background serve as supplementary information in this project.

 

What truly resonates with me is not just the shrubs but the context behind them. I notice the scenes in the background, such as cracks in walls being overtaken by plants or shattered mirrors. These elements reflect something more specific and tangible about Mexico City itself.

 

Since Hang Ping often engages in artistic practices, could you share more about exhibitions or creations where plants serve as either the subject or the background? This might provide us with a better perspective for observation.

Hangping: My initial reaction to this project, aside from the background details you mentioned and the horticultural pruning aspects that Zheming discussed, is to focus on the nature of this project as a photographic endeavor. Once the act of photographing and exhibiting is completed, what kinds of new responses might emerge?

 

When Zheming and Jiang Yao were speaking earlier, I caught a detail about shrubs being trimmed into the shapes of cats or dogs, becoming symbols of wealth. In our work on The Wandering History of Pineapples, we discovered that pineapples could once be rented, transitioning into a stage of everyday life—a widespread and civilian-level phenomenon. At this stage, a shared societal consensus transformed the pineapple into a symbol of wealth or status.

 

This process shares a common characteristic: it strips away the original natural attributes of the object. For instance, when shrubs are pruned in a garden, they are shaped into forms that deviate from their natural growth. Similarly, during cultivation, actions are taken to make them better suited to urban environments. The same applies to pineapples. When we think of pineapples, we typically imagine how they appear in a fruit market, which is vastly different from how they look in a pineapple field. The original features—such as their leaves—are often excluded from our mental image. In our minds, we tend to retain the version that has been stripped of its so-called “natural attributes.”

 

I find this phenomenon quite fascinating. I’d like to elaborate by referencing two art exhibitions that respond to the colonial theme and explore the transformation of natural objects into artificial ones through processes like pruning.

 

Return, My Gracious Hour Exhibition View

 

Hangping: This exhibition was presented by Silverlens Gallery, which has spaces in both Manila and New York. The artist featured is Villamael Ryan, whose primary medium is paper cutting. The exhibition text was written by the chief editor of the University of the Philippines Press. The title of the exhibition is Return, My Gracious Hour, and it draws inspiration from Jose Rizal’s poem Memories of My Town. Rizal is often regarded as the "father" of the Philippines or a national hero. He wrote this poem:   

 

When I recall the days
That saw my childhood of yore
Beside the verdant shore
Of a murmuring lagoon;
When I remember the sighs
Of the breeze that on my brow
Sweet and caressing did blow
With coolness full of delight; When I look at the lily white
Fills up with air violent
And the stormy element
On the sand doth meekly sleep;
When sweet 'toxicating scent
From the flowers I inhale
Which at the dawn they exhale
When at us it begins to peep; I sadly recall your face,
Oh precious infancy,
That a mother lovingly
Did succeed to embellish.
I remember a simple town;
My cradle, joy and boon,
Beside the cool lagoon
The seat of all my wish. Oh, yes! With uncertain pace
I trod your forest lands,
And on your river banks
A pleasant fun I found;
At your rustic temple I prayed
With a little boy's simple faith
And your aura's flawless breath
Filled my heart with joy profound. Saw I God in the grandeur
Of your woods which for centuries stand;
Never did I understand
In your bosom what sorrows were;
While I gazed on your azure sky
Neither love nor tenderness
Failed me, 'cause my happiness
In the heart of nature rests there. Tender childhood, beautiful town,
Rich fountain of happiness,
Of harmonious melodies,
That drive away my sorrow!
Return thee to my heart,
Bring back my gentle hours
As do the birds when the flow'rs
Would again begin to blow! But, alas, adieu! E'er watch
For your peace, joy and repose,
Genius of good who kindly dispose
Of his blessings with amour;
It's for thee my fervent pray'rs,
It's for thee my constant desire
Knowledge ever to acquire
And may God keep your candour!

Jose Rizal is considered a national hero who inspired the Filipino resistance during Spanish colonization. Philippine history spans periods of colonization by Spain, the United States, and Japan: three centuries under Spain, over forty years under the U.S., and a brief period during World War II under Japan. The Philippines only became an independent republic in the 1940s. This poem reflects Rizal’s nostalgic recollection of his hometown and its landscapes, linking nature closely with the idea of home.

 

While I understand why this poem might have moved people at the time, I find it harder to resonate with it from my contemporary perspective. Having not experienced the historical context firsthand, it’s difficult for me to grasp what made this poem so impactful. However, analyzing it within its historical context, I see how Rizal’s reflections on his homeland’s landscape would evoke strong emotions, particularly during his exile. He lived to only 35 years old, spending much of his youth in exile in Europe, later moving to Hong Kong, and eventually being banished to Mindanao by the local colonial government in the Philippines. During this time, his memories of home and its landscapes likely became a powerful source of emotional connection for him and others.

 

What strikes me most is how, despite over 300 years of Spanish colonization, the Philippines managed to reconstruct its national and cultural identity as a unified nation. The Philippines consists of over 7,000 islands and 80 languages, and I’ve asked my Filipino friends about this. They’ve told me that these geographical and linguistic divides made it nearly impossible to build a cohesive nation, culture, or identity during those 300 years.

 

Rizal is regarded as a national hero, yet it is fascinating to note that he didn’t lead the final rebellion. Instead, he inspired the rebellion’s leaders, which led to his arrest and eventual execution by the colonial government. This process feels almost theatrical—like a dramatic narrative my Filipino friend described as “cartoonish”: one hero falls, another rises, and a new government or nation emerges. The voices of ordinary people, however, seem absent, with the populace instead being led by heroic figures.

 

When viewing this exhibition, my first instinct was to avoid reading the accompanying text, knowing that discussing plants in this context often carries preconceived notions. Still, I found certain clues in the artworks themselves. While I see this as a response, it is not a direct critique of colonialism. Much of the work—like the videos we saw earlier—is presented through paper cutting or installations.

 

The artist is deeply interested in history, but the archival images used in the exhibition come from the American occupation of the Philippines, which is a different era from the poem by Jose Rizal that he references. This displacement of time feels like something that happens frequently in art exhibitions. Yet, when I consider the resources as a whole, it starts to make sense. The artist uses installations to shroud these images in shadows, evoking the lingering ghost of colonial history and its enduring influence.

 

In the text, the artist mentions that history is not a conclusion but a medium for reshaping postcolonial imagery of the past and present. This is, of course, his perspective—and the curator’s interpretation, not the artist’s own words. I have some doubts about this, but I think it’s worth setting aside for now. We can revisit it later.

 

Installation view of Feast and Famine, kurimanzutto, Mexico City, September 22–October 24, 2015

 

Hangping: Another exhibition I want to mention was created by a Mexican female artist, Minerva Cuevas, and focused on chocolate and cacao. The exhibition, titled Feast and Famine, featured numerous chocolate sculptures and incorporated archaeological motifs and archives. Held in Mexico, the artist responded to local myths as well as colonial-related themes.

  

Minerva Cuevas, Bitter Sweet - Hershey’s (detail), 2015

For example, in one of Minerva’s works, she used chocolate to recreate an image depicting a European cannibalism story. I found it to be quite satirical and humorous. The fact that chocolate is edible adds another layer of meaning, making her use of symbols and the cultural context of the material itself particularly brilliant.

 

During a studio visit, I had the chance to interview her. I asked how an artist so adept at working with symbols goes about selecting them. She shared a video with me during the visit, and after watching it, I had even more questions.

 

For instance, in the video, an elderly woman mentioned that when squirrels come to eat cacao beans, she doesn’t feel bothered because it’s simply part of their life. This sparked a rather extreme thought in my mind. From a biological perspective, when colonizers arrived in this region, it was essentially a process of seizing an ecological niche. If we consider humans as two different species, then the colonizers might be seen as a different "species" to the indigenous people of the colony. In this sense, how different is their arrival from the squirrels taking her cacao?

 

It was a provocative and radical question that crossed my mind at the time, but I didn’t voice it out of concern that the artist might find it offensive.

 

20 x 28 x 28 cm (7.87 x 11.02 x 11.02 in.) installed, edition of 500

Let me show you another work. This piece involves chocolate molded into the shape of ears and addresses the origin of cacao in Mexico—or more broadly, Central America. However, today, what’s more widely recognized are Belgian chocolate, German chocolate, Spanish chocolate, and so on. The work also explores the relationship between the modern capitalist consumer market and former colonies.

    

Minerva mentioned a chocolate brand called Whitman’s Chocolate, which used an advertisement depicting the Spanish conquering local inhabitants. The ad implied that these original inhabitants were "savages." The artist’s work serves as a form of irony, raising the question: who are the real savages here? The message is straightforward, but if reduced to just text, it begins to feel somewhat off.
     
For instance, it can seem like it’s merely presenting a conflict between Mexico and Spain, or more broadly, a struggle within the postcolonial context between a former colony and its colonizer. Yet, upon closer examination, the argument that cacao originates in Mexico—and thus the cultural critique—isn’t entirely solid. Cacao is more accurately native to Central America as a whole.
       
This creates a sense of dislocation, conflating Central America with Mexico and framing it as the "Orient" relative to the "Occident" of the West. I’ve always had some doubts about this perspective, so I hope we can discuss it later.
      
Similarly, in the earlier exhibitions by the Filipino artists, we saw narratives about how the Philippines, through its anti-colonial struggles, gradually formed a nation. But even now, has it truly solidified? The stories often feel like cartoonish hero narratives.
        
In both exhibitions, plants are transformed into images or symbols. That’s the point I wanted to highlight in this part of my discussion.

     

      

Lin Haodong: I think the shift in perspective in artistic creation is extremely important. If the perspective isn’t properly adjusted, the project itself can become awkward. Now, I’d like to return to the technical aspects. Before Mexico was colonized by Spain, how did the technology in Mexico City—or other related areas—compare to what evolved after colonization?

     

Taro Zheming: The differences are significant. Let me give a simple example. When we think of pre-colonial Mexico, the Maya culture and its pyramids often come to mind. At that time, many horticultural techniques were not focused on aesthetic or ornamental purposes but were highly practical. Their gardens were closer to what we would call vegetable gardens.
 
In Mexico, there are many traditional gardening or farming methods, such as the "Three Sisters" technique. This involves planting tomatoes, corn, and squash together. The corn provides a stalk for the tomatoes and squash to climb, while the tomatoes repel pests with their scent, protecting the other plants. This practical approach had little to do with the geometric or formal aesthetic trends seen in European gardens.
 
I also found Hang Ping's mention of squirrels very thought-provoking. When the United States colonists first arrived on the American continent, they viewed Native Americans not as humans but as complete "others." Early American settlers or frontiersmen referred to the land as a "fertile virgin land"—a place of boundless forests and rich soil. These forests were said to be inhabited by "wild animals," but what they meant by animals often included the indigenous people, equating them with nature itself.
   
Many of the native gardens, which settlers redefined as untouched wilderness, were in fact deliberately planted to harvest fruits and other resources. From a non-native perspective, these human-made gardens were reframed as pristine nature.
    
It’s also fascinating how today’s discussion seems to keep circling back to Spain—whether it’s pineapples, the Philippines, or now Mexico. I currently work in a garden research institution in Pasadena, California. This area was once a large ranch owned by the Spanish crown and managed by a governor. Today, however, there are no traces of the Mexican or Native American communities who once lived here.
    
In Pasadena, many Mexican workers serve as landscapers or gardeners for the city’s large estates, as the homeowners often lack the time to maintain their gardens. Yet these gardens are symbols of their wealth or social status and require upkeep. Most of the landscapers in Pasadena are Mexican.
      
In the 1960s, a local nursery and bird market in Pasadena caught fire, releasing a flock of red-headed parrots native to Mexico. These parrots didn’t return to Mexico because the Californian climate was perfect for them. Today, the parrots are so widespread that you can hear them screeching noisily every morning and evening.
     
On my way to work, I often see Mexican gardeners wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, a distinct symbol of Mexican culture, tending to gardens in predominantly white neighborhoods. Because California is so dry—essentially a desert climate—these gardens often feature agave and succulents, which are native to Mexico. In front yards, there’s often a large California orange tree under which a Mexican gardener tends to the plants. Above him, you might see a flock of Mexican parrots noisily eating oranges.
     
This surreal, disorienting scene is a fascinating mosaic of cultural fragments. It combines symbols we associate with various cultures into a new, layered image. The scene is both contradictory and captivating.
      
When chatting with these Mexican gardeners, they often mention having small vegetable plots back in their hometowns. They bring seeds to California to grow familiar plants, maintaining a connection to their homeland. They also talk about how landscaping work in the U.S. differs from Mexico. The U.S. system is highly mechanized, with regulations dictating what can and cannot be done, and traditional Mexican methods are often replaced to increase efficiency.
       
My research involves overseas Chinese gardens, and I often find myself tending gardens with Mexican workers who frequently express confusion about Chinese gardening practices. These interactions reveal the fascinating process of adaptation and collision, where both techniques and plants take root in a new environment. This process itself is incredibly interesting and closely resembles Rubén’s photography.
      
While his images focus on Mexican topiary, the practice itself originates in Europe and evolved further in Mexico. From a single image, it’s difficult to immediately grasp the intricate transformations behind it. Similarly, as Jiang Yao mentioned about pineapple rentals, it’s hard to extract such detailed stories from a single photo. Yet the photographic medium can focus our attention on specific elements, opening a window to a new world.
       
For me, this shift in perspective—whether during research or just daydreaming—is one of the most delightful parts of the process.
    

Lin Haodong: I agree. Visual elements often provide rich entry points and spark new ideas. As Zheming mentioned, colonizers often sought to visually transform the places they occupied. For instance, pre-colonial gardening in Mexico City was more practical, but the Spanish introduced ornamental gardens that reflected aristocratic ideals.
       
I’m also intrigued by Jiang Yao’s mention of pineapple rentals. In the 16th and 17th centuries, what was life like for Chinese migrants? For example, in the last century, many Chinese immigrants in South America gravitated toward specific industries, such as opening grocery stores. Was pineapple rental a widespread group phenomenon or a niche practice?

       

       

Jiang Yao: Let me first address your question. When I came across the example of pineapple rentals in England, there wasn’t a clear indication of who exactly participated in this practice, so I can’t say for certain if it was a widespread phenomenon.
      
The example of pineapple rentals, as well as another case from the 19th century—where someone was convicted for stealing five pineapples from a plantation and subsequently sentenced to five years in Australia—highlights a patchwork of fragments. At the time, Australia was a remote penal colony for Britain. These scattered pieces of information reflect what Zheming mentioned as a way of piecing together narratives.
       
When we consider the symbolic significance of pineapples from a non-Western, non-colonial historical context, they’re just an ordinary fruit to us. When you get a pineapple, the first thing you might think of is soaking it in salted water to avoid its sting. This reaction is far more mundane and lacks the strong symbolic connotations often attached to pineapples in Western colonial histories.
      
Speaking of symbols and objects, I’d like to share some paintings.

Historica Graphica Collection/Getty Images

      

Jiang Yao: This is a painting from the Dutch Golden Age, around the 17th century, featuring a pineapple. For about 20–30 years in the early 17th century, Brazil was a Dutch colony. After the Dutch withdrew and Brazil ceased to be their colony, these paintings seemed to function as symbolic representations for Dutch artists—or the Dutch people—to imagine Brazil, a land they once colonized. Pineapples, one of Brazil's places of origin, often appear as prominent motifs in these paintings. For example, in Frank Post’s works, pineapples frequently occupy the foreground on the left, serving as a strong symbol in the Western context.
         
Connecting this Western context to the Chinese communities mentioned earlier and Hang Ping’s discussion of colonial reflections in the Philippines, I recently had conversations with friends in Singapore, revealing another perspective. In Singapore’s historical narratives, they often compare British and Japanese colonialism, viewing British rule as "good" and Japanese occupation as "bad." From 1942 to 1945, during World War II, Singapore experienced a brief three-year Japanese occupation, which is described in their histories as a period of extreme suffering and decline. Yet, when discussing the much longer period of British colonization, the narrative shifts to one of Britain laying the foundations for Singapore’s development, offering an entirely different tone.
          
Regarding Hang Ping’s earlier point about dislocations or misreadings, Western narratives often frame places like Central America, relative to Europe, as a kind of "Orient." Pineapples are an example of this. When Columbus brought pineapples from Guadeloupe to Spain in 1495, he mistakenly thought he had reached India, calling the fruit an "Indian" discovery. Modern texts clarify this by referring to the region as the "West Indies," but this misattribution highlights the numerous dislocations within Europe-centric historical writings, similar to the fragmented imagery Zheming observed in Pasadena.
          
In the Southeast Asian or Asian context, however, pineapples are more ordinary and less symbolic. In Singapore, where I am currently conducting research on pineapples, people often ask why I didn’t choose to study durians instead. To them, pineapples are seen as commonplace. While Western Europeans in the 16th and 17th centuries referred to pineapples as the "fruit of kings," Singaporeans regard durians as the "king of fruits" and mangosteens as the "queen of fruits," with no significant connection to pineapples.
          
When asked what comes to mind when they think of pineapples, many Singaporean Chinese mention pineapple tarts, often eaten during Chinese New Year, or pineapple juice. For them, pineapple juice is a simple, everyday beverage. Interestingly, in Singapore, people refer to pineapples as huang li in Mandarin, while in Taiwan they’re called feng li, and in Hong Kong, they’re called bo lo. These regional naming differences reflect the localized familiarity with the fruit.
          
Let me briefly introduce the demographic composition of Singapore. Singapore’s identity card includes a classification system called CMIO: C stands for Chinese, M for Malays, I for Indians, and O for Others. The majority of Singapore’s population—over 50%—is Chinese. Historical accounts suggest that this composition is closely tied to the plantation system of the 19th and early 20th centuries.
          
While Europeans described the Americas as "fertile lands," they referred to Singapore as a treacherous region full of forests, swamps, and waterways. To establish settlements or plantations there, significant manpower was required. In the 19th century, the British introduced a system called the "Kongchu" or "Headman" system, where a landowner (or Kongchu) was granted authority over a plot of land and encouraged to bring relatives or acquaintances to clear and cultivate it. As a Kongchu, you enjoyed privileges, including the right to sell opium. The name "Kongchu" reflects the environment of the time, as these plots of land were often encircled by rivers and forests, requiring extensive clearing and cultivation.
           
Much of Singapore’s land was initially developed under this plantation system. While plantation systems in colonial contexts are often discussed critically, especially for their exploitative nature, the discussions I’ve encountered in Singapore sometimes offer a different perspective.
              
Returning to the point about Singapore’s foundations being built on plantation systems: almost every inch of land here is linked to this history. This system required a diverse workforce, which contributed to the multi-ethnic composition we see today in Singapore.
      

Diagram of pineapple canning factories recorded on a 1945 Singapore survey map, compiled and presented by Jiang Yao based on primary and secondary sources.

     

Jiang Yao: Talking about the connection between population composition and agriculture, I’d like to return to the term huang li (pineapple). This term originates from Hokkien, a southern Min dialect. While Hokkien is often translated as "Fujianese," a search on Wikipedia shows it specifically refers to the Quanzhou and Zhangzhou regions of Fujian province. Among the Chinese communities in Singapore, there are five major dialect groups: Hokkien, Hakka, Hainanese, Cantonese, and Teochew.
      
Huang li seems to be more familiar to many people because the pineapple trade and cultivation were predominantly undertaken by Hokkien people. One notable Hokkien individual is Tan Kah Kee, who built many schools and hospitals in China. He initially made his fortune in Singapore by growing pineapples and later moved into rubber cultivation. Historical records show that the pineapple industry—from plantations to factories and street vendors—was largely dominated by the Hokkien community. The Cantonese, on the other hand, were more focused on the rubber trade, while Teochew vendors often sold pineapples carrying baskets, and Cantonese vendors tended to use pushcarts.
        
While pineapple rental doesn’t seem to have been a group phenomenon, the history of huang li in Singapore reveals how it became a primary means of livelihood and economic sustenance for the Chinese in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Pineapples also served as a cultural and economic bond, connecting people of the same dialect group.
         
This brings us to the plantation system and another crop that coexisted with pineapples in early 20th-century Singapore: rubber. Rubber was a highly lucrative cash crop in the early 1900s, especially during the rubber boom of 1910, when Singapore rapidly established large rubber plantations. Rubber became a key colonial crop for the British, cultivated in extensive plantations.
        
Criticisms of rubber plantations often focus on their exploitation of land and labor. In contrast, pineapple plantations seemed to escape similar critique. The British engaged in the pineapple trade but refrained from large-scale pineapple cultivation, as it was less profitable than rubber. Pineapple plantations were thus taken up by the Chinese, who lacked the vast capital required for rubber plantations.
       
From my perspective, the operational model of pineapple plantations in early 20th-century Singapore differed significantly from the imperial plantations typically associated with colonial exploitation. This is not to downplay the importance of reflecting on the exploitation of land and labor in plantation history, but rather to suggest that the history of plantations invites alternative discussions. For example, pineapple plantations in Singapore were closely tied to the formation of identity bonds among Chinese dialect groups.
        
When immigrants arrive in a foreign land, forming social and economic connections is essential for integrating into society. The history of pineapple plantations in Singapore provides a supplementary perspective—less connected to Spain but nonetheless a unique structure relevant to discussions about plants, colonialism, and memory.
        
Speaking of memory, another interesting piece of historical material involves the Bugis people. Around the 1850s, the Bugis—a group from Indonesia—came to Singapore and engaged in pineapple cultivation. Known as Bugis Chinese or Ethnic Chinese, they would collect pineapple seedlings. A pineapple plant has several parts suitable for propagation. The crown (the top of the pineapple) is often used today for water propagation, where it is placed in water until roots grow before being planted. Beneath the crown are slips and suckers, found on the sides and base of the pineapple stem. Even the roots themselves have buds.
       
When the Bugis and Chinese cultivated pineapples, they selected different parts of the plant for propagation, which led to variations in covering methods, planting density, and fertilization techniques. This highlights that human interactions with plants are not static; these subtle differences are closely tied to the diversity of human communities and their practices.

       

Lin Haodong: Whether it’s plantations or memory, I think in the context of artistic creation, different countries’ artists approach plants in very diverse ways. For instance, the Filipino artist Hang Ping mentioned earlier uses paper cutting, while the Mexican artist uses chocolate as a material. How artistic creation relates to local materials is, in a sense, a response to technology. With this in mind, I’d like to invite Hang Ping to introduce some of his own artistic practices, which I think could serve as a valuable reference.

      

Hang Ping: I’d like to build on the discussion between Jiang Yao and Zheming. At South Plant Salesroom, when we write for our zines, one of the first things we discuss is perception: how we perceive plants and what this technology reflects. This process can involve naming, such as the terminology Jiang Yao mentioned about pineapples, or visual archives that show what the imagery looked like at the time. However, these archives are secondary materials. In contrast, Zheming’s experience working directly with Mexican gardeners to maintain gardens provides firsthand insight. It makes me wonder: how does this connect to history?
      
The other day, I was telling Jiang Yao about a podcast I listened to by Lu Yu. The theme was interviewing as a form of deception, which I found quite accurate. Images and archives often possess a journalistic quality—they’ve been edited or manipulated. For example, when someone commissions a portrait, they’ll often request to be painted more attractively. This isn’t an absolute reflection of reality.
      
Whether in our perception or in retrospection, we’re always attempting to approximate the truth, but we’ll never fully grasp what happened in the moment. For me, the task of history and art isn’t to trace origins—that’s more the domain of linguists, archaeologists, or biologists, who directly pinpoint facts about where something came from. Our work focuses on how history has been altered and how we can push these narratives toward greater richness and complexity, avoiding overly simplistic interpretations.
      
Recently, I’ve been reflecting on my own work and feel that beginning with the biological aspects of a subject can lead to a more open perspective. For example, while working on The Wandering History of Pineapples, I came across an intriguing yet unverified theory. It suggested that the mass slaughter of indigenous peoples in the Americas by colonizers triggered a “Little Ice Age” through a butterfly effect, leading to agricultural collapse and, eventually, the fall of the Ming Dynasty.
      
I’m not interested in proving or disproving such causal relationships, but rather in the balance between the environment and biological systems. Someone earlier mentioned squirrels. Recently, we visited Yunnan and observed farmers growing corn. I vividly remember one farmer discussing how field rats or squirrels could wreak havoc on cornfields, sometimes leading to massive crop failures.
      
Someone might argue that squirrels are small and can’t eat much, but if you replace them with field rats or locusts, the impact on humans could be catastrophic. Humanity’s response to these threats often involves adapting technologies, such as improving farming techniques or developing tools tailored to specific environmental conditions.
       
For instance, a gardening tool originally made of wood might need to be replaced with iron because wood doesn’t last as long. This shift toward a biological perspective expands the scope of discussion. It’s not just about the conflict between Mexicans and Spaniards. What defines a Mexican or a Spaniard? Should new Spanish immigrants bear responsibility for colonial-era injustices?
         
If we examine the biological impact of squirrels, rats, or locusts on humans as a species, can we similarly explore how indigenous peoples were perceived as a threat by Spaniards? This moves the discussion beyond cultural constructions.
           
The common narrative emphasizes massacres and uses imagery to reflect on these events, which often leads to specialized, academic discussions. However, when you broaden the lens to consider environmental connections, historical understanding also expands.
        
This is the framework through which I approach my own artistic practice, which is deeply intertwined with Plant South Salesroom's work. Much of it has emerged through collaborations with Jiang Yao and other members, sparking insights along the way.
 

This piece is titled Belong to the Land and is composed of a model train set belonging to Thomas and His Friends, bricks from a nearby construction site, a flag, and a pipe reel from farmland. The pipe reel is used to facilitate the movement of long irrigation pipes in farmland by allowing them to be placed through the reel's loop for easier handling.

 

It is a visual collage that incorporates archival elements, such as symbols from tunnel engineering. Since the exhibition was originally planned to take place in Jiangxi, we referenced the route from Zhejiang to Jiangxi and designed the piece with a sense of linearity and imagery. Although the exhibition ultimately didn’t come to fruition, the piece was completed with this route-inspired design in mind.     

            
The next piece relates to the construction of tunnels for high-speed rail or highways. When tunneling through mountains, U-shaped or ecological slope reinforcements are often placed nearby, surrounded by concrete, resembling a small garden where grass is planted.
             
The lower section of the piece features a casting mold for slope reinforcement, while the upper section includes rush grass that I brought back from Jiangxi and Fuzhou. At the base, there is an LED light strip, and an audio recording is played on-site.

      

The Weather at the Time Exhibition View, 2023; Yang Hangping; Photography: Wang Jiajun; Schein Space

    

Taro Zheming: It’s more about cultural differences. The understanding of concepts like "environment" and "nature," or the corresponding English terms landscape and nature, is based on two completely different worldviews. In the Chinese worldview, traditional gardening has its own comprehensive knowledge system, while the traditional Mexican worldview represents another distinct system. When these two systems collide, you can’t simply use one to explain the other. Instead, you must try to understand the other culture through the friction and disharmony that arise from these differences.
           
For example, Mexican gardeners often clean the moss off steps or stones, as they see it as dirty and unnatural. To them, a natural stone should simply be a stone. In contrast, Chinese gardeners value the moss, seeing it as beautiful and natural. They might even intentionally grow moss during spring by watering the stones with rice water. To the Chinese, moss thriving on a stone represents the most natural state of that stone in its environment. This highlights a fundamental difference in the understanding of "nature"—whether it’s seen as something "natural and spontaneous" or governed by the Daoist philosophy of ziran (naturalness).
             
Another example involves trees. A particular branch shape might seem unsightly to a Mexican gardener, prompting them to prune it, while a Chinese gardener might find the shape interesting and insist on preserving it. This difference arises from contrasting cultural perceptions and aesthetic preferences.
            
There are many such differences. A particularly intriguing example is that the Chinese garden I work at employs an American bonsai enthusiast with a Lingnan (southern Chinese) bonsai background. He cultivates bonsai using local Californian plant species. However, his understanding of these plants’ biological characteristics, growth habits, and rates isn’t as thorough as that of the Mexican gardeners. When making bonsai with Californian plants, he relies on the Mexican gardeners’ practical experience and knowledge about the plants. These are then transformed into traditional Chinese bonsai styles, even incorporating the Lingnan aesthetic. Essentially, it’s about integrating one knowledge system into another.
         
Another noticeable difference is that Mexican gardeners often use leaf blowers to clean up fallen leaves completely, but from a different perspective, leaving fallen leaves under trees can have certain ecological benefits. Different management practices and understandings can lead to conflicts. For instance, nursery protocols in the U.S. often require fallen leaves to be cleaned thoroughly to prevent fire hazards, something that many gardeners from Asia find hard to grasp.
         
In the Japanese dry garden (karesansui) at the institution where I work, everything is meticulously cleaned. However, the gardeners maintaining the adjacent moss garden might sweep up the leaves only to casually toss a few back on the moss, creating an intentionally imperfect aesthetic. It feels a bit contrived, but it reflects how cultural preferences vary under different cultural contexts.
           
Hang Ping: So, how’s the moss in your garden now?

Taro Zheming: It’s all been removed. After it was cleared, people started asking, "Why did you scrape it all away?"
        
Jiang Yao: That sounds like something a museum would do—like maintaining an exhibition space.
           
Taro Zheming: Exactly. For instance, in Chinese gardens, when Taihu rocks are arranged in a well or other feature, the rocks are meant to look as though they naturally rise from the ground. If you clean off all the moss and fallen leaves around the base and expose the concrete foundation beneath, it completely ruins the aesthetic.
          
In contrast, a Mexican garden might prioritize tidying up the space, focusing on keeping everything visibly clean.

      

             

Taro Zheming: The second image I shared is from the Kangxi Emperor’s Southern Inspection Tour, specifically Scroll VII in the Wuxi section. On the left, you see the familiar weeping willow form. However, on the right, there’s a cluster of short, densely grown trees, which are also willows but have been pollarded.
        
A key feature of pollarding is that it encourages the ends of the branches to sprout numerous dense shoots. For mulberry trees, this pruning is done to harvest leaves for silkworms, while willow trees are pruned to collect branches for making furniture, fences, or agricultural tools. If the interval between prunings is longer—say, five years—the branches grow thick enough to be used as hammer handles.
        
This method is highly practical. It’s only later that people assigned an additional layer of aesthetic value to it, transforming it into an artistic symbol. However, the aesthetic trends associated with this symbol often shift depending on the political, economic, and technological contexts of the society.

          

Taro Zheming: To conclude, let me show you a photo of pollarded trees along the riverbanks in Hangzhou from the early 20th century. When I first encountered pollarding in ancient Chinese paintings, I wasn’t sure if it was a stylistic choice by the artist or something that existed in reality. It was only after consulting historical Chinese agricultural and administrative texts, as well as old photographs like this one, that I confirmed it was indeed a traditional pruning method used in China for centuries.
          
Over time, later generations added aesthetic interpretations to this pruning style, transforming it into a symbol of beauty in art. However, it was originally a very practical technique.
        
I became interested in the shapes created by pruning, especially in fruit trees. For example, in France and Italy, fruit trees are often pruned into flat shapes to increase fruiting efficiency. While this practice is highly functional, it also inadvertently turns something practical into something visually appealing—an example of the ingenuity of farmers.
        
What I eventually realized is that much of this traditional knowledge is now viewed through a purely visual lens by contemporary designers. It’s judged based on whether it looks good or fits a particular style, but this often overlooks its practical origins and its ties to agriculture and forestry. These practical attributes were the real reasons for the shapes, rather than purely aesthetic considerations.

           

Jiang Yao: When Hang Ping shared his projects, he mentioned focusing more on the biological significance of things. Similarly, Zheming just spoke about observing the intrinsic states of horticultural plants themselves. This approach seems to make it easier for us to break away from subconsciously entering constructed symbolic contexts.
        
When you mentioned pollarding, it reminded me of when we worked on citrus. We came across various pruning shapes, including one called the "heart shape." It’s named for its resemblance to a heart and is somewhat tower-like. This shape ensures sunlight reaches all parts of the plant, including the innermost areas, not just the outer layer, which improves both the fruiting rate and ripening uniformity of the entire tree.
       
Taro Zheming: When I was researching fruit trees and designing orchards, I often wondered why the spacing between fruit trees was so wide if the goal was to maximize yield. Why not plant them closer together? Initially, I thought it was to prevent competition between trees for water and nutrients. But later, I discovered that the spacing was determined by the tools used for orchard management.
      
For example, the size of small trucks or carts used by workers dictates the spacing between trees. It’s a highly practical consideration. In fact, tree spacing has been increasing because modern automated harvesting trucks are larger, necessitating wider gaps between trees.
       
As designers, we might try to come up with a complex, theoretical explanation, but once you’ve been involved in the actual process, you realize it’s a perfectly logical and straightforward decision. Only by engaging in the physical task can you understand its rationale. Without that embodied experience, any description or interpretation risks being an outsider’s perspective.
    
Jiang Yao: I remember when people talk about history, they often emphasize that it’s not a complete picture of the past—it’s what has been recorded by certain people. We often say that to understand history, you have to place it in its spatial and temporal context and imagine what things were like at that time.
       
The orchard example reminds me of a pineapple farmer I know in Xishuangbanna who practices ecological farming. He said the planting density for pineapples is usually quite high in industrial farming, with yields of 3,000 to 4,000 kilograms per mu (about 0.067 hectares). This is based on a double-row planting technique introduced in the 1980s. However, he can’t adopt this large-scale industrial method because he removes weeds manually. His planting spacing has to be wide enough for him to navigate the rows wearing a backpack-style weed trimmer.
        
This highlights the importance of embodied experience in practical tasks—it’s a way to engage with the present reality. In contrast, when it comes to history, we can’t always revisit or physically experience the past. Instead, history becomes a process of revisiting a site or entering a particular time and space.
       
Another thing I find fascinating is the skepticism many people maintain toward existing narratives or written histories. They don’t necessarily see them as complete or definitive. In the podcast about interviewing that I mentioned earlier, there was a point about how interviewees often deliver responses that have been rehearsed—they’re accustomed to presenting their stories in a certain way, and what they say may not even be entirely true.
      
So, what is "truth"? Perhaps there is no absolute truth. All we can do is continuously approach it by piecing together fragments and perspectives to construct a more accurate picture.
        
Taro Zheming: I think studying history is incredibly challenging. It demands a profound level of knowledge and involves a relentless process of questioning and self-reflection, which can be quite painful. That’s why I chose to focus on historiography instead—the study of how history itself is written.
         
This approach examines the context and background in which historical narratives were crafted, deconstructing the perspectives and cultural systems of the time. For me, this is somewhat easier and far more engaging—analyzing the frameworks and cultural milieus that shaped how history was written back then.

        

Audience Question: What is the relationship or mutual influence between Chinese gardens (both their development in China and their replicas overseas) and colonialism?

Taro Zheming: Actually, there isn’t much of a direct connection. When we talk about overseas replicas of Chinese gardens, it’s important to distinguish between two periods: the chinoiserie gardens of the 18th century and the classical Chinese gardens built overseas in more recent decades.
        
The chinoiserie gardens in 18th-century Britain were somewhat influenced by colonialism, but in most cases, the people designing them had never been to China. Their imagination of China was based on descriptions from a few missionaries or imagery on porcelain. These gardens were purely fantasies of the Orient, constructed through Western interpretations of Chinese aesthetics.
         
The overseas classical Chinese gardens we see today emerged in the late 1970s and 1980s, and these have no colonial connection. Their purpose was rooted in diplomacy. For instance, after the normalization of U.S.-China relations, two major cultural exchanges were initiated: China gifted giant pandas to the United States, and a replica of a Suzhou-style classical garden was built in New York. Chinese gardens became a cultural export.
          
The garden where I currently work in California was designed by a Suzhou garden company specifically for the local Chinese-American community. While the garden itself is deeply influenced by Californian aesthetics and usage, it serves as a space for local Chinese people, making it a product of transnational and cross-cultural fusion. In this context, the Chinese gardens built overseas after the 1980s have little to do with colonialism.
         
Hang Ping: Since you mentioned cultural diplomacy, I recall a discussion we had with Jiang Yao and a German garden caretaker during an online Sino-German forum. They mentioned that funding for maintaining classical gardens has been decreasing, making this kind of diplomacy feel less viable over time.
         
I also read an article about Black Myth: Wukong, a video game that transforms traditional Chinese architecture into an interactive experience. The game has sparked interest among players to visit real-world locations featured in the game. I wonder if this could be a new form of cultural diplomacy. What are your thoughts, Zheming?
      
Taro Zheming: The first overseas Chinese garden was built at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Because it was created in a museum context, it was expected to have "authenticity," so the garden was essentially a copy-paste project. A courtyard was directly transplanted from Suzhou to the museum, emphasizing the cultural attributes of Suzhou gardens as a pinnacle of Chinese literati thought. However, the non-human elements of the garden, such as its living plants, were neglected. The walls remained perpetually pristine, and many of the plants couldn’t survive indoors, resulting in the use of plastic plants.
          
This focus on "authenticity" renders the garden lifeless in the eyes of many garden scholars. German gardens face similar issues—they lack user groups or communities that truly love and maintain them.
         
In contrast, the garden I’m involved with in California, Liu Fang Yuan (the Garden of Flowing Fragrance), is entirely different. It was designed for the local Chinese-American community, which has invested heavily in its growth and maintenance. The garden began construction in the early 2000s, with its third phase recently completed, making it the largest Chinese garden outside China. Plans for a fourth phase are already underway. This success is rooted in the strong support of the Chinese-American community, which continues to donate substantial amounts to the garden’s development.
         
Hang Ping: Speaking of cultural diplomacy, how do you see the connection between Chinese gardens and their current users, particularly in the U.S. context? For instance, in Germany, gardens seem to be more about appreciating Oriental or classical culture. Has this changed in your experience with Liu Fang Yuan?
       
Taro Zheming: The garden is primarily for viewing, but it also serves as a cultural center. Chinese parents often bring their children here to grow up immersed in what they consider traditional Chinese culture. They also invite American friends to experience Chinese culture in the garden.
       
One significant difference between German and American gardens is funding. Maintaining a Chinese garden is extremely costly. In Germany, there isn’t sufficient funding or a dedicated community to support the upkeep. In contrast, the Chinese-American community here is incredibly passionate, donating generously to sustain and expand the garden.
         
Hang Ping: Why do you think Chinese-Americans have such strong cohesion?
       
Taro Zheming: My guess is that many Chinese immigrants to the U.S. came from families with substantial social and financial capital. Many were highly educated or came from banking and business backgrounds in cities like Hong Kong and Shanghai. Their integration into upper-class society allowed them to wield significant social influence, fostering a sense of community.
         
For instance, the first Chinese garden in the U.S. at the Met was supported in part by influential figures like I.M. Pei. This contrasts with the stereotype of Chinese immigrants as impoverished laborers, highlighting a different narrative of Chinese-American history.

Jiang Yao: I think Singapore is somewhat similar to what you’re describing, but perhaps not with the elite intellectual groups like those sent abroad by the Qing government. For instance, when we talk about Singapore’s pineapple industry, there were some major figures. Take Tan Kah Kee, for example—he was one of the giants. His father was the first to come to Singapore for business, and Tan himself arrived at the age of 16.
       
Initially, his father ran a rice shop, but it wasn’t very successful, so he handed it over to Tan to manage. Tan later shifted to the canned pineapple industry and accumulated capital during the 1880s. By the early 20th century, when Britain established rubber plantations for export in Singapore, Tan had enough wealth to enter the rubber industry. Although he diversified into other ventures later on, pineapples and rubber were his two primary businesses, forming the basis of his capital.
       
Other significant figures included Lim Nee Soon and Lee Kong Chian, who were also giants in the pineapple and rubber industries. In Singapore, you can still see many buildings donated by Lee Kong Chian. His companies, Lee Pineapple and Lee Rubber, remain prominent family businesses in Singapore.
        
One interesting thing is that some memoirs from their contemporaries describe connections within these business networks. One memoir mentioned that the author’s father was a cousin of Lee Kong Chian. The father came to Singapore as a teenager and started working in one of Lee’s rubber plantations. Gradually, he began his small-scale ventures, acquired resources, and eventually leased land for pineapple and rubber cultivation, eventually transitioning to other businesses.
       
This illustrates how, in Singapore, these networks weren’t merely family-based—they were more like clan-based or community-based connections. People could initially anchor themselves within a shared industry and, once stable, pursue their own entrepreneurial ventures.
          
This is why I feel Singapore’s plantations differ from the typical colonial narrative of plantations. While labor exploitation existed, there was also a cycle of opportunity and mobility. In a foreign land, such community cohesion felt like a source of solidarity.
        
Singapore also built a Chinese garden as early as the 1950s, predating the overseas Chinese gardens of the 1980s mentioned by Zheming. This garden wasn’t constructed by mainland China but was instead designed by a Taiwanese architect. Later, in the 1990s, when Suzhou and Singapore became sister cities, a Suzhou-based garden company donated a bonsai garden to the existing Chinese garden. It was recently renovated and reopened during the Mid-Autumn Festival, attracting many Singaporean Chinese. This kind of collectivity, as Zheming mentioned, seems to be mirrored in Singapore.
          
Taro Zheming: I believe some of Lee Kong Chian’s descendants have donated gardens here in the U.S. I stumbled upon his name while researching—he stayed in the U.S. for some time during the war, and his children continued their education here. His granddaughter or great-granddaughter eventually settled in California after getting married.
         
Jiang Yao: If we were to forcefully categorize the development of pineapple plantations in Singapore, Lee Kong Chian came later, with larger-scale operations than Tan Kah Kee. By that time, Tan had already divested from plantations. This might be why Lee Pineapple is more enduring and well-known. However, they recently shut down their last pineapple production line due to difficulties sourcing high-quality pineapples.
          
When chatting with friends, many mentioned that they grew up drinking Lee Pineapple juice. So, within Singapore’s context, Lee Kong Chian holds a significant place.
          
Hang Ping: Listening to your accounts of gardens in the U.S. and Singapore, it strikes me that both places are immigrant societies. This contrasts sharply with the context in Germany, where integration seems more challenging. When discussing cross-cultural dynamics, I wondered if collaborations like a Chinese and a Mexican gardener working on a garden in the U.S. could open up dialogue about integration. However, in Europe, such discussions seem far less common.

Jiang Yao: What Zheming described feels more like a process of collision and regeneration within a shared space. In a previous forum, an elderly gentleman shared challenges in maintaining Chinese gardens.
      
In the 1980s, China gifted a garden called "Qian Garden" to Ruhr University in Germany. Maintenance has been an ongoing issue. The gentleman, a German with a passion for horticulture, lamented his lack of knowledge about traditional Chinese pruning techniques and wished for guidance from a Chinese master gardener.
        
In this context, issues like maintenance and authenticity come to the fore. It seems that, at least in the case of Qian Garden, there isn’t a local Chinese community to engage with or support it.
         
Taro Zheming: In California, authenticity isn’t a concern. As long as it looks good and serves its purpose, people are satisfied. There isn’t the same level of scrutiny about historical accuracy that a historian or art historian might bring.
     
Jiang Yao: I recall seeing materials on Liu Fang Yuan, highlighting technical innovations during its construction. For example, instead of traditional wooden structures, they used steel frames to ensure durability.
        
Taro Zheming: Yes, due to California’s earthquake regulations, wooden structures couldn’t be approved. These gardens are steel-framed but clad in wooden veneers to maintain the traditional appearance.
        
Hang Ping: Hearing about gardens in the U.S. and Singapore, I feel that ordinary Chinese people don’t have much of a connection to these spaces or a strong sense of belonging.
      
Jiang Yao: That’s true for the Chinese-American community. Liu Fang Yuan, situated in California, belongs to the American West Coast, where the cultural context differs from the East Coast.
         
Taro Zheming: There’s also a distinction between southern and northern gardens, much like the difference between gardens in southern and northern China.

Lin Haodong: This reminds me of a fascinating garden in Shanghai’s Yangpu District, located in a tuberculosis hospital. Its usage rate is surprisingly high, with many patients strolling there.

Taro Zheming: Speaking of usage, the gardens in old Chinese steel factories probably had the highest foot traffic. Many factories included classical-style gardens for workers to relax during lunch breaks or after shifts.

Jiang Yao: Returning to Liu Fang Yuan, I wonder if it functions more as a park. By contrast, the Met’s Chinese garden is an exhibit rather than a park.

Taro Zheming: Liu Fang Yuan serves as both a park and a cultural venue. For instance, last week, it hosted a lecture on traditional Chinese medicine, drawing a mix of Chinese and American attendees. Interestingly, the local Chinese community here seems even more committed to traditional practices like Chinese medicine compared to those in China.

Hang Ping: That reminds me of the experiential nature of Chinese medicine. In our fieldwork, we found that local doctors tailor treatments to their patients’ environments and habits. This approach feels distinct from modern medical systems and requires a long-term relationship between doctor and patient.

Taro Zheming: Traditional Chinese medicine education has shifted toward a Westernized framework, which may contribute to skepticism. However, Chinese medicine’s essence lies in its personalized approach, which modern standardized training struggles to replicate.

Hang Ping: It seems like a broader trend—seeking scientific validation for traditionally intuitive practices, whether in medicine, history, or literature.

Taro Zheming: That’s true, though cross-disciplinary studies face challenges in quantifying or comparing knowledge systems with different worldviews.

Hang Ping: Well, let’s wrap up here for today. 

       

          

「 Taro Cai Zheming」
PhD candidate in Landscape Architecture at the University of Toronto, Canada, and section editor for Landscape Architecture Frontiers. Currently studying in the Faculty of Architecture, Landscape, and Design at the University of Toronto, his research focuses on historical theory, with particular emphasis on the history of knowledge, landscape infrastructure, cultural landscapes, and critical heritage studies.
            
「 Plant South Salesroom」
Established in 2021, Zhinan Men’s Department is a plant culture research and creative action team. It aims to reimagine contemporary (urban) everyday life through a plant-centric perspective by researching plant culture and organizing creative plant-related activities. Employing cross-scale and multimedia approaches, the team seeks to reshape the connections between commerce, culture, and nature.

 

本次圆桌分享从Rubén Montesinos的视觉研究项目《园艺指南》出发，探讨植物流动性与殖民历史的复杂关系。Rubén的项目通过研究特征、形式、物种等要素揭示园艺在城市景观中的变动性，展现其作为社会文化表达工具的作用。

        

圆桌讨论内容涵盖墨西哥城的园艺实践与殖民联系，菠萝等作物的全球迁徙对经济和文化的影响，以及艺术家Minerva Cuevas和Ryan Villamael如何在展览中反思植物与殖民的关系。讨论还聚焦美洲、东南亚和中国的植物流动和文化交融，尤其关注华人社群在东南亚菠萝种植园形成的独特社会关系。

     

此外，讨论将结合Gilles Clément的《The Garden in Motion》，通过中国的生产性景观案例，进一步探索植物的时间性与流动性，展现园艺在多元历史背景下的深远影响。

 

       

 

 

林浩东：欢迎大家来到我们的圆桌，我是龟力空间的负责人林浩东。非常高兴这次能邀请到植南门市部的杭平跟江垚，还有在加拿大的哲铭来参加我们的圆桌会议。这次圆桌内容是以我们展览的背景出发的，开始讨论前我先给大家介绍一下展览的背景。本次展览是一个关于墨西哥园艺的项目，由西班牙艺术家Rubén Montesionos拍摄。他拍摄的内容是墨西哥城街道上各种奇形怪状的灌木。此项目想要通过这些灌木为出发点去研究灌木本身以及墨西哥城有关阶级方面的内容，基于这些原因我们邀请到了植南门市部跟哲铭来参加我们的圆桌。在这里我先给大家分享一张图片作为开始的起点。

 

这张图片是我在做海报时偶然发现的。图片展示了路易十五儿子的一个婚礼，是一场假面主题的舞会，你可以理解为当时的一场cosplay。他们cosplay成各种奇形怪状的东西，仔细看会发现里面有人会穿着中国人、土耳其人的装扮，甚至打扮成灌木的形状。这种装扮跟此次的展览之间是有一定联系的，像有观众之前问说为什么要把那些灌木塑造成小猫小狗的形状，所以这张图片非常适合作为今天的圆桌的一个起点。

 

下面有请哲铭来聊聊关于墨西哥城园艺的一个具体情况。

 

Taro哲铭：刚才提到修剪成奇形怪状的修剪方式，其实最早在罗马时期出现，但大概16世纪以后重新在欧洲复兴起来，并且越演越烈。一开始可能只是修剪成金字塔形或球形，但最后变成了特别浮夸的修剪成螺旋形或者是各种奇形怪状的动物，甚至是人的造型。电影《剪刀手爱德华》里面有一幕是爱德华的剪刀手特别擅长修剪造型，跟剪头发差不多。这种修剪在当时的欧洲特别流行，在欧洲国家之间几乎成为一种竞争的状态，后来从法国传到了荷兰，最后又到了英国，成为了大国之间在文化上面互相竞争的文化现象，各个国家之间发展成不同的风格。我对《A Guide On Gardening》这本书感兴趣的点在于我的背景来自于景观设计与园林史，所以我也会经常去在街上拍一些这样的照片。我觉得这本书非常有意思的是，这是一个西班牙的摄影师，在墨西哥发现了这种修剪得非常欧洲的灌木。在后殖民时代，一个西班牙的摄影师重新去探索了这种殖民视角下诞生的一个城市现象。墨西哥之所以会出现这种欧洲的园艺风格的其中一个原因是，16世纪之后西班牙对于墨西哥的殖民。直到独立前的整个殖民时期，墨西哥在园艺、城市规划、还有建筑上面都很大程度地受到了西班牙的影响。如果大家有机会去墨西哥城旅游的话，会发现很多非常典型的欧洲风格花园，花园周围是修剪得很整齐的绿篱。如果是个四方形的广场的话，它可能四个角上会有修剪得比较奇形怪状的灌木作为一个锚点去固定那个角。

 

修剪园艺其实就跟平常修剪头发一样，需要经常修剪来保持造型，导致你要花很多的钱和时间去维持这个动物的形状。你剪了一个小猫，长时间不修剪的话，小猫就变形，看不出来是小猫。能够修剪的越多，也证明这一家人越有钱，在一定程度上也变成了大家炫耀自己经济地位或者社会地位的一种途径，算是一种变相的、低调的，炫耀自己有钱的方式。

 

 

  

 

林浩东：跟Rubén采访的过程中，你刚才前面提到的两点其实他也都提到过。通过在墨西哥城的各个街道游荡并进行拍摄，他发现，在有钱的一些街区，修剪频率会更加频繁一些，他的观察是大概两三个月要修剪一次，有钱人街区的灌木会更加整齐，（经济）稍微普通一些的街区，修剪就不会那么频繁。像哲铭提到的墨西哥城所受到的园艺风格影响，Rubén在拍这个项目时，也对此产生了一个问题，他会疑惑说，墨西哥城的这种园艺修剪风格是西班牙的殖民者来之前就有，还是来之后才有的。实际上我们在聊灌木的时候也不仅仅只在聊灌木，我们也会聊到植物，所以想请植南门市部给我们聊聊，在这种全球史视角下的植物和殖民，它们之间的一个联系或者或者一些别的相关内容。

 

江垚: 首先想跟大家分享植南门市部的一个长期研究项目，叫《菠萝流浪史》，之前也出过一个小册子。在后殖民的一个时期下面，会有西班牙的摄影师去到墨西哥，从摄影或者从游荡的这样一种城市观察视角去进行一种理解。包括像浩东提到的Rubén抛出来的那个问题：像这样的一个修剪，或者所谓的欧洲风格，是之前还是之后有的。在现在整个人文的大领域里面，不管是全球史的书写，还是西方对于殖民的反思，或者说殖民的批判也好，人们会去讨论动物或者植物，例如蘑菇，大家可能也知道前几年非常火的罗安清（Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing）的《末日松茸》（《末日松茸：资本主义废墟上的生活可能》），会讨论很多其他的，除了人之外的一个对象。

 

在这个里面会有一个小小的背景，差不多就是刚刚哲铭说到的在十六、十七世纪左右，全球物质大交换的一个时期，不只是人从一个大洲迁到另外一个大洲，人们会说至少我要带着我的种子、作物、动物；甚至是一些疾病或病毒等，它可能会随着人进行迁移。在原来的书写里面，或者说在上个世纪的书写里面，是以人类为中心的视角——是我，人，把它从远方带到了这里。物品作为人的一个附属，从这里移动到另外一个地点。然而在过去这几十年的语境里面，至少我个人的观感是整个西方反思里，人们会开始思考：如果换一个视角去看这件事情，认为不光是人把物带来带去；而反过来说，各种非人的对象，在跟着人的移动里面，会不会也会有一些自发的影响行为。

 

像哲铭讲到的修剪，除了去看这户人家是不是更有钱之外，其实反过来是不是也可以理解为因为你要维持它的造型，所以你反过来被这个植物驯化了。我们经常说人驯服植物，或者说人对植物进行了一种控制，但是反过来是植物也在驯化人，它要求你不断地去做这种修剪，而且你可能要有相对的修剪记忆。其实我们更感兴趣的是，不止说是人去发明创造东西，除了在人作为主体的发明和创造之外，修剪成型的灌木也让人去跟着它做一些适应。在很多全球史的书写里，当聊植物这个对象，大家会思考，把这个植物从一个地方移到另一个地方，气候环境产生变化之后，那与其相关的一些耕作方式，或者说种植维护的方式，会不会有相应的调整？或者说完全是一个创新，逼迫一些新的可能性出现？

 

我们之前做的关于菠萝的项目，目前全球植物学家认为的它唯一的原产地是南美的北部大部分地区。其他的地方其实都是在后期，它到了那个生长环境之后，留下，慢慢成为当地的作物。比如说，在很多新加坡的文字书写里，会认为菠萝是新加坡遍地都是、很常见的一种街头水果、一个对象，但实际上新加坡人不会说它是土产物。它是十五、十六世纪到的新加坡，然后这里的环境更适合它生长，它在这个环境里更自如，我们几百年后再去看它，它就会变成一种习惯的存在，好像就是一个土产了。因为人，很难可以活到300、400岁，在这样一个时间维度下面，你会觉得说，它就是一个在这里的东西。那如果我们真的往历史去追溯，你会发现它其实是被介绍到这里来的。

 

1495年哥伦布第二次大航海的时候，他到达南美跟北美相接的小岛群落，发现了菠萝这样一种水果，或者说果实，他对此感到新奇。菠萝非常高甜，在那个时候，欧洲还不完全掌握熟练制糖的技艺，但欧洲人很嗜甜，所以菠萝就会变成一个比较理想的带回去的所谓的“战利品”。据说，哥伦布把菠萝从南美带回西班牙，献给了西班牙国王，国王吃完后赞不绝口。但是那个时候还没有蒸汽船，蒸汽船大概是到了18世纪初期才有，所以那个时候的一次航海其实可能是要经过大几个月，大概三、四十天。像菠萝这样的一个高甜的水果，并不耐放，所以说法还有待考证。但目前也有的写法上面会提到哥伦布当时可能带了三、四个菠萝，回到的时候，其他都烂掉了，还剩一个好的，他就把那个好的献给了西班牙国王。

 

当时欧洲的自然环境下没法种出菠萝，他们可以把菠萝种下去，但是菠萝不会结果，不会有大的果实，所以很难在欧洲本土或者欧洲的领域范围之内吃到菠萝。物以稀为贵，慢慢地，在十六、十七、十八世纪，菠萝就成为了一个身份地位的象征。如果你每天可以吃到菠萝，那代表你非常富有。菠萝成为了一个炫耀的资本。甚至有记载，到了十九世纪初期的英国，中产阶级的家庭要请客吃饭或办酒食时，他们可能会花当时的一块钱去租一个菠萝，把它放在大转盘正中间，作为一种好客以及对这顿饭的重视的象征。这顿饭吃完这个菠萝就被还回去了，他们不会买下来，因为他们也舍不得吃。所以当时其实是有这种所谓的菠萝租赁服务。也有记载说，一个菠萝被购买吃掉之前，可能会经历两到三次租赁服务。

 

这种小的细节，或者说有点像历史里面小的趣味也好，八卦也好，园艺修剪这样的一件事情，还是说是菠萝这样非常具体的一个对象，仿佛给现在去反思这段殖民时间的历史，提供了不太一样的思路。我们再去讲全球史时，它到底是一个怎么样的全球史？在这样的一个大的语境里面的各种的词汇和语料，这些非人的对象可能会帮助我们去发掘到一些新的可能，发现我们原来从一个人为主体的对象里面去书写、去理解的时候，所容易忽略掉的，认为理所当然的一些事情吧。

 

（荷兰、西班牙和葡萄牙于16到17世纪间的全球菠萝传播图示，江垚根据食物人类学家 Kaori O_Connor 的考据成果，结合一、二手资料整理绘制）

林浩东：对。其实像江垚刚才提到的，我觉得非常核心的一点就是关于大家观看的视角这么一个问题。像Rubén的这个项目，如果你单纯的来看的话，你可以把它理解为殖民意义下，一个西班牙人回到墨西哥城的这么一个视角。但是如果我们单纯从他作品的角度来讲的话，项目的核心主体是图像中心的灌木，但实际上我会留意到灌木背后的一些环境。比方说，后面的一些建筑物，成为了这个项目的附加信息。灌木背后的背景反而是我觉得他这个项目真正比较有意义，或者更能够触动到我的地方，我会观察它背后的一些场景，比方说墙面上的一些缝隙被植物撑开，一些破碎的镜子，它们能够从中反映出一些更加具体的墨西哥城的本身。其实像杭平平时也会做很多的艺术实践，能不能请杭平给我们介绍一下更多关于以植物为背景或者以植物为主体的展览或创作，让我们有一种更好的视角去观看。

 

杭平：我对于这个项目的第一反应除了你刚刚关注的像背景的部分，拍下的那些内容以及像哲铭说到的园艺修剪的部分，我其实也关注这个项目作为一个摄影项目的本身，在进行了拍摄展览这个动作之后，呈现出来的会有什么样不一样的反应。哲铭跟江垚在聊的时候，我稍微捕捉到一个信息。他说那些园艺被修剪成小猫小狗的样子，变成一个财富的符号。我们在做《菠萝流浪史》的时候，发现它原来可以被租赁，它已经变成一个日常生活中的存在，发展到很民用的阶段。在民用阶段，普遍的社会共识又构建出这样一种财富符号或象征。这个动作其实有个特性：它都剥离了原有的自然属性。比如说，你在园林进行修剪的时候，要把它变成一个不属于它自然生长的样子，或者在培育栽培的时候，就已经做了这样的动作，让它更加适应城市的环境。

 

菠萝也是这样子。在谈论菠萝的时候，我们脑海中想象的是它在水果市场的样子，基本上是跟它在菠萝田的那个样子有所区别。它原来那些叶子啊什么的，我们是不去记录的，在我们的脑海印象当中是把它剥离开来的，我们脑海中印象最深的往往是已经被剥离开来的、去掉所谓的“原来的自然属性”的那个画面。我对这件事情还挺有兴趣的。我会以两个艺术展览讲一下，或者是回应一下刚才的殖民话题，以及修剪过程当中，慢慢从一个自然物变成人造物的这个过程。

 

《Return, My Gracious Hour》展览图

 

杭平：这个展览是马尼拉Silverlens画廊的展览，它在马尼拉和纽约各有一个空间。展出的艺术家叫Villamael Ryan，平常做的比较多是剪纸。这个是展览的一个文本部分，来自菲律宾大学出版社主编。展览的标题叫做《Return, My Gracious Hour》，这个展览受到了诗人Jose Rizal（何塞·黎刹）的作品《Memories of My Town》的影响。Jose其实算是所谓的菲律宾的国父，他写了这么一首诗。

 

When I recall the days

That saw my childhood of yore

Beside the verdant shore

Of a murmuring lagoon;

When I remember the sighs

Of the breeze that on my brow

Sweet and caressing did blow

With coolness full of delight;

 

When I look at the lily white

Fills up with air violent

And the stormy element

On the sand doth meekly sleep;

When sweet 'toxicating scent

From the flowers I inhale

Which at the dawn they exhale

When at us it begins to peep;

 

I sadly recall your face,

Oh precious infancy,

That a mother lovingly

Did succeed to embellish.

I remember a simple town;

My cradle, joy and boon,

Beside the cool lagoon

The seat of all my wish.

 

Oh, yes! With uncertain pace

I trod your forest lands,

And on your river banks

A pleasant fun I found;

At your rustic temple I prayed

With a little boy's simple faith

And your aura's flawless breath

Filled my heart with joy profound.

Saw I God in the grandeur

Of your woods which for centuries stand;

Never did I understand

In your bosom what sorrows were;

While I gazed on your azure sky

Neither love nor tenderness

Failed me, 'cause my happiness

In the heart of nature rests there.

 

Tender childhood, beautiful town,

Rich fountain of happiness,

Of harmonious melodies,

That drive away my sorrow!

Return thee to my heart,

Bring back my gentle hours

As do the birds when the flow'rs

Would again begin to blow!

But, alas, adieu! E'er watch

For your peace, joy and repose,

Genius of good who kindly dispose

Of his blessings with amour;

It's for thee my fervent pray'rs,

It's for thee my constant desire

Knowledge ever to acquire

And may God keep your candour!

 

他基本上被认为是菲律宾国父或者民族英雄，在西班牙殖民菲律宾时期启发了民众的反抗。在菲律宾的历史当中，经历了西班牙、美国、日本的统治。西班牙是三百年，美国四十多年，然后是日本二战时期，到二十世纪四零年代的时候，菲律宾才建立自己现在的菲律宾共和国。他写的那首诗基本上描写的风景画面是他记忆当中的风景。他把风景跟家乡非常紧密地联系起来，描述着一些具体的意象，但我其实没有看到什么非常特别的东西。我站在现在这个视角下，而且我也没有经历当时他们的状态，所以我以现在的眼光去看待的时候，我其实不知道这首诗为什么会那么地打动人，但我可以放在当时的一个历史当中去进行分析。

 

他大概就活了35岁，在年轻的时候流亡到欧洲的法国，然后到了香港，最后被菲律宾当地的殖民政府流放到南方的棉兰老岛。这个过程当中，他确实会有对于家乡或者是对于家乡风景的一个回忆。这个风景的回忆，可能对于当时的人来说是打动人的，只是我在反复观看的这个过程当中，我想到的第一个问题是菲律宾被西班牙殖民了300年的这个过程里，为什么菲律宾还能作为一个民族或一个国家去重新把它再建构起来？它为什么会有这样子的反抗——因为菲律宾有7000多个岛屿，80多种语言。我也问过我的菲律宾朋友，他说，之前可能也是因为这种地理跟语言上的一些原因，菲律宾有300多年都没有办法形成这个国家跟民族还有文化的构建。他们把Jose当做一个民族英雄的时候，整个故事让我觉得很不可思议。他说Jose其实并没有发动最后一次的反叛，但是政府把他抓了，因为反叛的领袖是受他的影响进行发动的，所以把他给杀了。我觉得这个过程像是一种戏剧，或者像我菲律宾朋友说的是卡通式的一个过场：一个英雄倒下，另外一个英雄起来了，然后变成一个新的政府或者一个新的国家，这过程中好像没有普通民众的声音，民众是被英雄所引领的。

 

我在看这个展览的时候，我第一反应是不去看这个展览的文本，因为我知道在那个语境下去谈论植物的话，多多少少会有一个先入为主的感受，但我确实在展览的作品中看到了一些线索。我觉得它算是一种回应，但它不算是一种直接对于殖民的批判。整个展览作品就像刚才的视频出现那样，很多是通过剪纸或者是装置的状态去呈现的。艺术家本身对于历史很感兴趣，但展览当中用的又是美军占据菲律宾时期的档案图像，跟他引用的这首诗中Jose说的这些东西是不同时期的。我感受到这个错位好像经常发生在艺术展览当中。但如果我把资源集束的话，好像也有蛮有道理的。他用装置的动作，让这些图像覆盖在阴影当中，好像是一种历史延续下来的殖民幽灵，或者是它所产生的影响一直在延续过程当中。他有在文本当中提到，他觉得历史这件事情，不是一个结论，而是一种媒介去重新塑造过去跟现在后殖民的一些画面。当然这个是他的看法，而且这是策展人也不是艺术家本人的表达，我对这个东西还有点疑虑，但是我觉得可以。放一放，我们等会再讲。

 

Installation view of Feast and Famine, kurimanzutto, Mexico City, September 22–October 24, 2015

 

杭平：另一个我想提到的展览是一个墨西哥籍的女艺术家（Minerva Cuevas）做过的跟巧克力可可相关的展览，展览名字叫《盛宴与饥饿》（Feast and Famine）。这个展览当中，有很多用巧克力去做的雕塑，以及跟考古图案档案进行的一些结合。这个展览在墨西哥发生的，艺术家回应了一些当地的神话故事，还有殖民有关的东西。

Minerva Cuevas, Bitter Sweet - Hershey’s (detail), 2015

 

杭平：举个例子好了，像这个作品，Minerva用巧克力重新画了一个关于欧洲食人族故事的图像，我觉得挺有讽刺跟幽默感的，又因为巧克力是可食用的，所以我觉得她在符号的运用上跟材料本身的文化语境处理上是比较精彩的。我当时跟艺术家有过工作室访谈，我当时的问题是：像她这么擅长运用符号的艺术家是怎样去选择这些符号的？她当时给我展示了一个影片。

 

看完这个影像我又有了很多问题。比如说，影片里老奶奶说松鼠来吃可可豆时，她不会感到反感，因为这也是他们生活当中的一部分。我有一个很极端的想象，比如说，当殖民者来到这个地方，从生物意义上来说也是抢夺生态位的一个过程，如果说把人跟人当做不一样的两种生物看待，那宗主国对于前殖民地的原居民来说的话，他们可能就是不一样的生物了，这样他们到来的过程跟松鼠去抢她这个可可的过程当中有什么区别吗？我当时有这样一个很极端的、很激进的问题，但这个问题我没有问出口，因为我担心艺术家会觉得很被冒犯。

 

Oreja RX, 2015, chocolate and silkscreen on cardboard box, 20 x 28 x 28 cm (7.87 x 11.02 x 11.02 in.) installed, edition of 500

 

杭平：我稍微给大家再看一眼其它的作品。这是把巧克力做成耳朵的一个作品，讲述的是可可原产于墨西哥，或实际上它可能更多被认为是原产于中美洲的，但现在可能更有名的是比利时巧克力、德国巧克力、西班牙的巧克力等等，以及关于现在资本消费市场跟原来殖民地之间的关系。Minerva提到一个叫Whitman’s Chocolate的巧克力品牌在他们当时的广告中宣传西班牙打败本地居民的一个场景，意思就是原来的这些居民是野蛮的。艺术家的这个作品其实是起到了一种反讽，表义其实也很简单：到底谁是这个野蛮人呢？但如果把它简化成一种文本的话，你会发现有一点不太对劲的地方。比如说，它好像变成了一个墨西哥跟西班牙之间的一个斗争，或者是在所谓的后殖民语境下，宗主国跟前殖民地之间遗留下的历史问题的斗争。而且实际上再想想，可可或许原产于中美洲，那么它文化批评的立足点——它原产于墨西哥，好像就不是特别成立了。这是一种错位的现象，它把中美洲跟墨西哥连在一起，变成了相对于西方的东方的感觉。

 

我一直对于这种感觉还挺抱有疑虑的，所以希望等会跟大家聊一聊这个问题。像刚才那个菲律宾的几个艺术家，展览当中也有菲律宾怎么样在反对殖民的斗争中慢慢形成一个国家，但是到现在具体有没有形成呢？听到的故事也是非常卡通式的英雄故事，植物在这两个展览当中都变成一种图像或者是一个符号的东西。这个是我这部分想说的吧。

 

 

林浩东: 实际上我觉得在艺术创作中这种对于视角的转变是非常重要的，一旦这种视角没有转变好的话，这个项目本身就会变成非常别扭的事情。接下来我还是想要回到技术本身，在墨西哥被西班牙殖民以前，墨西哥城的技术也好，或者说其他一些相关的东西也好，与被殖民者入侵后对比，会不会发生了一些演变、一些变化？

 

Taro哲铭：区别还蛮大的。我举一个简单的例子，大家更熟悉的是墨西哥被殖民之前的状况，会想到那种玛雅文化里的玛雅金字塔，当时很多关于园艺的技术，并不是一个纯审美观赏型的，而是非常实际的，他们的花园可能更接近于我们说的菜园。墨西哥那边有很多传统的园艺或者菜园种植方法。他们有一种叫三姐妹种植的方法，同时种植番茄、玉米、南瓜，玉米在中间长了一根杆子，这个杆子为南瓜以及番茄做一个支撑，同时，因为番茄本身的味道会起到一个驱虫的作用，所以同时保护了玉米和番茄。这是一种非常实用主义的做法，并没有发展出几何形或者规则式的欧洲园艺审美趋势。

 

刚才杭平提到的关于松鼠的观点，我也很有感触。美国殖民刚登陆美洲大陆时，对于美洲原住民印第安人的判断是他们并没有把原住民当作人，而是完全他者的存在。美国早期的移民，或者说先锋的探路者，会把美洲大陆叫做丰饶的处女地——有无尽的原始森林、丰饶的土地。这些原始森林当中可能有野蛮的动物，但是他们说的这个动物其实就是原住民——完全把印第安人当成了就是自然的一部分，早期的移民会认为自己本身是文明象征，是文化的那一部分。美洲早期移民口中提到的处女地，就是未经人为破坏的原始大森林。其实很多情况下原住民花园的所有树种是为了收集果实而特定选择种植的，所以在一个非本土的视角之下，一个人为的花园被重新定义成了一个未经染指的大自然。

 

另外很有意思的是，今天的讨论好像一直离不开西班牙，不管菠萝也好，还是菲律宾，包括现在墨西哥也好。我现在在加州帕萨迪纳市的一个研究机构做园林相关的研究，这个地方曾经是西班牙皇家所拥有的一大片牧场，由一个总督来进行管理，但是墨西哥原住民、美洲原住民在这一片土地上已经找不到了，在我目前生活的这个城市里面找不到了。很多墨西哥人会在这边做绿化工人或者说园丁，因为这边很多豪宅，有很大的花园，但是主人本身是没有时间去照顾花园的，同时这个花园本身又是他们财富或者社会地位的象征，需要有人去打理。打理花园的人在加州帕萨迪纳这边基本上都是墨西哥人。

 

大概在六零年代，帕萨迪纳市有一家本地的苗圃花鸟市场发生了火灾，导致花鸟市场里面当时正在售卖的一种墨西哥红头鹦鹉被放出去，但是那群红头鹦鹉并没有飞回墨西哥，因为加州这边气候非常适合它们。后来这些红头鹦鹉在这边泛滥，每天早上和晚上都能听到他们在吱吱哇哇地叫，特别恼人。我每天去研究机构上班的路上常会看到墨西哥人戴了一个非常有墨西哥风格的，帽沿特别宽的大草帽，在一个美国白人社区里面照顾花园。因为加州很干旱，算是偏沙漠的气候，所以花园里面种了很多原产于墨西哥的龙舌兰，还有很多多肉植物。院子门口会有一棵非常大的加州橙子树，橙子树下面是一个墨西哥工人正在照顾墨西哥来的植物，在那个橙子树上可能是一大群来自墨西哥的红头鹦鹉正在那吱吱哇哇地吃橙子，一个特别迷幻错乱的画面。它是所有不同的文化碎片，或者说已经在我们的脑海中成为了一些符号的各种文化符号，叠加在一起成了一个新的画面。这个充满拼切感的画面本身又是一个非常现实的存在，所以本身就既冲突又有意思。跟那些墨西哥的园丁或者绿化工人聊天的时候，他们会讲说自己在墨西哥老家有一块菜地，会种什么植物，会把那边的种子带到加州这边来种植，这样他也能吃到家乡的食物，觉得他跟他的故乡是有一定连接的。

 

同时，他们也会吐槽美国的绿化工作跟墨西哥是完全不一样的。美国这边高度机械化，有不同的法规和规定要求什么东西可以做，什么东西不可以做。为了能够照顾更多人的院子和提高效率，他们会选择一些并不是传统的墨西哥常用手法。我的研究涉及海外中国园林，所以我很多时候在中国园林里面跟一群墨西哥人一起照顾园子，也会听到他们说很多对于中国园林不能理解的地方，在这种不同的交流和碰撞当中，你会发现这个碰撞的本身——不管是技术也好还是植物本身也好，是一个在新环境里扎根的过程。这个过程本身是我觉得特别有意思的存在，跟Rubén的摄影作品其实很类似。镜头之下它可能是墨西哥的修剪艺术，但修剪艺术的来源可能是来自于欧洲，后来在墨西哥可能又发生了新的变化。只是单纯地，从图片本身，我们可能很难一瞬间就抓到了背后那些复杂的微小变化，像江垚提到的那些关于菠萝的租赁活动，我们是很难从一张照片本身去去挖掘，去获取到特别的信息，但照片本身的图像表达方式其实会把我们的视野聚焦在某一个特定的东西上，给了我们一个契机去打开一个新世界，我觉得这就是一种视角的转换。对我来说这就是不管做研究也好，还是单纯发呆的时候发散一下思维或者是开一下脑洞也好，比较快乐的一个点。

 

林浩东：对，我觉得视觉上的东西确实会给大家带来很多切入点和想法。像哲铭刚才讲到的，我觉得一个殖民者到一个新地方后，会想要在视觉上对当地进行一种修改。比方说墨西哥城，一开始的园艺和花园是更加偏实用性质的，但是西班牙殖民者进入后，会想在视觉上面进行一种述说、一种表达，把它塑造成就贵族们期待的样子，所以我觉得视觉在日常生活中非常重要，是一种多元化的表达，像哲铭提到的它们会变成各个碎片，融合在一起。

 

还有我在意的一点是关于江垚之前提到菠萝租赁的这件事情，十六、十七世纪的时候过去的华人，他们当时的一个生活状态是怎样？例如上个世纪南美的华人移民，他们可能大部分的时候会选择去做同一个行业，比方说一大堆华人在南边开超市，那么像这种菠萝的租赁，它是一个群体事件还是一个少数事件呢？

 

 

江垚：我先回答你刚刚那个问题吧。菠萝租赁这个事情我看到的时候是在英国，其实没有明确说是一个什么对象，所以我不太能确定它是不是一个群体性事件。像菠萝租赁这个例子，以及当时19世纪同时期，有一个人因为在一个菠萝园偷了五个菠萝被判刑了，他原来是在伦敦，但后来被发配到了澳大利亚，要在澳大利亚待五年，那个时候的澳大利亚对于英国来说，就是偏远流放之地，像这些信息和碎片，更多地我觉得是像哲铭说的，它们是另外一种去拼凑的方式。当在一个非西方殖民的历史时期去理解菠萝的象征意义时，菠萝对我们来说就是一个很日常的水果。你拿到菠萝，你想到更多的可能是先泡一下盐水，不然会很扎口。这种反应更日常，没有那么强的象征符号性。讲到符号和对象，我想分享一些绘画。

 

Historica Graphica Collection / Getty Images 

江垚：这是荷兰黄金时期十七世纪左右的绘画，画面里有一颗菠萝。17世纪前面的二十到三十年的巴西是荷属殖民地，后来荷兰退出，巴西不是他们的殖民地之后，这些绘画就仿佛成为了荷兰画家，或者说荷兰人去想象巴西这块曾经属于他们的殖民地的符号意象，所以会看到一些很有代表性的对象或者景观出现，例如菠萝，因为巴西是菠萝的原产地之一。比如Frank Post的画，菠萝会经常出现在绘画的左前方，在个西方语境里成为一个很强的符号。结合讲到的西方语境，以及刚提到的华人群体，包括杭平最早在讲菲律宾的殖民反思，我最近在新加坡跟认识的朋友聊天时感受到另外一种态度。他们觉得在新加坡的历史书写里，出于比较，英国人对他们的殖民是好的，日本人是坏的。在二战时期，四二年到四五年，新加坡被日本短暂地殖民过三年，或者说那个时候是有日军进驻在新加坡。在新加坡的历史书写里面，他们觉得这三年是非常凄惨、凋敝，整体破败的一个景象，但是提到英国人对他们相对更长期的一段殖民历史的时候，他们更多地当作是帮助新加坡打下基础，或者说会有另外一套的叙事方式。

 

关于杭平前面讲到的错位，或者说是所谓误读，对于欧洲人来说，他会以为来自中美洲，相对于欧洲来说的一个远东影响。菠萝其实也是这样。哥伦布1495年把菠萝从南美瓜拉德罗岛带回西班牙的时候，因为觉得自己到达了印度，所以他说从印度找到的菠萝，直接写成了Indian。当然现在的文献为了区分当时哥伦布的印度并不是今天大家所认为的那个印度，它会被写成西印度。对于原来的欧洲中心主义或是欧洲为视野去书写的历史里面会有很多这种错位现象存在，包括哲铭提到的在帕萨迪纳现实里存在的拼贴意象中找到的这种线索。我们现在理解的菠萝是在亚洲或者东南亚的语境里面，它所谓的象征意涵似乎没有那么重，更像是很日常的存在。我现在在新加坡做的也是一个跟菠萝相关的讨论，从菠萝去重新理解新加坡的历史状态。刚到新加坡的时候大家问的第一个问题就是为什么不做榴莲的研究而做菠萝的？他们会觉得菠萝是一个没什么大不了的存在。十六、十七世纪的西方欧洲书写里面，它们会把菠萝称为水果之王，Fruit of the King，但新加坡人会说他们的水果之王是榴莲，水果之后或者水果之母是山竹，跟菠萝没什么关系。当被问到菠萝更多时候是什么样的一个存在，或者说聊到它会想到什么时，华人群体想到比较多的是过年时吃的菠萝派，或者一种菠萝汁饮料，对他们来说喝菠萝汁就是非常寻常的一个存在。当你去跟大部分新加坡人说菠萝的时候，大家会需要认一下，因为大家第一反应会叫黄梨，像台湾叫凤梨，香港叫菠萝，黄梨是它在新加坡的一个称呼，一个认识。

 

这里再稍微介绍一下关于新加坡人群组成的背景。新加坡的身份证上面有人群分类系统，叫CMIO。C是Chinese，中国人；M是Malaysia，马来西亚人；I是India，印度人；O是Others，其他。新加坡人群的构成主要是这四类，这四类里面华人数量超过50%。有资料提到这种构成可能跟在十九、二十世纪——主要是十九世纪的整个种植园系统密切相关。哲铭前面提到欧洲人将美洲称为富饶的土地，但英国人或欧洲人会描述新加坡为一片凶险之地，布满了森林沼泽，水渠。如果想要在这个地方去做种植，或者说，你要想在这个地方去建立你的居所（settlement），一个居住地的时候，你要做的第一件事，是要去开荒。开荒又会耗费大量的人力，所以在当时十九世纪，他们会给一些想要在这定居的人发一个证，或者说给你个头衔。这套系统叫港主系统，英文写作Kungchu。港主相当于一块地的负责人，他可以号召家族里的人或者说认识的人到此来开垦。作为一个港主，你会享有一些特权，其中之一就是享有鸦片的销售权。至于为什么叫港主，是因为当时的环境全是沼泽森林，在河流和小河中间圈一块地，这块地就是你的，你去开垦它。所以很多文字记载里写到第一件事情就是要去把树林和杂草烧掉砍掉，之后往上面种东西，形成种植园这样的一个模式。有一个观点会觉得说新加坡的每一寸土地可能都跟种植园相关，但这个种植园本身并不是大家想到的关于攫取的，对当地进行消耗的种植园。大家现在对于种植园的很多讨论，尤其是在殖民语境里面的种植园讨论其实是一种更批判的态度，但我在新加坡研究菠萝的时候会看到一些不太相同的关于种植园的讨论。回到前面说新加坡的这块土地建立在种植园系统上面，甚至说每一寸土地都是种植园系统，所以就会需要去雇佣各种不同的人种植，或者说导致不同人群在这里安身立命，从而影响到现在看到的人群的构成。

 

 

1945年新加坡测绘地图中记载的菠萝罐头加工厂，示意图由江垚结合一、二手资料整理呈现

 

江垚：讲到人群的构成跟种植业的关联，我想回到黄梨这个词。黄梨其实是闽南话，Hokkien。Hokkien好像大部分时候会翻译成福建人，但我去维基百科搜索的时候，Hokkien好像会被理解为特定的闽南泉漳地带。新加坡的华人组成里会有五个主要的方言群体，这五个主要的方言群分别是福建人、客家人、海南人、广东人和潮州人。在这里面黄梨好像更被大家熟悉，因为当时做黄梨生意的，或者说种黄梨的比较多是福建人。有一个可能大家比较熟悉的福建人，叫陈嘉庚，他在国内建了很多家学校医院，当时他在新加坡最早就是靠种黄梨起家，后来也种橡胶。目前看到的资料显示做黄梨种植、黄梨厂、黄梨的小贩销售，很大部分以福建人为主；广东人不太做黄梨的生意，他们主要做橡胶的生意。有些材料也会说挑着担子小贩销售黄梨的更多是潮州人，用小推车销售的可能是广东人。就像刚刚提到的菠萝租赁，可能它本身可能没有这样的一个群体，但是当我们再去看黄梨在新加坡的历史，它成为了当时华人在十九世纪末期、二十世纪初期主要依赖的一种生存方式，一个经济来源，成为了相同方言群体族群建立联系的纽带。

 

至于为什么会讲到种植园这件事情，是因为和黄梨在二十世纪初同时存在在新加坡的另外一个对象，橡胶，rubber，也叫树胶。当时树胶是二十世纪初期非常重要的一个经济作物，是一个可以快速变现的对象。在1910年，发生了橡胶狂热（rubber boom），当时的新加坡开始快速种植橡胶，整片整片的胶园出现，成了英国在新加坡的殖民种植的一个对象，或者说种植园的这样一个对象。很大的一个批判会讲到橡胶种植园对于土地的损耗以及对于劳力的占有，但是相对于同时期的菠萝种植园的存在反而没有这样的批判。英国人会做黄梨的生意，但不会做黄梨种植园，他们只做橡胶种植园，因为利润更高。所以黄梨种植园就成了当时华人想要去种植，但没有那么像英帝国那么大的资本投入时，所选择的一种种植。我的一个个人观点会觉得，当我们去看黄梨种植园在新加坡二十世纪上半叶的历史时，你会发现它的运作方式其实跟我们传统意义上的帝国种植园，或者说作为殖民符号的种植园的这种理解，是有点不太一样的，它是另外一种对于种植园的理解。当然，我不是说反思种植园对于土地和劳动力的压榨是不重要的，但当我们去回溯种植园历史，去反思种植园时，可能还会有另外一些相关的讨论，例如跟菠萝种植园在新加坡的这段历史比较相关的，更多的是以种植园为生的并且以此形成身份纽带的群体。当你在一个所谓的异国他乡，你要去形成一个联系纽带，才能比较快速地进入社会，进入经济的组织。在新加坡看到的一些内容好像可以作为另外的视角，或者一个补充、一个注脚，它可能跟西班牙没有那么强的关联，但是它好像又会是一个特殊的构成，有助于我们今天讨论植物或殖民这些相关的内容，包括说记忆。

讲到记忆，我会想到另外一个材料。除了华人，早期1850年代左右，还有一群布吉人（Bugis），从印尼到新加坡进行菠萝种植。Bugis Chinese，或者准确地说是Ethnic Chinese，会去找菠萝苗。一颗菠萝的上面是它的冠芽，现在大家进行水培的话就是把这个冠芽拿出来，放在瓶子里面，让它长出根之后你再把它种回去。在冠芽的下面，还有裔芽和吸芽，在菠萝侧面以及菠萝的杆的底下。根部其实也有芽，布吉人和华人去做菠萝繁育种植的时候，他们选用的芽苗部位其实是不一样的。与之相关的，会有不一样的覆土方式、种植密度、施肥方式等等。这让我想到人跟植物发生互动的时候，其实并不完全是一种不变的。这之间会有一些很细微的差别，这些差别，跟我们刚刚聊到的不同人群和群体之间会有相关性。

 

 

林浩东：不管是种植园也好，或者说这种记忆也好，我觉得在艺术创作上就是不同的国家的艺术家在面对植物的时候，也会有一些非常大的差异。比方说前面杭平提到的菲律宾艺术家，采用的是剪纸的方式，墨西哥的那位艺术家，采用的是巧克力这种材料。艺术创作如何跟本地的一些材料相关联，某种意义上来讲也是一种对于技术的反应，所以我其实想要请杭平介绍一下他自己的一些艺术创作，我觉得他的作品也能够作为一种参照体系。

 

杭平：我可能稍微先接一下江垚跟哲铭讨论的问题。像我们植南门市部在写小报的时候，会先聊的一个结构就是认知，你对于植物是怎么认知的，这个技术究竟反映了什么东西。这个过程当中可以来自于命名，像江垚说的菠萝的命名，也可以来自于不同的图像档案，它当时是什么样图像，但其实这种东西都是二手资料。哲铭之前说的他跟来自墨西哥的园丁一起去养护园林这件事情，可能会有更多一手经验。我就在想说这个东西跟历史的关联是什么？

 

前两天我刚跟江垚说我听了鲁豫的一期播客，主题是说采访是一种诈骗，我觉得还挺挺准确的，那种图像跟档案其实具有新闻性，这个东西是经过篡改的。比如说给一个人画像的时候，他也会说要画的美一点，这不是反映的绝对的真实。无论是我们在认知过程中，还是经过对于认知回溯的这个过程当中，其实都是在进行一个更加接近真实的动作，但我们却远达不到当下的那一刻，究竟发生了什么。所以我觉得历史跟艺术创作的任务不是在溯源这件事情上，溯源这更像是语言学家、考古学家或生物学家的任务，他们更加直接告诉你这块就是从哪来的，它是一个事实。我们在做的工作其实是在关注历史如何被篡改，然后慢慢地把尽量把它往叙事的丰富性上推，就是不要那么单一地去看待一个问题。我最近在做东西的时候有一个反思，觉得好像先看待它的生物性，会更加开放一点。比如说我们在做《菠萝流浪史》的时候，有一个说法挺有意思的，但我还没有去考证过。那个说法是：殖民者对于美洲居民的大屠杀导致了中世纪那段时间的小病期，甚至引起了蝴蝶效应，导致农业产量骤减，最后导致了明朝的灭亡等等。但我想说的不是它的一个因果关系，我想说的是环境跟生物的这么一个平衡。我刚刚看到有个朋友说到松鼠的事情，我们前段时间到云南看了一些农民种玉米的工作。我印象很深刻的是他也说到农田里面田鼠泛滥还是松鼠泛滥，有的时候会导致玉米大片的死亡。刚刚有人说松鼠那么小个，吃不了多少东西，但如果我们把它换成田鼠或者是蝗虫之类的，那可能真的可以对人造成很严重的影响。人对于这个影响的反抗，或者它对于人的一个作用在于，比如说园艺，你要把这个作物养活，需要在技术上进行改进，或者像讨论园艺的时候涉及到的工具，诸如此类都需要去考虑它们的环境适应性。我觉得这是回归到生物意义上的一个讨论，比如说这个工具原来是用木头，但是木头不容易保存，所以要打铁。在这一层的讨论上，我们好像可以有更多的讨论空间。这不光是说一个墨西哥人跟西班牙人中间的矛盾是什么样的，因为什么是墨西哥人？什么是西班牙人？西班牙的新移民要不要承担之前殖民时期留下来的问题？如果说我们在生物意义上讨论松鼠、田鼠或蝗虫对于人这个物种造成的威胁，那是不是也可以在当时西班牙人的定义下，对于当地野蛮人跟土著人造成的威胁一起进行讨论呢？我们可能会在这个过程当中发现它其实不单单是人的文化构建。现在比较常见的说法是他们被屠杀了，然后我们根据图像进行一些的反思之类的，这其实是一个挺学科的，专注的讨论。但是如果你扩散到跟环境之间的联系的时候，好像这个所谓的历史认知也被拓展了。我是沿着这样的脉络来分享一下我之前的艺术实践，这其实也是植南门市部的艺术实践，很多东西是在跟江垚还有其他成员做东西的时候碰出来的。

  

驯化种 domestica，2024，杨杭平

60*25*120cm

塑料模具，纸，“野草”，塑料茅草，金属刺，飞机盒，金属链条

  

这是我们最近的一个项目，展览名是一个德语单词Fernweh，直译为“远方痛”，一种对远方的渴望。在植物的讨论中经常会提到本地跟外来，或是远方跟家乡的对照关系，所以在这个展览中也很多地去回应了这个关系。展览的某些部分跟Sliverlens画廊（的展）有点像，我们也引用了诗。诗人藏棣写藏花简史的时候，有一段是以第一人称进行叙事，想象自己是一朵藏文花以此延展下文。我觉得第一视角的感觉很有意思，于是就沿用了。

 

接着是关于这个展览的命名，我们在一些作品当中用了拉丁名的命名方式，因为植物的学名基本上都是以拉丁名的方式命名的。我会想象这个人造物是植物的时候会以什么样的方式去命名它？并以此进行装置的创作。这个作品中文翻译是《驯化种》，它是我们在展览空间的外面摘了一些可能算是野草，可能算是园艺的植物后，把它们放在一个盒子里。盒子是塑料模具浇注混凝土制成，形状是可以拼起来的方砖，外围是一圈毛毛的是防猫刺——园林外墙上的人造塑料茅草。现在有些茅草屋会用这种材料给房子一个形式上的表达。外面的是包茅台酒的纸，也经常用来写书法之类的。

 

属于土地的 agrārius，2024，杨杭平

80*100*100cm

拉管器，石头，陶土，标号旗，运输车模型，金属链

 

这个作品名字叫《属于土地的》，由托马斯和他朋友们的小火车模型、旁边工地上的砖、一个旗帜、以及农田里的拉管器组成。拉管器的作用是当比较长的管子在农田里要播水的时候，它可以插在那边通过绕过中间的环去更方便地移动。

 

这是一副图像作品，运用了档案的拼贴，例如隧道工程的符号。因为展览地点当时在江西，我们参照浙江到江西的路线，按照让作品有一个路线性的、图像性的设计完成这个作品，虽然最后这个展览最后没有顺利执行。

 

成为家具 Furnished（部分）

2024场景性装置

可变尺寸护坡塑料模具，led灯条，塑料防尘布，灯芯草，棕榈垫

 

这件作品是棕榈的垫子和灯芯草以及防尘布做的一张床。其实我在做这些东西的时候并没有想说单个要表达什么，更多地是想让它们组合在一起，分别有一些不同的线索和面向，以此让大家反思或者产生想法。

 

接下来看到的这件是当开凿高铁公路的要打山洞时，山洞旁边会有U型或生态护坡，由水泥它围绕起来，像一个小园林的状态，在上面种种草什么的。作品的下方是护坡的浇筑模具，上面是我从江西、福州那边带回来的灯芯草，最下面是一条灯带。现场还会播放一段音频。

 

成为家具 Furnished（部分），2024场景性装置，可变尺寸护坡塑料模具，led灯条，塑料防尘布，灯芯草，棕榈垫

 

杭平：这个音频我在大巴上录的，在我们公众号推文上面会有它的大概介绍，因为它是一个现成品，所以我会特别在意说它背后有什么信息，怎么组织在一起。这个展览的关注点其实是隧道，通常好像不太有人会关注这种工程跟环境和人之间的联系。我们原来有在做田野，跟著不同的项目，有的是农业方向，有的是乡村研究方向。到那个地方的时候，像人类学家、民族学家他们经常做民族志，就会通过口述史的方式去进行介入跟调查，其实得到这些信息跟我们之前说的档案或者是认知这件事情有点接近。我做这个的过程中觉得你光从人的这个口中得到他是怎么认知这个环境、这件事情其实并不能够真的理解这个村庄，比如说，那个村里的人提到他之前在林场工作，后面他出去打工了，因为当时可能司机也算是一个比较特殊的技能，有了司机这个技能后，他比较顺利地当上了货运司机去拉煤，或者是到处去跑。渐渐地，货运司机的工作越来越多人在做了，他可能就没有工作，变成了客运，现在在县城里拉客。那对于一个村庄来说就是一个人，他到了一个县城的移民故事，虽然他走的距离不是很远。这个过程当中我觉得他怎么走出去的经常被忽略了，这个环境塑造对他又有多大改变？做民族学的人去所谓没有被现代化跟城市化的地方看少数民族的地方文化，面对的田野对象好像都是一些在当地生活得很好的一群人，当地有自己的宗教仪式等等。但我会好奇他们跟外界的沟通是怎么进行的？他们为什么还选择生活在这里，因为贸易一直在发生，那技术到底在其中起了多少作用？这个是我在反思的一个问题。这个问题，其实有点像哲铭跟江垚之前提到的，无论是作物驯化还是园艺修剪，技术在其中起到什么样的作用，这个作用究竟要以哪几种因素或者要看待哪几种变量去理解它，好像是现在的研究在做的一个工作，所以我可能用展览这种方式去回应这种思考。这个是这个项目的一个特性。

 展览现场图，当时的天气，2023，杨杭平 ； 摄影：王家骏，啥空间 Schein Space

 

杭平：然后之前也有做过一个跟植物更相关的，关于柑橘属水果的一个展览。这个展览我们当时也做了一本小报，叫做《柑橘历史》。不像菠萝，它里面会涉及到柚子、蜜橘、香橼、佛手柑等等，涉及到的水果跟植物非常多，像是一个家族。在这个过程当中我也很好奇人对于它的作用和它对于人是不是产生了什么样的影响。像这块布上的图像拼贴我其实把各种水果都放在一起，像做一个家谱，但这个家谱其实非常地不准确，它不是一个事实表现，更像是一个人篡改了家谱的历史之后去做的一个事情。另外像这个作品，外面上色的是昆虫的分泌物，经常用于水果的保鲜。因为这些东西都像放在了一个柑橘的储藏空间里，所以我选择了更加室内的形式符号去呈现会更有意思，像这个东西就是把它做成窗帘、灯、地板等等。这个做法其实可以看出我更多处理的不是后殖民这种话题，因为比如说你在聊柑橘的时候，它遍布世界各地，你很难说它具体的线路是怎样的，当这个东西已经复杂到比人类历史更久远的时候，你发现好像没有办法用殖民后殖民这样子的话语去理解它了，所以我更多关注到的是关于驯化、商品化的结果、以及它跟其他材料之间的关系是什么。我觉得这个视角就会很冷静，好像你没有一个非常强烈的感情。我当时看到那位墨西哥艺术家Minerva的作品时，我会思考我的感情到底是我本身对于作品的感情，还是说我被教育唤醒的民族感情和强烈的反殖民情绪。从二手资料到看待这个东西、拨橘子、处理材料的时候，我反而会有很冷静的一个感受，这个感受可以把知识分子常有的救风尘习惯拉出来。很多人去到一个地方，就算是做植物对象的创作时，首先第一个反应都是：菠萝作为一个文化符号，巧克力作为一种文化符号，我作为一个墨西哥人，我作为一个中国人如何如何，猛然地唤起一个救风尘精神，觉得批判这个文化，抗争到底。但是如果把它放在一个更大的圈层里，你会发现，也不一定要讨论后殖民语境当中的这植物，因为这个植物不仅仅跟殖民有关联，它其实也可以跟天气有关联，可以跟松鼠有关联。在这个状态下我会觉得比较不容易产生很强的民族主义情绪。

 

刚才说的本地材料这个事情，我觉得现在材料其实很少只有本地性，材料的生产过程当中，机器是外来的，技术是外来的，资源是本地的，那这个产品是本地还是外来的呢？我觉得它如果是混杂在一起的话，我们还要不要再进行区分也是一个问题。在艺术实践当中，没有办法说你去解决疑惑，更多是提出好多好多的问题，这个反思好像也加入进去研究的反思进程，原来的那个叙事认知，究竟是不是这样子发生的？

 

林浩东：其实今天的圆桌有两条非常清楚的线。

 

一个是江垚提到的新加坡的种植园和哲铭强调的传统意义的殖民种植园两者之间的对照关系，另一个是杭平说到的官方档案、一手档案跟艺术创作之间的这种对照。

 

我觉得在某种程度上来讲，有的时候艺术创作会比官方叙事档案更加接近所谓的历史真相。其实我现在还是非常好奇，前面哲铭提到的墨西哥吐槽中国园林不合理的点在哪。

 

 

Taro哲铭：更多其实是一个文化差异，大家对于所谓的环境和自然，或者是对应英文当中的那个landscape或者nature的理解是基于两个完全不同的世界观。在中国世界观，中国传统园艺有自己一套关于园林世界观的知识体系，于墨西哥的传统世界观之下又是另一套知识体系。当两个知识体系发生摩擦的时候，你不能试图去用另外一个知识体系去互相解释，你只能在这种摩擦的状态当中，因为这种不和谐性的出现，你去试图以这个不和谐作为一个点去试图理解对方的文化。

 

比如说墨西哥园丁会清理掉台阶或者石头上的青苔，他们觉得不干净，不够自然，他们觉得自然的石头应该就是一个石头，但中国园丁觉得它好不容易长上来你为什么要弄掉它，青苔长得那么好看，那么自然，甚至还是春天的时候园丁浇淘米水浇出来的，他们觉得长出青苔才是这个石头在这个地方最自然的一个状态。这两者其实是对于所谓的这种自然，自然而然或者道法自然的这种自然的理解差异。

 

再举另外一个例子吧。比如说，中国的某些树，它的某一个枝子长的造型对于墨西哥园丁来说可能是非常难看的，他觉得这个枝子应该剪掉，但是中国园丁可能觉得这个造型是有趣的，所以要把它保留。在这个层面上，就是从文化的认知到了不同文化认知产生的审美偏好的不同。还有很多这样不同的点，比较有意思的地方就是我现在工作的中国园林有来自岭南，背景是做盆景的美籍华人在里面工作。他们有很多也在栽培本地的，加州的品种来培育盆景。他们本身对于这个植物本身的生物性、特性、生长趋势、生长速度以及习性并没有墨西哥园丁了解得更多。当用这些加州本地植物制作盆景的时候，他们需要请教墨西哥同事对于这植物本身的经验和知识，把它们化解成中国的传统盆景，甚至是岭南风格的盆景，要把它们消化成另外一个知识系统的东西。

 

还有一个特别明显的就墨西哥园丁会拿鼓风机会把地上的落叶吹干净，但是有的时候我们可能会觉得落叶盖在树下面其实是有一定好处的。不同的管理和认知也会产生问题。比如美国苗圃实操的一些规范，就是要求某些植物的落叶是必须要清理干净的，因为有可能会变成火灾的隐患，这对于很多亚洲过来的园丁来说是不太能理解的。我工作的这个机构里边，日本园林的枯山水里面清理得非常干净，但是照顾枯山水旁边的苔藓园的园丁把落叶扫干净后，会漫不经心地再扔两个落叶扔上去，让它并不是完全干干净净的状态，其实挺做作的。在不同的文化属性和文化背景下面就是会产生不同的偏好。

 

杭平：那最后你们园林的苔藓怎么样了？

 

Taro 哲铭：都被清掉了，清掉了以后大家才发现你怎么把它给铲掉了呢？

 

江垚：感觉像美术馆做法，展览室做法。

 

Taro 哲铭：对，比如说中国的太湖石堆的井，在中国的认知里面，这个石头应该是从地里面自然生长出来拔地而起的那个状态，但是你把底下的苔藓或者是底下的落叶铲特别干净，露出底下混凝土的底座，就没有那个意境了，但墨西哥的园林可能是，我把你这扫干净了。

 

行道树&去梢

 

 梵高1883年绘制的《去稍桦树》（荷兰梵高美术馆藏）

 

林浩东：我们记得我们大纲里面还有聊到行道树。

 

Taro哲铭：对，行道树也是修剪，我特别感兴趣的是南京的一大特色不是法国梧桐吗？一个大树干，旁边生出一般是两到四个枝子，生的特别长，长得蛮奇怪的一个样子。它是基于伦敦和巴黎那边行道树的样子，但是修剪的造型又是非常有中国特色的，我记得好像叫香槟酒杯。当时南京造了那些新的大马路以后，周围被阳光暴晒的地方非常多，路边需要有横向伸展开的树去提供树荫。如果大家见过早期南京的老照片的话，当时刚种下去的法国梧桐树非常小，可能就一个拳头那么粗细的小树干，上面什么都没有，就只有一个树干子。掐掉顶芽头会促进侧芽的生长，园丁根据这个树的这个特性去进行造型的修剪。这个跟我之前的关于去梢修剪的研究比较相关，我来发几张图片吧。

 

去梢修剪的英语是Pollard，poll的意思就是砍掉顶端。这样的图片，大概率大家都见过，通常会出现在西班牙、法国、意大利、英国。这种树就是“被砍了头”的树，它旁边会有几个比较粗短的小枝子，上面会发很细的布枝，这种方法可以培养出常茂盛的树冠。欧洲夏天的时候，会有很多人搬着小椅子在下面乘凉。这种疯狂修剪的造型在十八世纪的整个欧洲都受到了很大的批判，一个原因是这种造型特别不自然，不自然在当时是一个不美的体现。尤其当时英国正在和法国打仗，法国代表的那种规则性园林就变成了英国的公知抨击的对象，一切跟法国相关，跟规则式相关的审美都是不好的。这个背景之下，英国人就特别推崇中国园林，因为更加自然，所以当时在英国街道上能看到这样的这种去梢修剪。正如前面说到的，这种树的造型在当时受到了很大的抨击，但其实这种造型并不出于审美的原因，包括南京的行道树，更多地是为了让它遮荫才修剪成这样。虽然这个造型看上去特别欧洲，但在中国历史上这种修剪方法非常常见。如果大家现在到西藏或者是四川云南的边远地区还能看到很多村庄里面的柳树、枣树、榆树、桑树，都是这样的修剪方式。

 

中国古典绘画中出现的去稍柳树，《康熙南巡图》第七卷局部 （加拿大阿尔伯塔大学美术馆藏）

 

Taro哲铭：我放的第二张图是康熙南巡图里在无锡段的第七卷。左边就是大家很熟悉的垂柳形态，但是在右边那一丛长得特别茂盛的小矮树其实也是垂柳，只是经过了去梢修剪。去梢修剪的一个特性就是会使树枝末端生出很多茂盛的小树枝。桑树进行这种修剪是为了收集桑叶，柳树进行这种修剪是为了收集柳枝制作家具、篱笆、或农用具。如果修剪的间隔时间比较长的话，比如说隔五年修剪一次，柳枝长到的粗细程度正好可以做锤子的手柄。这是非常实用的做法，反而是后来的人对它额外附加了一个审美性总结评述，最后变成了一个美学符号，但是这个符号的审美趋势又会随着这个社会的政治背景、经济背景，甚至是科技技术性背景产生一定的流动。 

  

 

Taro哲铭：最后给大家放一张二十世纪初杭州河边去梢树。我一开始在中国古代绘画中找到去梢修剪的时候，我不太确定这是画家的一种表现手法还是现实存在，最后也是通过当时中国的农经和农政全书，以及那些老照片，才确定了这确实是中国自古就有的比较传统的植物修剪手法。只是后人可能对这种修剪手法的造型进行了美学方面的评述，总结成为了美学上的一个符号，但是实际上它本身是一个非常日常的存在。

 

我一开始对植物的修剪造型很感兴趣，例如果树的修剪，后来发现有法国或者意大利修建那种特别扁平的果树，只是为了提高果树的挂果率和结果效率，但同时地，它让一个特别普通实用的东西变得特别好看，这就是农民的智慧。最后发现很多这种传统的记忆就是从现在设计师的角度完全是视觉性的评判，好不好看，属于什么风格，但这样反而忽略了它本身的实用性以及农业、林木业的属性，这些属性本身才是造型的原因，而并不是纯视觉性审美的突出。

 

 

 

江垚：杭平在分享项目时讲到可能更关注生物意义，包括像哲铭刚讲的去看到更生物学本身或者园艺植物本身的状态，这种做法好像会更容易帮助我们去摆脱下意识地进入到所谓建构的象征语境中。你刚刚说去梢修剪的时候，我想起我们之前做柑橘的时候也看到各种各样的修剪造型。有一种叫果树爱心型，根据形状给它起的名字，有点像塔状，这种形状保证阳光进入到植物的每一个位置，包括更偏内部的内心，不只是外面一圈能照到，整树的挂果率和成熟率其实会更高。

 

Taro 哲铭：我当时研究果树的时候有设计果园，会疑惑说既然要提高产量，为什么果树之间的间距这么大，为什么不能种得近一点。我一开始以为是果树种得太近了的话，果树和果树之间会竞争水分、养分，最后发现中间的间距其实是管理使用的工具决定的。比如管理的人开卡车，那小货车或者板车的大小决定了中间间距的大小，是特别实际的一个东西。甚至现在树之间的间距会越来越大，因为现在自动化收割的卡车越来越大，导致他们不得已地让果树和果树之间的间距变大。从设计师的角度可能会给想出一个特别复杂高深的解释，但实际上如果你尝试做过这个事情，你就会觉得这是一个非常合理，毫无疑问的一个决定，你必须要经历过实际操作本身，才会理解它背后的逻辑，而并不是因为具身性的缺失导致你以一个他者的角度去对它进行描述解释。

 

江垚：我记得开始大家都在讲历史就是讲历史，它不是一个完整的过去全貌，它可能只是一部分人所写的那个历史的那件事情。对于历史，我们会说要把它放到那个时空对象里面，然后你去想象在当时的情形下面是怎么样的一个状态。那像刚刚说的果园的这件事情，包括想到我认识的一个在西双版纳做菠萝生态种植的人，他说现在菠萝的种植间距其实是比较密的，如果从产业的种植计算的话，每亩达到3000到4000斤产量，这是八十年代国内类似于双行并排的技术创新种植方法。他说他没办法采用这种产业化的大规模种植方式，因为他需要自己去除草，所以他的种植间距需要足够宽以让他戴着背挂式除草机进去。我想到这件事情一方面是这种更具身性的体验，你真的去做这件事情，在对现实当下的这件事情来说，它是一种方式；那反过来，如果是历史的话，我们未必能够回到或者说能具身性地去体验的时候，那历史可能是一种重访现场，或者说进入一个时空。还有一件事情我觉得很有趣的事情就是大家对现有的书写或者对所谓现有的历史保持一定的怀疑态度，或者并不完全觉得这就是全部。我前面提到的关于采访的播客，我记得后面聊到说你去采访的时候，被访者说的话可能也是经过了很多的训练，他可能已经习惯了这样的一个讲述方式，说的话也未必是真的。到底什么是真实呢？可能永远没有一个所谓的真实，你能做的只是不断地去接近那个真实，接近的方式可能就是从各个其他的面向，其他的碎片去拼凑一个更接近的面吧。

 

Taro哲铭：我觉得历史研究史学方面真的非常难，它对于学识的要求很高，而且研究就是一个不停质问自己反思自己的一个过程，非常痛苦，所以我选择了史学史这样一条路，研究别人写的史学是在什么样的情况和背景下才写成了这样的一段历史描述，去解构当时

书写那一段历史性叙述时候的背景。这个相对来说容易一些，对我来说更有意思一些，去解构它当时的认知体系，以及它当时所属的文化体系。

 

观众问题：中国园林(在中国的发展/海外的仿建) 与殖民有什么互相的影响或者关系。

      

Taro哲铭：其实没有。我们现在所谓的海外仿建，要看具体时间判断，是海外古典园林还是海外的中国风园林。十八世纪左右的英国中国风园林可以说是有一点殖民影响，但大部分人其实并没有去过中国，他对于中国的想象只是来自于少数去过中国的传教士的描述，或者是瓷器上的图像，它完全是基于东方的图像进行想象后幻想出来的一套中国风园林。我们现在说的海外古典园林其实是七十年代末八十年代才有的事情，这些园林跟殖民就没有什么关系了，它的初衷是外交。当时中美建交的两大文化交流，一个是把中国大熊猫送给了美国，另外一个就是纽约做了个古典园林，苏州园林的一个仿建。中国园林就变成了中国文化的一个出口项目。我现在所在的这个中国园林其实是一家苏州园林公司专门为加州这边的本地华人群体设计的，它从一个角度上来说其实已经非常不中国了，非常的加州，但是它又确确实实是为了本地的华人在服务，所以是一个跨国、跨文化的融合产物。在这种语境之下，八十年代之后的这些中国海外园林跟殖民并没有特别大的关系或者是影响。

         

杭平：因为你说到那个文化外交的事情，之前我们跟江垚还有德国的一个园林维护者做过一个中德园林线上论坛，聊到好像古典园林这件事情得到的维护费越来越少，觉得原来这种外交方式好像特别不成立。然后我看到关于《黑神话悟空》的一篇报道说，游戏要通过一些创造性的活动，让这个内容变得可体验，可游玩，变成一种外交符号。游戏里还有大量的中国古建的场景，后面又带动了很多人去当地玩。我不知道这个事情是究竟真实情况是怎么样，所以我想一下问一下哲铭你。

          

Taro哲铭：第一个海外中国园林是在大都会博物馆里面，在博物馆的语境之下，它被要求具有原真性，所以这个园林完全是被复制粘贴过来的，从一个苏州园林里面直接拽了一个小院子到纽约，直接啪地扔在了纽约的博物馆里。对于苏州园林的定义是从博物馆的那种角度去强调它的文化属性，觉得这个苏州园林代表了中国文人思想的一个巅峰，体现了文学和文化性，但是把园林当中非人的部分完全否定了，所以那个园林在很多园林学者眼中是死的。它的墙永远是雪白如星，它的植物甚至在室内活不了，以至于只能用很多塑料植物在里面摆摆样子。我知道德国的那些园林也有同样的问题，因为它们并没有一个使用的群体，或者是去热爱、维护这些园林的群体。

         

我现在在的加州的流芳园就很不一样，它本身是为华人群体设计的，使用群体也在不断壮大，对这个园林投入特别多。这个园林一开始是2000年初开始造了一期，现在已经三期结束了。这个园林已经成为了中国之外最大的一个中国园林，甚至尺度上面已经赶超皇家园林了，但它还一直在继续扩建，甚至他们现在已经又签了第四期合同了。这是一个极其成功的案例，但是它成功的背景就是因为是它背后的华人群体。

     

这也是我一个很感兴趣的点，我们在海外研究所谓的美籍华人群体，大家的一般定义都是那种早期太平洋铁路修铁路的工人或者是偷渡客，对他们的惯有印象就是刷盘子之类的，但当时最早到达美国的华人群体，或者说到欧洲的华人群体当中，还有很大一部分是极其有优越感的。他们可能都是书香世家，一开始是清政府官派出去的，比如像贝聿铭那种贝氏家族出来的都有钱有学问。这些华人群体其实也是很大的一部分，而且他们也是整个美国的不同政治群体或者金融群体当中的中坚力量，但因为他们并不是被边缘化或者是并不是贫穷，没有文化的那些人，通常不会被学者作为研究对象。在美国的华人群体中，他们相当于一个基石的存在，没有这些有钱、有学识、有社会资本、社会影响力的非平民华人的话，也不会有一个团结的华人群体，也是打破了对于美国华人的一个惯有印象。

     

杭平：你刚刚说的园林跟现在这些华人的使用者之间具体在哪些场景上有哪些联系呢？在我假想当中，园林，至少德国的园林是这样，它更多还是偏向于去观赏东方文化或古典文化，我不知道你说的这个像网飞一样已经续订四期的园林，它在这方面有做出什么样的改变吗？

     

Taro哲铭：其实还是观看为主，但华人特别热情的就是，这个地方是一个学校，相当于一个文化中心。大家会让自己的孩子从小在这个中国园林里面长大，并且在这个园林里接受所谓的传统教育，他们也会把美国人带到这个园子来接受中国文化的熏陶。很重要的一点是德国的园子是没有钱去维护。维护中国园林非常花钱，这个地方有华人群体不停地给捐款，而且捐款量让人特别震惊，会让你想问怎么会在一个园林上面花这么多钱，怎么能爱园子爱到了这种程度，所以这个园子不差钱，可以一直进行扩建。

      

杭平：美国华人为什么有这么强的凝聚力？

     

Taro哲铭：个人的猜测，我觉得是因为有一部分华人本身的社会资本和金融资本非常高。从中国移民来美国的时候，本身就是书香世家，或者家里人本来就是在香港，在上海做银行家，他们来美国之前，接受的就是高知家庭的教育，同时也很有钱，所以他能更快地融入到上流社会，起到更大的社会影响力。这是我的猜测，我觉得在这边其实还蛮明显的，包括最早的中国园林能在美国以一个园林的形象出现也是因为贝聿铭当时在背后推了一把。

     

江垚：我觉得新加坡某种程度上其实也蛮像的，但可能不是清政府的那个高知群体。比如又说回新加坡的黄梨种植业，他们首先会有一些巨头。像陈嘉庚其实就是一个巨头，最早是陈嘉庚的父亲到了新加坡这边做生意，陈嘉庚是16岁来新加坡的。当时他父亲原来是做米店的生意，但米店经营不太好，他就想把米店交给陈嘉庚去管理。陈嘉庚后来开始转战去做黄梨罐头的产业，靠着罐头产业在1880年代积累了资本。到了二十世纪初期，当英国把整个橡胶出口以及橡胶的种植园设在新加坡的时候，他就有钱可以进入橡胶产业。当然之后他也开始进入其他产业，但黄梨和橡胶是他最重要的两个企业，是他的原始资本积累。

     

除了陈嘉庚，包括林义顺还有李光前也是黄梨和橡胶巨头。新加坡的很多地方也能看到李光前捐的楼，他设立的Lee Pineapple和Lee Rubber，现在为止都是新加坡非常重要的家族企业。我觉得还有一个比较有趣的一件事情就是，会看到一些这些巨头的同胞所写的回忆录。有一个回忆录里面写道他的父亲跟李光前是表兄，他父亲甚至比李光前更年长，十几岁来了新加坡之后在李光前的一个橡胶种植园里面工作，他慢慢地自己开始做一些小本经营，有了原始基本的资源，他也去包地种黄梨，种橡胶，赚了钱后又去做别的生意。这让我觉得在新加坡这边，我觉得可能都已经不是一个家族，他们更像是一个族群，一个同姓式族群，你可以在他们的一个产业里首先扎根，安稳下来，等你有了基本资源后，你就可以自己再去做一些生意。这就是为什么我觉得新加坡的种植园跟我们常规说的殖民意义里面的种植园不太一样的原因，它不完全是劳力的压榨，当然，它也会有其他问题存在，但里面更像是有这样一个良性的循环。当你在海外，在一个所谓的异国他乡，这更像是一种凝聚力的存在。新加坡1950年代也建了一个中国园林，比哲铭讲的那个八十年代改革开放之后的海外中国园林要更早，这个园林最早不是中国大陆做的，当时的设计师是台湾人。后来到1990年代的时候，当时苏州跟新加坡成了友好城市，苏州的一个园林公司给原有的中国园林里面捐了一个盆景园。前两年这个盆景园一直在修缮，今年中秋的时候重新开放了，因为刚好是中秋而且是中国园林，感觉新加坡的华人全都聚在这里了。像哲铭讲到的凝聚，好像新加坡也有类似这样的一个集合，一种collectivity。

     

Taro哲铭：李光前的后代在这边好像会捐园林。我当时只是偶尔搜到这个名字，看到当时打仗的时候他在美国滞留了一段时间。后来他的孩子一直在美国上学，孙女还是曾孙女最后在加州结婚了就留在这边了。

     

江垚：如果你真的要强行给新加坡的黄梨种植园去分时期的话，李光前其实更靠后，他比陈嘉庚相对要更晚规模要更大，而且后期陈嘉庚还把种植园转掉了，所以这就是为什么Lee Pineapple好像更有名、更经久不衰。不过他们在去年停掉了最后一条黄梨生产线，因为他们最近也拿不太到品质好的黄梨。我前阵子在跟朋友聊天的时候，大家都会讲，他们小时候喝的是都是Lee Pineapple生产的，所以李光前在新加坡的整个语境里面其实还蛮重要的。

     

杭平：你们刚刚说的美国跟新加坡的园林，我觉得这两个地方都是移民社会，跟我想的跟德国这种融入，差别挺大的。之前你聊那个跨文化的时候，我在想，一个中国人跟墨西哥人在美国一起弄园林这个事情，它可能还有融入的这个讨论空间，但如果把它放在欧洲，我觉得好像讨论空间非常少。

    

江垚：我觉得哲铭描述的那个更像是他们在一个空间，一个site里面碰撞，去做一个重新再生的过程。之前我们做的分享会的那个老爷爷，后来他有分享说到他们的维护难题。八十年中国送了德国鲁尔大学的一个叫潜园的院子，送给他之后，也是维护的问题。那个老爷爷是个德国人嘛，他对园艺修剪感兴趣，但是他不太懂中国的这种修剪，所以他当时其实很想要一个中国的园林修剪师傅。师傅可以去教他，可以跟他说怎么剪发，或者说怎么处理。在这个语境里面就是会涉及到，包括像哲铭说的后期维护问题。在欧洲，或者说至少在德国潜园的例子里面，好像没有华人群体，可能只有当地的德国人或者欧洲人在做这件事情。当面对我们所谓的中国园林，或者说一个真实性时，我感觉，他自己会有一个纠结，他想让它像中国园林，但是他好像又不太会。

    

Taro 哲铭：我觉得在加州这边不太会有这个纠结的问题，大家不太会纠结这个东西到底是不是百分之百明朝的诸如此类的事情。看着像那个样子，用起来好用就可以了。大家并不会像一个史学家或者艺术史学家去纠结上面的图案到底对不对，或者是这种垫石的模式对不对。

    

我在那个里面放一张图片吧，我觉得还蛮有意思的。这一段时间帕萨迪纳早上会起大雾，特别美，有一种在苏州的错觉。

    

江垚：你当时发的时候后面有一张是在ziczac，他们所谓的那个九指桥。那个桥我觉得做得很像在美国的中国人的状态。

    

Taro哲铭：因为美国有好多安全法规，造型很多时候是受法规限制的，包括它的尺度、比例也受法规的限制，比如说一定要有轮椅以及能推两个娃的婴儿车通过的宽度。

    

江垚：我想起来之前有看过一些流芳园的资料，他们很喜欢写在建园林时的技术创新，说不是用传统的木构去建造，是用钢架做出那个造型。

     

Taro 哲铭：对，因为加州有地震，所以木构没办法批准，所以它其实都是钢架结构，然后外面裹了一层木壳，看上去像木头，实际上是钢架结构。

     

杭平：我听你们讲美国跟新加坡园林的时候很强烈的感受是中国普通人好像跟园林没什么关系，没有什么太强的归属感。

     

江垚：华人群体真的是的，而且流芳园在加州，属于美西。我一直觉得美西跟美东的语境也不一样。

     

Taro 哲铭：南方北方我觉得区别也蛮大的，类似中国的南方和北方园林。

     

林浩东：我想起来在上海有一个园林特别有意思，那个园林在上海杨浦区的肺科医院，它比我去的一些景点园林要有意思。那个园林的（人）流量可能比一些正式的园林流量要多，因为那边有很多肺科的病人在散步，对它的使用率还是挺高的。

     

Taro 哲铭：我刚才也想说关于（人）流量的问题。其实流量最大的是中国以前钢厂里面的园林，它们大部分都做成中国古典园林的样子。比如说首钢里就有一个皇家园林，一个小中国园林，给工人们中午吃饭以及下班的时候提供一个休闲散步的空间。大部分国内当时的钢厂都会有一个工厂花园，花园大部分是以中国古典园林的形象作为参考版本。

     

江垚：刚刚杭平也有问到流芳园的使用情况，我当时是在想，是不是可它能就是个公园，这样跟日常人的使用其实是更接近的。像大都会的那个园林其实是个展品并不是公园。九十年代，纽约的Staten island上也建了一个园林，那个我觉得它就变成了一个公园。新加坡的那个中国园林，其实归属于新加坡国家公园的管辖，是国家公园的一部分。

     

杭平：我在想中国普通人或者那帮从事洗碗工作的中国移民，对于这种公园的参与感以及身份的连接性是很强地被建构出来的。毕竟他们本身可能也不参与其中，也不参与维护。更多地可能是中国的移民带一些

     

美国人来参观。我在德国去参观那个中式园林的时候，碰到一群人在那边玩日本Cosplay，后面有德国人看到我的时候问我是来自日本还是中国。听到你们中国的园林如何如何的时候我不是很舒服，又有点陌生的感觉，只能很无奈地说，好吧，这是中国的园林之类的，有种身份的割裂感。

     

江垚：潜园分享会的那个老奶奶写的一篇文章就是研究潜园成为一个Cosplay的场所空间。我觉得如果是华人的话，可能是更熟悉的符号吧，他们可能更经常会去那里，毕竟对比现在国内的园子都收门票，它没有门票，那么你能想进就进。国内不用收费的是公园，收费的话是园林。感觉现在国内公园是公园，园林是园林，如果真的说词的那个语境上来说。

     

Taro哲铭：加州这边收门票还挺贵的，说实话，但是来的人还是好多，大家都还是办了年卡的。

    

江垚：他们可能是当成公园散步。

    

Taro 哲铭：没有，其实到现在为止我特别不能理解的一点是，这个园林对我来说就是一个好看的公园，你可以一家来过个周末，但是这边的华人对它真的超投入，投入到那种让我其实不是特别的理解的程度。

    

杭平：像迪士尼吧。

   

Taro 哲铭：不，不是那种主题乐园，他们觉得这是我家的会客厅的那种感觉，大部分的游客其实都是普通人，并不是特别有钱的，我其实挺震惊的。国内最早这种风格的就是从杭州西湖那边开始的花岗观云公园嘛，它最后变成了带有中国文化符号的公共公园的一个趋势。但在美国的这个，我其实现在还不太能够理解他们的这种自豪感。

  

林浩东：可能越是在海外，越需要这种建构来当作一种寄托吧。

  

江垚：可能包括刚刚杭平说的那个，你觉得跟你要进入这种被建构的语境有没有关系，在加州的…

  

杭平：我说的迪士尼公园其实也是这个意思，倒不是说现在这个园林真的很有主题乐园的设置，它现在像听上去更像文化景观的样子。你进了就是中国人，回到了我母国景观的那种感觉。

  

Taro 哲铭：对，上周这边有一个中药的讲座，因为在中国园里新建了一个中药圃，来了一个美国的中医，他是第一个把中国中药品种带回美国培育的白人中医。那个讲座来了好多人，有美国人也有很多华人。大家在这边很需要中医的，而且对中医又非常地懂。在这边的华人可能要比在国内的华人更相信中医，或者对中医更加依赖，就是一个很神奇的状况。杭平你们还在做中医相关的项目吗？

  

杭平：对，我跟江垚还去那个中医那边看颈椎，医生给我们开养生汤说，一定要坚持用，后来们俩都没用，但是我们又要写这个中草药跟当地的关系时，其实也有一种很神奇的感觉，因为毕竟我们其实不是中医的受众。感受最深的一点是，我们其实不居住在那边，跟当地的医生不是保持着一个长期来往的关系，但中医他是很经验式的，他要首先了解你这个人，了解你的居住环境，外来的我估计他一时半会儿也看不了。他对那个地方常发生的病，有一些针对的草药，了解药性的情况下给你开服可能会有用。甚至我们在田野的时候，发现看病的人会跟医生说我要什么什么药，他说在哪边看到一个方子偏方挺有用的，可以试一下。中医不是一个现代医疗制度能够去理解的一个事情，是挺不一样的。

 

Taro 哲铭：我是湖北山区那边的，所以中医特别常见。我爷爷以前理论上应该还是中医世家。国内现在对于中医的不信任一定的程度上跟现代的中医教学有关。他是完全把西方的那一套西医培训模式替换过来，中医的传统教学现代化，因为传统的中医教学时间太久，并不符合现在的要求，不可能花十几年的时间做助手经验来学习经验，但完全用西方的医学培训的手段来培训中医可能会有一定的问题。西医是普遍通用型的，但是中医反而是针对个人。

 

杭平：听说现在很多中医院也不认识那野生的药材，不知道它在野外长什么样，可能也跟这种医疗教育的改变有关系吧。

 

Taro哲铭：现在是用化学在教中医，还挺神奇的。

 

杭平：一种很想要科学化，跟史学或者文学想要找一些科学例证的这个思路应该是一脉相承吧。

 

Taro 哲铭：但是史学里面这种跨知识体系，跨世界观的研究是不成立的，没办法把它进行量化或者比较研究。

 

杭平：好，那我们今天就先聊到这里。（完）

 

 

 

 

 

「 蔡哲铭 Taro」

 

加拿大多伦多大学景观博士候选人、《景观设计学》期刊栏目主持人。现就读于加拿大多伦多大学建筑、景观、设计系，研究方向为历史理论，主要专注于知识史、景观基础设施、文化景观以及批判性遗产研究。

 

「 植南门市部 」

是2021年建立的植物文化研究与在地创意行动团队。希望通过植物文化内容研究和植物创意活动策划，借由跨尺度和多媒介手段的知识体验，以植物的视角重构当代（城市）日常生活，重塑商业、文化与自然之间的联系。