'In a foreign land, in China' by Edward Sanderson

This piece is not a complaint about how tough the life of a non-Chinese speaker is in China, the futility of which would simply reveal the sheer hopelessness of the speaker’s position. Instead this piece begins to articulate the position of productivity that non-Chinese speakers take up and—from my personal point of view—a little of how it affects day-to-day structures of the Chinese art-world.

To go back to my beginnings: I came to live and work in Beijing in 2007 with little knowledge of the Chinese language and culture. Since then, formally (by studying) and informally (by living here), I am learning Chinese all the time, but this an ongoing and lengthy process. I am continually reminded I am still a “beginner,” even after three years.

Without a certain level of skill in the local language I will always be missing something. A friend once invited me to a round-table discussion at an artist’s studio. I have since realised this artist is a well-known Chinese calligrapher who hosts meetings with fellow artists and academics on subjects they feel are important. Although I had no strong connection to the group taking part in this event, and into which I was dropped as one of only two non-Chinese, the participants were very friendly and invited me to take part in the discussion. As this was in Chinese I was very much on the outside and could only contribute what I remember to be facile platitudes. I feel grateful that an effort was made to welcome me and I am happy to accept the generosity at face value. But I am also aware that there was a complex group dynamic at this event, in which I had some kind of symbolic value as a non-Chinese participant. The true significance of this though was lost on me.

In situations such as this, I do see my disconnection based on language as a problem, and it is very frustrating for me. The dealings that I feel most comfortable with are necessarily with those who can speak a certain amount of English. Levels of English-language skills vary, so my interactions range from a stilted interchanges on simple subjects, to (apparently) fluid conversation. Even with the luxury of a translator, the delay inherent in the process of translation changes the nature of the relationship with the other person (as well as the information communicated) (and that’s without recognising the variable quality of translators…).

My own lamentable laziness encourages me to gravitate towards people based on shared backgrounds or languages. But this is natural and not necessarily a problem. A problem would be to see this grouping as somehow complete or hegemonic – to never see beyond it. I must always bear in mind there are others not within my particular group, and from which another viewpoint can be gained. One should always be aware of the provenance of any source of information, to understand its scope and limitations. It is a problem if one group (in this case based on language) becomes the main arbiter of an idea (say, of “Chinese contemporary art”).

Professionally, I write about Chinese contemporary art – but what am I writing about if I cannot speak Chinese? I believe that talking directly to artists about their work is essential to learning about them. But there is a whole swathe of people I simply cannot do this with because of the language barrier. There are also ideas that I do not have access to because of this. In terms of creativity, I believe that it is in the nature of particular expressions in art, literature, etc. to suit one language and not another, and there is plenty of philosophy and theory (and experience) to tell us that translation is a fraught process.

This does not stop me writing though, or seeing a value in what I do: I try to stay aware of my limitations and they do not necessarily invalidate my statements.

If I want to work in China, and I want to work in a way that draws on the surroundings in as complete a way as possible, it is my responsibility to communicate with as wide a range of people as possible. I know this is a never-ending task, but holding the ideal in mind is essential to avoid limiting myself to a particular group, or the particular ways of expressing a situation that are available in English.

Yes, language is a problem for me, and I am always fighting its limitations, but to be fair I have the same issues with my native tongue! One needs to define what is meant by "problem" in any given context: what can one live with and what is unacceptable?

Language can act as a barrier, leading to exclusion from a conversation. To counter this, common ground must be found. The straightforward, but impractical answer is for us all to learn the other side’s language. Another is to adopt a third language common to both. But it is unreasonable to expect the world to communicate in a single language, and I think the world would be a poorer place if that were the case. There is no immediate solution to this “problem.”

The idea of “ghettoisation” based on language, is based on the premise that language barriers and problems with communications are a bad thing. They can certainly cause problems, however I’d politely object: I feel the “slips” and breakages in communication between languages are precisely where a possibility for creativity occurs.

On a day-to-day basis I may rage against the restrictions I have put myself under by living and working in an environment in which my communication is limited. But I have to recognise the opportunities that this position outside of a fluid state of communication has given me. This position might be said to be a “particular perspective,” meaning I can add something back into the cultural landscape.

但我如果不讲中文，我又在写什么呢？

——Edward SANDERSON，中文名李霭德，策展人、作家、艺术评论家，1970年出生于英国伦敦西郊的新莫尔登镇，2007年与中国太太一起定居北京。

这里并非要抱怨一个不讲中文的人在中国的艰难生活，这不过是简单揭露抱怨者绝望处境的徒劳而已。反而，这里要说明的恰是不懂中文者所占据的生产力位置——它如何影响了中国艺术界的日常结构。

我的故事是这样开始的：2007年我在对中国语言和文化几乎一无所知的状态下，来到北京。那之后我开始学习中文，但这是一个持续性的漫长过程。我不断地被提醒自己仍是个“初学者”，哪怕是在三年之后。在还没有熟练掌握本地语言的情况下，我总会遗漏或错失掉一些东西。一次一位朋友邀请我去一个艺术家工作室参加圆桌讨论。到了那儿我才意识到这位艺术家是中国很有名的书法家，他同艺术家朋友和学者一起就他们认为的重要话题展开讨论。尽管我同这个活动中的群体没什么紧密联系（我也是仅有的两个外国人之一），他们还是友好地邀请我加入讨论。因为大家只说中文，我被置之事外，顶多只能贡献一点温和的陈词滥调罢了。我感激他们对我表露出的欢迎，但也意识到了这个活动中人员身份的复杂，其中我被作为一个“外国参与者”而具有了象征价值。但我真正有意义的部分却遗失了。

在类似这样的场合中，我将由语言引起的交流“脱节”看作一个甚为恼人的问题。因对方英语水平的不同，我的互动从就简单话题的呆板交流到酣畅的深入探讨，各种情况都有。即便在有翻译的情况下，翻译过程所带来的延迟也会改变同另一个人（及所传递的信息）之间的关系（这还没有把翻译者参差的质量考虑进去）。我自己可悲的惰性促使我去接近那些具有相同背景和语言的人。这很自然，但如果将这种小圈子化当成是既定的或不可超越的，如果一个圈子的人成为一种思想的主要裁决者，那就会有问题。我必须一直在脑中想着还有其他人不在我的圈子之内，他们可能有着不同的观点。一个人必须时常意识到信息源的发端，理解其范围和局限。

我的工作是写作关于中国当代艺术的文章——但我如果不讲中文，我又在写什么呢？的确，语言对我来讲是个问题，我一直都在同这个局限挣扎，不过说实话，我也一直在同我的母语斗争！而且，这些局限未必能取消我言论的有效性。由语言引起的小团体“聚居”（ghettoisation）这一说法，其前提是语言障碍和交流中的语言问题是一件坏事——但我却友好地反对：我感到交流中不同语言间的“滑动”和破碎正是创造性的可能发生之处。我要承认处在这个流畅沟通之外的位置上所提供给我的机会。这个位置或可称为“特定视角”，意味着我可以反过来给这片文化风景加入些什么。（陈韵 | 译）

Reproduced with kind permission of 艺术世界 (Art World Magazine)