MAN SI: SKIN IN LIMBO

Interviewed by Curator Jims Lam

Jims Lam (J): 你以前的畫作裡經常出現那些被遮掩的人像，而這次在《⽪隙之境》中，卻加入了比較明確的形象——像是人偶、稻草人、烏鴉的剪影。你覺得這是一種風格上的轉變，還是延續之前的方向，只是用了另一種視覺語言去說故事？

Man Si (M): 我一直把創作歷程想像成一個漏斗——一開始很闊，自由探索，慢慢收窄，然後又再擴展。早期我不設限制，只畫自己感興趣的題材，試不同材料和技法。經過反覆堆疊與篩選，才找到最順手、最合適的語言。

Portrait 系列便是這樣形成的。我觀察自身在不同環境之下互相拉扯的情感和心理張力，記錄一個人從怎樣看待自我到回應環境影響。表象之下是我一直關注的層面，更多是在釐清一種難以明狀的狀態。

隨著經驗累積，我開始聚焦特定符號，比如人偶、稻草人、烏鴉，這些來自我對香港日常觀察的象徵。當符號變得清晰，我反而放慢節奏，讓作品自己生長，進入另一種擴展的狀態。

我不太預設結果。與其為每個細節找合理解釋，不如從中保留閱讀與感受空間，這樣一來無論對創作者或觀眾都能提供持續摸索與延伸的可能性。

J: 《⽪隙之境》展出於一個以纖維紙打造的繭狀空間，這種場域設定營造出明確的氛圍。是什麼契機讓你想到要這樣處理展場？你認為這如何影響觀眾與繪畫之間的關係？

M: 當知道要在 Square Street 展出時，我很快就決定要把那個畫廊空間轉化成一個和外界隔絕的「繭」。那是一個夾在大廈中間、被環境壓迫的小空間，我覺得如果能把它變成另一個維度的空間——安靜、封閉、帶有過渡氣氛——會更貼近我這次作品的核心。

我一直對 liminal space 有興趣，那些模糊、不確定、介乎之間的狀態。這種灰色地帶，不只出現在畫面上，也延伸到展覽空間的設定。我想創造一種氛圍，讓觀眾不只是觀看畫，而是進入作品的狀態裡，這也是我與音樂人Carson合作編織展場聲效的原因。

「Cocoon」這個設定，本身就象徵着階段性與變化。就像毛蟲在繭中等待蛻變成蝴蝶，它代表的是過渡期——不穩定、暫時，但也潛藏着希望與成長的可能。我知道我的作品常被認為偏暗，但我其實覺得它們是樂觀的，因為它們強調：這只是「過程」。

而在物料選擇上，我延續這些年以紙本作品為創作基調的核心。這次用的是來自雲南少數民族以樹皮製成的紙張包覆展覽空間。每一張質感獨特，自然、粗糙，帶著有機的生命感。這些紙張不只是媒介，也成為營造「繭」空間的物質基礎。

我從繪畫科出身，但畢業後曾感到迷失，於是放下油畫，回到紙本創作。這個轉變成為我探索內在潛意識的方式。每一次創作紙本作品，都像是一次和自己對話的過程。我不畫草圖，而是任由圖像自然浮現，讓它們帶領我走向下一步。這樣的創作習慣，一直延續至今，也成為我定義創作方向的重要方法。

J: 你的繪畫常傾向寓言式表達而非具體敘事。有很多留白，故事不說死，也很少明確指向某個意思。你是怎樣看待這種模糊性？觀眾有自己的解讀，對你來說重要嗎？

M: 我從沒刻意處理作品中的「模糊性」或「非確定性」，只是創作久了回頭看，才發現自己一直有這樣的傾向。對我而言，真誠才是關鍵——當你誠實面對自己，自然會顯現出來。刻意反而會限制作品的發展。

現在對我最重要的，是如何理解「繪畫」這個媒介。一張畫布對我而言，就像一扇門，一旦打開，就能通往另一個空間——可能是心靈的、也可能是物理上的。作為畫家，我的工作就是建構那道門背後的空間。

觀眾如何閱讀這個空間，我是開放的，對我而言，互動比詮釋更重要。當觀眾有所回應，就代表我搭建出一個可以進入的空間。我不需要他們的詮釋和我的一樣，重要的是，那幅畫能在我之外繼續活下去。

顏色與畫中的符號並不是純粹的美學選擇，而是說故事的工具。它們幫我傳遞某些訊息，但我選用它們，是為了清晰與共鳴，而不是情緒堆疊。

我從不完全主導畫面，而是讓它回應我。創作時，我與畫布之間的關係就像一場舞——一步步來，一筆筆應對。當畫完成，我就退場。那場舞會延續下去，只是換成觀眾加入，與作品繼續共舞。

J: 你會將繪畫視為日常習慣的一部分，還是依情緒驅動、較為偶發的狀態？你的一天大概是怎麼與繪畫相處的？

M: 我沒有固定的作畫作息——某程度上，那正是我的節奏。每天的狀態都不同，視乎我正在處理的作品。我不是那種朝九晚五的藝術家，繪畫對我來說不是可以硬逼出來的，它需要高度的情感集中。我不可能每天都畫。當我真的進入狀態時，整個過程通常是短促但非常濃烈的，情緒上也很消耗。

我的創作很受情緒驅動，但長期依賴這種方式其實很耗人，所以近年我開始思考如何建立一種比較健康、平衡的節奏——讓我能保留創作時的張力，同時維持長遠的實踐狀態。

我也習慣讓作品停留一段時間。有時候一幅畫會被擱置幾個月，只是讓它靜靜地在我身邊，讓潛意識慢慢醞釀下一步。我不會刻意推進，有些突破反而是在半夢半醒之間突然浮現。這些停下來觀察、靜靜相處的時刻，對我來說，其實和真正落筆一樣重要。

J: 家庭、文化、地理環境這些因素，有沒有影響你作為藝術家的發展？這些經歷是否塑造了你選擇材料、題材，或繪畫的方式？

M: 某程度上，對我創作影響最大的是童年中藝術的「缺席」。我的家庭與藝術毫無交集——沒有語言、沒有期待，甚至連一點點好奇心都沒有。但這樣的空白，反而變成一種自由。沒有東西可以依循，我就只能自己走出路、自己發問。久而久之，那種毫無結構的狀態反而變成了我創作的某種架構——由直覺、迂迴與自我引導所建構出來。我的藝術實踐不是被傳統塑造的，而是被它留下的沉默所形塑。

文化上，我的背景也是模糊的。我在香港長大，但家中並不遵循任何傳統——節日、生日幾乎都不慶祝。我長大後才知道原來過年拜年要帶禮物。這種儀式感的缺失，讓我一直在問：「什麼才算真正屬於一個地方？」這些疑問，後來就變成了《⽪隙之境》的創作根源。香港本身也是一種矛盾體——骨子裡是東方，行為卻相當西化，一直在系統、語言與價值之間游移。我也帶著這樣的「中間狀態」生活，一種流動的身份感。

我總是習慣獨處，也深陷於網路世界。我喜歡「靜止不動，讓好奇心往外擴張」的這個念頭。我會花幾小時不停搜尋影片、圖像、文字，現在甚至包括與 AI 對話。這樣的習慣訓練我經由「畫框」的方式來看世界，讓意義從中慢慢展開。對我來說，繪畫也是這樣：一個框起來的空間，可以向外延伸得很遠。

至於材料，我幾乎什麼都試過——粉彩、塑膠彩、油彩、礦物顏料。我花了好幾年去研究中日傳統繪畫的天然顏料與技法，不只是學技術，更去理解當中的文化語境。我很被這些歷史重量所吸引，但同時也學會鬆手，不讓它們變成束縛。現在我比較能隨作品選擇合適的材料，而不是讓材料決定我該怎麼創作。

Jims Lam (J): Your earlier works often featured partially obscured portraits, while Skin in Limbo introduces more defined figures—mannequins, scarecrows, raven silhouettes. What prompted this shift in imagery? Do you see it as a departure from your earlier work, or a continuation of those concerns through a new visual language?

Man Si (M): I often see an artist’s journey as a funnel—starting wide with exploration, narrowing into focus, and then opening up again. In my early work, I let myself roam freely, trying different materials and subjects without locking into any one theme.

That’s how I arrived at portraits. I observe the emotional and psychological tensions that pull at me in different environments; how I see myself, and how I respond to the external. What lies beneath the surface has always been my focus: I’m trying to clarify a state of mind that’s difficult to define or articulate.

With Skin in Limbo, I feel I’ve entered that narrower point in the funnel. I’m more ready to commit to certain symbols—mannequins, scarecrows, ravens—not because I set out to use them, but because they naturally surfaced from my daily life and surroundings in Hong Kong. They carry both personal and cultural resonance.

Now, I feel things opening up again. I’ve learned not to over-plan. When everything is pre-justified, the work can become rigid, even defensive. I’m more interested in letting meaning unfold on its own—leaving space for ambiguity and discovery.

J: Skin in Limbo is staged within a cocoon-like space made of dense fibre paper, which sets a very particular tone. What drew you to this installation format, and how do you see it shaping the way viewers experience the paintings?

M: From the moment I knew the exhibition would take place at Square Street, I was drawn to the idea of fully enclosing the space—transforming it into something inward, sealed, almost like a cocoon suspended inside the building. The gallery itself is already compressed, hidden within layers of architecture, and I wanted to heighten that sense of disconnection—to create a space that feels set apart from the outside world, as if stepping into another dimension. Not a fantastical or eerie one, but a space where time softens and perception shifts.

That enclosure became deeply tied to the ideas in Skin in Limbo. The show explores liminal states—those grey zones between identities, between clarity and ambiguity, between stillness and change. A cocoon is not static. It’s a fragile container for transformation. It holds the discomfort of becoming. That felt right—for the mood I was painting, and for the emotional tension I wanted the viewer to enter.

Materially, I chose to build the environment with handmade bark paper from the Dai minority in Yunnan. Each sheet is slightly different—textured, fibrous, irregular, like skin. Paper has always played a central role in my practice. After art school, I stepped away from canvas and oil for a while. I felt lost, disconnected from the ways I had been taught to make. Returning to paper allowed me to loosen control, to draw intuitively, to let images surface without over planning. That process became a way to navigate myself, and it continues to shape how I build both images and environments.

So this cocoon wasn’t just a setting—it was an extension of the paintings. It doesn’t just contain them, it holds the same ambiguity, the same weight and breath. It pulls the viewer inward, into the same limbo the works quietly inhabit.

J: Your paintings often lean toward allegory over explicit storytelling, inviting open interpretation. How do you approach ambiguity in your work? Is it important to you that viewers project their own meanings onto the images?

M: I’ve never consciously set out to create ambiguity in my work. It’s something I’ve only recognized by looking back—realizing that I’ve always gravitated toward images that resist certainty. I think if you’re honest in your process, and working from an inner place, that ambiguity happens naturally. Trying to control it too much just limits what a painting can become.

To me, a painting is like a door—a portal, almost like Doraemon’s “anywhere door.” It opens onto another space: psychological, emotional, sometimes even spiritual. My role is to build that space within the frame. The subject matter forms its structure—the bones—and everything else.

What matters most is whether the viewer feels drawn in—whether the space invites them to enter, to feel something unexpected or personal. I don’t need their interpretation to match mine. What matters is that the painting continues to live beyond me. Colour and symbolic elements aren’t aesthetic choices—they’re storytelling tools. They help me say something, but they’re chosen for clarity and resonance, not sentimentality. It’s a kind of dance between me and the canvas—step by step, move by move. When the painting is done, I step aside. That dance continues with the viewer.

J: Do you view painting as a habitual practice, almost like a routine, or is it episodic and mood-driven for you? What does your process look like from day to day?

M: I don’t have a fixed routine—and that’s my routine. Each day looks different depending on what I’m working on, and I’ve never been the kind of artist who can stick to a strict schedule. For me, painting isn’t something I can force. The process is intense and requires full emotional focus, so I can’t paint every day or for long stretches at a time. When I paint, it’s very concentrated—quick, emotionally charged, and often exhausting.

My work is definitely mood-driven, but I’ve realized that relying solely on that can be unsustainable in the long run. It can burn you out. So recently, I’ve been thinking about how to build some kind of rhythm—a healthier, more balanced way to sustain both the intensity of my process and the demands of a long-term practice.

I also give my paintings time. I’ll often leave a piece unfinished for months, just living with it, letting my subconscious work through what’s next. I don’t push it. Sometimes the breakthrough comes unexpectedly, like when I’m half-awake. That quiet time—stepping back, observing—is just as essential as the act of painting itself.

J: How has your background—cultural, familial, or geographical—shaped your development as a painter? Do these roots influence how you engage with materials, subjects, or the act of painting itself?

M: In many ways, the greatest influence on my practice was the quiet absence of art in my upbringing. My family had no connection to it—no language for it, no expectations, not even curiosity. But that emptiness turned into freedom. With nothing to follow, I had to invent my own paths, ask my own questions. Over time, that unstructured space became its own kind of architecture—one built from intuition, detours, and self-direction. I wasn’t shaped by tradition, but by the silence it left behind.

Culturally, my background feels like a blur. I grew up in Hong Kong, but my household didn’t follow traditions—we barely celebrated holidays or birthdays. I didn’t know you were supposed to bring gifts for Lunar New Year visits until I was much older. That absence of ritual left me wondering what it really means to be “from” somewhere. Those questions eventually shaped Skin in Limbo. Hong Kong itself is a kind of paradox—Eastern in its roots, Western in behaviour, always negotiating between systems, languages, and values. That in-between-ness, that fluid identity, is something I carry with me.

I’ve also always been a solitary, internet-obsessed person. I loved the idea of staying still while letting curiosity expand outward. I’d spend hours researching—through videos, images, text, and now, even conversations with AI. It trained me to approach the world through a frame and let meaning unfold outward. That’s how I see painting too: a framed space that opens into something much larger.

Material-wise, I’ve tried everything—from pastels and acrylics to oils and mineral pigments. I spent years studying traditional Chinese and Japanese methods—not just the techniques, but the cultural stories embedded in them. I’m drawn to that weight, but I also let go of the rigidity. Now, I feel more at ease choosing the materials that suit each project, rather than letting them define me.

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