In a follow-up to his Venice Biennale debut, Hong Kong artist Trevor Yeung returns to M+ with a new configuration of his commissioned solo exhibition. He talks to Jaz Kong about transforming empty fish tanks into poetic metaphors for human attachment – and detachment
Anyone who keeps pets – or plants, for that matter – will resonate deeply with Trevor Yeung’s exhibition at M+, Trevor Yeung: Courtyard of Detachments. This is the 2.0 version of his Hong Kong representation, Trevor Yeung: Courtyard of Attachments, Hong Kong in Venice, last year at the 60th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia (better known as the Venice Biennale). Continuing Yeung’s ongoing exploration of the (dis)connection between humans and nature, the works – whether in the attachment or detachment version – allow visitors to reflect on the instinct to nurture, the human desire for connection and the inevitable need to let go.
On display until October 12 in the Cissy Pui-Lai Pao and Shinichiro Watari Galleries, Trevor Yeung: Courtyard of Detachments is curated by Olivia Chow and features an extension – or an evolved version – Yeung’s Venice exhibition. Drawing inspiration from the abundant water surrounding the Italian city and childhood memories of his father’s Chinese-style seafood restaurant in China, Yeung has built a body of work around the concept of fish tanks. These include Pond of Never Enough, a water fountain made of fish tanks in an open area of the courtyard that typically serves as a seating and resting area for the public; Cave of Avoidance (Not Yours), a realistic yet abstract representation of Hong Kong’s iconic Goldfish Street; Rolling Gold Fountain and Gate of Instant Love. All the pieces together tell a Hong Kong tale through the metaphor of fish tanks, while encouraging visitors’ self-reflection.
Before diving into Yeung’s thoughts, it’s worth noting that he consistently describes himself as a lover of birds, goldfish and plants. During our interview, birdsong was a constant – and fitting – backdrop. Yeung traces his interest in fish back to his childhood, when he would spend summer holidays and long weekends at his father’s restaurant. “Other than eating, I spent most of my time staring at the outdoor fish tanks outside the main dining area, where they kept all the fresh seafood,” he says. “I’ve always found it fascinating that, although it was a big part of the restaurant, it was somehow detached from the main area where all the action took place – as if the fish tanks had their own intimate space. This inspired my later habit of keeping fish and other animals as pets – mainly smaller ones due to the very limited space in Hong Kong.
“The fish tanks at home became my sanctuary – a place where I could escape from reality. Especially when I was stressed about exams, I would take extra care of my fish. What I realised later is that how we care for our pets and plants reflects how we are as caretakers in the real world. If we take good care of the fish, they are supposed to live and grow happily.”
When Yeung received the invitation to the Venice Biennale, the first thing that came to mind was the similarity with Hong Kong – both are surrounded by water – even though the extent of reliance on water, as well as the climate, ecology and lifestyle, differ drastically. “Fish tanks are metaphors I often use in my artworks to explore human connections and our relationship with nature,” he explains. “Since there are no goldfish shops in Venice, I decided to build a narrative around them and bring that narrative to visitors in Venice.”
The artwork Pond of Never Enough in the courtyard acted as a reception area for visitors. “I wanted to recreate scenarios mimicking the fish tanks outside seafood restaurants in Hong Kong, as well as create an area where visitors could sit and rest. For the fountain part, we pumped water from the canals and then filtered it,” he adds. “There was a gate at the entrance. As people walked through it, it symbolised the start of building an attachment, much like when we walk into pet fish shops in Hong Kong looking for new pets. One highlight was Little Comfy Tornado (After Typhoon), which featured eight filtration systems for one small tank. Even though fish need water currents, imagine being a helpless little fish against eight filters – it would feel like living in a tornado, which is safe to say, a form of suffering.
“An overly protected system with water that is too clean is also not ideal for aquariums. When it’s too pure, the water lacks essential nutrients for the fish to survive. Stepping inside Cave of Avoidance (Not Yours) – the immersive part of the exhibition – took visitors back to the 1980s and 1990s of Hong Kong, as goldfish shops no longer use these nostalgic lights. I wanted to create a rather otherworldly experience for visitors, making them feel they were outside reality, one that time stopped at a certain point.”
Though fish tanks and aquariums are central to Yeung’s concept, no live fish are present in either the Venice or Hong Kong exhibitions. “This was a deliberate choice,” he explains. “When we look at the tanks, lined with reflective one-way mirrors, we often project our inner thoughts into the environment inside. How would the fish feel? Are they happy inside? What we are seeing is not the fish but ourselves. These fishless aquariums are metaphors for the social systems that govern our lives, and how we look at them symbolises how we act and live within such systems.”
M+’s Trevor Yeung: Courtyard of Detachments is similar to the Venice exhibition, except that the tanks are without water. There are several reasons for this. One is that Yeung often twists and turns his artworks into different chapters, continuing them in different places – such as his Soft Breath exhibition at Para Site Hong Kong last year, which was the second chapter of Soft Ground in London the year before and was followed by Soft Couch in China. Another reason is site-specific conditions.
“It was very different planning a show in the courtyard, which was less preserved, versus in a meticulously designed museum. Water was another factor – it was relatively easier to pump water into the artworks in Venice, which is quite impossible when the artworks are moved to M+,” Yeung says. “But the most important factor is that it’s easy for people to visit Goldfish Street in Hong Kong, so there’s no point in recreating it at M+. While the tanks are entirely empty, the sound of air pumps remains. For abandoned goldfish shops, since there’s no more water, water pumps disappear altogether, but air pumps that run on an independent system remain. I’m keeping the hissing sound as an echo of the different noises at the Venice venue, such as the sound of water currents and filters. The distorting mirrors are here to remind visitors to let go of their preset ways of seeing the world and visit the exhibition with a fresh perspective.”
Besides his artwork, Yeung is clever with wordplay. He notes that Courtyard of Detachments signals a sense of moving on after the Venice Biennale. “When we sense attachment issues in our lives, it is essential to learn to deal with them and detach. However, there’s a deeper meaning to the M+ exhibition in Chinese: while the word ‘detach’ itself conveys no emotion, the Chinese title has another layer of interpretation, meaning ‘please don’t go’. When something is over, how do we deal with it? How do we deal with ourselves and the emotions behind it? When a system stops running, what do we make of it? What will it become?”
While building attachments and then having to detach from them may seem cruel, Yeung believes it is a fundamental part of being human. “It is essential to a society or community,” he suggests. “We are required to connect with other people to create a system. No one can live without forming attachments to other people and things. In turn, there will inevitably be detachments. Even if we choose to live on an isolated island, there is still a conversation between the inside and outside of our bodies. Everything in this world is intertwined.”
However, much like the eight filtration systems inside one tiny fish tank, how we care is also integral to determining the quality of a relationship. Yeung explains that his devotion to his artwork stems from love. “I think I care a lot about the relationships between people in a society or community. However, the more we care, the harder it becomes to handle and maintain a ‘good’ relationship – and the definition of a ‘good’ or ‘ideal’ relationship is, in fact, very abstract.”
For Yeung, his pet fish, birds and plants are his way of detaching from the troubles of the world. “From a very young age, whenever there were things I couldn’t handle, I turned to caring for my pets and plants. It was my getaway,” he says. “When I turn these emotions into art, I feel the need to strive for a strong connection with my audience. Perhaps they won’t agree with me 100%, but everybody can resonate because no one can escape dealing with emotions in relationships, whether it’s a romantic one or one with family. This exhibition is exactly about that – about the process of resolving emotions.”
The word “connection” itself merely describes a matter-of-fact link between people and objects. However, it is when emotions are added that connections gain meaning – or that attachment becomes an issue. These issues often stem from our own strong will and failure to consider the perspective of others. On this note, Yeung shares a story from his kindergarten days: “When you walk past the pet fish shops on Goldfish Street, you often see tiny fish trapped in individual transparent plastic bags – even those meant as food for bigger fish. When I was small, I used to feel sorry for them, and I tried to ‘rescue’ a fish by poking open its bag. I carried it in my palms and took it with me on the minibus home. Obviously, the fish died because of my actions. I grew up to understand that it was illegal, but this memory has stuck with me for over 30 years.
“That’s how I know how traumatising it is to see a life fade away in my own hands – all because of what I thought would be good for it. This was one of the things that inspired me to create these artworks in Venice and M+, about life, attachment issues and the value of life.” The photographic work The Stealth That Doesn’t Hurt/The Scratch That Doesn’t Help echoes this story. It also reflects on other examples, such as the animal-release activities commonly practised in Hong Kong culture.
However, speaking as an avid pet owner and as a human being, Yeung admits that emotions and feelings are rarely singular. Instead, they are outcomes of complex events. When we discuss whether keeping pets is an act of humans taking control of an animal’s life, Yeung does not provide a definitive answer. However, he acknowledges that the “value” of a pet’s life has evolved significantly over the past few decades. “When we were young, if our pet fish died, our parents would simply ask us to flush it down the toilet. Nowadays, there is more recognition of proper burials and goodbyes,” he says.
“I don’t think I’ll keep new pets when my current ones pass away in the future. But as long as I’ve decided to keep them, I’ve taken up the responsibility and built a relationship with them. What’s left for me to do is to provide them with the best life within my ability. But my definition of ‘the best’ might differ from other people’s ways. There is no definite answer. However, what’s certain is that people today have more empathy than before. Improvements can be seen in moral issues. For example, in Sweden, strict regulations require owners to prepare a certain minimum-sized cage for hamsters, and for some animals, you must keep at least two so they have companionship.”
While Yeung does not wish to provide straightforward answers to his audience on moral issues or the value of life, he believes it is beneficial for humans to keep pets, particularly in Hong Kong. “People in Hong Kong are very far removed from nature,” he explains. “We live in a city, and even though we might sometimes visit the country parks, we are still very detached from nature. One of the easiest ways to bond with nature is through pets. For example, if you have dogs at home, their coats – or rather the shedding of their coats – often indicate seasonal changes better than any thermometer or weather forecast.”
So what exactly is our relationship with nature? How attached or detached are we from it? Yeung shares his thoughts: “For one, I think the so-called ‘nature’ in Hong Kong is often very man-made. Even when you go hiking or visit country parks, it’s still very different from immersing yourself in forests. Hiking often involves following a path that is well managed or organised. If you break away from the pathways, you might need a search-and-rescue team to find you. The second thing is that we are constantly trying to mimic and recreate nature. Whether it’s the aquatic plant layouts or the shapes of bonsai plants, where we violently twist the plants to imitate the shapes of old trees, humans deliberately control and create a ‘nature’ that is ‘suitable’ for the plants – and take it as a challenge.”
Also see: Singapore artist Heman Chong: the edges of meaning
