【延伸‧異讀──《別字》x楊東龍】橘之汽油

洪昊賢

多了這麼一個興趣，阿叔平淡的生活開始有改變了。車房的鐵閘愈來愈早拉下，阿叔對人也好像沒那麼惡死了。

車房(局部)
2018-2019
Oil on canvas
200 X 148cm

阿叔喜歡橙色。店門口的鐵閘，身上的工作服都是橙色，橙之中還帶點經久的污黑與皺褶，像過熟的橘子。

阿叔修車十幾年，在這區早已響哂朵。阿叔惡形惡相，不愛說話，有時在門口站久了，就會對你眼超超。附近的人都不知道阿叔甚麼底細，只覺他是怪人一個。仔細點看，阿叔很像廟裡的那些神將雕像，甚麼關公、阿修羅，護法廿四諸天之類的。看上去不太好惹，年輕的時候想必是幹過甚麼大事的。

附近幾條街的車房不少，阿叔的修車技術也算不上最好，偏偏這間破破舊舊的，還有道橙色鐵閘的古怪車房最多人光顧。阿叔平日都是黑口黑面，語氣不善，你多問幾句，他就會叫你去第二間。人就是這樣，他態度愈差，你就會愈覺得他不憂做：這個師傅手勢一定好，老實又賣力，其實阿叔只是純粹脾氣不好。客仔們這個介紹那個，時間一久，竟也拉了不少熟客。附近的車房要麼易手，要麼變成其他鋪頭，只有阿叔的那道橙色鐵閘每天依時拉下。

於是阿叔隨便修修，這就十幾年，始料未及的好生意，阿叔很快就儲了一筆足以退休的財富。於是問題又來了，阿叔他無仔無女，老豆老母早已過身，無特殊嗜好。如果把車房關了，退休之後實在不知道有甚麼好做，只得繼續臭著脾氣開車房。

阿叔覺得好悶。餘生恐怕只剩這個破舊車房，而且他也不打算再找個老伴甚麼的，阿叔想到這些心情就會煩躁起來。車房的生意好像一直都不錯，但阿叔覺得有點累了，除了某幾個光顧多年的熟客，阿叔對其他人都沒甚麼好面色，一副明顯趕客的樣子。阿叔有想過要不要試著培養一些愛好，比如說下棋或行山之類的，但他生性孤僻，又不願到社區中心和人結伴，很快就打消了念頭。

車房的橙色鐵閘在色調黯淡的社區中顯得尤其搶眼。偶爾會有些無所事事的文藝青年，拿著他們的貴價菲林相機，特地跑到阿叔的鋪頭前拍照。好幾次阿叔落閘的時候，都看到他們鬼鬼祟祟地聚在對面街，阿叔不禁暗罵無聊，還會惡狠狠地盯他們一眼。

某日早上，阿叔準備拉閘開店，卻在地上發現了幾張菲林照片，想必是那些街拍青年不小心掉下來的。阿叔撿起來看了一眼，發現這些照片要麼拍得迷迷濛濛，完全看不到線條和色塊，要麼就完全失焦。他不懂這些是時興的拍法，他只覺得這些照片簡直是嘥菲林。

幾天之後，阿叔自己跑到旺角的菲林相機鋪買了一台回來。他自己也說不清楚到底為甚麼會對拍照有興趣。反正人到了這個歲數，剩下最多的就是時間。於是他有事沒事就周圍拍一下，一開始拍些山山水水，後來也試著學那些夜青們在街上晃蕩，拍些後巷街貓甚麼的。

多了這麼一個興趣，阿叔平淡的生活開始有改變了。車房的鐵閘愈來愈早拉下，阿叔對人也好像沒那麼惡死了。跟他打個招呼或者說些甚麼閒話，心情好的話他會應你兩聲。每次經過都會看到他在擺弄自己的那些相機：大型座架、傻瓜機、哈蘇機。阿叔愈買愈多，愈買愈貴，擺到整個車房都是，熟客們都覺得驚奇。有時心情好的話，阿叔可能會給你展示他的那些黑白照片，全是輪廓清晰的人像，或者具體的建築物。他會跟你講這條街，這個人，這棟樓的故事，你會驚訝這個身上沾著油污，惡形惡相的阿叔，原來懂得這麼多。

阿叔後來不知怎的不再拍照，反而開始畫油畫。你走進車房，會聞到油彩和汽油交雜的古怪味道，會看到破掉的車軚和顏料盤放在一起，還有倒後鏡、車頭燈、幾幅未乾的畫。阿叔的車房，偶爾會令你覺得像某個仍未整理好的藝術展覽現場，有時又會有種凌亂不堪的生活氣息。他開始不再對經過的人眼超超，要是你多望兩眼，甚至發出讚嘆，你會發現阿叔的嘴角就會開始上揚。

往後他總是不在，已經很少在車房見到他。車房裡時常會有一個東南亞人神情呆滯地坐著，也不知道是否合法勞工。反正車房還是天天開著，但門口已經貼上不再修車的告示。車房裡的畫不時會換，阿叔畫的東西，還是那些輪廓清晰的物事，某棟樓，某些人像，某個街道，某些物件。

那個東南亞人時常一個人坐著，看上去很悶。他喜歡吃橘子，橘子皮卻老是掉到地上。橘子的甜和汽油的刺鼻味道混合在一起，很細微，但你走近車房一定會聞到，很古怪又很難忘。

如果意念是一片海是一列標記

黃湲婷

回到森宮野原已是深夜，黑暗中有一部自動販賣機亮著光。我們銘刻場所、支柱、記憶與思想的方式，全都有了一點點改變。

I.

人在外地的時候，從一地移動到另一地的過程我往往記不清楚。準備行程、收拾行李、通過安檢……全都像開啟了自動駕駛，印象模糊一片。我需要的資訊僅僅是一堆數字：航班／列車／巴士編號、出發時間、閘口／航廈／追蹤號碼。從前經常定期去南韓，我清楚記得移動會將人放到屬於自己的位置──身為不諳當地語言的異鄉人，我沒法理解周遭發生甚麼事，但城市人對現代都市的了解足以讓我順利抵達目的地。越後之旅帶給我的感覺也相類，只是也許沒有去首爾或光州時那麼強烈。那時去韓國，我總是快要遲到，匆忙趕場的感覺像一次又一次被掌摑。隨著我搭上前往東京的班機、往東京車站的列車、往越後湯澤的火車、往逆卷的巴士，日光的色調逐漸改變，變得更空靈、豐滿而奇異。抵達越後的36小時前，我才剛剛長了一歲，仍然沉浸在終於正式老了一歲的興奮中，而且鬆了一口氣。［為何鬆一口氣］每搭上一程車，我就終於獨自一人，但願也找到自處的方法。前往逆卷的最後一程巴士在新潟山間開鑿的隧道裡飛馳的時候，我忖道，交通確實能將人安放在屬於自己的位置，有時候甚至能重設參考框架。

那時我甚至還沒看到藝術品。

II.

藍天染上一抹粉紅的時分，你在稻田邊蹲下來，我也蹲在你身旁，聽着你解釋為何稻田有些地方是金黃色的，有些卻比較青綠。你說，樹冠擋住了某些位置的陽光，所以那裡的稻米成熟得較慢。你給我們說明灌溉系統的運作；三年前剛開墾這片稻田時，你做的第一件事就是尋找天然水源，把它引來斜坡上這一小片與世隔絕的田地。你帶我們走到灌溉池。我感到腳掌下鬆軟的泥土緩緩滲着水。一個這麼簡單的裝置竟能澆灌一整塊田，我實在大吃一驚，同時藏在我內心的城市人當然也有點擔心自己在潮濕的泥土上滑倒，摔個人仰馬翻。你領著我們走下山坡去看菜園。山坡並不算很陡，但因為泥土濕濕的，我總還是覺得會跌倒。愈往下走泥土便愈硬，我們每走一步都試著刮掉鞋底的軟泥。菜園的作物不是一排排而是一圈圈的。這樣建灌溉池會容易一點，你說。而且也更好看，每個轉角都有驚喜。經過每一種植物，你都充滿自豪地介紹它們的名字：甘藍、芥蘭、香草、苦瓜、蕃茄、茄子。我喜歡苦瓜細長的樣子，手感非常複雜，還有那些光滑、圓滾滾的茄子。苦瓜藤和蕃茄藤沿着棚架攀緣，又像是伸長了手要夠着最後一點陽光。在這裡逛，記得盡量多嚐幾種蕃茄，太多了我們收割不完，你說。逛菜園的時候，我留神不要吃掉重複的品種──每一個形狀都不同，每一個都泛著不同層次的紅寶石色澤。我知道這沒甚麼奇怪，但發現它們味道各異，我還是很驚訝。沿著菜園彎曲的小徑走，我努力不讓臉上的微笑太明顯──太高興了，想吃多少蕃茄都可以。

III.

你掏出相機朝向天空，天上延燒著一片橙、粉紅和藍色。較早前你向著房子頂樓一扇窗戶舉起相機，窗外是怡人的藍天白雲。正午剛過的陽光實在太刺眼了，似乎沒那麼吸引。我們乘穿梭巴士來往不同的展覽場地，雙眼不斷適應在黑暗與白日間擺盪的光線，我差點要吐。我們住在展覽場地樓上的小閣樓，那裡展出了一系列照片，重現報紙上背對鏡頭的人的姿勢。每天早上七點半到八點左右義工就會到來，我之所以知道，是因為趟門打開了。接下來無論你醒了沒有，Dyson吸塵機都會大舉進場，鬧鐘般提醒你：儘管身處新潟縣與長野縣交界的信濃川畔鄉村，無孔不入的現代科技及其市場營銷總會如影隨形。有時一整天下來，幾乎沒有人說過話。參觀者通常只會講日語，閒聊也不是這麼容易。有時到了入夜時分，門終於關上，你看來便鬆一口氣。我還記得屋後那條多風的小徑旁邊的向日葵。我最喜歡清晨時分欣賞攝影作品，最好是還沒有人進來的時候。真人大小的照片掛在我視線上方，我站在照片前，很好奇主角的原型當時看見了甚麼，重現這些姿勢的藝術家在工作室創作時又看見甚麼。我想是不是在黑暗與光明間持續穿梭使我們目盲，因而往往對彼此技藝視而不見。背離眼目、視線、光源，是不是比較容易？我們看不見的，是不是總比隱約看見的更有意思？若我們將目光投向光源，是不是就會產生幻覺？我憶起刺膚的灼熱，還有踏出門外剎那間眩目的光，那時我會沿著小徑走到屋後，看向日葵朝夏日的太陽伸展。

IV.

你說沒興趣乘巴士參觀荒山野嶺冒出來的藝術品，更別說乘遊覽車了。我們不會開車，連去哪兒也沒得選擇，你說。我聳聳肩，心裡想著等會兒要搭的火車會怎樣穿過貫穿山林的壯麗隧道。我們走上森宮野原的車站乘遊覽車，那邊豎立了一座碑石似的地標，宣佈該鎮每年的降雪量。我們從那兒搭上小火車前往十日町，再轉乘下午兩點的旅遊巴。火車穿過新潟山陵開鑿出來的隧道時，我一邊嚼著香蕉，一邊思忖著交通有時將人安放在屬於自己的位置，有時重設我們的參考框架。我思考這一切怎樣套用到垂直發展的城市，人本尺度跟我們的理解又有怎麼樣的關係。回到森宮野原已是深夜，黑暗中有一部自動販賣機亮著光。我們銘刻場所、支柱、記憶與思想的方式，全都有了一點點改變。

(徐晞文 譯)

Landmarks Of Our Minds

I.

Sometimes when I go on trips I do not remember the process of getting from one place to another so well. The steps of preparing for a trip, the packing, the security checks, all becomes part of an auto-pilot that just switches on and it all becomes a blur. The bear minimum information that I need are all number related: flight/train/bus number, departure times, gate/terminal/track number. When I used to travel regularly and frequently to South Korea, I remember clearly how the process of getting from one place to another was a process in which one was put into one’s rightful place – a foreigner, an individual that lacks the language skills to make sense of what is happening around you, and yet an urban dweller that has enough understanding of the modern urban world to make your way through and to your destination. This journey to Echigo had a similar effect, although perhaps a little less violent as compared my trips to Seoul and Gwangju. I was always sort of running late in those trips to Korea, the sense being rushed along always felt like a slap on the face, continuously. As I boarded the plane to Tokyo, the train to Tokyo Station, the train to Echigo-Yuzawa, and the bus towards Sakasamaki, the hue of daylight shifted – it was airier, fuller, but also stranger. I had just turned a year older thirty-six hours before reaching Echigo, and was still reeling from the excitement of finally being properly slightly older, and also, relieved. [why relieved] With each transit, I was finally properly on my own, and hopefully, coming to my own. As the final bus ride to Sakamaki rickets through tunnels carved out of the mountains of Nigaata, I thought to myself, transportation can indeed put you in your place, sometimes it also resets your frames of references.

And I had not even seen any art yet.

II.

You crouched down at the edge of the rice field as the sky took on a tint of pink on its blue. I crouched down next to you, and listened as you explained why some parts of the field were golden yellow, and some parts were greener. The shades of the forest canopies blocked out the sun on some parts of the field, and so some grains ripened faster than the others, you said. You explained how the irrigation system worked, how when this rice field started three years ago, the first thing you did was to look for a natural water source and guide it towards this small, secluded field on the slope. You walked us towards the irrigation pool, and my feet noticed how the soil was soft and oozing with moisture. It surprised me how such a simple contraption can provide so amply for the entire field, at the same time, the urban dweller in me was of course, slightly worried that I might slip in the moist soil and fall flat on my face. You guided us down the slope to vegetable garden. The slope was moderately steep but the moisture made my thought of slipping and falling lingered. As we descended the slope the soil became harder, and we all tried to rub off the soft mud off our shoes with each step. The garden was not organized in rows, but rather, in rings. Easier for building irrigation pools, you said. And it looks prettier, too, it surprises you with every turn. You proud named the different kinds of vegetables as we walked passed them: kale, Chinese kale, herbs, bitter gourds, tomatoes, aubergines. I liked how the bitter gourds looked, slender, long and complexly textured; and the aubergines, glossy and round. The bitter gourd vines and tomato vines clung to the trellises, but they also looked like they were reaching up towards the last bits of sunlight. Make sure you taste as many kinds of tomatoes as you can while walking around, there’s so much we cannot harvest everything, you said. As we walked around the vegetable garden, I tried to make sure each tomato I tasted was a different kind—that they were of a different shape, a different jeweled ruby tone. I know I should not be, but I was still surprised by how each of them tasted differently. And so I walked around the curved path of the vegetable garden, trying to make sure the grin on my face, that grin coming from knowing I could taste as many tomatoes I could, did not show too much.

III.

You took out your camera and pointed it towards the sky which was burning in orange, pink and blue. Earlier in the day you pointed it towards a window on the top of a house, which opened up towards a gloriously blue sky dotted with white streaks of clouds. The light during the early part of the afternoon seemed least interesting; the brightness was near blinding. My eyes adjusted between darkness and broad daylight as we shuttled from one exhibition space to another on a shuttle bus. I almost nauseated. We stayed in the small attic above the exhibition space where they showed a series of photos restaging postures of people whose photographs with their backs turned towards the camera were published on newspapers. Each morning at around 7:30-8am the volunteers would come in, and I would notice it because the sliding door slid open. The next thing that would come up regardless of whether you were awake or not would be the Dyson vacuum cleaner, an alarm clock that reminded you that while you may be in a rural village by the Shinano river that marks the boundary between Nigaata and Nagano Prefectures, modern technology and its marketing somehow follow suit and find ways of seeping through. Sometimes the days went by without anyone speaking to each other, pretty much. Visitors often only spoke Japanese, and small talks were not entirely easiest to make. You sometimes seem to exhale a sigh of relief when finally the doors were slid closed, and night fell. I remembered the sunflowers that grew next to the windy path behind the house. My favourite time of looking at the photo works were early in the morning, ideally before anyone came in. I stood in front of them, life-sized prints, hung above my eye level. I wondered what the original subjects were seeing, and I wondered what the artists who were restaging these poses were seeing when they worked in the studio? I wondered if it is the constant shift between darkness and brightness that causes our blindness, which often makes us blind towards each other’s crafts. Is it easier to turn our backs the source of seeing, of light, of sight? Is what we cannot see always more interesting than what we can see, but not so clearly? Is it so if we looked towards the source of light, that we might begin to hallucinate? I remembered the heat that tingled, and the brightness that would temporarily blind me when I stepped out of the house into the open, and I would walk to the back of the house on the path to visit the sunflowers reaching upwards towards the summer sun.
IV.

You told me you were not exactly excited about going on buses, let alone tour buses that bring people around to see art that probably juts out from the middle of nowhere. And we do not even get to choose where to go because we cannot drive, you said. I shrugged, and thought about how the train we were going to take will pass through those majestic tunnels carved out of the mountains and forests. To get to the tour bus we walked up to the station at Morimiyahara, where they had a land mark of sorts that proudly proclaims how much snow the town gets every year. From then on we took tiny train out to Tokamachi, where we were supposed to catch the tour bus at 2pm. I munched on a banana as the train passed through tunnels carved out of the mountains of Nigaata, and thought to myself, sometimes transportation put you in your place, sometimes it resets your frames of references. I thought about how all of this would fit back into the vertical city, and how the human scale and our comprehension relate to one another. When we returned to Morimiyahara it was already late at night, and one of the vending machines glowed in the dark. We all mark our sites, stakes, memories and thoughts a bit differently.