Hong Kong is a city that thrives on contradictions—where the verticality of skyscrapers clashes with the horizontal sprawl of nature, where ancient traditions whisper through the noise of modernity. Zoie Yung’s latest exhibition, The Pleasure-Dome of Hills, doesn’t just explore these tensions; it weaponizes them. As someone who’s spent years studying how cities evolve, I find this project fascinating because it asks a question few dare to confront: What happens when we stop seeing nature as something to escape to, and start seeing it as something to live with? The answer, in Yung’s case, is a curated hallucination that turns Hong Kong’s streets into a modern-day literati studio.
Let’s unpack this. The traditional Chinese concept of shanshui—literally 'mountain-water'—has always been about more than just painting landscapes. It’s a philosophy, a way of seeing the world where humans are not separate from nature but deeply entwined with it. Yung’s exhibition takes that idea and slams it into the 21st century. Instead of bamboo scrolls, we get treadmill belts. Instead of ink-brush strokes, we get the sweat-soaked paths of runners. This isn’t nostalgia; it’s a radical reimagining of what it means to be a literati in a city where the only 'mountains' are the ones you climb on a stairmaster. Personally, I think this is where the real innovation lies—not in the art itself, but in how it forces us to reconsider our relationship with the natural world in a place where concrete dominates.
Take Dave Chow Yui Wang’s Constancy, for instance. The piece uses the impressions left on a treadmill belt to create what looks like a traditional ink painting. At first glance, it’s a clever gimmick. But dig deeper, and it becomes something darker. The treadmill, after all, is a symbol of modern life’s absurdity—a machine that simulates climbing a mountain while trapping you in a sterile gym. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it mirrors the paradox of Hong Kong itself: a city where people chase fitness to escape urban stress, yet remain trapped in its grip. It’s a metaphor for our times, where even our attempts to connect with nature are mediated by technology.
Yung’s curation is also a masterclass in juxtaposition. Ming Dynasty furniture sits beside contemporary sculptures, Qing Dynasty woodwork shares space with digital installations. This isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s about time. The exhibition suggests that history isn’t a linear march forward but a spiraling conversation. In my opinion, this is one of the most important lessons for urban artists today: the past isn’t dead—it’s alive in the materials we use, the spaces we inhabit, and the stories we tell. When you walk through the gallery, you’re not just looking at art; you’re stepping into a dialogue that spans centuries.
But here’s what I find even more compelling: the exhibition’s focus on Hong Kong’s relationship with nature. The city is famously built on mountains, yet its residents have long sought solace in hiking trails, parks, and even the occasional rooftop garden. Yung’s work highlights this tension, but she doesn’t just document it—she transforms it. By framing urban streets as extensions of traditional landscapes, she challenges the notion that nature must be 'found' in remote places. What many people don’t realize is that the most profound encounters with nature often happen in the spaces between—like the moment you pause on a crowded street to watch a leaf fall, or the way the skyline changes as you ascend a hill.
This isn’t just an art show; it’s a call to reimagine how cities can coexist with the natural world. As climate change accelerates and urbanization continues its relentless march, projects like Yung’s become more than curatorial experiments—they’re blueprints for survival. If you take a step back and think about it, the exhibition’s title, The Pleasure-Dome of Hills, is almost poetic. It suggests that in a city where nature is squeezed into corners, we’re still capable of finding joy in those fragments. What this really suggests is that the future of urban living won’t be about choosing between concrete and green spaces—it’ll be about weaving them together in ways that feel both ancient and entirely new.
In the end, Yung’s work is a reminder that art isn’t just about creating beauty; it’s about creating meaning. And in a city like Hong Kong, where the skyline is as much a part of the landscape as the mountains beyond it, that meaning is more vital than ever. As I walk away from the exhibition, I’m left wondering: What other 'literati studios' are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone to curate their hallucinations?
