Planting Nan Ting: Or, The Floating Life We Nurtured Together
On August 23, 2025, an exhibition quietly opened in Room 724 of Building A at the Guangzhou Academy of Fine Arts (GAFA). Titled Planting Nan Ting: Or, The Floating Life We Nurtured Together, it was not merely a display of objects, but a tapestry of voices, relationships, and quiet revolutions. What made this exhibition unusual was its origin: there was no official organizer, no academic director, and no source of funding. It was born entirely from collective belief—a group of people who came together not by assignment, but by choice.
I served as the curator, visual designer, and executor. Yet the real architects of the exhibition were everyone who participated—artists, villagers, friends, and strangers who became collaborators. Over the course of a month, we immersed ourselves in Nanting Village and GAFA, gathering stories, objects, and traces of life that often go unnoticed. The exhibition became a mirror of that process, with my own role merely as a thread weaving through these interconnected narratives.
In the beginning, there was only Hong Gaozhi and myself. But soon, two other artists and a fellow curator joined—without payment or formal invitation. They came because they, too, were connected to GAFA; because they, too, carried emotional ties to Nanting; because they, too, believed in what we were trying to do. Together, we welded structures, rewired electricity, patched and painted walls, moved artworks, and performed careful repairs. It was slow, intimate, and deeply human labor.
The works on view were humble yet profound: interview videos, five co-created pieces by artists and villagers, two unsigned paintings whose origins remain mysterious, a full visual identity system for a local noodle shop, a poem written by a villager, and one standalone artist work. Each item was collected, carried, or reconstructed from the corners of Nanting. Also included were documentation and photographs from three “interventions”—small, deliberate actions meant to engage the community in subtle dialogue.
What made this exhibition significant was not just what was shown, but how it came to be—and why. Historically, there had often been distance and even distrust between artists and residents of Nanting. They rarely collaborated as equals; seldom did they share the same platform in a way that honored both voices equally. This project challenged that. It proposed that art could be a medium not only of expression, but of repair.
The title, Planting Nan Ting, suggests an act of sowing—of putting down roots through shared care. “The Floating Life We Nurtured Together” hints at the transient, often fragile nature of such connections, yet affirms their beauty precisely because they are nurtured collectively. This was not a traditional exhibition with loans and labels. It was an exercise in listening.
In the absence of institutional support, every decision—from lighting and layout to the method of displaying a villager’s poem—was made with slow attention. There was no rush, because there was no deadline imposed from above. There was only the rhythm of mutual agreement.
When the exhibition opened, it felt like a quiet triumph. No major press release was issued, no ribbon was cut.
Perhaps the greatest success lay in the process itself—the way people who began as acquaintances ended as companions. The exhibition carved out a space where roles blurred: artists became listeners, villagers became creators, and curators became laborers. In doing so, it challenged the very hierarchies that often keep such groups apart.
I don’t believe one exhibition can transform a community’s entire social fabric. But it can plant a seed. It can change how some people see, how some people remember, and how some people create. It reminds us that some of the most meaningful curatorial acts are not those with the most resources, but those with the most heart.
Planting Nan Ting was our way of saying that even without support, something can grow. Even without titles, something can be built. And sometimes, it’s the floating, fragile things—the ones we nurture together—that endure the longest.
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