Chou Yu-Cheng 周育正
This essay is part of Chou Yu-Cheng, Selected Works 1999 - 2025
In 2013, I set up an independent publishing studio to focus on artists’ books as an alternative practice parallel to my curatorial projects. Chou Yu-Cheng was the first artist I visited at that time, in the hope of a collaboration. I remember the day we met at his newly rented Taipei studio—a patchy old house yet to be renovated, with traces of clay on the exposed-brick walls. I cannot remember much of the conversation we had during what turned out to be our only meeting about a book; however, I recall the thrill of embarking on a new journey. Not long after that studio visit, I moved to Hong Kong and put the publishing project on hold. Chou never mentioned it again. It was not until ten years later that we resumed the unfinished work.
In an effort to offer a comprehensive perspective on his artistic trajectory over twenty-five years, this long-overdue book has been transformed from an artist’s publication into a monograph, reproducing a significant portion of Chou’s body of work, from his student days to the present. Born in 1976, Chou is one of Taiwan’s most prolific midcareer artists, and he has participated in numerous international exhibitions. We first met on the occasion of “ThaiTai: A Measure of Understanding,” a 2012 exhibition in Bangkok organized by Open-Contemporary Art Center, a nonprofit in Taipei.1 I was involved in producing public programs alongside the exhibition. Originating from conversations between Taiwanese and Thai artists who met at a residency program in New York, “ThaiTai” was an artistic exchange between the two countries. At the exhibition, Chou presented TEMCO (p.70), a large-scale painting that came with a contract. The contract stipulated that TEMCO, a Thai paint manufacturer, agreed to the artist’s request to sponsor free paint for the exhibition space at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre for a year, in exchange for a large advertisement in two consecutive issues of a renowned Thai art magazine. The advertisement featured the company’s logo as a key visual element, thereby maximizing the campaign’s impact. Working on-site in Bangkok with TEMCO products, Chou made a grid painting inspired by a tote bag adorned with traditional Thai patterns that the Thai duo Jiandyin had given him and the other visiting Taiwanese artists. The seemingly subtle work, in a mode for which Chou had become known, demonstrates how cultural exchanges that are extended through friendship can further reflect back, or intensify, the institutional norms of reciprocity between local businesses and art organizations.
Chou’s contribution to “ThaiTai” also represents a continuation of a series of well-known pieces he realized since 2010, including TOA Lighting (p.50), Rainbow Paint (p.60), Opening Flowers (p.56), Meeting Table of MoCA, Taipei (p.66), that take the allocation and management of resources within art institutions as a starting point. Another shared quality of these works is that there are almost no traces of the artist’s handson presence. LED tubes, paints, flowers, or conference tables: Chou places these readymade objects in the gallery through careful negotiation. This sensitivity to scenography became Chou’s trademark, and from a series of exhibitions we see an artist who has relegated his role as a creator to the background, highlighting instead his role as a tactful mediator in the art system.
One can see in Chou’s works from this period the influence of artists who were engaged in critiquing institutions in Europe and the United States in the 1970s, such as Marcel Broodthaers, Michael Asher, and Andrea Fraser, among others. “Their rigorously sitespecific interventions developed as a means not only to reflect on these and other institutional conditions but also to resist the very forms of appropriation on which they reflect,” Fraser writes, summarizing the Western art of this era. “As transitory, these works further acknowledge the historical specificity of any critical intervention, whose effectiveness will always be limited to a particular time and place.”2 In Chou’s work, the notion of critique comes from a reflection on his artistic upbringing.
After graduating from high school, he entered the Department of Fine Arts of the National Taiwan University of Arts. At that time, art education in Taiwan was quite conservative. Not content with using only the paintbrush, Chou began to play with different media. Plaster and Toilet Paper (p.42), which he created in 1999 while still in school, is an early expression of his interest in different materials and spatial properties. Chou discovered that the large plaster casts of figurative sculptures used for sketching practice in class were stored in a corner next to a toilet. He filled the gaps between the pedestals on which the plaster casts were displayed with a large number of toilet paper sheets stacked one on top of another. Seen from a distance, the wrinkles on the mounds of toilet paper resembled the carved folds representing clothes on the plaster statues. This visual error produced an unexpected effect on two totally different materials, making this corner filled with readymade objects a puzzling scene on campus.
The playful idea that underpins this early work has become an important starting point to understand Chou’s thinking about art. During his student years, he had to be strategic about choosing the right space for his art and about deciding the most costeffective way to spend his money due to resource constraints. This careful consideration became a foundational part of Chou’s creative process in the years to come. For TOA Lighting, Rainbow Paint, and Opening Flowers, Chou might have started by asking basic questions: How can we use a different kind of lighting for the exhibition? How can the paint on the walls be whiter? Do we need congratulatory flower baskets for the opening? These very chūnibyō 3 thoughts, when applied to the production of art, become the catalyst for institutional critique. With a characteristic economy of means, Chou enacted creative modes of negotiation between art institu- tions, sponsors, and artists. In a series of influential texts on institutional critique, Hans Haacke described the role of the artist in the process of institutionalizing art: “‘Artists’ as much their supporters and their enemies, no matter of what ideological coloration, are unwitting partners,” Haacke wrote in 1974 of the intertwined relationship of artists and institutions. “They participate jointly in the maintenance and/or development of the ideological make-up of their society. They work within that frame, set the frame and are being framed.”4 Since his material living and creative work are closely related to institutions, Chou knows very well that he must interrogate those institutions from within. Therefore, no matter how the form of his works changes as he adopts new mediums, the core issue for him is always to solve problems that are at once his own and within the institutional framework.
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After graduating from the National Taiwan University of Arts, Chou, like many Taiwanese artists at the time, chose to go abroad for further education. He entered the fourth year of the fine art program at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris with honors. Instead of continuing to study painting and sculpture, in which he excelled, he chose the new media art studio, a field that was totally new to him. As many of his peers had a high level of familiarity with digital media, Chou knew that he had to work harder to figure out how to use digital tools while finding his own voice. His solid art training in Taiwan became his unique weapon, enabling him to develop an artistic form that integrated moving image with physical, three-dimensional elements. The outcome was a series of object-based, non-narrative video works that employ visual effects similar to those used in TV commercials to manipulate consumers’ perception of products. Chou was interested in using technology, especially commercial post-production software, to appropriate the visual language and symbols of mass media while experimenting with various ways of presenting video work in the exhibition space.
Even when confronted with potentially sensitive issues of national identity, Chou chose to subtly transform heavy historical entanglements into formalized design language through abstract symbols. In 1999, Chou parti- cipated in an exhibition of documents of Taiwanese contemporary art, “Taiwan Calling,” (p.38) co-organized by the National Taiwan Museum of Fine Arts; Centre Culturel de Taiwan à Paris; Műcsarnok Kunsthalle, Budapest; and Museum Ludwig, Cologne. Due to Taiwan’s long-standing diplomatic constraints, the organizers decided that it was impossible to incorporate the Taiwan flag into the exhibition’s main visual design. As a response, Chou broke down the design of the Taiwan flag into various graphic elements that he affixed to the large glass ceiling of the Műcsarnok Kunsthalle. The deconstructed patterns, in red, white, and blue, formed a new, repetitive image. While acknowledging the cultural and diplomatic repression Taiwan has endured over the years, Chou playfully adapted serious political symbols and integrated them into everyday scenes. The gesture recalls Daniel Buren’s use of abstract symbols, colors, and spatial interventions to defamiliarize public spaces. Taiwanese curator Hsu Jian-Yu commented in his review of the Műcsarnok exhibition: “Politics is a complicated issue that could also be light and simple. Only when you are in a foreign place, will you be granted the space to truly examine in detail the relationship between your art and your country. Your identity becomes a kind of truth that you have to find another way to adhere to, and this kind of truth is also the source of the humor in Chou Yu-Cheng’s works.” 5
After returning to Taiwan in 2010, Chou held several high-profile exhi- bitions. He received numerous invitations for shows and, in 2014, presented solo exhibitions in two major cities in Taiwan, at the Taipei Fine Arts Museum and the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts. As his art attracted increased attention, Chou benefitted from Taiwan’s long-established subsidy system. The Ministry of Culture, Ministry of Education, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a variety of local government agencies, provide annual subsidies of varying amounts to art and cultural practitioners. Since its establishment in 1996, the National Culture and Arts Foundation (NCAF), under the Ministry of Culture, has distributed an average of NT$200 million in grants each year. The government is committed to fostering an environment that is conducive to art and culture, but there is a fundamental problem: Artists are required to submit bureaucratic paperwork and cope with cumbersome administrative tasks in order to apply for grants, and this procedure often ignoresthe signi- ficance of the artists’ role as creators. Chou, like many artistin Taiwan, had to apply for grants and fight for exhibition opportunities.
As a response to the situation, he embedded the existential pressure and anxiety he felt into several of his projects. Works including A Working History—Lu Chieh-Te (p.212), A Man of the Showa Era (p.208) and exhibitions such as “Molyneux” (p.220) and “Liszt” (p.200) are exemplary of this period and embody a semi-autobiographical strain in Chou’s art. Positioning third-party characters in the role of protagonist, Chou reflected on his upbringing and personal development as an artist via surrogates. Lu Chieh-Te, for example, is a real middle-aged person whose precarious career as a temporary worker was at risk due to the economic reform that took place in Taiwan. The typesetter Wu Chao-Nan, featured in A Man of the Showa Era, worked in a printing factory, just like Chou’s father. And Geoff Molyneux, whose work inspired “Molyneux,” was also engaged in art but lived in a different time and cultural background from Chou. In “Liszt,” the Romantic composer’s presence was reduced to but a name, serving only to delineate the professional identities of Chou’s parents. Curator Esther Lu made her comments on “Liszt”: “This form of spatial narrative quite straightforwardly depicted in symbolic scenes the past and present of Chou’s life and artistic journey, projecting some kind of image (or multiple images) of the artist himself, or a future that he privately anticipated or feared.”6
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Chou is a quiet, unhurried, and meticulous person. Without talking much, he spends a lot of time conversing with himself to slowly elucidate his thoughts. He often jokes that he is a control freak who needs frameworks and planning; these requirements are fairly clearly reflected in his work. His creations have always been founded upon the state of existence he faces at a given moment, focusing on what could be considered trivial matters. As an art school student, he was preoccupied with how to improve the conditions of the space in which he would show his work, achieving his goal by exchanging and distributing resources; after returning to Taiwan, he was faced with immediate financial pressure and family responsibilities, which inspired him to use other people’s life stories as his subject matter to express his personal sentiments. After receiving several government subsidies, Chou realized that this was not a sustainable solution and devised a plan to modify his production methods, progressively decreasing his dependence on the subsidies. In 2015 he was selected for the Künstlerhaus Bethanien residency in Berlin, where he began the series “Chemical Gilding, Keep Calm, Galvanise, Pray, Gradient, Ashes, Manifestation, Unequal, Dissatisfaction, Capitalise, Incense Burner, Survival, Agitation, Hit, Daylight.” (p.110)—an important turning point in his artistic career. The series shows his attempt to change, to return to the familiar training of painting and to organize his everyday artistic practice through colors, subjects, and other elements that symbolize the art of painting. It appears that he has adopted a nuanced abstract language, but in fact he is more will to reveal his own emotions while further homing in on the limitations and politics of the medium.
When the momentum of production halted with the start of the pandemic in 2020, there was a lot more time for reflection. The suspension of exhibition schedules was a relief to Chou, who was on the verge of a crisis. It also prompted him to face up to the fatigue and weariness brought about by his prolific way of working in the past. The catastrophic global event became another important turning point, which led to the development of an ongoing series of abstract paintings. Painting can be a highly personal medium, making completely transparent the artist’s choice of color configura- tion, use of pigments and other details, and traces of handwork. This is a remarkable change for Chou, who once hid himself behind negotiation, and it is also closer to the trajectory of his life. Now he no longer needs to deliberately design a story he wants to tell, an experiment he wants to try, or invite a third party as an introductory figure. He has found a gesture that suits the pace and speed of the current life stage, and he is able to speak freely. This change may have come from a more thorough understanding of the art institution. Fraser’s 2005 Artforum article on the the institutionalization of critique seems to aptly capture the core of Chou’s creative thinking. She argues that it is “not a question of being against the institution: We are the institution. It’s a question of what kind of institution we are, what kind of values we institutionalize, what forms of practice we reward, and what kinds of rewards we aspire to. Because the institution of art is internalized, embodied, and performed by individuals, these are the questions that institutional critique demands we ask, above all, of ourselves.” 7
1 Open-Contemporary Art Center (OCAC) is an artist-run space founded in Banciao, Taiwan, in 2001. Chou was a member of the art center at the time.
2 Andrea Fraser, “From the Critique of Institutions to an Institution of Critique,” Artforum, September 2005: 281.
3 Chūnibyō is a Japanese term used to describe a transient mental state that can occur during puberty.
4 Hans Haacke, “All the ‘Art’ That’s Fit to Show,” in Museums by Artists, ed. A.A. Bronson and Peggy Gale, Toronto: Metropole, 1983, p. 152.
5 徐建宇，「關於藝術的描述」，《(無)關於藝術或李斯特與____ /》，2015，p.53。
6 呂岱如，「關於『形象』的幾重當代美學思考:從周育正的『李斯特』計畫談起」， 《藝術認證》，2014。
7 Andrea Fraser, “From the Critique of Institutions to an Institution of Critique,” Artforum, September 2005: 281.
2013年我成立了個人出版工作室，嘗試藉由出版藝術家刊物作為平行展覽 策劃的另一種實踐方法。周育正是我當時第一位拜訪希望合作的藝術家。 記得那天我們約在他剛租下位於永和的工作室，斑駁的老屋尙待改裝，牆上 仍可見批土的痕跡及外露的磚瓦。我們開了第一次會，也是唯一的一次， 不太記得聊了什麼，身體卻記住了因打開一個新方向而產生的興奮感。後來 我因工作移居香港，出版的事就暫時擱置，周育正也沒再提起，我們就 這樣從那次見面後，按下一段很長時間的暫停鍵，一直到十年後才又重啟 當時未完成的約定。
晃眼十年，周育正與我都進入了人生不同階段。而這本睽違已久的 書也從藝術家刊物變成了歷年創作專冊，大幅收錄他從學生時期迄今的作品， 試圖以一個較全面的角度來梳理他逾二十六年的創作軌跡。1976年出生 的周育正是台灣十分多產，也屢屢參加國際大展的中生代藝術家之一。我們 對於兩人首次見面有著不同的記憶，就我印象中，是2012年因為協助籌辦 打開— 當代藝術工作站1 在泰國曼谷舉辦的「理解的尺度— 台泰藝術交流展」 的研討會才與他熟識。「台泰展」源起於幾位台灣與泰國藝術家在紐約相遇 而延伸出來的兩地交流。當時周育正展出的《TEMCO》(p.69) 是一幅大型畫作 以及一張合約書。合約書記載泰國當地的油漆製造商TEMCO同意藝術家 周育正的提議，將對曼谷藝術中心(BACC)的展覽空間進行為期一年的免費 油漆贊助，而提供給TEMCO的交換條件則是在泰國藝術雜誌上連續兩期 刊登大幅廣告，並以該公司的商標為廣告雜誌的主視覺設計，以達到最大的 品牌宣傳效益。在展覽現場，周育正以TEMCO的油漆繪製了一個格狀紋路 的畫作，此畫作的視覺元素來自泰國藝術家雙人組Jiandyin――「台泰展」 的發起人之一―― 贈送給台灣藝術家的泰國傳統圖紋的手提袋。周育正看似 輕巧又具符號性的作品，背後鋪陳了因友誼擴展而來的文化交流能如何進 一步回饋，或激化當地企業及藝術機構的互惠機制。此手法乃延續周育正自 2010年開始幾檔廣為人知的「創作」，包括《東亞照明》(p.49)、《虹牌油漆》(p.59)、 《開幕花卉》 (p.55)、《台北當代藝術館的會議桌》(p.65) 等。這些作品除了以 藝術體制內的資源分配和運作為探討的出發點外，另一個共通性是幾乎不見 藝術家經手的「創作」痕跡，不管是燈具、油漆、花卉、會議桌，都是透過協商 方式將現成物放置在展場，憑藉他細膩的空間調配敏銳度，使每檔展覽成功 營造出一種精準到位的乾淨俐落。於是我們看到一位藝術家將創作者的角色 退居到了幕後，凸顯的是其身分在藝術體制內所具備運籌帷幄的中介能力。
從周育正這段時期的作品依稀可見70年代歐美從事體制批判實踐的 藝術家的影子，例如馬歇爾・布達埃爾(Marcel Broodthaers)、麥克・阿舍 (Michael Asther)與 安 德 里 亞 ・ 弗 雷 澤(Andrea Fraser)等。對 於 這 段 時 期 的西方藝術，弗雷澤認為:「這些藝術家著重於對藝術實踐本身提出批判， 他們強調作品與具體場所的結合，這種策略不僅是為了反思體制，也為了對抗各種體制的挪用，而因此使得批判的效用永遠侷限在特定的時空裡。」2 周育正的批判因子來自其對藝術養成的反芻。
高中美術班畢業後進入國立台灣藝術大學美術系，當時台灣的藝術 教育尙趨保守，年輕的周育正不甘於僅用畫筆創作，開始隨手玩起不同媒材。 1999年在校時期創作的《石膏與衛生紙》(p.41) 打開了他對媒材使用及空間 佈局的興趣。在靠近學校廁所旁，周育正發現在學校課堂拿來實習素描 的大型石膏像被放置於此，他以大批層層堆疊的衛生紙塡補石膏像台座間的 縫隙，一落落的衛生紙產生出的皺摺，遠看就像石膏像上被雕刻出的衣服 紋路。這視覺上的誤差使完全不同屬性的媒材產生了意想不到的效果，繼而 使得這以現成物組成的角落成了校園中令人摸不著頭路的一景。這看似帶點 玩笑的意圖成了我們理解周育正思考藝術一個很重要的源頭―― 學生時期 因為資源拮据而必須策略性地選擇空間或最符合成本的花費，成了周育正 往後具指標性的創作方式。因此，我們也不意外地發現在《東亞照明》、《虹牌 油漆》和《開幕花卉》中，周育正一開始也許只是在想「如何可以使用不同的 展場燈光?」「牆上的油漆如何能更白?」「開幕是否需要一些祝賀花籃」這種 很「中二」的念頭，套入藝術創作的框架後，便成了實踐「體制批判」的樞紐， 延展出如何以既有資源在機構、贊助商、藝術家之間尋找達成彼此利益共享 的協商模式。
在一系列關於體制批判的評論文本中，漢斯・哈克(Hans Haacke) 淸楚地描述了藝術家在藝術體制化過程中的角色，他於1974年寫道: 「藝術家連同其支持者與反對者在不知不覺中都是同一夥的...... 他們共同 參與到對社會意識形態建構的維護或發展中。他們在同一個體制框架中 工作，定義此框架，也同時被此框架給限制。」3 對周育正而言，他很淸楚 知道既然自己的生活與創作跟藝術體制息息相關，那麼就必須從此框架中 進行詰問。所以不論作品的形式、媒材如何改變，對他而言核心目標一直 都是在解決自身/體制框架內的問題。
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大學畢業後，周育正如同大部分的台灣藝術家選擇出國深造，他以優秀 的成績進入巴黎美術學院四年級。周育正沒有選擇拿手的傳統美術，反而 進入新媒體工作室，一個完全陌生的領域。相較班上同學對數位媒體的 熟悉，輸在起跑點的周育正知道自己必須更努力琢磨軟體的使用方式，找出 與他人不同之處。過去學院紮實的美術訓練成了他獨特的武器，因而發展 出動態影像結合立體造型的視覺呈現;他發展了一系列以物件為主體、 非敍事性的影像作品，透過後製特效模擬電視廣告上可見的伎倆，藉以 操弄、美化物體的可視性，他感興趣的是如何透過技術來操作根基於大眾 媒體邏輯下視覺效果與符號的轉換，以及實驗數位媒體藝術作品於展覽 空間的不同展示方式。而即使遇上可能敏感的國家身分議題，周育正依然 選擇以隱晦的手法，透過抽象符號將沉重的歷史糾葛轉換成形式化的設計 語言。2010年周育正參加了由國立台灣美術館與駐法國代表處台灣文化 中心以及布達佩斯Műcsarnok藝術館與科隆Ludwig美術館合辦，名為 「台灣響起」(Taiwan Calling)的當代藝術文件展覽 (p.38)，但由於台灣長期 受到的外交箝制，主辦單位無法將台灣國旗放入展覽主視覺的設計裡， 周育正因而選擇在Műcsarnok藝術館裡大型的玻璃天花板上，將台灣國旗 的圖樣設計拆成各種紅、白、藍不同元素，重新構成一個圖紋然後重複 複製。周育正以此作為台灣遭受文化外交打壓的回應，淡化了嚴肅的政治 符號將其融入日常場景，讓人想起丹尼爾 ・ 布罕(Daniel Buren)是如何透過 抽象符號、色彩及空間介入來引發觀眾對日常環境中不同元素間關係的 思考。如同台灣策展人徐建宇在評論此件作品時所言:「政治是如何深刻 但也是輕鬆平實的問題，一旦你身處異地，才有空間眞正地檢視自己的藝術 與國家維繫的點滴情狀，身分成了一種必須另覓途徑執守的眞實，這種 眞實也是周育正作品中幽默的來源。」4
2010年回台後，周育正挾著熟稔的影像訓練及空間敏感度，在台灣 連續推出了幾檔備受矚目的展覽，2014年甚至同時在台北市立美術館 及高雄市立美術館舉行大型個展。這除了某種程度上表現周育正作品的 受歡迎度，另一原因也來自台灣行之已久的補助機制。台灣從中央文化部、 教育部、外交部到縣市地方政府等，每年皆有金額不等的經費針對藝文 工作者予以補助。隸屬文化部的「財團法人國家文化藝術基金會」(簡稱 國藝會)自1996年成立至今，每年編列平均約2億台幣的補助經費。政府 本秉持營造有利文化藝術工作的環境，以提升藝文水準，但卻有其根源性的 問題。藝術工作者為申請補助必須提出符合官僚思維的書面報告與配合 繁瑣的行政作業，這時常忽略了藝術家身為創作者的重要性。周育正，如同 每位在台灣從事藝術的工作者，必須透過申請補助的機制來爭取展出機會， 他也將這種生存的壓力與焦慮隱性地嵌入幾件作品中，如《工作史— 盧皆得》 ( p . 2 1 1 )、 《 昭 和 時 代 男 子 漢 》 ( p . 2 0 7 )， 以 及 展 覽 「 莫 里 諾 」 ( p . 2 1 9 ) 與 「 李 斯 特 」 ( p . 1 9 9 ) 都是這時期的產物，也同時是他藉由第三者為故事主人翁的半自傳性作品。
很多評論關於他這時期的展覽都提到了周育正「形象」的創造，遑論他 以因經濟轉型面臨中年失業而當臨時工的盧皆得，與其父親同樣在活字 印刷廠工作的排版師傅吳昭男，或是同樣從事藝術工作，但生活在不同時代 及文化背景的莫里諾，這些人都代表著周育正個人成長與藝術養成的投射。 而在「李斯特」一展更進一步以只有形象存在的浪漫主義音樂大師為名，實則 具體刻畫了他父親與母親的職業身分。策展人呂岱如在評論「李斯特」展覽 時認為:「此空間敍事的手法相當直白地以象徵性場景描述周育正身為藝術 家其在生命和藝術歷程上的過去、現在，並投射出某種(或多重)關於藝術家 的形象，或其所私自期許或憂心的未來。」5
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周育正是個沈默寡言、慢條斯理、行事謹愼的人，話不多的他很長時間是在 與自己對話以慢慢釐淸想法。他常開玩笑說自己是控制狂，需要框架跟 規劃，這些特質其實都很明顯反應在他的作品裡。他的創作一直以自身在 當下所面對的生存狀態作為基底，那些關注的點通常都很小，如學生時期 思考的是如何改善展覽空間的條件，然後透過資源交換與分配達到目的; 回台之後面對立即的經濟壓力與家庭責任，啟發他假他人生命故事為題材， 實則抒發攸關私人的情意表達。在獲得多次政府補助後，周育正意識到 此非長久之計，便計劃性地改變生產方式，漸漸不再依靠補助。2015年他 獲選至柏林貝塔寧駐村，開啟了《電鍍金、保持冷靜、鍍鋁鋅版、祈禱、漸層、 灰 燼 、 抗 議 、 不 均 、 不 滿 、 資 本 、 香 爐 、 佼 存 、 激 動 、 擊 、 日 光 。 》 系 列 ( p . 1 0 9 )， 成了他創作生涯一個重要的轉捩點。這系列顯示了他嘗試改變的企圖， 回歸到熟悉的傳統美術訓練，透過色彩、物件等繪畫元素的符號來並梳理 創作日常。他看似採用了隱晦、抽象的語言，但實則更赤裸地將自己拋諸 於世，並進一步琢磨媒材上的極限和政治性。
2020年的新冠疫情改變了全世界，我們發現當生產動能停擺時， 多出來的是很多使人反思的時間。面對展覽邀約的暫停，讓之前瀕臨壓力 臨界點的周育正頓時鬆了口氣，也促使他正視過去多產的創作方式所 帶來的疲乏與倦怠。這個契機成了他創作上另一個重要的節點，進而發展 出現在一系列的平面抽象繪畫。繪畫是極具私人情感表達的創作形式， 完全彰顯過程中藝術家對色彩配置、顏料取用等細節的選擇和手動痕跡。 這對以往將自己藏在協商機制背後的周育正而言是很大的轉變，但卻也更 貼近他生命軸線的軌跡。現在的他對想說的故事或欲嘗試的試驗，不再 需要刻意設計一些橋段或邀請第三者作為引言。他找到了一個切合現階段 步調和速度的姿態，能自在地暢所欲言，而這心路歷程的轉變也許來自 對藝術體制有了更透徹的理解。弗雷澤在2005年於《Artform》發表一篇 文章談論藝術體制及批判的體制化，似乎適切地道出周育正的創作核心思想， 她認為問題不在於反對體制，因為我們就是體制，「我們代表何種體制， 我們將何種價値作為體制化的標準，我們獎勵何種形式的實踐以及我們 渴望什麼形式的回報。體制批判要求我們問自己這些問題，因為藝術體制 在人的心中，就該由人來體現和執行」。6
1 2001年成立，由台灣藝術家自主營運的空間，周育正為當時的成員之一。
2 Andrea Fraser, “From the Critique of Institutions to an Institution of Critique,” Artforum, September 2005: 281.
3 Hans Haacke, “All the Art That’s Fit to Show,” in Museums by Artists, 152.
4 徐建宇，「關於藝術的描述」，《（無）關於藝術或李斯特與___/》，2015，p.53。
5 呂岱如，「關於『形象』的幾重當代美學思考：從周育正的《李斯特》計畫談起」，《藝術認證》，2014。
6 Andrea Fraser, “From the Critique of Institutions to an Institution of Critique,” Artforum, September 2005: 281.
本文收錄於周育正 Chou Yu-Cheng, Selected Works 1999 - 2025