Trevor Yeung and I are speaking about the impulses of art critics. Specifically, their tendency to make meaning legible and straightforward, drawing straight lines between an artist and their identity or influences. These are traps all writers fall into—a context that wraps a work into a neat little bow, a desire for synchronicity between aesthetic expression and emotion. But what to do when an artwork is made from feelings where language can’t keep up?
I’ll do my best: Hong Kong-based artist Trevor Yeung is drawn toward the inexpressible and the unseen, those cloudy undercurrents and
