Jie Ma - The World
There's something fascinating about the way Jie Ma's work seems to crystallize over time. Initially close to Magritte-style surrealism with The Watcher, then moving towards an urban, steampunk-inspired universe with the Scintilla and Whalefall City series, since My predicament Jie Ma has moved towards increasingly introspective work, questioning the artist's place in relation to his creation. With The World, he has undoubtedly taken his most accomplished approach to the subject, as the universe seems to be stripped of all dreamlike artifice.
The first thing that strikes you about The World is the attention to detail: the stacked books, the monitor on a wooden table, everything shows a concern for accuracy and rendering. Jie Ma tells us in the introduction that he is seeking to perfect a more photographic and realistic approach to the project, and this is evident not only in these details, but also in the way the light is applied, both raw and contrasting. There's a search for the right image, for accidental beauty, which is a far cry from what we find in many 3D works. It's as if we were in the very heart of the room, invited into the artist's lair to document his work.
And the work is The World's most obvious axis of reflection. What do these buildings and characters represent? Are these drafts of a future work, architectural perhaps? Or are the models the work in itself? Surprisingly, both interpretations are equally true. In a message he sent me in response to my questions, Jie Ma talks about Gonzalo Fonseca's influence on The World:
Fonseca's mastery in sculptural form and spatial arrangement has left a profound imprint on my approach to visual storytelling. His ability to imbue stone with life and narrative has resonated with me, influencing not only the visual aspect but also the thematic underpinnings of my work.
Fonseca was known for his taste for history, the way he conceived his work as a bridge between past and future, but also for having started out as an architecture student, an experience that would be deeply felt throughout his later work. He was, quite literally, a world-builder, interested less in their functionality than in the traces that civilizations can leave in us, ghost-worlds, at once physically present but incomplete, distorted by time. In Jie Ma's buildings, we obviously find the physical qualities of Fonseca's sculptures (plain material, asperities, staircases and arches contrasting with large, flat surfaces), but also their meaning, the way they are conceived as ghostly reflections of a city that may never have existed, but whose traces still influence our present.
Surprisingly, these models are themselves drafts of a later work, with Jie Ma indicating that he has used here the preparatory architectural models for a graphic novel he is currently conceiving. The work in The World is therefore both a draft and an end, a plan and a purpose. One can't help but think of those great architects like Etienne-Louis Boullée or Lebbeus Woods, better known for their designs than for the buildings they actually built. This connection with architecture is even more obvious when we see that one of the images is directly inspired by a Frank Lloyd Wright photograph. As in architecture, the artist is both the dreamer and the builder.
On the left: Frank Lloyd Wright (Photo by Arnold Newman / Getty Images)
On the right: The World, Jie Ma
Jie Ma regularly uses the theme of the artist facing his creation, as in My predicament or A Writer without inspiration, but unlike these projects, which focus on the inability to create or the artist's solitude, The World stands out for the profound serenity that emanates from the scene. There's no violence in these views, no frustration. On the contrary, everything here is calm, as if suspended. It's interesting that Jie Ma doesn't show the artist creating, but rather contemplating his work. Commenting on this atmosphere, he says:
I had a similar experience with the old man in one of my works during my university days. It was when I was working on an architectural composition assignment, and all my classmates were busy making cardboard models in a large classroom. One day, I found myself alone in the room surrounded by those cardboard structures, and I spent a long time there. It was a very peaceful and fulfilling feeling.
This calm, this concerned yet gentle gaze of the man in front of his creation is what deeply The World from other similar works. The theme of the artist in the midst of his creations is present in many fields of art - Alex Roman filming himself in the midst of his own creations in The Third and The Seventh, for example, or Timcet working surrounded by his instruments - but this is not a case of the artist showing off his skills. On the contrary, the creator of The World is old, still active but accomplished. What he shows us is less the work itself than a life in the service of art, the sacrifices required to bring something out of nothing. The real point of The World is when artistic practice becomes less a search for the finished work than an art of living, a way of being.
I know many people like this, some of whom have no life or entertainment outside of work, dedicating all their free time to their creations. They haven't become internet CG art stars, they're not cool enough, and they might live their whole lives like this. Perhaps the emergence of AI has made it impossible for them to become celebrated creators in their lifetime. But they're accustomed to it. When you spend enough time with these kinds of people, you realize that each of them is like a world unto themselves, a tranquil world undisturbed by outside influences. This is somewhat like self-comfort, and The World embodies this comfort.
This is perhaps The World's most poignant message, and one that is difficult to convey or explain to people who are not themselves engaged in a similar practice, or even to other artists. There is a moment when the artist understands that there is no goal to reach, that his work will never be finished, and that the path itself is the finality of his work. Jie Ma speaks of the artist at one with his art, totally committed to his creation, not like Zola's Lantier, losing himself in an endless quest for the ultimate work of which he would finally be proud, but rather like a humble creator, aware that his work will always remain unfinished.
One of the main characteristics of 3D art is undoubtedly its incompleteness. It's impossible to know everything, to master everything, and as tools are constantly evolving, what was learned yesterday becomes obsolete tomorrow. Jie Ma makes this dissatisfaction and fear common to every 3D artist his own, and shows us its strength. Taking up Camus' formula, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy”, Jie Ma shows us that faced with the absurdity of an always unfinished creation, we have to imagine the creator happy to be able to create despite everything.
Rather than saying that the old man is surrounded by his creations, it's more accurate to say that he's curled up in his own world, using the act of creation in a corner to defend what little value he has left.
The World consists of just eight images, a surprisingly small number for such a powerful work. And of these eight images, only two do not include the creator. These images, like photograms from the same travelling shot, show a monitor resting on a wooden table, in the background of a board where figurines are waiting. In the image, a man on a terrace or roof, gazing at the building opposite. On the wall, the word “Hel.P!” is continuously repeated. A yellow police ribbon is placed in the foreground, as if the scene were a crime scene.
This vision, undoubtedly one of the most intriguing in The World, raises many questions. Is the man a policeman investigating a murder or a suicide? Is he a younger version of the creator, and is the latter's work merely the continuation of an unsuccessful criminal investigation, providing a clue to the artist's motive? On the contrary, Jie Ma tells us that it's an extract from another work:
This is a snippet of one of my works from last year, a series depicting the mysterious death of an astronaut. Since 2011, I've been creating artworks centered around astronauts at intervals. I use this theme to document each severe low point in my life. The content of these works is often negative, but for me, completing them tends to alleviate my lows. I've been battling bipolar disorder for over a decade, and personal creativity is the only effective means I have to suppress it.
It's no coincidence that Jie Ma gives us this image as the conclusion to The World. Like the models that act both as ghosts of buildings past or future, or as the artist's gaze weaving a link between past and future, this view of an astronaut's death is in itself dual. It forms a bridge between the enclosed world of creation, calm and serene, and an exterior whose violence is ever present. Here, Jie Ma shows us the limit of the artistic path, the moment when the created world can crash into the harshness of reality. Andre Dubus once wrote that his friend, the poet Michael Van Walleghen, said Kafka and Kierkegaard were his heroes “because they lived in the abyss, and kept throwing books out of it”. Jie Ma also lives in the abyss, and sends us images of what he sees there. A world imbued with beauty and serenity, but whose darkness is never far away.
