Between Bridges

Between Bridges (2017)
Three-channel video
5 mins 11 secs

Nestled between the colonial Long Bien bridge and the modern Chuong Duong bridge, an anabranch diverts from the Red River. Between Bridges looks at Vietnam and its modernisation and how its citizens welcome the present but live in the past. The observation of the activities along the anabranch reveal a slower pace of life as the world endlessly streams past.

The river bed listens,
between two bridges,
the past rumbling along,
and the future rushing by.

It listens,
when the sun sets,
to the hundreds of birds
drowning the honks of Hanoi.

Between Bridges by Ernest Wu on Vimeo.

We are ‘Free’

2016
Quinn Lum and Ernest Wu

Photography is often pursued individually. We are ‘free’ challenges the notion that photography cannot be done collaboratively. Through the use of images and daily dialogue, the artists respond to each other, reflecting on the relationships between man and systems.

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Black Boxes

Black Boxes (2016)
Archival Inkjet Print on Ilford Galerie Smooth Cotton Rag
100 by 150cm
Edition of 3 + 2AP

It towers above. 9, 10, 24 stories up. It is not land that touches the sky; it is concrete that cuts the horizon. It is lives stacked, one on top of the other, row after row after row. And all I see are black boxes. Black on white on black.

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Onward

Onward (2015)
Archival Inkjet Print on watercolour paper
29.7 by 42 cm
Edition of 3

It is dusk. In my mind, a humdrum of ideas. I cannot see its end. The landscape has always been a treadmill and I, in the train cabin, have always been unmoving. Unchanging. I am here. I am here. A lamp post goes by. A building. A tree. I think about change. The landscape changes. There used to be a hill. It used to be a field. There used to be forest. Now it is a HDB. Now it is a condominium. I think about paintings. Brush strokes. Thin lines. Thick lines. Broad sweeping strokes. Careful line accents. Harsh harsh. I think about light. The lights turn on. They turn off. Change, light, paint. Can I paint with my camera? I am unmoving. I am here. The landscape is a treadmill. The landscape paints itself. Click. The train drags my camera. The landscape wants to be painted. The shutter closes. Barely a whisper. No one notices. Click. The landscape drags itself past. Present. Past. It is. And then no more. Nothing stays for too long. The landscape is there. Not quite. It is painted. Not quite. The landscape has changed. The landscape changes. The landscape will change.