The Mountain 印象中的山

此作品源於我對家中窗外一座山的長年凝視。多年來，那座山一直是家中的一道風景，但隨着近年的城市發展，它逐漸被高樓遮蔽，從可見變成不可見，家中也永遠失去了那道以為自有永有的景象與牽絆。

終將消逝的環境與隨之模糊的記憶，形成了對記憶與情感的拉扯。面對無法挽回的改變，起初以日夜觀望與記錄作為一種抵抗方式；然而，所有熱烈的情感終會過去：我們如何抓緊正在消失的事物，又如何面對它們最終將離我們而去的事實？

This work stems from my long-term observation of a mountain outside my home window. Once a constant part of the landscape, it was gradually concealed by new high-rise buildings—turning from visible to invisible—and the view I assumed would remain became permanently lost.

The disappearance of the environment and the fading of its associated memories create a tension between recollection and emotion. In facing an irreversible change, I first responded through constant watching and recording, though such intensity inevitably fades. The work reflects on how we try to hold on to what is disappearing, and how we confront the fact that it will eventually leave us.


文字內容｜Content

幾歲的時候在樓下社區中心上繪畫興趣班，我用綠色粉彩畫了一座山，導師跟我說山是啡色的，叫我把顏色改掉。當時我雖有疑惑，不過還是把綠色的山罩上了一層啡色。下課後回家，我走到窗前往外看最接近家的那座山，想親眼看清楚山的顏色。駐足觀望了許久，山似乎確實帶有啡色，但綠色的面塊又不算少，不過整體看來其實更貼近一種沉著的深藍色。那是我有意識以來第一次主動去看那座山。

大學時期主要居於宿舍，每隔一段時間回家，走到窗前看風景，也會發現景色有所不同。遠方某些區塊總會多建了幾棟立方建築或地盤，遮擋了原先的景色，先是遠處的天水圍，再到中距離的兆康苑，空間感漸漸進迫。新的形狀新的色塊構成了新的風景，而記憶中的上一道窗外風景總是很朦朧，無法清晰記起。

畢業那年從大學宿舍搬遷回家，待業時期日夜坐在窗前望天打掛。直至有天，我看到了山前建了一座大型基建地盤，意味著這區域終於要起樓了。從地盤建設範圍估算，建成的新樓宇應該會完全覆蓋面前這座山，家跟山之間便多出了這道圍牆。

從那天起，基建地盤上的天秤位置越來越高，漸漸侵佔了山底的範圍。我越發不安，發現這些新樓宇蓋得越高，我所能看見這座山的形象就越少，亦即代表著終有一天，樓宇建成後，我將再也無法從家裡望見它。層層疊高的建築棚架是可見的倒數。我開始想要盡力把這座山保留於記憶中。嘗試從窗望去的角度為它拍照拍影片，總之日夜靠在窗前，其實也只是想跟它再相處一會兒。

有天，我偶然想起大學時為了做創作所買的望遠鏡，在抽屜翻了翻，用它往外遠望風景。玩了好一陣子，我再透過望遠鏡看那山。當時我才發現，原來山的頂端那一片隆起的形狀，是一堆小樹木。我無法解釋那一陣熱淚盈眶的感受，因我從未仔細看過那一個小區塊，甚至連那隆起的位置也不太察覺，只認為那是山形狀的一部分。意識到山頂原來存在一群生命，讓我對它的存在更為觸動，也對於即將告別感到更加傷心。

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樓宇建成，萬家燈火成了新的風景。而那些熱血沸騰的感覺都已經過去了。

它漸漸成為了我印象中的山。曾經清晰的輪廓變得模糊，印象中那些熱烈的感受，似乎也逐漸消褪。面對這些曾經熱烈而終會消失的情感，我總是很困擾。強烈的在意，讓我感受到自己和所在意事物的存在，以及兩者仍然連繫的關係。

但在記憶消減以後，就只剩下回憶裡的影像，雖然浮現在腦海，卻有著一段無法觸及的距離。就算你想要再次深陷其中，也沒有辦法了。

寫於 2023 年 4 月

When I was a few years old, I drew a mountain in green pastel at the community centre downstairs. The instructor told me that mountains should be brown, and asked me to change the colour. I was puzzled, but I still covered the green mountain with a layer of brown.

After class, I went home and stood by the window, looking out at the mountain closest to my house, wanting to see with my own eyes what colour it really was. I stared for a long time — the mountain did have a brownish tone, but there were also large patches of green. Taken as a whole, though, it seemed closer to a kind of subdued deep blue. That was the first time in my life I had consciously looked at that mountain.

During my university years, I mostly lived in the dormitory. Each time I returned home, I would look out the window and find the view slightly changed. New cubic buildings or construction sites appeared in the distance, gradually blocking parts of the original scene — first the faraway Tin Shui Wai, then the mid-distance Siu Hong Court. The sense of open space kept shrinking. New forms and new colours built up a new landscape, while the previous one became increasingly blurred in memory, impossible to recall clearly.

After graduation, I moved back home from the dormitory. While unemployed, I often sat by the window, staring blankly into the sky. One day, I noticed a large construction site beginning in front of the mountain — meaning new buildings would soon rise there. Judging from the site’s scale, they would completely cover the mountain. A wall, so to speak, would soon stand between us.

From that day on, the cranes on the site grew taller and taller, slowly invading the base of the mountain. I grew uneasy: the higher the buildings climbed, the less of the mountain I could see. It became clear that once the buildings were finished, I would never again see it from home. The stacking scaffolds became a visible countdown. I started trying everything to keep the mountain alive in memory — taking photos and videos from the window, leaning there day and night, as if just wanting to spend a little more time with it.

One day, I suddenly remembered the telescope I had bought back in university for an art project. I dug it out of a drawer and began to gaze at the distant view. After a while, I turned the telescope toward the mountain — and realised for the first time that the raised shape at its peak was actually a cluster of small trees.

I can’t quite explain the tears that welled up at that moment. I had never really looked closely at that little patch before, barely even noticed its rise — I had always assumed it was just part of the mountain’s shape. To realise that there was a small community of life at its top moved me deeply, and made the thought of losing it all the more painful.

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The construction of the buildings was completed, and the lights of countless homes became the new scenery. Those once-burning feelings have all passed.

It has gradually become a mountain that exists only in my memory. The once-clear outline has turned vague; the intensity of emotion I once felt seems to have quietly faded. I am often troubled by these feelings — those that were once so vivid, yet destined to vanish. That strong sense of attachment had made me aware of both my own existence and the presence of what I cared about — as well as the fragile connection that still bound us together.

When memory fades, only its image remains. Though it still flickers in the mind, it lies at a distance I can no longer touch. Even if I wished to fall back into it again, I could not.

April 2023