Ai Weiwei on the walls in Paris
Everyone has a cloud, big or small, in their sky
Power - Arrogance - Graffiti on the walls in Paris
Ah! Those who open their mouths to swallow their own language - Graffiti on the walls in Paris

I am here, where is Ai Weiwei? Actually, I do not know him; I have never known where he was. But I only know that he lives in Beijing and is one of the most creative contemporary Chinese artists, as well as a rare brave defender of civil rights, an activist fighting for personal freedom and democracy. I have never met him, but I often heard of him within the art circle and saw information about his exhibitions. Recently, this artist disappeared without reason, his whereabouts unknown. It is strange; people can vanish automatically. Where did Ai Weiwei go? No one knows. He evaporated from the airport. It is hard to imagine, and also difficult to imagine, so I do not even want to imagine. People in the art circle seem speechless. The attitude of watching the show is somewhat shameless. What does the evaporation of an artist symbolize? Everyone knows clearly. So I am here, where is Ai Weiwei? Of course, somewhere within China, in some unit, some place. Heaven knows. Of course, I do not need to know. I only know the preciousness of personal freedom, and that human rights are even more valuable. The evaporated artist returned a few days ago. No one knows how he came back, what conditions were set for his return to the human world. According to reports, he was confined to a specific area, forbidden to do this or that, restricted for a year or half a year. Ai Weiwei has returned, yet he bites his own tongue, becoming a mute swallowing bitterness, losing the most precious thing, opening his mouth to swallow his own language. He is present yet invisible, present yet silent, present yet unknown in location. Though here, he is elsewhere, in a situation where suffering cannot be spoken. Ai Weiwei, please tell me where you are. Perhaps here is there, with no spatial or temporal distance, but only air. Do you remember your four-wheeled bicycle artwork? Mine runs on two wheels; yours is just for looks, unable to be ridden or run on. But there, only mutes and puppies have the right to run. Only with power can one be arrogant. Self-castration grants power. I really want to send Ai Weiwei a bottle of Duchamp’s Parisian air, let him breathe it. Is the fresh, free air of Paris purer and more charming than Beijing’s? Of course, Beijing roast duck certainly has better flavor.

I am here, where is Ai Weiwei? I only want to know what it tastes like to bite your own tongue. An invisible existence, where has your soul drifted? I am here, hoping one day to hear your feeling of having lost your language. That day will be our moment of reunion. At that time, here is there, there is here. Tolerance and openness mean no spatial or temporal distance.