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数年前,在福州三县洲江心公园的一座塔桥上,曾贤谋用一种迷惘的眼神,定定地注视着远方。我透过塔桥的钢架,用摄像机拍下了这个镜头。我至今未能忘怀那种目光,那种属于曾贤谋自己的目光。 我不由得想起作家苏童在《1934年的逃亡》中回忆枫杨树故乡人物时的一段描写: 回想昔日少年时光,我多么像一只虎崽伏在父亲的屋檐下,通体幽亮发蓝,窥视家中随日月飘浮越飘越浓的雾障…… 作为画家,曾贤谋并没有像作家那样将话语凌驾于外部世界的综合上。作家在更大
A few years ago, on a tower bridge in the Jiangxinshan Park in Fuzhou, three counties, Zeng Xian-Mou used a confused look, fixedly watching the distance. I passed through the bridge steel tower, with the camera photographed this lens. I have not forgotten that kind of gaze, that belongs to Zeng Xianmou their own eyes. I can not help thinking of a description of the time when writer Su Tong recalled the characters of Maple’s hometown in “Flight of 1934”: In retrospect, I was like a tiger cub lying under the dad’s roof. As the painter, Tsang Yin-mou did not override the discourse on the synthesis of the outside world like the writer did. Writers are bigger