Over the past few years, Robert Zhao has amassed a substantial body of work revolving around two concerns: man’s relationship with nature, and the means by which information and knowledge is disseminated and apprehended. Working primarily with photography, Zhao often utilizes a variety of media in presenting his artwork, frequently including documents and projects alongside his images. His work is also presented on online platforms, notably The Institute of Critical Zoologists (ICZ) and The Land Archive, both of which serve as online artwork portfolios, as well as vehicles to perpetuate his multilayered explorations of our relationship with animals and the environment, and how we receive and perceive various sources of information.
      
Zhao has been fascinated with animals since his childhood, and his earlier forays into photography were as an animal activist, capturing images of animal abuse and exploitation to help advance certain causes. Upon receiving a number of awards for his work, Zhao began to question if he was making a career out of animal suffering1.

Informed by his activist past, Zhao was also all too aware of the power of the image and how it could potentially change lives, or mislead; inflammatory images can spark passionate revolutions, and people are all too often ‘blinded’ by images and their attendant emotional tenor2.Encouraged by his university lecturers to combine the documentary and narrative strands of his work, Zhao now creates works in series, constructing narratives around images of animals. His art has also taken on a more critical and reflexive stance: it is less about advocating a certain point of view and more about opening up the image for unpicking and readings from various perspectives.

Zhao’s works, although centred around the natural world, are often less about animals themselves than about what the artist terms ‘the zoological gaze’, that is, how humans see animals and respond to them, and how our positions are determined by our own assumptions about animals, rather than any essential ‘truth’ about animals, nature, or the wild. In this respect, Zhao’s work differs greatly from conventional wildlife photography, which often asserts the ‘authenticity’ or ‘truth’ of the image; rather, Zhao’s images are reflexive constructions, revealing that the ‘truth’ in much photography is very often staged or mediated, and contingent on the subject positions.

At the same time, his work also addresses a number of urgent issues arising from the impact of man’s actions on the natural world, for example, global warming, climate change, the destruction or alteration of natural habitats, and the threat of extinction. However, instead of adopting the alarmist and incendiary tone of many documentaries and image about such subject matter, Zhao’s approach appears more cooly objective, as if in the name of scientific research or experimentation (under the auspices of ICZ), and is often tinged with undercurrents of wry humour.
Take for instance the Acusis project (2008), which addresses the threat of extinction of certain species via a documentation of the “pioneering efforts” of apocryphal research institutes that have succeeded in combing cryogenics with acupuncture to extend the lifespans of endangered species by introducing hibernative states, and reviving these animals at intervals to reproduce. This preamble to the series of images nudges at the limits of credulity but it is not altogether wildly unbelievable, given recent scientific and medical advancements in cryogenics and breakthroughs in the scientific quest for human immortality. The pseudoscientific veneer of this project is perpetuated in the presentation of the images of the dormant animals as well—they are viewed on the ICZ website through “live webcams” with time and date stamps, with a film of mist passing over the images at intervals to suggest the frozen air enveloping the hibernating specimens in the laboratories.

Another project, entitled A Heartwarming Feeling (2010), purports to capture the journey of migrating birds, produced by pin-hole cameras attached to their feet. The images are prefaced by an account of how global warming is affecting migratory patterns, with changes in energy fields affecting birds’ ability to determine the “correct” time to migrate and hence resulting in mass bird graves being discovered in parts of Arctic. The result is a series of abstract, blurred, rainbow-coloured auras against hazy, indeterminate landscapes—reminiscent of the Northern Lights—beautiful, otherworldly and quietly elegiac, considering that a large number of these birds perished on their “confused migratory journey” and that “[the] only way that these landscapes could have formed on the paper was when the bird came to a final rest and laid on the ice, because that would give the pin-hole camera enough time to form a clear and still image—which is probably the last view of the bird before it died.”3

BLIND AND THE GREAT PRETENDERS

“We are naïve when we read photos.”4 —Robert Zhao

Due to its representational nature, photography is easy to “read” and often considered an accurate or truthful capture of “reality”. In actuality, photographers often go to great lengths to stage or construct the perfect shot. Like any other form of representation, photographs are also social and cultural constructions, informed by the assumptions and subjective positions of their authors. As such, the photographer is always ‘in the frame’, no matter how much he or she tries to remove all traces of his or her presence from the picture—a point addressed by Zhao in his series The blind (2007-2008). The images from this series picture zoologists conducting fieldwork in various natural environments whilst wearing a specially developed camouflage cloak that allows them to blend in with their surroundings. The Blind is hence an apt metaphor for how the photographer (particularly of wildlife) tries to remove himself from the frame and the appear invisible when the reality is anything but, and hence an allusion to the deceptiveness of photography. The title of this series could also refer to the viewer, who is often ‘blinded’ by the “honesty” of a photograph to realise that the image is staged and/or mediated.

As with photography, science is also another field often taken for granted to be objective and, hence, true. Zhao explores the limits of credulity by combing the two in his ongoing project The Institute of Critical Zoologists. In actuality, Zhao works closely with an ecologist friend, so the narratives that underpin his images do have some scientific basis. Zhao elaborates on these narratives with requisite jargon and technical terms, and this veneer of pseudoscience is often convincing enough for some to be taken in: Zhao’s images have been published in scientific journals that have neglected to thoroughly investigate the claims being made by the photographs and their provenance, and the artist has also received enquiries from students who have taken ICZ for a legitimate scientific research site. There is certainly a long history of scientific hoaxes, and one of Zhao’s works references a 2006 incident in which the media was awash with speculation over the “discovery” of live fish in a duck egg in the French Alps by a group of biologists from the University of Manchester.

However, Zhao often constructs his narrative so that they push the limits of credibility (and gullibility), and his narratives always leave, in the words, “enough room for people to fall down”6, in order to cast a shadow of a doubt about the information being presented.

Take for instance Zhao’s work The Great Pretenders (2010), which revolves around a research group focusing on the study and breeding of camouflage leaf insects known as Phyllidae. This project was presented in the form of a special-issue journal, in conjunction with the 26th Phylliidae Convention. The journal of Phylliidae studies mimics the appearance and conventions of a professional research journal, with text submissions from apocryphal researchers and Phylliidae experts, archival photographs of researchers conducting fieldwork, close-up images of various Phylliidae species accompanied by a detailed cataloguing of each variant's characteristics(including size, locality and food sources), and even subscription information and a call for research contributions to be sent to an address in Japan.

The images of the leaf insects in the journal are actually close-ups of various plant stems and leaves; the invisibility of the insect (its absence) is lauded by the journal as a gauge of how successfully the species has been bred to perfectly mimic its host plant. Mimicry is an essential survival trait in the natural world; here in The Great Pretenders, it acquires an irony given how the project is based on a mimicry of scientific research and its mechanisms of dissemination (the academic/research journal with its attendant conventions of labelling, species identification and cataloguing)— a case of how far ‘the emperor’s new clothes’ can be substantiated by “expert opinion” in the guise of pseudoscience. As the preface to this series of work on the ICZ website wryly states, “The life of the Phylliidae is one shrouded mimicry and pretense. Study of these species is extremely difficult as me may never know what one is really studying.” By extension, The Great Pretenders could also be read as an analogy for the pretense and duplicity of the art world that Zhao inhabits7, where conceptual posturing often passes for ‘art’ once backed by the opinion of “experts”.

SETTING THE TRAP/TRAPPING LARGE MAMMALS

“Often certain traps are created for very specific species according to their habits.”—The Institute of Critical Zoologists

What The Great Pretenders cautions us about, tongue-in-check, is the need for critical looking and questioning. It lays bare our blind faith in images and institutions of authority (such as the scientific journal). Zhao’s presentation of images alongside convincingly authoritative documents acts as a kind od snare, and a parallel may be drawn between the “trap” that the artist sets for unwitting audiences and animal traps, of which Zhao owns a large collection.

The effectiveness of animal traps hinges on an understanding of how the animal will behave, respond and react. Similarly, Zhao’s works play on how we have been conditioned to ‘accept’ authoritative modes of address, and especially so in the context of Singapore where there are limited mainstream platforms for debate and discussion of issues, and where the education system has for a long time been predicated on rote learning and an unquestioning acceptance of knowledge delivered by an authority. By presenting his images alongside “official” texts or those by seemingly knowledgeable “specialists”, Zhao is tapping on a deep-seated recognition of documents as “condensations of power” that “reek of authority, certification, expertise and concentrate epistemological hierarchies”8. The Institute of Critical Zoologists takes this further by constructing an entire (fictional) edifice around Zhao’s projects and documents, passing itself off as an organization dedicated to research and “critical zoology”. It extends Zhao’s practice of presenting images alongside texts by adopting the conventions of other institutions and repositories of knowledge and information, such as the museum and the archive.

In this respect, it is similar to the conceptual explorations undertaken by Walid Raad with The Atlas Group project (1989-2004), a fictional collective founded to examine the impact of the Lebanese Civil War through archival documentation. The creation of what appears to be an authoritative institution, a disseminator of “facts” and “knowledge”, serves instead to interrogate these modes of information/knowledge dissemination and their credibility, and to question how knowledge is ordered and transmitted. For Raad, the occasional failure of audiences to grasp the fictive nature of The Atlas Group project and its documents confirmed for him “the weighty associations with authority and authenticity of certain modes of address...and display... modes that I choose to lean on and play with at the same time”9.

This interrogation of institutions and repositories of knowledge and information reveals the artists’ unease with definitive readings, whether they be of history or contemporary issues. The strategies adopted by both Raad and Zhao present alternative ways of ‘narrating’ or ‘representing’ these histories and issues, suggesting an awareness of the ambiguities, difficulties and discomfort involved in ‘telling’, especially when contentious or fraught issues are at stake that perhaps necessitate a multiplicity of perspectives and the representation or discussion of which needs to be approached obliquely, rather than head-on.

A case in point is a project that Zhao embarked on whilst on residency in Japan, which referenced the current debate around whaling practices. Steering clear of reproducing or directly addressing the arguments for and against this practice, which have been rehearsed ad nauseam in the media, Zhao chose to approach this issue in a less straightforward way through a publication entitled The Whiteness of a Whale (2010), which purportedly documents the lost history of whale worship in the small fishing village of Omishima, Japan.

The Whiteness of a Whale presents a series of enigmatic vignettes that “represent” the whale from several different perspectives: from “archival” photographs of landscapes where sightings of a mythical white whale occurred to abstract computer-analytical images, from photographs of cultural activities and ceremonies revolving around the whale to edifices constructed in honour of the creature, and close-up, microscopic photographs of whale meat.

The lyricism and obliqueness of these images stand in stark contrast to the images of harpoons and bloodied carcasses often relayed to us by the media. And just as the mythical white whale of Omishima eludes discovery by the villagers, so too the whale itself is never actually represented in Zhao’s images, save for a hazy impression that opens his publication. The whale, like the issue of whaling, is perhaps an entity that cannot be pinned down or adequately ‘represented’, although entire cultures and edifices can be constructed around its cult and mythos, just as whaling practices have galvanised a frenzy of opinion and opposition. The enigmatic aura of the images—many of which are set against looming, overcast skies and combine fact with fantasy—together with the Japanese village’s strange cult of the whale suggest how limited our understanding is of foreign practices. Indeed, the preface to the publication describes The Whiteness of a Whale as “an encounter with an unfamiliar culture”. In instances like these, the ‘message’ seems to be that it is perhaps wise to withhold judgment on things that one can only remotely understand or apprehend, and to refrain from applying one’s own values to a foreign context. For the ‘whiteness’ of the whale suggests not just a mystical purity capable of inspiring an entire mythology and cult of worship, it is also a blankness, on which can be projected a myriad hopes, fears, ambitions and agendas.

THE QUIETING AND THE ALARMING

Zhao’s new work for the President’s Young Talents brings together several strands from his previous projects but at the same time departs significantly in its exclusion of texts and supporting documents to elucidate its context. The Quieting and The Alarming presents a series of images and an object in an installation, and addresses the current issue of wild boar culling in Singapore, which has divided the population in opinion and triggered a number of passionate outbursts on social media platforms. The title of the work also reflects the polarity of responses and attitudes towards the recent incursion of the wild boar on the local ecosystem.

The Quieting and The Alarming mimics an expedition to track down the boar, with a trail of clues and “sightings” (such as scratchings in the grass) unfolding in the space of the gallery, alerting us to the presence of the creature. The images stand in the darkened space almost like epitaphs, and the installation concludes with an animal trap at the darkened end of the gallery.

The first image we encounter is of a group of figures peering into the depths of a forest, with the lead figure’s binoculars trained on what lies beyond. Based on an image of a group of enforcement officers tracking the wild boar in the forest that was widely circulated in the local mass media, the title of this image, A Vision of the Universe suggests a particular way of looking, and a particular view of the world - notably one in which we miss the forest for the trees; the idea that in focusing on the details, one loses sight of the bigger picture. This image also draws on a long tradition of representation that depicts humanity as insignificant against the force and majesty of nature: the human figures in this photograph are dwarfed by the forest that threatens to engulf them. The cold and darkened cast of the image also reinforces a sense of foreboding—the forest is, after all, a potent signifier and symbol of mystery, danger, the unknown and primordiality.
  
Advancing into the darkened gallery space, the viewer next encounters Black Holes #5 - a close-up of wild boar diggings in the grass. Ecologists have argued that large numbers of the creature could prove destructive for the landscape and ecosystem in the long run because of the destruction their diggings can wreak on the surrounding vegetation. The boar’s scratchings have left a hole in the ground-a dark, amorphous emptiness, a lack or loss, an empty space onto which a myriad fears and associations can be projected. This absence signifies the presence of the creature-what or who has been here before—and creates a certain frisson not unlike that of explorers or hunters discovering the footprints of a creature they are searching for. At the same time, as suggested by the image’s caption, this is also a metaphorical black hole, where there is something missing and something that is unknown. It is a metaphor for our knowledge and understanding of the issue-where we make assumptions and decisions founded on half-truths and absences, distorted by our own memories and fears.

The next image in this series can only be partially seen—it is housed in a wooden box, and it is the pinpricks of light coming through the wood that alert us to something enclosed behind its walls. Through tiny holes in the wooden cover, one can only just about make out the image above, of two armed figures standing over two dead boars.

Again, there is a play on the idea of partial vision, this time exacerbated by the dim lighting through which we view this image—darkness or dimness alluding to a lack of enlightenment and information. Our vision is further obscured, or frustrated, by the fact that we have to peer through tiny holes to make out this picture, which is hidden away in its wooden enclosure, suggesting a terrible secret that must be kept from public view.

This image makes reference to the policy of wild boar culling as a means to contain its population and hence achieve ecological equilibrium. The measures were adopted by the authorities based on the recommendations in a research paper written by Zhao’s long-time friend and collaborator Yong Ding Li. Yong suffered a public backlash from those sympathetic to the wild boar, and when Zhao first published this image online, it provoked another wave of accusations against Yong, as a result of which Zhao swiftly removed the image. It is therefore fitting that this image is now ‘locked away’ from public view, and it also alludes to the fact that the culling of wild boars by the authorities is now executed as discreetly as possible.in a designated enclosure and under the cover of darkness, so as not to provoke further emotional reactions from those who view the creatures as harmless and endearing.

In its representation, this image harks back to a tradition of hunting photographs picturing hunters and their animal trophies—an assertion of man’s domination and power over nature—in contrast to the earlier image of the forest threatening to overwhelm the explorers. It is also possible to see parallels between this image and the painting The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein, which depicts two men of the world, surrounded by trappings of power and success. At their feet is an enigmatic blurred object, which, when viewed from the side, reveals itself to be an anamorphic skull, a memento mori. Similarly, death at the feet of the hunters is represented as a dark, amorphous blot, almost like a stain—a loss or lack too disturbing to be confronted head-on, and echoing the ‘black hole’ of the preceding image of boar scratchings in the grass.

The next pair of images in the installation echoes the pinpricks of light emanating from the wooden box. Pinpoints of light and hazy swirls dance across a canvas of black, suggesting perhaps a galaxy or a view of the night sky. In actual fact, these images are close-ups of wild boar fur, the circular points of light, specks of dust. The darkness of this image is an allegory for not-seeing or misunderstanding, and the pinpoints of light suggest information that needs to be mapped or charted—the dots connected. Once again, the idea of partial vision comes to the fore, this time doubly so, for what this image suggests is that when one is too close to the subject matter (both physically as well as emotionally).one tends to aestheticise or romanticise reality, so much so that the dirt-flecked fur of a beast could, in our eyes, be transformed into a galaxy of sublime and otherworldly beauty. If our eyes are clouded, and our vision obscured, itis us—and not the wild boar—who will stumble into the waiting trap at the end, in the/our metaphorical darkness.

· · ·

In her essay “Documentary Uncertainty”, Hito Steyerl discusses her experience viewing a broadcast of live CNN footage from Iraq. Streamed from the reporter’s cell phone camera, the images were so blurred and hazy that nothing could be discerned, prompting Steyerl to liken them to abstract expressionism and to observe, paradoxically, that the ‘closer’ one is to reality, in the immediacy of the situation, the less one can see. However, Steyerl went on to observe that it was precisely the blurred and unfocused quality of those images that expressed the truth of the situation better than any objectivist report could, for what the grainy footage acutely ‘expressed’—as opposed to ‘represented’—was the uncertainty of the situation, and “the precarious nature of contemporary lives as well as the uneasy-ness of any representation”10.

There are many parallels between this passage in Steyerl’s text and the ideas in Zhao’s new work. If we look at what Zhao’s images ‘express’ rather than ‘represent’, then it is worth noting that there is a great deal of darkness in this work. Partly this mimics nighttime, when the boars emerge from the forests and when one is most likely to encounter them. However, this darkness in the images also plays on primordial fears: the blackness or the black hole at the centre of the galaxy that threatens to swallow us; the mystery of the forest, the untamed wild; the trap, connoting anxiety and imminent danger; and lastly, darkness as a metaphor for not-knowing and the fears that ensue.

The idea of partial or distorted vision and skewed perspectives is also a leitmotif in Zhao’s projects, and occurs again in The Quieting and The Alarming, where the artist exploits the ambiguities of distance (physical as well as metaphorical) between the viewer and the subject matter. Just as the grainy CNN footage described in Steyerl’s essay is a result of the reporter being too close to the action, so too our views of the wild boar through the images in Zhao’s installation are ‘too close’ to be complete or to coalesce into a clear picture. Indeed, we never really see the animal at all. We see traces of its activity, we see men in search of it, we encounter it at such proximity that we are unaware of what is actually presenting itself before us. The only ‘complete’ image of the boar is one that is difficult to view in its entirety, for it is enclosed in a wooden box and can only be viewed (partially) through pin holes punctured in the wooden board. This is analogous to the story of the blind men and the elephant—with each man forming his own idea of what an elephant looks like based solely on the section of the elephant he was touching—a story not dissimilar to how the public have responded to the issue of wild boar culling, basing their convictions on narrow personal viewpoints rather than a holistic perspective.

Like the mythical white whale for which the people of Omishima have searched in vain, the wild boar eludes us in this gallery space. While the print and online media have been inundated with photographs of wild boars, taken and submitted by the public fascinated with this recent natural phenomenon, the artist seems to suggest instead that it is, perhaps, a subject that cannot be adequately represented or contained. Indeed, Zhao’s original proposal for this exhibition, from which this work subsequently developed, was titled An Image Too Big for a Room, and would comprise an enlarged picture of a wild boar, installed such that it would fill an entire gallery completely, bisecting the space, so that audiences could view the image only from certain angles or perspectives, never in its entirety.
  
EPILOGUE

“Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.”
—Pablo Picasso, “Picasso Speaks” The Arts, New York, May 1923

“I used to think I told the truth until people started believing in my images.”
—Robert Zhao, Some Kind of Expedition