From the Absence of Seeing to the Generation of Vision

From the Absence of Seeing to the Generation of Vision: Chen Tao-Ming’s Perceptual Experiments on Paper, 1975–2003

Abstract

This paper examines the work of Taiwanese artist Chen Tao-Ming between 1975 and 2003, a period marked by his withdrawal from exhibitions and the public art scene. Through the concept of “the generation of seeing,” the study explores Chen’s experimental works on paper as a sustained philosophical practice that challenges perceptual habits and the institutional norms of visuality. Employing unconventional materials and techniques, Chen’s creations transcend stylistic categorizations and instead cultivate a perceptual discipline rooted in the instability of images, the unconscious, and material contingency. By drawing on art philosophy, phenomenology, and curatorial critique, this study rethinks the conditions of visibility in art historical writing and exhibition-making, revealing the generative potential of artistic practices that operate in the margins of historical absence.

Section I. From the Absence of Seeing to the Generation of Vision: Research Problem and Theoretical Framework

In the construction of postwar Taiwanese art history, “exhibition” has long been regarded as the primary arena of artistic practice and the foundational source for historical writing. Yet, when an artist ceases to participate in exhibitions, refrains from interviews, issues no public statements, and leaves behind no systematic discourse on their own practice, does their art-making become synonymous with historical absence? Or, hidden beneath this surface of apparent “forgetting,” might there lie a generative form of vision—one that detaches itself from display, eschews the demand to be seen, and instead poses a radical challenge to the act of seeing itself?

This study begins with such a question, focusing on the artistic trajectory of Taiwanese artist Chen Tao-Ming between 1975 and 2003. This period, largely omitted from mainstream art historical accounts, is marked by a complete lack of exhibition records or critical commentary. And yet, within the confines of his studio, Chen was continuously engaged in a deep investigation into the conditions of seeing, the structure of perception, and the logic of materials. These works were not created for visual presentation, nor did they conform to any recognizable style or series. Rather, they constitute a sustained perceptual training and the generation of visual experience through what I refer to as “paper-based experiments.”

The central question this paper seeks to address is: when artistic creation no longer follows the system of exhibitions or the logic of images, can it still serve as a site of seeing? And if so, how is such seeing generated?

I refer to this phase of Chen’s work as his “paper experiment period,” not simply to denote a technical exploration of media, but to designate a philosophical site of vision. During this time, Chen employed a wide range of unconventional paper materials—such as nonwoven fabric, grass-fiber paper, scraps of cloth, and industrial cardboard—and combined them with techniques like soaking, flipping, imprinting, and non-brush-based gestures. The resulting surfaces became fields of perceptual ambiguity, in which the image was not so much constructed as disrupted. What he constructed was not a pictorial form, but a perceptual mechanism that compelled the viewer to become aware of the very act of seeing.

This research is grounded in perspectives drawn from the philosophy of art and phenomenology, and informed by theories of the unconscious, material aesthetics, and institutional critique. It seeks to reframe what appears as a period of “absence” as, in fact, a highly experimental and critical mode of artistic production. More than offering a contextual narrative of Chen’s practice, the study aims to interrogate the very conditions of visibility assumed by art historical writing and curatorial engagement.

The paper is structured into five sections:

• Section I introduces the central problem and theoretical framework, establishing “the generation of vision” as its core concept;

• Section II investigates how Chen’s paper-based experiments became a rigorous perceptual training ground;

• Section III analyzes the dialectical logic between the unconscious and visual operation within his work;

• Section IV explores how materials and techniques act as mediators or devices for seeing;

• Section V returns to the curatorial and discursive dimensions, considering how to respond to such “unexhibited yet deeply visual” artistic  practices in contemporary exhibition-making.

Through this inquiry, the paper proposes a mode of seeing distinct from exhibition history, stylistic analysis, or subject-based readings—a way of seeing that not only examines what the artist left behind, but how the artist saw. And more importantly, it raises the question of whether the act of seeing itself has also been historically overlooked.

Section II. Paper-Based Experiments as a Discipline of Seeing

In 1975, Chen Tao-Ming deliberately chose the location furthest from institutional exhibition spaces and academic art circles—his own worktable—as the starting point for what would become a nearly thirty-year-long process of “paper-based experiments.” This creative journey was neither oriented toward exhibition nor shaped by market demands; rather, it was a sustained visual and psychological experiment aimed at retraining the act of seeing itself. Departing from the stable materials of traditional canvas-based painting, Chen continuously altered, tested, and even abandoned conventional media in order to explore how different substances might trigger sensory responses.

This persistent experimentation with materials was not the result of technical immaturity or tentative trial-and-error. Instead, it was a conscious strategy of repeatedly overturning and reconstructing familiarity. From copperplate paper that resisted acrylic absorption, to double-sided nonwoven fabric, to highly absorbent grass-fiber paper and various types of cardboard—each material responded differently to pigment diffusion, seepage, wrinkling, and tearing. Even after mastering the technique of painting with thickness and intensity while maintaining the lightness and clarity of watercolor, Chen refused to rely on familiar skills. He chose instead to “revolt against himself” again and again.

“Don’t cling to the past. Today must overthrow yesterday!”  “Without change, you’re forever left behind.”

These remarks illuminate his core resistance to formulaic representation. Chen saw himself as a “shape-shifter” in his artistic practice, emphasizing change as a mode of existence and rejecting fixed forms or styles. “The academic system is like a printing factory… I’m a shape-shifter,” he said. This ethos of self-negation and continual renewal meant that every work was a reconstruction of the act of seeing.

Chen’s paper experiment period was also deeply influenced by his earlier experience in fashion design. From the late 1960s to the early 1970s, he worked as a fashion designer, beginning by dismantling his own suits to understand their construction, and eventually learning to cut fabric directly without patterns, executing three-dimensional tailoring on the spot. He translated this “improvised modeling” mindset into a strategy for art-making. He even adopted materials from clothing production—such as lining fabric, nonwoven cloth, scraps, and cleaning rags—as components of his paintings, allowing them to function as fields of color and texture.

In this way, his works were never “completed paintings,” but rather a succession of experiments in visual mechanisms. What he pursued was a form of perceptual training—non-narrative and non-representational.

“When I paint, I’m joyful and playful—it’s like frolicking through life. No constraints, just freedom. That’s my belief, my guiding principle.”

“My paintings are alive and jumping—they carry my life within them.”

Behind this spirit of freedom was a rigorous, almost philosophical visual discipline. Chen viewed his works as “records of mental activity,” occupying a space between the conscious and unconscious. They were not stable artworks or image-commodities, but flowing sites of perceptual emergence. This creative path was not merely a formal exploration of painting—it was a long-term spiritual practice in the ontology of seeing.

Section III. The Dialectic Between the Unconscious and Visual Operation

If the paper-based experiments that Chen Tao-Ming initiated after 1975 can be understood as a training of perception, then what operated beneath their surface was more than a formal or material exploration—it was a deeper psychic movement, a philosophical dialogue between consciousness and the unconscious.

Chen once remarked, “I believe painting is a form of discovery—a process of self-exploration between the conscious and unconscious.” This statement clearly articulates his fundamental artistic stance: creation is neither the representation of reality nor a formalist exercise, but rather an inward journey—an excavation of the structures of one’s own perception. His constant shifting of materials and pigments, and his embrace of unpredictable physical reactions on paper, were deliberate strategies to disrupt the safe boundaries of habitual seeing, returning the act of creation to a state of “primordial vision.”

This creative logic resonates strongly with the psychological notion of “the path to the unconscious.” As Carl Jung observed, accessing the unconscious often requires the disruption and reorientation of established sensory orders. In Chen’s experiments, such disruptions took the form of material estrangement, loss of compositional control, and pigment seepage—each contributing to an intentional sense of instability. Rather than aiming to depict an image, he sought to expose the traces of unconscious activity through the generative process of image formation itself.

His images never settled into stable forms or aesthetic comfort; instead, they constantly hovered on the edge of chaos. Color fields would sometimes wrinkle; pigment would peel away from the paper; accidental fingerprints or smudges from tools would unexpectedly become integral to the composition. This was not an “aesthetics of error,” but rather a “necessity of losing control”—a deliberate surrender of total authorship, allowing perception to emerge through a live, embodied encounter with the medium.

“When I paint, I am a grand dictator… how free and unrestrained I feel.”

Yet he also noted:  “Where my language cannot reach, I turn to abstract symbols as a form of narration.”

These two statements reveal a creative attitude that is both intensely self-possessed and conscious of the limitations of language—including visual language. His posture as “dictator” was not one of obsessive control, but of absolute respect for the space of self-creation—he allowed unknown shapes and sensations to emerge, unburdened by predetermined narratives or symbolic codes.

This approach also manifested in his treatment of time. He did not work in series, nor did he structure his output according to exhibition cycles. Each paper experiment was a self-contained moment—a direct engagement with the feelings of the present. He once remarked, “Perhaps things from the past may resurface through the present, but they must remain connected to the now—not severed from it.”

As a result, his works generate a psychological field intensely attuned to the present moment. Each sheet of paper becomes more than a medium—it becomes a container for traces of seeing, feeling, memory, and unconscious activity. To enter the world of these works, the viewer cannot rely solely on image recognition. One must resonate with them, invest in them, gaze into them—only then can the dialectic of “having no conclusion, yet possessing a conclusion” begin to unfold.

Section IV. The Limits of Material and the Generation of Vision: From Everyday Substances to Perceptual Apparatuses

If seeing is a trained and habitual act, then one way to interrupt the habits of seeing is to change the material basis on which artworks rely. For Chen Tao-Ming, material is not merely a tool for creation—it is a device that conditions and initiates vision itself. When he chose to work with nonwoven fabric, straw paper, interlining cloth, fabric scraps, industrial cardboard, or even discarded wiping rags as his primary mediums, these “non-art materials” did more than alter pigment dispersion and image formation; they destabilized the viewer’s visual experience, disrupting familiar interpretive frameworks and forcing a return to the fundamental question of how vision is constructed.

The chromatic textures in these paper-based experiments are often mistaken for “underglaze painting” or high-temperature ceramic effects—an association closely tied to his early experience working in a ceramics factory. He was once fascinated by the unpredictable transformations of glaze under extreme heat, and this sensation of “waiting for pigment to realize itself in heat” became a perceptual trigger he later sought to recreate on paper. The seepage, wrinkling, cracking, and blurring on the paper surface are not simulations of ceramics, but rather transpositions of ceramics’ uncontrollability into trials of vision.

Faced with these unfamiliar and unclassifiable visual effects, viewers often respond with puzzled astonishment, whispering: “How… was this even painted?”  This question is not merely technical—it arises when established modes of seeing fail to correspond to the work, compelling the viewer to ask anew: how is vision even possible?

This is precisely the threshold Chen’s practice touches—when vision is no longer natural, but becomes an interrupted, deferred, and reconstructed process.

Moreover, many of his works exhibit what appears to be printmaking or rubbing effects, though they are not produced by printmaking techniques. Rather, they result from the pigment’s seepage, flipping, and pressure between surfaces—imprints left by two sheets pressed together, stains from rubbing wet cloth, or accidental transfers from studio rags. These are not technical flaws, but deliberately preserved traces of instability—visual residues whose sources cannot be clearly identified as brushstroke or non-brushstroke, front or back, beginning or end.

Through this strategy, the surface ceases to be a space for representing imagery. Instead, it becomes a site of perceptual generation. The viewer is not encountering a painterly subject, but rather a sequence of phenomenological questions: How do we recognize form? How do we interpret space? How do we seek meaning from vision itself?

Thus, these works appeal to no external theme. They function as apparatuses and fields for vision: not objects to be looked at, but mechanisms that make us aware that we are looking.

Such a stance constitutes a fundamental critique of exhibition systems and image culture. By choosing not to exhibit, not to explain, not to title, and not to pursue a recognizable market style, Chen rejected the logic of image commodification. Instead, he transformed art-making into a long-term training of perception.

In doing so, his works are no longer “about” something external, but are something internal: a perceptual event, a suspended moment of seeing, and a philosophical field in which the viewer must confront the conditions of their own vision.

V. Conclusion: Recalling the Act of Seeing from Oblivion — Toward Contemporary Interpretation and Curatorial Practice

Within the narrative trajectory of postwar Taiwanese art, Chen Dao-Ming’s creative output from 1975 to 2003 long remained on the margins, absent from institutional frameworks. He withdrew from exhibitions and ceased public engagement, instead turning toward an inward experiment that required no viewers and sought no validation. This seemingly silent period was not the result of external exclusion, but rather a deliberate shift in his own orientation toward art-making and seeing — a conscious exit from the space of display into a prolonged and sustained perceptual discipline.

Paradoxically, it is precisely within this unrecorded stretch — neglected by mainstream art institutions — that Chen’s work reveals a profound philosophy of vision. He consistently changed materials, tested how pigments behaved on various papers and fabrics, and constructed visual misalignments and perceptual interferences. These works did not “present” imagery; they became the site of seeing itself, compelling the viewer to confront the very limits, illusions, and emergence of perception.

He once said: “I think painting is a process of discovery — a self-exploration between consciousness and the subconscious.”

He also described his creative state as one of complete freedom, unrestrained by form or external conventions; a freedom grounded in his deep understanding of the act of seeing and the nature of artistic creation.

Such statements reflect a profound tension within his practice — an oscillation between command and surrender, between agency and subconscious invocation. His works were not made for exhibition or style; they served instead as records of inner vision — a sustained inquiry into how we see. This inquiry cuts through surface aesthetics and formal structures, directly interrogating the conditions of perception and the mechanisms by which meaning emerges.

Looking back on this nearly silent trajectory today, we might reconsider the position of art history and curatorial practice. The writing of history need not follow only the visible paths of exhibitions, movements, or institutions. It must also include boundary practitioners who, though unassimilated by the system, continually generate modes of thinking about perception. Curators, in turn, are no longer mere archivists of history, but re-constructors of the very conditions of seeing — not just retracing a “historical path,” but rebuilding the “pathway of perception.”

To respond curationally to Chen Dao-Ming’s practice, a retrospective must not simply “look back” — it must serve as a perceptual exercise. It must allow viewers to step into the pigment traces left on straw-fiber paper and non-woven fabrics, to feel the instability and ruptures; and through the fragmented rhythms of his decades-long work, come to understand how this artist, through an unorthodox artistic life, accomplished a philosophical experiment in vision.

Such a presentation does not aim to assert his place in history, but to answer the question he left for us:

“How do you see?”

《從觀看之缺席到觀看的生成：陳道明1975–2003年紙上實驗的知覺哲學》

摘要

本論文聚焦於台灣藝術家陳道明於1975年至2003年間未曾展出之創作歷程，提出「觀看的生成」作為論述主軸，探討其紙上實驗如何成為一種挑戰感知、重構觀看的哲學實踐。在不依附展覽、不追求圖像風格的狀態下，陳道明以非典型紙材與實驗性技法，開展一系列關於潛意識、材料邊界與視覺知覺的長期創作，形成一種介於藝術與思辨之間的觀看訓練場。本文結合藝術哲學、現象學與策展批判視角，重新思考藝術史書寫與策展實踐中觀看條件的構成可能，並指出在歷史性缺席中所潛藏的觀看力量。

第一節　從觀看之缺席到觀看的生成：問題意識與研究架構

在台灣戰後藝術史的建構中，「展覽」長期被視為藝術實踐的主要場域與歷史書寫的基礎來源。然而，當一位藝術家長期未參與任何展覽、不接受採訪、不發表聲明，也未留下系統性的創作論述時，他的藝術實踐是否就等同於歷史的缺席？或者，在這種表面上被「遺忘」的狀態之下，是否潛藏著一種觀看的生成形式——不依附展示、不為觀看而創作，卻更徹底地挑戰觀看自身的創作實驗？

本研究即是以此為出發點，聚焦於台灣藝術家陳道明於1975年至2003年間的創作歷程。這段被主流藝術史所忽略的時期，既無展覽紀錄，也未曾被評論文獻記載，然在其工作室之內，卻持續展開一場對觀看條件、感知結構與材料邏輯的深入探問。這些作品並非為了圖像的呈現，也不構成明確的風格或系列，而是一種以「紙上實驗」為載體的觀看鍛鍊與知覺生成實踐。

本文所欲處理的關鍵問題是：當藝術創作不再依循展覽制度與圖像體系，它是否仍然可以成為觀看的現場？而這樣的觀看，是如何生成的？

我稱這段創作歷程為其「紙上實驗期」，並不僅將其視為材料技法的探索，而是一種觀看哲學的實驗現場。在這段期間，陳道明大量運用非典型紙材（如不織布、草纖紙、殘布、工業紙板等），結合滲透、翻轉、殘痕與非筆觸的操作方式，使畫面本身成為視覺感知的混沌場域。他所建構的，不是圖像，而是一套讓觀看者重新意識「自己正在觀看」的知覺機制。

本研究將以藝術哲學與現象學視角為核心，參考潛意識理論、材料美學與展覽制度批判，重新梳理這段看似「缺席」實則深具實驗性與批判性的創作歷程。研究目的不僅是為這位藝術家的紙上實驗建立論述脈絡，更希望藉此重新思考藝術史建構的可見性條件與策展實踐中的觀看可能。

全文共分五節：

• 第一節提出研究問題與理論架構，說明「觀看的生成」如何作為本研究的核心；

• 第二節探討紙上實驗如何成為創作者的觀看鍛鍊場；

• 第三節分析其創作中潛意識與視覺操作的辯證邏輯；

• 第四節進一步從材料與技術出發，討論其如何構成觀看的裝置與中介；

• 第五節則回到當代策展與敘事建構層面，思考如何回應這種「未被展出卻深具觀看思想」的創作實踐。

藉由上述論述，本文希望提出一種不同於展覽史、風格論與主體論的觀看方式——不僅觀看藝術家留下了什麼，更觀看他如何觀看；不僅探討其作品如何被忽略，更探問觀看本身是否也被歷史忽略了。

第二節　紙上實驗作為觀看鍛鍊

1975年，陳道明選擇在距離體制展覽空間與學術畫壇最遠的位置——他自己的工作桌上——開始了一段長達近三十年的「紙上實驗」。這段創作歷程既非為了展出、亦非針對市場，而是一場純粹為了重新鍛鍊「觀看」本身而展開的視覺與心理實驗。不同於傳統畫布創作的穩定媒材，他不斷更換、實驗、甚至捨棄畫材，以測試不同物質對視覺感知的觸發方式。

這種對材料的持續變動，並非出於技術尚未成熟的摸索，而是一種有意識地反覆推翻與重建熟悉感的創作策略。他從不易吸收壓克力顏料的銅版紙、到雙面可上色的不織布、再到吸水性極強的草纖紙與各種硬卡紙，每一種紙材都伴隨不同的顏料擴散、滲透、皺縮與斷裂的反應。他在技術上達到「可以畫得這麼厚實卻又像水彩一樣淡薄清閒」的控制力之後，選擇不依戀已熟練的技法，而是不斷「革自己的命」。

「不要留戀過去，今天要革昨天的命！」

「沒有變，就永遠是落後的。」

這些語錄所揭示的，正是他不願落入程式化再現的核心理念。他視自己為一個創作的「變形蟲」，強調變動即是存在的方式，拒絕一成不變的形式或風格。他說：「學院派就像印刷工廠一樣……我就是個變形蟲。」這種自我否定與重新出發的循環，使每一次的創作都成為一次觀看方法的重構。

紙上實驗期也深受他早期時尚設計經驗的影響。1960年代末至1970年代初，他曾擔任時裝設計師，從完全不會剪裁、親手拆解自己的西裝開始，到後來能夠不需打版、直接在布料上進行立體剪裁。他不僅將這樣的「即場推演」思維轉化為創作策略，還將服裝所用的襯裡布、不織布作為繪畫媒材，甚至將殘布與擦拭布也納入畫面中，成為色塊與紋理生成的一部分。

這些操作方式讓他的創作從來不是一幅畫的完成，而是一段段觀看機制的生成與實驗。他所堅持的，是一種非敘事、非圖像的感知訓練。

「我畫畫的時候很快樂很遊戲，經常是遊戲人間的感覺。不受任何限制，活得自由自在，這就是我的信仰、我的宗旨。」

「我的畫是活蹦亂跳，有我的生命在裡邊的。」

這種「自由自在」的背後，卻是一種極為嚴謹、近乎哲學性的視覺鍛鍊。他將作品視為「心靈意識活動的一種記錄」，是介於意識與潛意識之間的流動現場，而非穩定的作品或圖像商品。這樣的創作歷程，不僅是一場繪畫形式的探索，更是一場觀看本體的長期修行。

第三節　從潛意識到視覺操作的辯證

若說1975年以降的紙上實驗是對觀看的一場鍛鍊，那麼其背後所運作的，不僅僅是形式或材料的試探，而是一種更深層的心靈運動——在意識與潛意識的交界處，開啟觀看的哲學對話。

陳道明曾說：「我覺得畫畫是種發現，是種意識與潛意識的自我發掘。」這句話清楚地指出他創作的根本立場——創作不是再現現實、也不是形式遊戲，而是一種內在探索的過程，一種挖掘自我知覺構造的行為。他不斷更換紙材與顏料、使畫面進入不可預測的物理反應狀態，實際上是有意打破慣習視覺的安全邊界，使創作行為本身回到「初始觀看」的狀態。

這種創作邏輯也與心理學上的「通往潛意識之路」形成呼應。榮格曾指出，通往潛意識的過程往往伴隨對已知感官秩序的擾動與轉向。在陳道明的實驗中，這樣的擾動透過材料異化、形式失控與顏料滲透所引發的不穩定感來實現。他不以圖像為表現目標，而是以圖像的生成過程本身來暴露潛意識的活動軌跡。

這些畫面從不安於穩定的形式或美感，而總是處於一種微妙的混沌邊緣。有時色塊皺縮、有時顏料自紙面脫落、有時不小心留下的手指印或工具擦痕，竟意外成為畫面生成的一部分。這不是一種「失誤的美學」，而是一種「失控的必要性」——創作者刻意放棄全然控制，進入一種與畫面對話的臨場感知過程。

「我畫畫的時候是個大獨裁者……多麼逍遙自在。」

但同時他也說：

「我的語言所不能達到的，就拿抽象的符號來做為一種敘述的語言。」

這兩段語錄顯示出他的創作態度既充滿主體性，又承認語言（包含視覺語言）的侷限性。他的「獨裁者」姿態，並不是一種控制狂，而是一種對自我創造空間的絕對尊重——他願意讓未知的形狀與感覺在畫面中發生，不受既定敘事或符號規訓的干擾。

這樣的操作方式，也體現在他對時間的態度上。他不以系列作品構成風格進程，也不為參展而設計創作節奏。每一張紙上實驗都是獨立的當下，是對當下感受的實驗與見證。他曾說：「或許過去的事物會綜合現在當下的感受，再度於畫面上呈現，但重點在它必須是與現在相連繫的，而不是斷裂的關係。」

這使他的作品形成一種與「當下」高度共振的心理場——一張張畫紙不再只是創作的媒介，而是觀看、感受、記憶與潛意識作用的痕跡容器。觀者若欲進入這些作品的世界，無法僅靠圖像閱讀，而必須與之共振、投入、凝視——如此方能體會那種「沒有結論又有結論」的辯證結構。

第四節　材料的邊界與觀看的生成：從日常物質到知覺裝置

若說觀看是一種被訓練、被習慣的行為，那麼，打破觀看習慣的方式之一，便是改變作品所依附的材料基礎。對陳道明而言，材料不只是創作的工具，更是觀看條件的啟動裝置。當他選擇以不織布、草纖紙、襯裡布、殘布、工業紙板、甚至廢棄的擦拭布作為創作媒介時，這些「非美術材料」不僅改變了顏料的擴散方式與畫面的生成邏輯，也使觀看者的視覺經驗產生錯位與中斷，進而重新回到觀看本身的構成問題。

這些紙上實驗中的色彩質感，常被觀者誤以為是「釉下彩」或某種高溫工藝的效果，其實與他早期在陶瓷工廠工作的經驗密切相關。他曾著迷於釉料在窯燒後的意外變化與色彩滲融，這種「等待顏料在高溫中自我發生」的感受，成為日後他在紙上創作中不斷追尋的視覺觸發經驗。紙面上的滲透、皺縮、龜裂與模糊，不是為了模擬陶瓷的效果，而是將陶瓷的「不可控制性」轉化為觀看的試煉場。

觀者面對這些既陌生又無法歸類的畫面效果時，往往在視覺與理解之間產生斷裂與懸疑，語帶驚訝地低聲問出：「這……到底是怎麼畫出來的？」

這樣的提問，並不只是技術層面的好奇，而是一種當既有觀看經驗無法對應作品時，被迫重新追問「觀看本身如何可能」的現象。這也正是他創作所觸及的臨界點——當觀看不再自然，而成為一種被打斷、被推遲、被重構的過程。

此外，他作品中常出現類似「版畫拓印」的視覺效果，但並非經由印刷技術產生，而是透過顏料在布面或紙面上的滲透、翻轉與敲壓所形成的殘痕。有時是兩張紙夾合時滲出的壓痕，有時是顏料經過濕布揉抹後的殘留軌跡；這些不是製作過程中的偶發瑕疵，而是他刻意保留的不穩定痕跡——讓觀看者無法清楚分辨起點與終點、正面與背面、畫筆與非畫筆的痕跡來源。

在這樣的創作策略下，畫面不再是圖像的再現空間，而是一個「知覺生成的現場」。觀者面對的，不是畫家所呈現的內容，而是一連串關於「觀看如何發生」的現象學問題：我們是如何辨識形式？如何理解空間？又是如何從視覺中尋求意義？

因此，這些作品並不訴諸任何外在主題，而是成為觀看本身的「裝置」與「場域」：它們不是用來觀看的，而是為了讓我們「意識到自己正在觀看」。這樣的創作態度，也正是他對展覽制度與圖像文化的根本質疑。當他選擇不展出、不說明、不命名、不追求市場風格的識別性時，他其實是在拒絕圖像商品化邏輯的同時，也將創作轉化為一場感知的長期訓練。

因此，這些作品並不訴諸任何外在主題，而是成為觀看本身的「裝置」與「場域」：它們不是用來觀看的，而是為了讓我們「意識到自己正在觀看」。這樣的創作態度，也正是他對展覽制度與圖像文化的根本質疑。當他選擇不展出、不說明、不命名、不追求市場風格的識別性時，他其實是在拒絕圖像商品化邏輯的同時，也將創作轉化為一場感知的長期訓練。

第五節　結語：從遺忘中召喚觀看——當代詮釋與策展實踐的可能

在台灣戰後藝術的敘事軌道中，陳道明1975年至2003年間的創作長期處於一種「體制缺席」的邊緣狀態。他幾乎不再參與展覽，也未主動對外發表作品，而是選擇將創作轉向一場不需觀眾、不求肯定的內在實驗。這段看似靜默的歷程，並非來自外部體制的排拒，而是源於他自身對創作與觀看問題的根本轉向——從展示的場域退出，轉入一場長期而持續的感知鍛鍊。

然而，正是在這段未被主流藝術制度書寫的歷程中，陳道明的創作實踐展現出極為深刻的觀看哲學。他不斷更換創作材料，測試顏料在不同紙質與布料上的反應，設計出視覺錯置與干擾結構——這些作品不再「呈現」某種圖像，而是轉化為觀看本身的現場，讓觀者直面自身感知的限制、錯覺與意識的生成。

他曾說：「我覺得畫畫是種發現，是種意識與潛意識的自我發掘。」

也曾形容自己的創作狀態為「自由自在」，完全不受形式與外在規範所限；而這份自由，其實來自他對觀看與創作本質的深層理解。

這樣的語言揭示了其創作中一種深刻的張力：既是主體的命令，也是潛意識的召喚。他不是為了展覽或風格而創作，而是將創作視為「自我觀看的記錄」——一場對「如何觀看」的長期追問。這種追問穿越了媒材的表面性與形式的框架，直指觀看的結構條件與感知的生成過程。

在今日回顧這段幾近無聲的歷程時，我們或許應重新思考藝術史與策展實踐的立場。歷史的構成，不應僅依循展覽、流派或制度的可見軌跡，也應包含那些未被制度吸納，卻持續生產觀看思想的邊界實踐者。而策展的角色，也不再只是歷史的陳列者，而是觀看條件的重構者——重構那條「觀看之路」，而不只是「歷史之路」。

因此，若要以策展的方式回應陳道明的創作，這樣的展覽應不僅是「回顧」，而是一場知覺的鍛鍊：讓觀眾親身走進那些草纖紙與不織布上生成的顏料痕跡，感受其不穩定與裂縫感；並在歷年作品錯落斷裂的節奏中，理解這位藝術家如何在非典型的藝術生命中，完成一場觀看的哲學實驗。

這樣的展示，不再是為了證明其歷史地位，而是回應他留給我們的提問：

「你，是怎麼看的？」