FACILITY is pleased to present Craning the Neck, a solo exhibition by artist Hai-Wen Lin.

The exhibition opens Sunday, August 25th with a reception from 1–4pm. The show runs through November 3rd, 2024.

Can you see it? I’m trying to get a better view. Things aren’t looking up lately, though I wish they would. I’ve been looking up every day. I read that it’s good for the mind. Look it up! Ask the sun. Read the clouds.

This Spring, I lived in Houston, where the most beautiful skies bloomed. Every morning, I walked by a field of grass where the great-tailed grackles gathered. My dad had told me about these birds, how they have this peculiar behavior of looking upwards and I often found myself joining them.

Growing up, my family owned an Audubon Society clock that announced every hour with a bird call. I remember eating breakfast when the song sparrow sang, and coming home from school when the northern cardinal called. Maybe that was the closest we got to letting the birds tell us how to live.

I always looked up to my dad. He could seemingly point at any bird and tell me its name. Now that I’ve left home, he shares his bird sightings in the family chat, with mom often replying in flowers. There’s a traditional genre of Chinese paintings called 花鳥畫 (flower-and-bird paintings) and I wonder if my ancestors’ group chat looked like this too, exchanging beauty between scrolls, talking through birds, as birds.

I think of the phrase 羽化 (yuhua), used to describe the moment a taoist becomes immortal, a euphemism to describe their passing. Taken literally, it is a changing of feathers; you are said to be riding on a crane to the West. But I was born here and find myself gazing towards the East, wondering if I should tell the birds to turn back. The business of plume hunting nearly brought the shorebirds to extinction. This is the reason the Audubon Society exists today. This is the reason the clock exists in our home.

The clock’s speaker has since broken and the birds never call anymore. But it is not too late to look up and to listen for the birds ourselves. My friend Zandria tells me about the Sankofa, a bird that turns its neck back; it is a Ghanaian word that reminds us it is not too late to go back and fetch what we have forgotten. It is not too late to face East. It is not too late to see the sun rise once more. It is not too late to ask the sun what it has been painting.

Everything we want is in eye’s reach but only for as long as we are looking. So try squinting your eyes, adjusting your head, and craning your neck further and further until you find yourself falling over backwards and upside down, and there you will see the world, changed. It will be frightening for a moment, but don’t worry, falling and flying are not so different if you don’t think too hard about the ending. All we have is now, so take your time flying, you’re not in a rush.

———

Hai-Wen Lin is a Taiwanese-American artist currently based in Chicago. They are an alumnus of the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture, and earned a M.Des in Fashion, Body and Garment from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago where they were selected as a Fashion Future Graduate by the CFDA upon graduating. They are a recipient of the Hopper Prize and have received fellowships from MacDowell and the Ox-Bow School of Art. Lin has performed publicly at the Chicago Cultural Center and MU Gallery and has exhibited work in a variety of places including Prairie, in Chicago; Queen, in Bellingham, Washington; the San Jose Museum of Quilts and Textiles; the Pittsburgh Glass Center; the Czong Institute for Contemporary Art; the walls of their home; their friend’s home; on a plate; on a lake; on their body; in the sky.

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