En | 中文
No.103, 4 Zhonghe Li, Huangbian Village, Baiyun District, Guangzhou, China
Exhibition runs from 1–24 September 2025, Wednesday to Saturday, 3–9 pm.
Curator & Artist: Bones of The House
The idea of staging an exhibition inside a rented flat, and treating the flat itself as an exhibition space, first arose from our experience of living in a Shenzhen urban village. When our plans unexpectedly changed, we had to terminate the tenancy early. This meant a frantic week of showing prospective tenants around, scrubbing and tidying the place, doing our best to make it appealing to them. Each visitor focused on different things: one worried about the loo, another scrutinised the sitting room, while others asked about the utility bills and the light. After several rounds of this, we realised how much it resembled an “exhibition-in-progress”. The room became a gallery, and we ourselves were not only the guides but also part of the show. Everyday traces of our lives—the plants and fish we kept, the arrangement of the furniture, even the state of the bathroom—became material on display, a live composition about who we were.
So when we returned to Huangbian Village this time and saw the house opposite Times 101 thrown wide open, it struck us as the perfect chance to realise that idea. During last year’s residency, though separated by only a metre, we never once exchanged words with that household—indeed, we never even caught a proper glimpse of them. This was perhaps because, once Times 101 rolled up its shutter, the space opened entirely to view: anyone passing down the alley could take in the whole scene at a glance. The flat opposite was the same; once its door was open, the interior lay completely exposed. As a result, it was kept firmly shut. Only when a food delivery arrived would it open a crack—just wide enough for a hand to reach out and take the parcel inside. This air of secrecy persisted until this summer. One afternoon, as we sat chatting with our shutter open, we suddenly saw three people arrive to view the flat opposite. For the very first time, the space revealed itself in full daylight. A couple lingered in the doorway, weighing up the possibilities of life there. They had been brought by Mr Wei, a man from Hunan who has been in the village rental business for years. That very evening, we made our intentions clear and took the flat (No. 103) from him for a month-long exhibition.
Exhibition runs from 1–24 September 2025, Wednesday to Saturday, 3–9 pm.
Curator & Artist: Bones of The House
The idea of staging an exhibition inside a rented flat, and treating the flat itself as an exhibition space, first arose from our experience of living in a Shenzhen urban village. When our plans unexpectedly changed, we had to terminate the tenancy early. This meant a frantic week of showing prospective tenants around, scrubbing and tidying the place, doing our best to make it appealing to them. Each visitor focused on different things: one worried about the loo, another scrutinised the sitting room, while others asked about the utility bills and the light. After several rounds of this, we realised how much it resembled an “exhibition-in-progress”. The room became a gallery, and we ourselves were not only the guides but also part of the show. Everyday traces of our lives—the plants and fish we kept, the arrangement of the furniture, even the state of the bathroom—became material on display, a live composition about who we were.
So when we returned to Huangbian Village this time and saw the house opposite Times 101 thrown wide open, it struck us as the perfect chance to realise that idea. During last year’s residency, though separated by only a metre, we never once exchanged words with that household—indeed, we never even caught a proper glimpse of them. This was perhaps because, once Times 101 rolled up its shutter, the space opened entirely to view: anyone passing down the alley could take in the whole scene at a glance. The flat opposite was the same; once its door was open, the interior lay completely exposed. As a result, it was kept firmly shut. Only when a food delivery arrived would it open a crack—just wide enough for a hand to reach out and take the parcel inside. This air of secrecy persisted until this summer. One afternoon, as we sat chatting with our shutter open, we suddenly saw three people arrive to view the flat opposite. For the very first time, the space revealed itself in full daylight. A couple lingered in the doorway, weighing up the possibilities of life there. They had been brought by Mr Wei, a man from Hunan who has been in the village rental business for years. That very evening, we made our intentions clear and took the flat (No. 103) from him for a month-long exhibition.
24 August – Mr. Wei showing the flat to prospective tenants
On 25 August, we rented the flat, gave it a quick clean, and moved in two provisional pieces we had already been working on in the Times 101 space. That evening we counted the days: from signing the lease to the end of our residency, there was barely a week left. One way or another, we knew we would have to extend our stay.
With just about a week in hand, we treated this residency as a kind of “extreme challenge”: staging an exhibition in a rented flat, where house-viewing becomes exhibition-viewing. The aim was not to build a show from scratch, but to let it grow out of the flat’s own structure and the traces of everyday life left behind.
We decided to preserve these traces intact: holes, hooks and Velcro on the walls; a sealed-off water pipe; a blue-checked quilt tied to the iron grille; a makeshift storage pouch sewn from a bedsheet under the stairs; an old bulb on the bedframe; scented sachets tucked into the wardrobe; a floor mat reading “Move more, eat less”; a mouldy bamboo mat under the bed; a glass lid hanging in the kitchen; cleaning products by the sink; and the standard furnishings of a Guangdong rental—two stools, a mirror, a small tea table, a wooden sofa, plus mop and dustpan.
With just about a week in hand, we treated this residency as a kind of “extreme challenge”: staging an exhibition in a rented flat, where house-viewing becomes exhibition-viewing. The aim was not to build a show from scratch, but to let it grow out of the flat’s own structure and the traces of everyday life left behind.
We decided to preserve these traces intact: holes, hooks and Velcro on the walls; a sealed-off water pipe; a blue-checked quilt tied to the iron grille; a makeshift storage pouch sewn from a bedsheet under the stairs; an old bulb on the bedframe; scented sachets tucked into the wardrobe; a floor mat reading “Move more, eat less”; a mouldy bamboo mat under the bed; a glass lid hanging in the kitchen; cleaning products by the sink; and the standard furnishings of a Guangdong rental—two stools, a mirror, a small tea table, a wooden sofa, plus mop and dustpan.
installation view
This rented flat is itself a kind of ready-made sculpture—shaped by layers of additions, repairs and extensions made under limited conditions. The moment prospective tenants start to size it up, two threads of the exhibition naturally emerge—just like the duplex structure of the flat, telling two stories.
These threads reflect the focus of our residency project It works somehow!: one follows the logic of things and structures, tracing how residents improvise with materials and temporary constructions; the other follows lived narratives, probing the tensions and misalignments between personal aspirations, family plans and the city’s rhythms.
Through sculptural language we try to capture the logic of spatial gestures, and through writing and video we trace the everyday calculations and dilemmas of life. The room’s traces are re-activated: a bed frame becomes an unfinished scaffold; exposed pipes and fittings are extended, highlighting the overlooked architecture of daily life. On an old desk upstairs lies a tenant’s five-year collection of handwritten ledgers and rent receipts, alongside a trilogy of videos about his “surroundings.” The bed carries loose screws that still shift now and then, together with the many dreams once dreamt here.
As visitors move between the two levels, they are both house-viewers and exhibition-viewers—experiencing how life continuously shapes space, and how space, in turn, shapes the body, the senses, and even dreams.
These threads reflect the focus of our residency project It works somehow!: one follows the logic of things and structures, tracing how residents improvise with materials and temporary constructions; the other follows lived narratives, probing the tensions and misalignments between personal aspirations, family plans and the city’s rhythms.
Through sculptural language we try to capture the logic of spatial gestures, and through writing and video we trace the everyday calculations and dilemmas of life. The room’s traces are re-activated: a bed frame becomes an unfinished scaffold; exposed pipes and fittings are extended, highlighting the overlooked architecture of daily life. On an old desk upstairs lies a tenant’s five-year collection of handwritten ledgers and rent receipts, alongside a trilogy of videos about his “surroundings.” The bed carries loose screws that still shift now and then, together with the many dreams once dreamt here.
As visitors move between the two levels, they are both house-viewers and exhibition-viewers—experiencing how life continuously shapes space, and how space, in turn, shapes the body, the senses, and even dreams.
As Liu Yang, the director of Times 101, once remarked: here, residency does not culminate in an exhibition. It is not an end point, but a beginning. It is precisely through such occasions that we are able to build relationships with those who live here, even forming deeper connections. This is why we especially look forward to hearing everyone’s varied “flat-viewing feedback.”
Before deciding to rent No.103 for an exhibition, we hesitated, asking ourselves again and again: “An exhibition in a rented flat—what then?” Only as the process unfolded, from making to installing, did a clearer picture begin to emerge. We realised that if we worked with ready-mades—especially discarded materials recycled from the village—our temporary sculptures risked being swallowed up by the atmosphere of the space. After all, this is not a white cube, but a rented flat saturated with traces of everyday life. The question of how to position and extend our works so that they converse with the space became an enormous challenge. A slight misstep, and what might otherwise be called a “sculpture” would appear here as little more than “waste.”
Before deciding to rent No.103 for an exhibition, we hesitated, asking ourselves again and again: “An exhibition in a rented flat—what then?” Only as the process unfolded, from making to installing, did a clearer picture begin to emerge. We realised that if we worked with ready-mades—especially discarded materials recycled from the village—our temporary sculptures risked being swallowed up by the atmosphere of the space. After all, this is not a white cube, but a rented flat saturated with traces of everyday life. The question of how to position and extend our works so that they converse with the space became an enormous challenge. A slight misstep, and what might otherwise be called a “sculpture” would appear here as little more than “waste.”
It is for this reason that the rented flat feels so distinctive as an exhibition space. Not merely because it is soon to be demolished, but because its embeddedness in place is so strong. Much like viewing a house before buying, one must step inside to sense its potential for future life. Likewise, for those who have never actually lived in the village, only by entering such a flat—not a gallery space designed for display—can one grasp how life here is shaped.
It is only by being inside that you can hear the water rushing through the pipes in the walls, catch the smell of mothballs, experience a room that has never seen natural light, and feel the dizziness of living perpetually under artificial light. Only then can you notice the kitchen’s extractor fan, blackened with grease, or the drifting smoke from next door that never quite disperses. Only then can you learn, through trial and error, how to flush a toilet in a crude, makeshift way without splashing your legs.
All these small conveniences and inconveniences allow us to feel, in the most direct way, how space moulds the body, the senses, and one’s very understanding of life.
So we invite you to come, to experience it for yourself, and to share your impressions with us. Only through your feedback can we begin to sketch the contours of an answer to the question: An exhibition in a rented flat—what then?
It is only by being inside that you can hear the water rushing through the pipes in the walls, catch the smell of mothballs, experience a room that has never seen natural light, and feel the dizziness of living perpetually under artificial light. Only then can you notice the kitchen’s extractor fan, blackened with grease, or the drifting smoke from next door that never quite disperses. Only then can you learn, through trial and error, how to flush a toilet in a crude, makeshift way without splashing your legs.
All these small conveniences and inconveniences allow us to feel, in the most direct way, how space moulds the body, the senses, and one’s very understanding of life.
So we invite you to come, to experience it for yourself, and to share your impressions with us. Only through your feedback can we begin to sketch the contours of an answer to the question: An exhibition in a rented flat—what then?