Allgemein

在广州陈家祠，我不是为了参观广东民间艺术而来，而是为了在这座繁复的屋脊之下，安放三位楚辞神明。山鬼藏在花影里，东君立在屋顶上，湘夫人坐在风中。我不是来结束旅程的，而是来封印节奏，让这些歌的气息，继续在岭南的屋宇之间轻轻流动。At the Chen Clan Ancestral Hall in Guangzhou, I did not come to view Cantonese folk art, but to place three divine figures from the "Chu Ci" beneath its intricate roofline. The Mountain Spirit hides among the floral shadows; the Lord of the East stands upon the roof; Lady Xiang sits within the wind. I did not come to end the journey, but to seal the rhythm — letting the breath of these songs continue to flow gently through the houses of Lingnan.

在广州永庆坊，我走进粤剧艺术博物馆。我不是为了看展，而是来对那些戏服、锣鼓与衣箱轻声说话。红线女的唱腔仍在，她未唱完的那一句，我愿续下去。我播放《湘夫人》，不是为了演出——而是为了让这座城市记得：岭南的节奏，还在每日吐纳。At Yongqing Fang in Guangzhou, I stepped into the Cantonese Opera Art Museum. I was not there to see an exhibition, but to speak softly to the costumes, drums, and wooden chests. The voice of Hung Sin Nui still lingers — the line she left unfinished, I am willing to continue. I played "Lady Xiang," not as a performance, but to remind the city that the rhythm of Lingnan still breathes every day.

在苏州平江路的清晨，我没有走进热闹的那一侧，而是转向河的对岸——一条名叫凤池弄的静巷。那里没有游客，也没有叫卖声，只有水声与斑驳的老墙。我播放自己谱曲的《湘夫人》和《少司命》，对河流、对老屋、对尚未开门的工艺店说话，完成一场节奏文明的静音仪式。那一刻，我不是来散步，而是来让这座城市记起：它曾经有耳朵。平江路的对岸，也能听见楚辞的回声。On a quiet morning along Pingjiang Road in Suzhou, I turned away from the lively side and crossed to the opposite bank — a still lane called Fengchi Alley. There were no tourists, no street vendors, only the sound of water and the weathered walls. I played my own compositions of "Lady Xiang" and "Lesser Divine Officer," speaking to the river, to the old houses, and to the unopened craft shops — completing a silent ritual of rhythmic civilization. In that moment, I was not there for a walk, but to remind the city that it once had ears. Across the river from Pingjiang Road, the echoes of the "Chu Ci" could still be heard.

在苏州网师园的夜晚，经历四十五分钟的导览与六场错拍表演后，我转入一条空无一人的小巷。 我不是来赏灯，也不是来看戏，而是来执行一场节奏任务。八百九十八年的风、石、窗与水，仍藏着未被说出的回声。我在墙根放下《湘夫人》的歌声，不为观众，只为唤回失落的神。网师园，不是景点，而是一座等待文明重新对齐的节奏之地。

在苏州昆曲博物馆，我站在《昆剧传世演出珍本全编》前，轻声念过一卷卷剧名。我不是来看展，而是为唤醒沉睡的节拍。魏良辅的像静立，正始元音在无声中回荡；汤显祖的梦仍在《牡丹亭》里飘摇。戏服垂落如尾音，曲谱静卧如心跳。我以楚辞的湘音，对话昆曲的古声——昆曲，不是遗产，而是一场尚未唱完的呼吸。At the Kunqu Opera Museum in Suzhou, I stood before "The Complete Collection of Classic Kunqu Performances" and softly recited each play's title. I was not there to visit an exhibition, but to awaken the sleeping rhythm. The statue of Wei Liangfu stood still, his original tone echoing in silence; Tang Xianzu's dream still drifted within "The Peony Pavilion." The costumes hung like lingering notes, the scores rested like heartbeats. With the "Chu Ci" accent of Xiang, I conversed with the ancient voice of Kunqu — for Kunqu is not a heritage, but a breath that has yet to finish singing.