Ming-Wei Lee at Lombard-Freid - New York, New York - Review of Exhibitions - Brief Article

Art in America, Nov, 1997 by Eileen Myles

"It's a very monastic kind of life," said Ming-Wei Lee gaily. He was referring to his habitation of the Lombard-Freid Gallery, where he lived and ate and slept during the month of June. MingWei was born in Taiwan and trained in Buddhism since the age of nine. Today he is a conceptual artist advancing the message of compassion by a series of actions and nurturing interactions. One of these, The Dining Project, involved preparing a delicious meal every evening for one guest who contacted the gallery and invited him or herself.

The artist and his guest sat at a dining platform which dominated the gallery's main room. Four woven mats were placed around a low table with a footwell. Surrounding the border of mats was a kind of moat of black beans--a 6-inch-wide area filled with uncooked beans and boxed in by a 2-foot-high wooden board. The diners sat on the mats across the table from each other. Ming-Wei Lee goodnaturedly served the food (in my case, soup and a sweetly flavored fish and rice dish) which he had prepared during the afternoon. Over dinner, we engaged in a simple then searchingly honest conversation. He was my friend. It was easy and we laughed a lot. Our conversation was recorded. Twenty-four speakers hidden in the moat of beans played back the evenings' talks during regular gallery hours, though the voices were altered and disguised to protect the guests' identity. In the absence of our dining ritual the installation seemed a little deathly, reminding me of all the delightful evenings that had passed.

There's a poetic quality to ad of Ming-Wei's interactions. 100 Days with Lily transcribed a period in which the artist grew a flower, lived with it, carried it around, finally watched it wither and die. The flower's phases were stoically documented in five Cibachrome photographs of Ming-Wei and Lily. Superimposed on each print was a timeline of each of Lily's 100 days. A continuous band of the same text was projected on a shadowy wall in the rear gallery. This quietly lit display of pertinent dates didn't mourn Lily, but enacted her repeatedly, like stained glass celebrating saints.

Money for Art means just that. Three walls were covered with shelving and inside each small compartment was a one-dollar bill folded origami-style by the artist. Visitors to the gallery could take a dollar and leave something in its place. A drawing, a small bra, medicine bottles, inspirational readings had all been swapped, squirrel-like, and catalogued. Ming-Wei provided forms on which the visitors could leave their name and occupation. Sue, unemployed. A take-out coffee cup sat there.

Over dinner I learned some of the stories accompanying these pieces. A woman who witnessed Lily rotting daily in Ming-Wei's arms was subsequently awakened to her own need to mourn the child she had lost. Ming-Wei Lee is as involved with the act of replacement as with exchange. Even transference. When I returned to the gallery to take a few notes, I could not resist updating him on my sister. And he was happy for me. Ming-Wei Lee cares. And what about you, I asked. The month had been long, and, he had to admit, he was tired.