前 言

秩序是无尽的分形，每一次展开都意味着下一个全新的空白，车轮紧随而来的翻滚，它的节奏清晰而理性，现在与未来逐渐倒错，时间不再遥远，陌生的他人被戒律区隔。那个被固定住模样的欲望，是每个人的强迫症，惯性使然，混乱中的人们用混乱致意，秩序中的情绪用秩序回礼。

正如标题，罗湘伦的绘画关于自然，关于它的两面性，可以是田园背后的生存法则，也可以是人与土地爱恨纠缠的关系，但如果我这样解读，总是不可避免的陷入一种宏大命题，这个命题里的人总是为那个大写的人活着，无疑是虚伪的，我们该谈论的不是万物逝去后顾影自怜的缅怀，可笑的纪念，这是被赋予的形式。而是在那种神伤背后，人类无用又自动的惯性。
如此再回答这些绘画中的“丝线”，艺术家口中将死物链接的“神经”，一个万物有灵的乌托邦，一个遥远的彼岸，它的存在与本质是幻象，被秩序构建的幻象，活在秩序中的人又有什么能逃脱秩序？在我们那种无意识里，像得了强迫症一样，将事物摆放整齐，分类明确，用仅有的秩序描绘自然，一遍又一遍，仿佛拥有了密传学的力量，这个古老仪式般的降临，永远的轮回，永不停歇。

薛黑黑

 Preface

Order is an endless fractal—each unfolding reveals a new void, followed by the relentless turning of wheels, precise and rational in rhythm. The present and the future intertwine in inversion, and time is no longer distant. Strangers are divided by invisible boundaries, and the desire locked into rigid patterns becomes a shared obsession—an inertia-driven compulsion. In chaos, people greet each other with disorder, while emotions within order respond with structured formality.

As suggested by the title, Luo Xianglun’s paintings revolve around nature and its duality. They reflect both the survival laws behind pastoral scenes and the complex love-hate relationship between people and land. However, interpreting his work in this way inevitably traps us in grand narratives—ones where humanity is forced to live under the guise of a capitalized “Man,” an insincere premise. What we ought to discuss is not a sentimental mourning of what is lost, nor a futile commemoration of the past. These are mere imposed forms. Instead, we must confront the automatic, useless inertia embedded within human existence.

In these paintings, the “threads” stretch like nerves, weaving lifeless things into fleeting connections—a glimpse of a utopia where all things pulse with spirit, a distant shore that shimmers like a mirage. Yet even this vision is born from the architecture of order, and those living within its confines can never truly break free. We move through life as if caught in a spell, compelled to arrange and categorize, draping nature in patterns we think we control. Each repetition feels like a secret ritual, as if meaning might reveal itself through endless precision. But this ceremony never ends—a wheel set in motion long ago, spinning forever, without rest, without resolution.

Xue Heihei

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