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“We know what two hands clapping sounds like, but what is the sound of one hand clapping?” I’m not really sure. What about you?

This old riddle used in Zen Buddhism provides the source of inspiration for the cryptic title of the Guggenheim exhibit, “One Hand Clapping.” While breaking the confines of logic, it encompasses the line of abstract thought one is encouraged to explore as they set foot in the exhibit.

Located in the small, discreet Samuel J. and Ethel Lefrak Gallery on the fifth level of the Guggenheim Museum, the exhibit offers a refreshing respite from the old and homogenous Giacometti artwork on display in the rest of the museum. This comparatively more contemporary and vibrant art aims to shed light on the tenuous relationship between the old and new in China and Hong Kong, particularly how the aging population struggles to maintain a grip on a society that is leaving it behind in its fast-paced evolution.

With a nation bending to the will of its youth and their technology, numerous questions are to be asked: How do we care for those who are left behind? How does it feel for a group of people and their culture to descend into obsoletion? How will thousands of years of tradition survive the inexorable speed of globalization within modern, technological society?

Organized by the Robert H.N. Ho Family Foundation, “One Hand Clapping” features five native Chinese artists: Duan Jianyu, Cao Fei, Wong Ping, Lin Yilin, and Samson Young, all of whose works are known for their critique of the Chinese social scene. The gallery bustles with visitors whose attention is drawn to three distinct installations.

One of these installations is the array of colorful oil paintings by Duan Jianyu, and the aesthetic theme is evident: outlines of birds, muted pastel suns and full moons, women playing traditional Chinese instruments, clusters of flowers, various small animals, male beggars, half-man-half-animal creatures, and to top it off, human figures rolling on gym scooters on their stomachs.

Traces of traditional Chinese painting style embed itself in its undertone, creating for a chaotic, dreamlike effect. These paintings intend to depict the marginalized—those left behind and set adrift by displacement as China transforms into a globalized and economic powerhouse. Duan’s way of giving attention to those who are often on the sidelines is mesmerizing and hauntingly beautiful. His paintings are imbued with melancholy and an ethereal quality that depicts a world of neglect and attempted survival.

Below one wall of paintings is a group of anthropomorphic carrots positioned around a picnic basket, with no clear-cut explanation to visitors as to why. To the left of that same wall lies a display case holding a pair of traditional embroidered shoes with a catch—the soles have a compartment with batteries and wires popping out of it. The combination of these two opposing ideas is disconcerting, pointing out how technology has managed to infiltrate every facet of Chinese life.

Taking up one corner of the room is artist Wong Ping’s display: a large viewing screen playing a colorful, animated short film with a viewing bench in front of it. Lined with both Chinese and English subtitles, an aging widower spends the few years left of his life living with his son and daughter-in-law while hoarding a collection of VHS porn tapes and secretly lusting over his daughter-in-law. He calls the youth hedonistic and cynical, and justifiably so (though he is just as hedonistic and cynical himself), as his son ironically uses his apartment to run a profitable nursing home. Soon afterward, his son moves out with his wife and leaves him behind. When the elderly man dies and is moved to an online tomb (due to the lack of land space in Hong Kong), paying tribute becomes a chore for his son as he ultimately forgets the password to the tomb.

This Kafkaesque satire teems with a lewd and dark sense of humor and features disturbing, pixelated video-game-like animations to match. While providing a funny and bizarre experience, one cannot shake the underlying truth that permeates the film—to some extent, the fate of the widower is a real possibility for many elders living in the overpopulated city of Hong Kong.

Behind the TV screen are hundreds of miniature gold wind-up teeth scattered about the floor, inviting both adult and child visitors to wind them up and observe them chattering about their own random paths. Attached to the TV installation is a rotating LED structure in the shape of a cabbage with multiple faces protruding from its side. The wind-ups are meant to represent the things that still take up space and exist even after they are discarded, and the cabbage head is a “sage” projecting its consciousness on the TV screen, essentially being the aforementioned film itself. Though this extension of Wong Ping’s installation is intriguing, the underlying meaning is confusing, difficult to grasp, and connected to the tangible objects.

At the other end of the exhibit lies artist Lin Yilin’s VR simulation test. A video of a man rolling his body up the spiraling levels of the Guggenheim Museum projects against one wall, and a video of a drone repeatedly throwing a basketball toward the ceiling of the museum projects against the adjacent wall. Visitors line themselves up waiting to test out a virtual reality, where one suspends their disbelief and transforms into a basketball that Chinese-American basketball player, Jeremy Lin, bounces and tosses around.

This installation attempts a unique use of technology to create more empathy around relationships where one can “become” the actual subject. Yet this part of the exhibit piqued remarkably less excitement than the others, as the mundane videos played listlessly on and lacked a defining connection to the overall theme of the exhibit. Its idea of empathy is too general and does not make a specific case for who or what group we as humans should empathize with more.

However, this exhibit does an overall good job of creating awareness around one of the primary issues plaguing Chinese society, where aging and rural populations are uncared for and left in the dust. This problem is unprecedented and frightening as a culture that stressed importance on reverence for elders and ancestors since the beginning is now shifting toward apathy.

The exhibit also helps visitors reframe their view of China by providing nuanced insight into the complexity of the nation’s social scene, which is often depicted one-dimensionally and sensationalized in the media. Moreover, “One Hand Clapping” is relevant to American audiences since a substantial part of globalization and its detrimental effects stem from America itself. One scene of Wong Ping’s animation humorously depicts the father’s disappointment when the son no longer offers steamed buns and pork and instead offers him the hallmarks of the trendy American foods: kale and avocados.

With today’s growing awareness of how Asian art is and isn’t represented, “One Hand Clapping” is another step forward in terms of bringing Asian art into the limelight. It is so rare for contemporary Asian artists to receive widespread attention and be given a direct platform to American consumers. For this exhibit to be thoroughly embraced by the public only shows the growing demand for similar art. In contrast to a woman’s bitter complaint to a museum staffer that “this type of art doesn’t belong in a museum like this,” “One Hand Clapping” certainly succeeds in proving that contemporary Chinese art does have a place within the American art scene. Chinese voices are indeed worth listening to, and Chinese art is relevant and visionary—not that it needed to prove itself in the first place.