Cole Lu 呂咅彧

Born in 1984, Taipei, Taiwan

Lives and works in New York City, United States, Brooklyn, United States

Overview

Combining literary and historical reference with autobiographical experiences, Cole Lu's practice builds new mythologies that carry echoes of trauma, transformation and regeneration. Lu questions the theistic concept of creatio ex nihilo (creation out of nothingness), proposing a more complicated interspersal of time and human existence. Presented as a compilation of gestures or a collection of brief anecdotes, Lu's work unfolds serially, following invented characters through a parallel world of...Read more

Selected artworks

Cole Lu 呂咅彧

Eventually, they fell into a restless sleep, slept and did not sleep, dreamt and did not dream. (First migration), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

Travel. Its ancient root tripalium is an instrument of discipline with three stakes. Some said it reflects a journey's extreme difficulty, and some move where the stakes rolls. Upon his arrival, the island is shard with glares, trees everywhere. (Gate), 2022

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

At the border, when his mother describes the nature of love, all they heard was the sound "bar bar bar.” (The Black Sun), 2022

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

The first time someone sent him to the drawing room — tick tock, tick tock — he fell in love with this back-and-forth movement. Later, he learned it was called the withdrawing room; tongue gives the mind a thunder strike, his pulse racing as horses galloping home. (Withdrawing room), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

Inside him now the landscape is empty with everything, his hair waves between summer and autumn, silent through the woods. (Amnesia), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

We watched the sky, waiting for another star; there was a necklace of fire the night he left. Blinded by the forest, he could only see the trees. (Boat), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

The clock in the brick house kept ticking the time away, chipping off bits by bits. Tonight, but every night, time stands still. Raindrops hang static above the roof. The bell of the clock tower floats mid-swing. Orthos raises his muzzles in silent howls. The aromas of tangerines, mangoes, saffron, and cardamom suspend in space. (Map), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

He woke up in the same position with the little machine in his palm. His mother pointed at the different parts, explaining their functions. The rods were called hands and chased around the clockface in step with time. The little boy nodded, knowing, for his kind, time was an aberrant thing, a human thing. It didn't belong here. (Sleep), 2024

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Cole Lu 呂咅彧

What spilled in the dream ran under the limestone cave. Bending over, he translated his nights and days; the eye of the cave is a needle for those who refuse to forget. (Amnesia), 2024

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