Sitting on a bar stool in the dark, red light of The Spotted Pig in the West Village. Drinking ale and sazeracs. Eating ginger cake while reading Weiwei-isms. An antidote to a resigned life. The couple next to me at the bar was completely absorbed yet alone together. Texting them, ignoring us: “I’d rather gaze longingly at a screen than lovingly into your eyes.” I was texting no one, listening to Ai Weiwei via the little black book I’d picked up that afternoon at the Whitney.
Weiwei-isms, edited by Larry Warsh. Published by the Princeton Architectural Press.
“Expressing oneself is like a drug. I’m so addicted to it.”
“Only with the Internet can a peasant I have never met hear my voice and I can learn what’s on his mind. A fairy tale has come true.”
“I feel powerless all the time, but I regain my energy by making a very small difference that won’t cost me much.”
“Tips on surviving the regime: Respect yourself and speak for others. Do one small thing every day to prove the existence of justice.”