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- 范不响/fanbxooo, 来自中国四川成都。
当时大概一岁半？我扶着玉林老房子的一面黄色隔断学习走路，步伐蹒跚，内心充满好奇。反反复复地摔倒在隔断旁的小床上，脸砸向枕头，又再次用小手撑起自己的身体。自那个时候起我第一次产生质疑，为什么自己不能是一只小狗或者其它动物，为什么一定要学习人类走路的姿势，言外之意是，如果永远爬行，是不是不用再摔跤。这些记忆我都记得很清晰。
还有上小学的时候在那个隔断旁边模仿动物世界里的哺乳动物的日常作息和行为模式，用绳子把自己拴在隔断上，对回家的爷爷奶奶表示欢迎，没有尾巴就用右手模仿一条尾巴。看到隔断上那扇玻璃门就立马想到，4岁以前和爷爷睡在一起，晚上他会搓转我的每一根手指，我也总是在这个过程里睡着。而且我还记得他这么做的原因，是希望我以后的手指可以又长又细。再长大一点后，在那个黄色隔断旁边拼动物世界的拼图，用水彩笔画不穿上衣的美人鱼，画不穿衣服的女人王国。爸妈来看我的时候，会把包放在黄色隔断旁，坐在黄色隔断背后的房间，一起吃饭和聊一些与我无关的话题。每一次见到他们，我都特别开心，我实在太好奇他们会度过怎样的一周，或者是怎样的一个月，对大人的世界，实在很没概念，可这种开心，随着年龄的增长，转变成了厌恶。
总之，玉林的家成为了一切的开始，那里有过我爱的家人，有过我爱的动物，发生过幸福的事，还有很多我藏起来的不及格的奥数卷子。24岁前我没有搬过家，除了宿舍，就是在玉林。爷爷去世后需要重新装修房子，我也舍不得拆除那面黄色隔断，迷恋它承载的记忆，迷恋傍晚的阳光穿过它后，另一面墙上的图案，还有老木头的朽气。
我不舍到极点，但还是必须搬家，切断一切依恋，几乎是强迫性的与之说再见。我用Svto4elv来纪念那个黄色隔断，纪念我曾经的家，纪念那些一眼看过去脑子里就会自动浮现出来的画面。像虚拟空间里的xyz坐标轴，我住在17号4单元11号，这便也成为了容纳我所有作品的安全居所。纵使我没有接受过专业的艺术教育，我也很坚定的知道，在170411的时候，只要拿起画笔，时间就会走得很快很快，短暂离开了现实世界，在一米宽的书桌上，一个人度过一整天。不用再重复我儿时的口头禅，“我真的好无聊。”
搬家之后，为了取东西，我还去过以前的家。黄色隔断被拆掉了，房间的光线变得再通透不过，好像是在对我说，其实重新开始也没什么不好，我可以去做我想做的任何事，随时。
fanbxooo / 范不响, from Chengdu, Sichuan. I was around one and a half years old when I started learning to walk, holding onto a yellow partition in my family’s old apartment in Yulin. I remember stumbling again and again, falling onto the small bed beside it, face-first into the pillow—then pushing myself back up with tiny hands, full of curiosity. That was probably the first time I ever questioned something: why couldn’t I be a puppy, or some other animal? Why did I have to learn how to walk like a human? I wondered—if I just kept crawling forever, would I never have to fall? These memories are still vivid. In primary school, I would tie myself to that same yellow partition with a rope, mimicking the daily routines of mammals from nature documentaries. That was how I welcomed my grandparents home. I didn’t have a tail, so I used my right hand to pretend I had one. Every time I saw the glass door on the partition, I’d remember sleeping beside my grandpa before I turned four. At night, he would gently rub and twist each of my fingers until I fell asleep. He told me it was to help them grow long and slender. As I got a bit older, I’d sit beside that yellow partition working on animal puzzles, drawing topless mermaids with watercolor markers, sketching a kingdom of women without clothes. When my parents came to visit, they’d leave their bags by the partition and sit in the room behind it, eating and chatting about things that didn’t involve me. I’d always be so excited to see them—so curious about what kind of week or month they’d had. I had no real concept of the adult world. But that excitement slowly turned into resentment as I grew up. That apartment in Yulin was the beginning of everything. There were people I loved. Animals I loved. Moments of real happiness. And so many math test papers I failed and secretly stashed away. Until I was 24, I never moved. Except for living in dorms, Yulin was my only home. After my grandpa passed away, the house had to be renovated. I couldn’t bear to remove that yellow partition. I was obsessed with everything it held— the memories, the light that passed through it in the late afternoon, casting patterns on the opposite wall, the smell of old wood starting to rot. But eventually, I had to move. I had to break away from it all. It felt almost forced—like saying goodbye to a part of myself. So I created Svto4elv to remember that yellow partition. To remember that home. To remember those images that instantly surface in my mind, as soon as I think of them. Like a set of coordinates in a virtual space— I lived at Building 17, Unit 4, Apartment 11. 170411 became the safe house for everything I create. Even though I’ve never received any formal art education, I know with absolute certainty— whenever I sit down to draw in that imaginary 170411, time passes so quickly. I get to escape reality for a while. Just me, at my one-meter-wide desk, spending the whole day alone, without having to say my usual phrase: "I’m so bored." After I moved, I went back once to grab some things. The yellow partition was gone. The room was flooded with light— it felt like it was telling me: “It’s okay. Let it go. It’s time to do whatever you want to do—starting now.”