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Groundless Factory Beijing

Chinese version

 In an industrial park in eastern Chaoyang District, Beijing, the most noticeable structure is a water tower—Groundless Factory first located here; behind the metal door on the brick wall is an unadorned interior that retains the raw texture of the original warehouse. The Factory is known as a techno club, yet it holds more than raves—exhibitions, queer events, and experimental performances unfold here regularly. In a space shaped by both global musicians and local artists, diverse activities emerge organically, channeling a persistent rebellious energy into Beijing.

The feral character of Groundless Factory may be rooted in the personal background of its founder, Narankhuu. An artist from Inner Mongolia, Narankhuu works across experimental music and multimedia installation; in 2017, he initiated Groundless Camp—an art collective moving between sound, live installation, and improvised dance, inhabiting galleries, warehouses, and outdoor spaces. This hybrid, fluid artistic practice also became the precursor to what the Factory later grew into.

In 2022, while pandemic restrictions were still in force, the Factory had its soft opening under considerable constraint. Running the club and art projects in tandem was a strategy in realistic situations, and a necessity of the sense of liberation that rave culture carries at that moment. In the summer of 2025, Groundless Factory relocated to the 798 Art Zone, which was also converted from industrial warehouses and is Beijing’s most prominent gathering point for contemporary art over the two decades. Moving into an art district crowded with tourists, and collaborating frequently with neighboring cultural institutions, might seem like a deviation from the Factory’s “underground” identity—but the shift also brings the “groundless” existence closer to local art communities.




Narankhuu, Yindi Chen, Yutong Shi, December 12, 2024

Yindi    

“Groundless” was initially the name of your band, right?

Narankhuu    

Yes, it was originally called “Groundless Camp.” It wasn’t exactly a band, but more like an experimental art collective focusing on musical practice. What we envisioned at the beginning was playing some improvised live music. I would come up with general ideas and frameworks, build on-site installations, and then everyone would improvise in response to the installations.
        Groundless Camp started out with a fixed group, but that eventually changed, and it later became a loose art collective. Each of our events would revolve around a particular theme or happening, and I would look for suitable musicians. Dancers and actors were also brought in—all kinds of people—and the final presentation would be closer to a kind of live performance.

Yindi    

How did you start making music?

Narankhuu    

It’s just something I’ve liked since I was a kid. Especially in Inner Mongolia, people are good at singing and dancing, right? Though I studied fine arts at university, many of my friends were also into playing music. Later, I had a good friend in Heiqiao (Black Bridge) village who had been learning throat singing. In 2013, he went to Hohhot, my hometown, to study with a throat singing master from Mongolia, and he asked me to study alongside him. Eventually, the two of us and an artist neighbor formed an experimental band. Some art projects would invite us to do conceptual performances that incorporate throat singing.

Yindi    

Where did Groundless Camp hold its events before?

Narankhuu    

Mainly in art spaces centered around the 798 Art Zone. Most of the events were in independent spaces, while actual live house shows were relatively rare. At times, I would also set up a large venue to stage some performance projects.

Yindi    

What kind of performances were you mainly doing back then?

Narankhuu    

Groundless Camp started as a collective of experimental vocals, throat singing, and folk instruments. Later, some professional musicians became interested and joined us. Gradually, we shifted from being an experimental sound collective to a more professional group, and our work started moving toward electronic music—because experimental electronics offer richer possibilities in live improvisation, and pair more interestingly with experimental vocals and folk instruments.
        Our first New Year’s event, “Post Network Era,” was at an experimental art space in Beijing called MStudio. The earliest event was in 2017, where I built several rectangular frames in the venue, and each band member sat inside one of them. There was a screen hung in front of each frame to cover our faces—a camera filmed each person’s face and fed it through Meitu, displaying the filtered image on the screen, so the audience could only see our digitally altered faces on the screens. Inside the frames, we put on an experimental performance with guitars, bass, drums, folk instruments, and synthesizers.
        For the second event, I stacked another layer onto the frames and rearranged them into a layout like that in an exhibition—three people along one wall, two along the opposite wall, so each person was like an artwork. The sound was played simultaneously, but the performers were physically separated, and the camera feeds were projected together. This was essentially a deconstruction and reassembly of the traditional band stage setup.
        Our third New Year’s event was called “Magpie.” By then, we had developed the concept of happening—turning a fortuitous event into a performance. At that time, my studio had moved from Heiqiao to Songzhuang. We needed constant light when we painted,  so our studios usually had skylights. One time, I was talking with a dancer, and we saw a magpie land on the skylight, hopping around. She watched it for a while and then started the topic about magpies. I said, why don’t we make a magpie performance? So the dancer became the “magpie,” dancing on the rooftop above the skylight while the audience watched from inside through the skylight—just as we had been watching and talking about the magpie. The three of us also climbed up to the roof, performing music and vocals, turning it into an improvised piece combining experimental music and contemporary dance. Multiple cameras captured the performance and projected the footage into the room for the audience to watch alongside the live performance.
       The fourth event was called “Sorcerers Dragon Clan.” We built a large structure resembling a dragon tower in the gallery space, and the musicians and dancers climbed up and performed on it. That was in 2018, a quite turbulent period—Beijing was evicting the so-called “low-end population,” and many artists’ studios were demolished. Even many signs were torn down, which was strange—every sign had to be uniformized. So for that New Year’s event, we made this ritual installation for blessing.
        The fifth event, “Migration Pathway,” integrated the concept of theater. Four scenes were set up, functioning as four stations where performances were happening simultaneously — experimental music, script readings, and contemporary dance. An explosion-proof vehicle from the Moving Art Museum ferried the audience between the four stations, while video projections connected the scenes to one another.
       The sixth event, “Night Museum–Unknown Code,” took place in a 500-square-meter venue where fifty copper tubes were suspended from the ceiling, wired to circuit boards and speakers. When dancers touched the tubes while performing, different sounds were generated. Audience members who touched the tubes also set off various electronic effects. It became a large-scale improvised performance in which the audience were performers too. It was held at CHAO Art Center, with around 1000 people participating.

Narankhuu    

Afterward, we organized a series of 2019 New Year’s Eve events at UCCA Center for Contemporary Art and Longfu Temple. 2019 was our most productive year, and the creative energy was great as well. We had planned to perform at an experimental space in New York in 2020, but the pandemic hit, and everything was canceled.
       In 2021, we held “Deserted New Year’s Eve.” I found a fairly large venue, built an exhibition, and invited many people to perform there. Because the pandemic was severe at the time, and gatherings were not permitted, we streamed it live, and there were very few people there in person.

Yindi    

How did the name “Groundless Factory” come about? Why “Factory”?

Narankhuu    

We were originally “工舍 Camp”, which literally means workers’ quarters. “莫须有 Groundless” felt right for this kind of existence.
        Doing things here, including making art, feels quite adrift, truly like “groundless”: present but not quite, existing but maybe not. Probably one day you just can’t do it anymore and it’s gone. Or the way I see it, I’m working toward something I’ve been imagining. Things unfold naturally, and what comes out of it isn’t something necessary. As long as it’s interesting, it can exist, it’s there; when it can no longer exist, so be it.
        As for “Factory”, this place is like a factory, where we produce art and expression.

Yindi    

How did you find this place?  

Narankhuu    

Through a friend—they knew the owner of this industrial park. I saw this water tower and thought it was interesting. I figured I'd try to negotiate a lower price and do something with it. But people running a business aren't just going to give you a bargain. At first there were some partners involved, but in the end we couldn't get on the same page, so I just took out a loan and did it myself.

Yindi    

What was this building used for? 

Narankhuu    

This park used to be a warehouse for Friendship Store, and this building was the boiler room for the park, so it has a water tower.

Yindi    

What did you want to do when you first had this space?

Narankhuu    

The initial idea was to combine an electronic music club with the kind of experimental music events Groundless Camp had been doing, and exhibitions—bringing together everything I'd done before, and sustaining it financially through the space itself.
        Since we had just opened, we wanted to make a splash—that meant throwing a big EDM party. But after the first two events, we were shut down for a month after the police sealed our door. Then the pandemic got worse again, so I started organizing underground events on and off, spreading the word through a few group chats. But there were many obstacles—from the park and from the police.
        At that time, people wanted to let loose, to find a place to gather and have a good time, because everything was already painful and suffocating. So our events were mainly EDM parties. Whenever I put on one of these more private events, people would come to drink, dance, and release some of that pent-up emotion. Everyone had been cooped up at home for so long, and a lot of people were really depressed.
        Once the restrictions were lifted in 2023, we continued with the electronic music club. By then we had built up some reputation, and on top of that, international artists could come here again. From then on, we had international artists coming through almost every week. After the pandemic restrictions were lifted, we started incorporating more exhibitions. Now we do film screenings as well.

Yindi    

You opened Groundless Factory in 2022. Does running a club have any impact on your art practice? 

Narankhuu    

My previous practice had been dwindling since the pandemic. After opening the Factory, which has become the center of my work, my previous activities were paused.

Yindi    

How was pandemic control in Beijing when you opened the Factory?

Narankhuu    

In Beijing, everyone assumed restrictions would be lifted by the end of 2022. But in May, Shanghai went into lockdown, and Beijing followed shortly after. I actually started the renovation in March, and planned to open in May, but the situation suddenly got worse again. I thought, maybe September would be a window of opportunity—I'd try opening then. We set the dates for September 11th and 12th, but restrictions hadn't actually been lifted at that time, so on our first day, we were the only place open in all of Beijing. The second day we got reported, and we were shut down mid-event. Those first two days were wild though—it felt like the whole city had shown up.

Yutong    

At the time, did you ever hesitate—wondering whether starting a club might be a kind of compromise? Or were you certain it was a necessary move?

Narankhuu    

Running the club is mainly a way to survive. After the pandemic, it became even harder to sustain an art practice, and funding was difficult to secure. In a period of recession, the kind of freedom we once had to make art has become a luxury.

Yindi    

I've noticed that the Factory often hosts events with queer communities. How did you start collaborating with the queer label Pharos?

Narankhuu    

We can say that Pharos was born here. The Factory's first exhibition was called “Malevich Night,” and after the opening was Queerest’s party. An enormous crowd showed up, probably over 1000 people, incredibly lively. The four founding members of Pharos met at that event, felt like they could do something together, and went on to found the label.

Yutong    

Why do you think this space would naturally attract the queer community? 

Narankhuu    

It probably had to do with the mindset at the time. Our space has always been quite inclusive and celebrates diversity, and we shaped a scene that feels underground and rebellious.

Yindi    

At the Factory, you often hold exhibitions alongside parties. Would that cause any conflicts in terms of space and scheduling?

Narankhuu    

When I discuss with artists and curators, I make clear that this is the format we work with. At first, I thought people could come to see the exhibitions during the day, but there isn’t much else to do around this place, so coming here just for an exhibition isn’t ideal for people who live far away. So we shifted to holding exhibitions during the evening events, so people can enjoy both the music and the exhibition at the same time. That means when we curate and install shows, we have to make sure they align with the atmosphere of nighttime club events.

Yindi    

Do you think your experience as an artist has affected the way you run the club?

Narankhuu    

When I was an artist, I usually worked in these kinds of large warehouses. Right after graduation, I rented a room in a residential building as a studio for painting, but soon I moved into a big warehouse with friends. From then on—for over ten years—I was always working in large spaces. Actually, I also lived in my studio. I'd build a small room in one corner of the warehouse as a bedroom, use the entire open space for making art, and set up a tea table for guests. That was basically how we lived. So I have a deep attachment to these kinds of industrial spaces—both emotionally and in terms of the memories they carry.
        When I started Groundless Factory, I wanted people to experience what it felt like to be in an artist's studio. You can see there's no decoration here at all, because art-making needs simplicity and directness; you don't need many decorative elements interfering with your creative instincts. Now everything around us is over-decorated; all products rely on packaging to justify higher prices, but we do the opposite. No packaging, just the raw appearance of things, showing people the real state, and letting the content speak for itself.

Yindi    

When you confront some restrictions, how would you deal with that?

Narankhuu    

It was actually tricky at the beginning. At the Factory’s second event, so many people showed up that it felt like the entire park was packed—from the Factory to the street—and more kept coming. Later the police were called, and it seemed like they cut the power, because the place went dark and they started clearing everyone out. As it happened, I had just stepped out as we'd run out of Coke, and I went to grab a few more cases. When I rushed back, the place had already been emptied. A police car was parked outside, and someone had even smashed its window—people were furious; after all this time there was finally somewhere open, and even that was being shut down. So the incident became serious. After that we kept running into these kinds of difficult situations, and I had to cope with them. It was troublesome when restrictions tightened, and we'd occasionally have to close for a few days. It was all a matter of slowly figuring out how to deal with each department. We had no idea at the beginning, which was pretty annoying.

Yindi    

What kind of events do you want to do with the Factory going forward?

Narankhuu    

Ground Factival will definitely happen once a year.

Yindi    

How did you start to put on something like a music festival? 

Narankhuu    

Ground Factival is an expanded version of the previous Camp events, a festival bringing together music, art, and multiple forms of performance. For the first Ground Factival in 2024, we had originally negotiated a large venue of around 10000 m² where we could run a continuous three-day, day-and-night event. But that was not allowed eventually. They required everything to wrap up by 10pm, so the events had to move back to the Factory. It didn't end up like what I had originally envisioned. That feeling of being able to go for three straight days was lost, which was a shame.

Yindi    

How do you feel about the changes in Beijing's experimental music scene over the years?

Narankhuu    

It's been drifting more toward entertainment and utility.

Yindi    

In 2025, Groundless Factory moved from its original location to the 798 Art Zone. Why did you make that decision? Do you feel the Factory is still the same as before? Are there any changes in ways you didn't anticipate?

Narankhuu    

The old park where the Factory was located had gradually lost its energy, and 798 happened to reach out about collaborations. I also wanted to return to a place where the contemporary art scene is more concentrated—that's better for making exhibitions, and it means more overlap with the art communities I used to be part of. Since moving, Groundless Factory feels more mature, like a rebellious kid who has slowly grown up. And that also means it can exist in a more lasting way.

Narankhuu updated this conversation on March 13, 2026. The interview was originally conducted in Chinese and translated by Yindi Chen.






莫须有工厂
北京


在北京朝阳区东部的一处工业园区内，最显眼的建筑是一座水塔。莫须有工厂最初选址于此：红砖墙上的金属门后，是未经修饰、保留了厂房粗砺质感的内景。工厂最为人所知的身份是一个Techno俱乐部，不过它容纳的不仅仅是锐舞——展览、酷儿派对、实验表演也常常在此展开。在这个由全球音乐人与本土艺术家共同构筑的空间中，多元活动随性发生，也由此为北京带来持续的反叛能量。

莫须有工厂呈现出的野生气质，或许与创始人那林呼的个人背景有关。作为一位来自内蒙古的艺术家，那林呼进行的创作横跨实验声音与多媒体装置。2017年，他发起了“莫须有工舍”，一个融合实验音乐、现场装置，与即兴舞蹈的艺术团体，游走于画廊、厂房，与户外之间。这种混杂且流动的艺术实践也构成了未来工厂形态的前身。

2022年，在疫情管控未消退之时，工厂于重重限制中试营业。让俱乐部与艺术活动相互支撑，既是现实处境下的生存策略，也源于锐舞所带来的解放意味在当下存在的必要。2025年夏天，莫须有工厂迁至798艺术园区——同样由工业厂房改造而来的798，是二十年间北京最为著名的当代艺术聚集地。迁入游客往来的艺术区、与文化机构的不断合作看似是对于工厂“地下”这一定义的偏移，但这一选择也让本是“莫须有”的存在更加贴近此地的艺术群体。




那林呼，陈寅迪，石雨桐，2024年12月12日

寅迪    

“莫须有”最开始是你的乐队的名字对吗？

那林呼    

对，最早叫“莫须有工舍”。其实它也不完全是一个乐队，更像是一个以音乐实践为主的实验艺术团体。我们最初构想的是现场玩一些即兴，我会提出大概的想法和框架，也会搭建现场装置，然后所有人结合装置一起即兴演奏。
        莫须有工舍最开始有固定成员，后来也没有了，变成一个松散的艺术团体。我们每一次的活动会围绕一个议题或者是一个偶发事件展开，我会去找合适的音乐人参与。舞者和演员也加入过，什么人都有，最后的呈现更接近一种现场表演。

寅迪    

你是怎么开始做音乐的？

那林呼    

其实就是从小喜欢，尤其在内蒙那边大家不是都能歌善舞吗？上大学之后，虽然我学的是美术，但身边很多朋友也喜欢玩音乐。后来我在黑桥艺术区有一个挺好的朋友，他一直在学呼麦。2013 年的时候他跑到呼和浩特，也就是我们家那边，去找了外蒙古的一个呼麦大师学习，还叫我跟他一块学。后来我们和另外一个艺术家邻居组了一个实验乐队，有些艺术项目会请我们去做一些融入了呼麦的观念表演。

寅迪    

莫须有工舍以前是在哪里做活动呢？

那林呼    

主要在以798这个区域为中心的艺术空间。大部分活动都是在独立空间，真正的live house反倒是比较少。有时我也会自己搭建一个大的场地，来做一些表演项目。

寅迪    

你们当时做的演出主要是什么类型？

那林呼     

莫须有工舍最初是实验人声、呼麦和原生态乐器的组合。后来有一些专业的音乐人感兴趣，也参与进来。我们慢慢从一个偏实验的声音团体变成更专业的团队，创作就开始往电子乐去靠，因为实验电子在现场即兴中的可能性会更丰富一些，与实验人声和原生态乐器配合也更有趣。
        我们的第一场跨年活动“后网络时代”是在北京一个实验性的艺术空间，M的房间。最早的一场是在17年，我在场地里搭了几个方框架子，乐队的每个人都坐在一个架子里，前面再挂一个屏幕挡住我们的脸，有一个摄像头拍摄面部，再通过美图秀秀呈现到屏幕中，观众只能通过屏幕看到我们变脸后的头像。我们在架子里做实验演出，有吉他、贝斯、鼓、原生态乐器，也有电子模块。
        到了第二场，我把这些框架叠加了一层，改成像在美术馆展览那样的布局，比如这面墙放三个人，对面墙放两个人，每个人就像一个作品。声音统一进行，但人是分开的，再通过摄像头投影到一起。这就等于把乐队的舞台解构又重组了。
        我们的第三场跨年叫“喜鹊”，那时候我们开始有了偶发现场的概念，也就是把一个偶然的事件变成一个表演。当时我的工作室已经从黑桥搬到宋庄了。那时我们画画需要有稳定的光线，所以工作室一般都有天窗。有一次我和一个舞者聊天，看到天窗上落了一个喜鹊，在上面蹦。她看了一会儿，就开始聊起关于喜鹊的话题。我说，那我们就做一场喜鹊的表演吧？于是舞者化身 “喜鹊”在屋顶的天窗上跳舞，观众在屋子里通过天窗观看表演，就像我们当时在观看和讨论喜鹊一样。我们另外三个人做音乐与人声，也爬到屋顶，一起配合着做成实验音乐与现当代舞蹈的即兴演出，同样通过多个摄像头成像的方式投影到屋子里配合观看。
        第四场叫“龙厌胜”，我们在画廊空间搭了很大的一个架子，像一座龙塔，音乐人和舞者爬到架子上表演。那时是18年，比较动荡的时期，北京在清理低端人口，很多艺术家工作室被拆迁，甚至很多招牌也被拆了。也挺奇怪的，要把所有招牌统一成一样的。所以那次跨年做了这个祈福的装置。
        第五场“迁徙的途径”加入了戏剧的概念。当时设置了四个场景，相当于四个车站，同时在发生表演，有实验音乐、剧本朗读、现当代舞蹈，有一个移动美术馆的防爆车拉着观众在四个车站之间游走，并通过视频投影相互连接。
       第六场“夜间博物馆–未知代码”是在一个500平米的场地里吊了50根铜管，连接了电路板与音箱，几个舞者在跳舞的时候触碰到铜管便会发出不同的声音，观众去摸也会触发不同的电子声效。这样就相当于一个大型即兴演出，观众也是演奏者之一。那时是在CHAO艺术中心，大概有1000个观众参与。

那林呼     

后来又在UCCA尤伦斯艺术中心、隆福寺做了2019年跨年的系列活动。19年是活动做得最多的时候，当时的创作状态也非常好。本来20年有机会去纽约的一个实验空间演出，但是疫情来了，就全部取消了。
        21年做了一场“无人的跨年”。我找了挺大一个场地，在里面搭建了一个展览，也请了很多人表演。因为那时候疫情很严重，不让聚集，所以我们用了直播，现场观众很少。

寅迪   

“莫须有工厂”这个名字是怎么起的？为什么想叫“工厂”？

那林呼     

一开始我们叫“工舍”，相当于工人宿舍。莫须有，就挺适合这种生存状态的。
        在这里做事，包括做艺术，其实挺漂泊的，真的就像莫须有，可有可无，似有似无。很有可能过两天你就不能做了，就没了。或者在我看来，我在做自己想象中的一个事情。顺其自然做了一个事，它并不是一个必要的东西。它只要好玩，能够存在就存在，不能存在了，就不存在了。
        至于工厂，这个地方它就像一个工厂，是我们生产艺术和表达的地方。

寅迪    

你是怎么找到这个场地的？

那林呼    

朋友介绍的，说认识园区的老板。我看到这个水塔，觉得还挺有意思的。我就想能不能跟他便宜一点谈下来这个地方，就可以做些事。但人家做生意其实不会给你特别便宜。一开始还有一些合伙人，到后来可能还是想法不太一致，没谈拢，我就干脆自己贷点款做这个地方了。

寅迪     

这个建筑以前是做什么的？

那林呼    

这个园区以前是友谊商场的仓库，这个建筑是园区的锅炉房，所以它有一个水塔。 

寅迪      

最初有这个场地时你想做什么呢？

那林呼    

最开始想做电子乐俱乐部加上莫须有工舍那些实验音乐的活动，还有展览，我以前做的所有的东西都综合在一起，而且靠空间运营能养活起这些事。 
        我们刚开业，肯定要做最火爆的活动，那一定是一个大型的电子乐party。但头两场活动做完之后就停了一个月，因为那时候派出所给贴了封条。后来疫情又严重了，我就断断续续做一些地下活动，在几个群里互相通知，但也有很多阻碍——有园区的，也有派出所的。
        那个时候大家都想要释放，找个地方大家聚在一起能开心。因为本来就够心痛够压抑了。所以当时我们的活动也以电子乐派对为主。每次我做比较私密的活动，大家来了就是能够喝酒、跳舞，释放一下情绪。那时候天天被关在家里，关了那么长时间，好多人都很郁闷。
        等到23年解封了之后，我们就延续了电子乐俱乐部的形式。因为当时我们也有一些口碑，另一方面，国际艺人也能进来了。后来我们基本上每周的活动都有国际艺人来这边交流。疫情政策放开之后，我们才开始加了越来越多的艺术展览进来。现在也做电影放映。

寅迪    

开俱乐部对你个人的创作有什么影响吗？

那林呼    

以前的创作从疫情开始就越来越少。开了工厂之后，我的工作中心就到了这边，之前的活动就暂停了。

寅迪    

工厂刚开的时候北京疫情管控怎么样？

那林呼    

在北京这边，大家都以为22年底会解封。但是5月份上海开始封城，紧接着北京封城。其实3月我这边就开始装修了，本来想着5月开，但情况突然又严重了。我当时就想，可能9月会是一个窗口期，开一下门试试。我们就把时间定在9月的11和12号，但其实那个时候并没有解封，所以我们第一天开的时候，北京全城都关着，只有我们一家开。第二天就被举报了，开到一半就被清场。头两天我们开的还是挺疯狂的，感觉全北京人都来了。

雨桐     

你当时有没有犹豫过，做俱乐部是不是一种妥协？还是你很确定那是一种必要的选择？

那林呼    

做俱乐部主要是一种生存方式，毕竟疫情之后做艺术更加艰难，也很难找到资金的支持。经济下行时期，想要像以前那样自由地做艺术已经成了奢望。

寅迪    

我看到工厂也经常举办一些酷儿活动。你们是怎么开始和酷儿厂牌环绕寺合作的？

那林呼    

环绕寺等于是在我们这诞生的。工厂的第一场展览叫“马列维奇之夜”，展览开幕完就是最酷儿的派对。那天来了超级多人，应该有1000多人，特别热闹。环绕寺最初的四个人就是在参与了这次活动之后觉得可以一起做些事情，所以成立了这个厂牌。

雨桐    

你觉得这个空间为什么会自然地吸引到酷儿社群？

那林呼    

可能和当时的状态有关吧。我们空间本身就十分包容并崇尚多元，把场景打造的很地下、很叛逆。

寅迪    

工厂的展览经常和party一起做，在空间和安排上互相会有什么冲突吗？

那林呼    

和艺术家策展人聊的时候，就会说要做这样的形式。我一开始也想大家可以白天来看展览，但这个位置周围没什么可转的，只是来看一个展览的话，对住得远的人不太合适。后来我们就改成在晚上活动的时候做展览，这样又可以听音乐又可以看展览。所以我们策展和布展的时候就要考虑到让它符合晚上俱乐部活动时的氛围。

寅迪    

你觉得你以前作为艺术家的经验有没有影响到今天做俱乐部的方式？

那林呼    

以前做艺术家的时候，一直都是在这种比较大的厂房里创作。刚毕业的时候会租居民楼里面的房间去画画，后来没多久就跟朋友一起合租了一个大厂房。从那时候开始，差不多十多年，一直是在这种大的空间里面创作。说白了，以前其实也住在工作室里，在厂房里面一个角落搭一个小房子作为卧室，整个大空间就是创作空间，在外面再摆个会客的茶桌，基本上就是这样生活过来的。所以对这种厂房，不管是感情还是感触，都比较深吧。
        做莫须有工厂的时候，我就是希望大家能够体会到以前做艺术家在工作室创作的那种感受。你看到这里没有任何的装修，因为做艺术需要简单直接，不需要那么多装饰的东西来影响你的创作灵感。现在到处都是过度的装饰，所有的商品就是一定要靠包装来提高价位，但我们就是反其道行之，不要任何包装，就是原始的样子，让大家看到最真实的状态，纯粹靠内容来吸引大家

寅迪    

你遇到一些限制的时候，要怎么处理？

那林呼    

其实刚开始也是比较棘手的。莫须有工厂第二场活动的时候，来了特别多的人，感觉整个园区里，从我工厂里面到路上全都是人，还不断地有人来。后来惊动了警察，他们好像拉了电，屋子就黑了，开始清人。那时候恰巧我还出去了，因为可乐不够了，我去旁边多买几箱可乐。我赶过来的时候，屋里已经被清空了。警车停在外面，有人还把警车玻璃给砸了。因为大家就觉得很愤怒，好不容易有一个地方开着，还不让大家玩。当时这事就特别严重了，所以后来经常遇到这种为难的情况，每次只能应付。管理严格的时候还是比较麻烦，我们也会偶尔停几天。都是慢慢摸索该怎么跟所有的部门沟通，但最开始是不知道的，也挺烦的。

寅迪    

工厂之后会想做什么类型的活动？

那林呼    

厂域肯定是每年一次。

寅迪    

怎么会开始做一个类似音乐节的活动？

那林呼    

厂域是把以前工舍的活动放大成一个有音乐、艺术、多种表演形式的一个节日。2024年第一届厂域音乐艺术节本来谈的是一个可以把三天昼夜的活动连到一起的大场地，有1万平米，但后来还是不被允许，晚上10点钟那边必须结束，活动又要挪回工厂。最终它不像我一开始想的那样。能连续玩三天的那种感觉一下子就弱化了，比较遗憾。

寅迪    

你感觉到北京的实验音乐场景在这些年里有什么变化吗？

那林呼    

更倾向于娱乐化、功能化。

寅迪    

2025年莫须有从原来的场地搬到798艺术园区，为什么做了这个决定？你觉得它搬来之后还是老样子吗？有什么在你原本构想之外的变化吗？

那林呼    

以前老厂的园区慢慢没有那个劲儿了，刚好798也找到我们来谈合作。我当然也想回到当代艺术场景更集中的地方，这样对做展览也有好处，也可以和曾经的艺术群体产生更多的交集。搬来后觉得莫须有更加成熟，像从一个叛逆孩子慢慢成长成大人了，也可以让它更加持久地存在。

本篇采访由那林呼于2026年3月13日重新编辑。

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