I often think about my hometown, but as I mentioned in the video, it has been submerged under water due to the construction of the Three Gorges Dam. It’s a place I’ve left behind, and one I can never truly return to. The influence of those early years resurfaces after decades of living elsewhere. When I first left, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of those experiences because I was so young—around 10 years old. I moved to Australia for high school at 15, and then to Boston for college at 18. During my time in Boston, I studied at four different institutions with three majors: Tufts, SMFA, Northeastern, and MIT. Eventually, I graduated with a degree in Fine Art from Tufts and moved to New York to pursue my career as an artist.
This uprooted life has not only shaped my personality but also serves as the foundation for my creative work. In my early creative practice, I often unconsciously used the sphere as a form. The sphere is unstable; it rolls and is restless. I think it epitomizes my life experience and informs my artistic process.
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Recently, I’ve been contemplating a manifesto for my practice: If you have to leave your home, you carry it with you. If language is a barrier, don’t use it. This idea stems from constantly finding myself in new contexts, adapting to different languages and cultural norms.
For example, in a recent proposal, I envisioned a wall-mounted robotic arm controlling a whimsical wooden palm, delicately cradling a rolling bead of water in perpetual motion. The water droplet is a mixture of the Yangtze River, which flows through Fengdu, where I grew up, and the Hudson River in New York, where I am currently based. This symbolizes the intersection of time and space. Mixing the two river’s water is like blending my past and present—it represents my values, perspectives, and knowledge, which are not tied to a single place but emerge from a fusion of experiences.
My practice often leans toward reduction, inspired by artists like Doris Salcedo and Mark Rothko, who evoke powerful emotions with minimal elements. The simplified medium in my work serves to distill the message, functioning as a tool to convey refined content.
There are distinct approaches in my paintings and interactive installations. Migration constantly exposes me to new cultural landscapes and people, making me curious about the Other—especially their experiences. This curiosity fuels my desire to convey sensory experiences through immersive works.
My installations often engage with the audience, inviting them to touch, embrace, climb, and even juggle with the work. For instance, Cradle allows you to lie down and be gently cradled, like an infant. This idea came from observing my friend’s Generation Alpha baby, who was soothed to sleep by an automatic cradle. I created this installation to bridge the gap between our generation, which never experienced mechanical nurturing, and the new one. Similarly, Pole Chair invites people to sit and climb, and I’m always fascinated by the creative ways audiences interact with it.
In contrast, my paintings are rooted in these moments of engagement. I try to capture the movement and emotional resonance of those experiences, translating them into the language of painting. While my installations are collaborative and dynamic, painting is a more introspective process for me.
I really enjoy making books, though it’s just as challenging as creating installations. The book took three years to complete, and I’m deeply grateful to everyone involved, including the writers Gary Zhexi Zhang and Qianfan Gu, book designers Max Harvey and Pianpian He, and publisher Yve Yang. The process made me realize how intense it is to take a hard look at everything you’ve done. It’s a brutal exercise in serialisation and conceptualisation—essentially, you’re dissecting yourself, trying to identify what’s essential and what’s not.
The process of making a book is an internal journey, where you weigh every detail against the bigger picture. It’s a very intense experience—like knowing you will never be able to return home, yet having only one suitcase to pack everything.
I don’t see myself as a technological artist, even though I use technology extensively. For example, Vermeer used an early form of a projector to create Girl with a Pearl Earring. It was cutting-edge at the time, much like using AI today, but the work isn’t about the technology—it was a means to capture and convey the essence of reality. I approach my work similarly. Having lived in Boston, I was naturally surrounded by technology, so it’s something I’ve always integrated into my practice.
I once encountered an aerogel at MIT’s museum, the lightest solid material in the world. It is so light that it appears to be like consolidated air. I was fascinated by the material, and it later inspired my work Hydrophobilizer, which can make the palm of your hand waterproof, like a lotus leaf. I also coined the term “Hydrophobilizer” to describe its traits and to name the work. Kids and adults scream with delight when they see shapeless water transform into a bead.
Just like Doris Salcedo, who used significant engineering in her installation at Tate Modern, the technology serves the art, not the other way around. If I create another installation, I’ll likely use cutting-edge technology again, but always in a way that allows the work to transcend the medium and focus on the experience.
Each piece functions differently. For example, in my installation Cradle, the experience requires the viewer to sit down and engage physically, while BFF is purely visual. It’s about approaching a screen, seeing your reflection, and having your perception altered. So, the engagement isn’t always about touch or sound—it’s about what’s necessary to convey the content effectively. In Cradle, on creating a sense of belonging and motherly care that the viewer physically feels. I don’t necessarily prioritize tactile elements; certain works naturally demand specific elements to powerfully convey the information I intend to share.
To answer that, I’d like to revisit the previous question about painting. Installation is about communication—being very specific about the information or experience you want to share. It’s an external process, engaging with and building a community. But to capture those subtle, unspeakable elements, I turn to painting.
Drawing, for me, is functional—it’s about delivering information. But painting is about expression. Almost all my paintings have a figure or a recognisable, though abstract, form. It’s about creating a relationship between elements that can be surreal yet very physical. The figures in my paintings aren’t about interiors or exteriors—they represent my own relationship with space. Painting allows me to explore these internal, personal reactions in a way that installation cannot.
For me, inscription media is fascinating because it's about how we, as humans, inscribe memories and experiences onto others. This deeply embedded information becomes part of our identity, influencing how we perceive and interact with the world.
As for upcoming projects, I will be a visiting artist at Cornell Tech’s Backslash Art, where I will collaborate with scientists to explore human perception of belonging in the context of autonomous driving. Meanwhile, I am currently participating in a group show at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art in Arizona. And, I have a consignment at the Taikang Art Museum in Beijing, China, scheduled to open in November.
