At the Split, 2024-26, oil on canvas and artist's frame, 67 x 84 in | 170.2 x 213.4 cm (Framed: 70 x 103 1/2 in | 177.8 x 262.9 cm)
memory/
Farewell My Concubine was my introduction to Peking Opera. Watching the film at a formative age - encountering the dan for the first time - opened a certain awareness that would deepen as I grew into my queer identity. The dan role, female characters traditionally performed by male actors, embodies a slippage between gender that has since become a recurring presence in my paintings.
Lately, I have followed my inquiry toward the male counterpart of the dan, the jing role. Heroic in character, jing roles are distinguished by their elaborate painted faces, each color and pattern signaling specific traits and temperaments. The vocabulary is codified; combinations multiply. The fierce and the delicate, the earthly and the ethereal, converge within a single mask. In the archetype of the jing, I find the full spectrum of being.
If Peking Opera led me toward a meditation on gender fluidity, Buddhism gave it ground. From troubling duality and hybridizing forms, my practice now reaches toward a total dissolution of the image. The capacity to transform meets the inevitability of change, of wuchang. Rooted in the imagination of metamorphosis, my most recent body of work, The Space Between Skins, considers how fluidity finds home in impermanence. I am particularly drawn to the phase of histolysis, in which the caterpillar, inside the chrysalis, breaks down much of its body into a liquid state. Dissolution is the requisite of becoming. Isn't the human body, too, such a vessel? Holding memory and possibility at once, the substance of our spirit is infinitely malleable.
line/
My process begins as an excavation. Unearthing fragments from personal and collective memory, I re-enact inherited colors, motifs, and patterns, morphing them into new configurations. The color palette of a Peking Opera mask transforms into a nocturnal scene; wood-carved corbels from my grandfather’s hometown inspire new framing devices. The paintings accumulate through cycles of destruction and reconstruction. They record both my willfulness and the necessary failure to recover the past.
The Space Between Skins takes inspiration from aerial acrobatics and the feitian of Dunhuang murals. For two months, I drew continuously to study the flight of aerialists, building my own muscle memory of their bodies and choreography. These gestural, watercolor-like drawing formed the bedrock of the paintings. Working with the canvas on the ground, I immerse myself in the pictorial space. Layer upon layer of paint slowly distorts the original image, until all recognizable forms dissipate. With each pass, I intervene by digging into wet paint. With a towel and a wood chisel, I carve out small shapes that pulsate around the figures, giving the surface a stained-glass quality. In a kaleidoscopic blur, the painting captures the residual motion of the aerialists: bodies becoming memory, the past echoing into the present.
I am interested in fragmentation as a way of visualizing the vibration between the seen and unseen. By disrupting the boundary between physical forms and negative space, I seek to register a certain frequency of existence—a field of energies colliding and converging. To me, fragmentation is not a condition of brokenness, but a way of holding together. My paintings are not portraits of a single identity but of identity itself—the ever-evolving multiplicity within our being.
The artist’s studio, image courtesy of Runze Yu and the artist
color/
For many years, yoga and meditation have accompanied my journey in painting. I see them as two approaches toward the same practice. Both move between action and rest; both ask that I let go freely, again and again. If yoga turns inward toward health, painting is where I exercise my passion and actualize my beliefs. The two practices have converged over time; their correspondence has brought me strength.
Since my last exhibition in Shanghai, I have felt an urge to step away from narrative and linear depictions of the figure. Painting the body gave way to painting with my body. Instead of portraying ideas, I began to embody the concept. Each day in the studio begins with preparation: kneeling by my stage—a platform I built for painting— mixing colors on plastic plates until I arrive at the exact shade for that session. This sometimes takes hours. After the color meditation, I step onto the stage, entering a state of ritual. Working horizontally on the floor, I move on all fours, use silks to lift myself from the ground, or wear roller blades to destabilize my movement. I keep my perspective and rhythm in flux. The stage is perhaps better named an altar; the act of painting, a way of setting something in motion — a chemical reaction in the unseen, a call to magic.
In the end, all returns to something simple. Painting is none other than a process of moving my body, cleaning up, and making a mess all over again. I want to leave my mark on the canvas in the most human way possible. The surface of the painting bears witness.
