Since the invention of the camera in 1839, which opened the door to mechanical reproduction, art has been forced to confront its own survival. From the Impressionists’ fleeting captures of light to modernists questioning the essence of media, humanity has always sought a spark that machines cannot replicate. Today, as artificial intelligence reshapes creativity, traditional painting’s narrative space grows narrower. Yet I still choose abstraction as my vessel to carry the tremors of life that pixels cannot dissect.
As a creator navigating the divide between Eastern and Western cultures, my canvas is a theater of folded time and space. Growing up in Beijing’s alley , I absorbed the ink-scented air of calligraphy and Chinese ink painting—their rhythmic brushstrokes and the dance of solid and void became my visual DNA. Later, in the West, I conversed with Rembrandt’s glazes under museum domes and deconstructed oil paint’s materiality in my studio. These dual cultural imprints shape my abstract language: the Zen-like emptiness of Chinese masters merges with Giorgio Morandi’s metaphysical grays.
I reject the race to mimic reality—a redundant labor humanity has pursued for centuries. When AI can generate endless realistic images and virtual reality constructs hyper-real illusions, art must return to its primal magic: unleashing bolts of thought through color clashes, trapping soul-shivers in brushstroke creases. The layers I paint over and over aren’t corrections; they’re archaeological strata of time itself, each scrape a leap across values and eras.
“Illusion” is my alchemy. It’s not a mirror of reality but a lever to pry it open. From Laozi’s mystical “Tao” to Plato’s cave shadows to today’s consumerist symbols—human civilization thrives on layered collective illusions. On my canvas, illusion shatters the false divide between real and unreal. When cobalt blue and burnt sienna clash yet intertwine like quantum particles, when dry brushstrokes tear through thick oil paint, viewers witness reality being reshaped by illusion, just as history reveals itself through fiction.
Materials are my spirit’s flesh. Acrylic’s quick drying mirrors modern society’s rush; rough linen devours paint like gasps of nature under civilization’s weight. Pouring turpentine to let colors flood like the Yangtze River transplants Chinese ink’s “freehand” spirit onto oil canvas. Scraping away months of layers to expose oracle-bone inscriptions-like marks beneath—these acts are my philosophical interrogations of existence.
My art offers no answers, only questions. When viewers stand before my work, floating color blocks collapse into nebulae of meaning under their gaze. Here, art becomes a time-space wormhole: Laozi debates Heidegger across millennia; Ni Zan’s solitary pavilion shares spiritual desolation with Anselm Kiefer’s ruins.
This is an era demanding redefined “truth.” As virtual and real blur, and East-West cultures mutate in globalization’s crucible, my canvas is a visual lab of uncertainty. Each piece is a dice thrown into the unknown, splitting into parallel universes as it falls—a testament to art’s greatest illusion: letting us glimpse our true existence in a hall of mirrors.