It happened after saying goodbye to someone very important to me. During that time, I suddenly realized there were so many details in my life that I’d never really paid attention to. I tend to look back a lot, but I also forget small fragments. Sometimes it’s a sound or an object that brings them back.

That’s when I started thinking maybe I could use art to hold onto those moments. When I look at my works now, those emotions come back to me.

For me, making art is about recording. It’s not for others. It’s a very private act, a way to remember the feelings I don’t want to lose.

Honestly, I don’t rely much on logic or strict planning. My process is very intuitive. I’ve never been a patient person; I can’t spend too long sketching or mapping things out. I believe that each work has its own life. It tells me what it wants to become.Even if I start with one idea, the final outcome often turns out completely different. I actually enjoy that kind of “drift” because it feels more organic, more truthful.

I see limitations as a kind of conversation. For example, when I work on projects related to the environment, I often use everyday materials. Sometimes they resist my control. Maybe the texture doesn’t behave the way I expect. But that resistance pushes me to adjust and experiment.

These moments of frustration often lead to discoveries. Limitations force me to stay flexible and open, and that’s where new possibilities emerge.

Not at all! I actually love that. As the saying goes, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I feel honored when people bring their own perspectives to my work.

However, my pieces are rooted in something very specific and personal. They are created with a particular person in mind, and that connection isn’t something that can ever be fully shared or translated.

So while viewers may project their own memories and emotions onto the work, I feel that at its core, it still belongs more to me—and to that person. There’s a bond there that remains untouched.

I hope they can feel the weight of emotion. It doesn’t have to match what I felt. It could be intimacy, loss, vulnerability, or separation. But I hope my work makes them pause and sense something beyond the surface. To me, each piece is an emotional record, holding my state of being at a certain moment. I want viewers to experience their own subtle emotions through it, to feel something real, even if it’s quiet or fragile.

Absolutely. I left home when I was sixteen and have been moving ever since—Sydney, D.C., Chicago, New York, Hong Kong, Beijing, Changsha… I rarely stay in one city for more than a year. Family, home, these words sometimes seem strange to me. I don’t really have a fixed sense of belonging, but that constant movement made me more sensitive and tolerate.

Many of my works deal with this feeling of “rootlessness”, floating, crossing, drifting. Also, my family’s background is completely different from art. My parents never understood my choice, and that tension actually pushed me to express myself even more. Art became the only way I could reconcile with myself.

I would spend time living in different places around the world and create a series of works using materials, memories, and stories from each place.

For me, it’s not just about traveling, but about living in those environments, understanding their rhythm, their people, their emotions. Each place leaves a different mark, and I want to let those experiences shape the work naturally.

It would be a way of weaving together different cultures and moments of life, turning that process of living and moving into art itself. That process itself would be my way of existing, of connecting with the world. 

I think an artist’s role isn’t to change things directly, but to offer new ways of seeing. Art can make people notice what’s usually invisible issues like gender, environment, or identity. I’m particularly drawn to what’s unseen or unheard, the people, emotions, and stories that often get overlooked. If my work can make someone pause and reflect, even for a moment, that’s already a form of impact.

I believe materials have their own life. You can’t always force them into what you want. The softness of fiber and the coldness of metal, when combined, naturally create tension. PVC or recycled plastic carries environmental implications. They’re not just symbols; they hold traces of history.

My role is not to control them but to have a dialogue, to find what they want to become.