A&A: Let’s begin with a question both philosophical and practical. The exhibition

proposes the grid as a “score.” Do you compose each work like a musical notation, or is the analogy misleading?

DING YI: I rarely create my work with music or a score in mind. Of course, the space of the Fondazione Querini Stampalia, designed and modified by Scarpa, carries a certain musical quality. So perhaps this series of works contains a subtle rhythm, or hints of musicality. Initially, I hoped that both the works and the exhibition space could cultivate and convey a kind of silent rhythm, perhaps one inspired by the gentle lapping of the Venetian lagoon. The overall context of the exhibition is complex, yet rich and unified. It extends beyond the exhibition space itself, reaching from Venice and the theme of the Venice Biennale to the imagery of China’s Stele Forest.

I prefer to see this exhibition as a project that proposes possible multi-dimensional relationships, characterized by interconnectedness and integrality.

A&A: What is the minimum difference that matters in your system? At what point does variation become event?

DING YI: Throughout my painting practice, I have never developed the habit of working from sketches. All my works first take shape in my mind, though never in a concrete form. It’s more like having a structure or a color system already in place within my mind, akin to a game of Go, where individual moves expand into larger territories, gradually building up into an overarching momentum. Even within a prescribed grid system that offers certain rational guidelines, the absence of preparatory sketches allows for the emergence of small, dynamic contingencies. These moments of chance, in turn, contribute to the overall cohesion of the work.

A&A: In your view, can repetition become a form of moral cultivation as opposed to aesthetic insistence?

DING YI: Many curators have drawn analogies between my practice and Chan Buddhism or Buddhist meditative disciplines, or have described my work in terms of “sustained repetition.” If we are to discuss my creative process in this light, I believe it possesses a certain self-restrained, almost ethical quality. The act of working day after day may appear, on the surface, as merely the accumulating density of cross-shaped motifs. Yet within this process lies a deepening and internalizing journey—one that yields profound insights into the meaning of art and of work itself. These insights arise from everyday acts of making; they embody the idea that “the Way and its material form are one,” and that “technique approaches the Way.”

A&A: Following up the previous question—does repetition ever risk automation? How do you prevent your “algorithm” from collapsing into mechanical neutrality?

DING YI: Without the guidance of preparatory sketches, true “automation” rarely occurs. The creative process remains fluid and far from mechanical. Chance plays a decisive role in shaping the outcome of each work, often introducing differences even from the piece that came before. What frequently happens is that the imperfections of one work become the starting point for the next, creating a sense of relay or continuity across the body of work.

A&A: Another philosophical question. Does the viewer “perform” your work through movement, as suggested by Jacques Rancière’s emancipated spectator, or is performance secondary to contemplation?

DING YI: It depends on whether the atmosphere created by the exhibition can prompt a certain kind of spontaneous behavior from the audience, or whether viewers can be guided toward an enlightening experience. For instance, when a work is suspended in mid-air, viewers naturally tilt their heads upward to look at it.

An artist’s expression operates on two levels: one resides within the artwork itself, and the other lies in how the exhibition shapes the act of viewing. In recent years, several of my exhibitions have placed increasing emphasis on the second aspect. For my solo exhibition The Winding Path in Yunnan, China, I engaged with local culture and produced works in a variety of formats. One piece, The Road to Heaven, is a long scroll measuring over ten meters in length, depicting the Naxi people’s views of life and death, and the soul’s journey back to the ancestral homeland. The scroll was anchored to the floor at one end and suspended from the gallery ceiling at the other, leading the viewer’s gaze from a low plane upward, thereby creating a visual rhythm. While it could certainly be presented flat on a table in the conventional way, elevating it better guides viewers toward the meanings embedded in the painting.

The integrity of an exhibition is shaped by the relationship formed between the works and the exhibition space. I imagine many artists have presented work in Area Scarpa, each developing distinct perceptions and understandings of it. To me, it is an exquisite and timeless space, and the works shown here should carry a quiet sense of steadiness. From the corridor, one glimpses the central axis of the space; at the rear, it opens onto a garden, with light shifting from subdued to bright. Yet the idea of a central axis may need to be interrupted by variation.

When the twelve wood‑panel paintings are arranged back‑to‑back like a constellation, the central axis of the room is softened, nearly dissolved. One could say that the visual axis of the main exhibition space extends toward the black stele in the distant garden, establishing a fluid connection that allows viewers to move and shift their gaze. This extends to the conception and display of the steles themselves: the black granite stele stands upright in the garden, inviting an upward gaze, while the white marble stele lies horizontally on the ground, inviting a downward one. Together, they create a shifting set of perspectives. Such flexibility echoes the way Venice itself coexists with its inherent instability.

A&A: Perhaps it is a stretch to think in these terms, but—according to you—can abstraction function as a form of urban anthropology without depicting the city?

DING YI: Certainly. Since 1998, I have used fluorescent colors to reflect the process of urbanization in China. Over a period of twelve years of practice, I sought to convey the concepts of urban geography and anthropology through an abstract visual language. This approach was both macroscopic and synthetic, carrying a distinct temporal dimension—the use of fluorescent color closely coincided with the most dynamic phase of Shanghai’s development, almost as a witness to that era. Urbanization has been both the source of inspiration for this body of work and the subject of reflection on the process itself. It reflects Shanghai, and more broadly, the trend and defining features of polycentric development in China’s urbanization. The works possess almost no absolute center; the cross functions as a topological relation, balancing multiple focal points across different canvases and positions. In the past, Shanghai’s main commercial activity was concentrated along three major thoroughfares: Nanjing Road, Huaihai Road, and North Sichuan Road. Today, each district has its own hub, complete with shopping centers and cultural amenities, embodying the “one‑kilometer living circle” concept. The structure of my work mirrors this very urban fabric.

A&A: Let’s zoom into your work, in detail. Is the cross closer to a symbol, a coordinate, or a measurement device? Or does its meaning dissolve entirely in repetition?

DING YI: The cross is all of these. Functioning as a motif, the cross repeats to form the grid. This grid differs fundamentally from the traditional grid in abstraction: it is not confined to relationships within the picture plane, but extends them outward. It constitutes a networked, centerless perspective, filled with infinite undulations and variations. In this sense, the “cross” conceptually parallels Yuk Hui’s theory of cosmotechnics.

A&A: The exhibition happens within Area Scarpa, a gem of modernist restraint and equilibrium by Carlo Scarpa. It builds attention through sequence: pauses, turns, compressions, releases, almost like editing. Do you want viewers to “read” your work as an instantaneous image, or as a temporal itinerary (in which to scan, return, drift, recalibrate)?

DING YI: I believe the curators have provided an excellent framework, one that follows a temporal thread while directly engaging with the space, guiding viewers and providing insight for those curious about this question. Though the space has its particularities, for example, its two entrances, the core remains the main exhibition area, which cultivates a slow, immersive atmosphere and fosters a dialogue between the works and the space itself.

The presentation of paintings is much like the construction of a house: the walls are gradually built, layer by layer, in a process deeply connected to the passage of time—a slow, continuous act of building upward. A successful exhibition shapes the viewer’s experience. The artist first intuits the space in its raw form, then weaves certain distinct qualities of that space into the work, and ultimately communicates that integrated experience to the audience. I believe this sensibility may be the fundamental reason why an exhibition lingers in the viewer’s memory.

A&A: Do you conceive your work architecturally? Is the idea of “threshold” present in your own practice: as a border, an interface, a filter, or an algorithm that changes what an image can do?

DING YI: I have a strong interest in architectural design and often observe the work of architects. Architectural thinking naturally enters my artistic practice.

The perspective, form, and incisions in my paintings share an affinity with architectural principles, echoing certain painting techniques or approaches. For me, the architectural dimension lies in the balancing process within painting—it is not about depicting particular parts, but about the whole picture. Moreover, architecture relates more closely to sculptural practice in terms of materiality and volume.

The threshold of painting is defined by a set of self-imposed rules: a language of crosses, evolving from evenly divided grid units into a network that echoes structural systems; the pictorial surface is organized exclusively by horizontal and vertical lines, with no curves permitted. This framework excludes other motifs while simultaneously cultivating a distinct visual language.

A&A: A question about your new works on stone. Do you think your steles collapse human time into geological time, echoing the Anthropocene discourse addressed by Yuk Hui?

DING YI: The stele holds profound significance in traditional Chinese culture. Ancient sites often preserve steles from successive dynasties, and within the classical literati tradition, there existed a long‑standing practice of traveling to seek, observe, and contemplate them. These stones bear temporal and historical memory, embodying a cultural dialogue that traverses time.

I hope to place the concept of the stele in a broader context. Steles are not exclusive to China; they are important markers within the trajectories of different civilizations. From Egypt and Mesopotamia to the Mayan world, India, and ancient Rome, ancient civilizations, in their earliest forms, recorded events, conducted rituals, and commemorated memory by means of steles and stone inscriptions, the remains of which survive today in archaeological records. Steles are like folds within geological time. Different steles are made from different stones, each formed within a geology specific to its region. Egyptian stone inscriptions are closely tied to the local mountains. In China, for geographical reasons, the imperial building materials of the Ming and Qing dynasties consisted largely of white marble from Fangshan. The stone’s geological properties forged a distinctive connection between region and culture.

Carving different types of stone requires different tools. I am particularly struck by Shang-dynasty jade artifacts because the tools at the time were extremely rudimentary, and a single jade cóng (琮) could take a craftsman more than a year to grind a single groove or a tiny textured line using a bronze implement. In the Mayan world, obsidian may have been the hardest tool available for carving. Craftsmen continually updated their techniques to make their work more efficient and easier. While their skills were constrained by the limitations of technological progress, they nevertheless formed part of the unique trajectory of each civilization’s technical development. Today, machines can achieve in hours what once took years, yet the marks left by different tools bear witness to the evolution of tools and techniques.

The unique characteristics once inherent in stone objects have largely been flattened. Factories producing such stone vessels now use machinery made in Germany—widely regarded as the finest in the industry. While reinforcing standardization and consistency, it also curtails variation.

Yuk Hui’s concept of parallel civilizations in the Anthropocene re‑examines civilizations worldwide, aiming to restore diversity within the global technological ecosystem. Through steles, I wish to perceive both the distinctiveness of civilizations and the underlying throughlines that connect them.

A&A: Our main curatorial narrative for your exhibition borrow the term “cosmotechnics” from Yuk Hui. Cosmotechnics binds moral order to technical activity, what moral quality do you hope your technique cultivates in others?

DING YI: Speaking of Yuk Hui’s cosmotechnics: the sources and foundations of our knowledge are rooted in Western science and the humanities. This relationship is currently being adjusted and reshaped, and that transformation is reflected in how we express ourselves. From the language of Chinese philosophy employed by Li Zehou, as Yuk Hui notes in his writings, to the artistic language I adopted in my practice, both are expressions of one’s own positionality, cultural background, and the changes unfolding around us. For me, my work is not wholly grounded in Confucianism or Daoism. We no longer draw directly on traditional Chinese culture or philosophy as explicit references; they remain implicit, embedded in human nature, but are no longer the primary driving force.

Planetary civilizations have never sought to homogenize all cultures into a single trajectory; rather, they respect each local culture as a “microcosm.” Each civilization, nurtured within its own land, history, and beliefs, functions like an independent planet, possessing a self‑consistent and holistic cosmology and way of life. Yuk Hui’s theory indeed offers a fresh perspective for re‑interpreting, mediating, and synthesizing the world.

We create further upon what already exists, forming new paradigms and seeking points of breakthrough within constancy. The approach shifts from the macro to the micro. It is neither a performative nor a spontaneous act, but a rational framework. From absolute order emerges absolute vitality.

A&A: And if cosmotechnics suggests that every technique carries a worldview, what worldview does your cross enact—not conceptually, but procedurally, even practically?

DING YI: As discussed earlier, it does not belong entirely to China, nor entirely to the West. It is a new synthesis. Recent research trips to different places, where I have traced and explored various civilizations, are all responses to this very question.

I have framed the inquiry as a search for spirituality. It unfolds through specific local religious and cultural systems—across ethnicities, regions, and diverse conceptions of life, death, and reverence for the sacred. The process is dynamic: it broadens my intellectual horizons and dimensions, while also inspiring my creative thinking.

“Spirituality” is an ultimate question, and I believe it is also shaped by the times: each era gives rise to its own distinct form of spirituality. The spirituality of Laozi and Zhuangzi inevitably differs from ours today, and mine likely differs from that of other artists. The spirituality that Mark Rothko sought to cultivate in his chapel, for example, is not the same proposition for a Chinese artist today. I do not adopt Rothko’s spirituality as a dogma to extend my own. Spirituality should be alive, nourished by multiple cultures. Though it may appear abstract in form, its inner content is richly layered.

A&A: We are very intrigued and fascinated, by the fact you pivoted towards the monochrome; was this an aesthetic condensation or an ethical repositioning?

DING YI: This shift was neither driven by an aesthetic refinement nor by a repositioning of ethical stance, but by the dynamic relationship between the exhibition space and effective expression. The approach needed to resonate with the theme of the Venice Biennale, “In Minor Keys,” while also connecting to ancient Chinese civilization, thereby creating a compelling exhibition. Black-and-white painting has consistently marked distinct phases in my practice. It serves as a way to refresh and reset myself, allowing me to return to simplicity and clarity, and to distill complex compositions into a state of neutral purity. I intend to use black and white to respond to the experience of the main exhibition space, modulating its relationship with natural light and the outdoor garden.

A&A: Where do you locate authorship: in the single unit, the rule of combination, or in the emergent field produced by repetition?

DING YI: As the saying goes, “variation emerges through repetition.” My daily practice is neither mere copying nor imitation; through reflection, bodily experience, chance, and the quality of inimitability, it continuously evolves in the process of creation. The framework I have developed through long‑term practice remains constant—the cross motif, the grid structure—yet the surface that overlays this framework is ever‑changing, shaped by diverse influences that drive the evolution of my work. Recent engagements with local cultures, whether in Tibet or Yunnan, have led to changes in the colors and composition of the works. For example, in Appearance of Crosses 2022‑8 and Appearance of Crosses 2022‑10, I would not have created the arrangement of circles within squares without the inspiration of Tibetan mandalas. Similarly, the zigzags and colors in the Yunnan series are a comprehensive abstraction of the Hengduan Mountains, encompassing topography, astronomy, winding mountain roads, rivers, elevation, and vegetation.

A&A: What does precision mean to you when it operates inside fragile conditions—cultural, ecological, political, even perceptual? Is precision a form of control, or a form of care?

DING YI: Precision is an attitude. At the beginning of my career, the cross motif represented a pursuit of absolute precision. I regarded precision as a synonym for rationality, equating it to the rules and quality of a finished work.

By the late 1990s, however, I began to question precision and recognize its limitations. Often, precision is a mode of thinking rather than a mode of production. For a long time, I juxtaposed precision with a more colloquial form of expression, presenting two contradictory extremes whose interplay actively tempered the degree of control.

A&A: A provocation to finish: What would be the productive disagreement between your “cross field” and Scarpa’s “threshold field”?

DING YI: Scarpa and I belong to different eras. His principles of balance and his works have undoubtedly been a profound inspiration, and I deeply feel the power of his architecture. His architectural interventions were realized in the 1960s, so they inevitably differ from today’s architectural language. If he were still alive and undertaking the same projects today, he might adopt an entirely different approach.

This is a dialogue across time and space. In such a dialogue, individuality inevitably emerges—it is not only about common ground. An exhibition strives to establish a temporary shared space while fully expressing individuality. Different lines of thought resonate precisely through their differences, expanding the conceptual scope and heightening certain tensions. Between two individuals, the boundaries defined by their distinct qualities may be what matters most. What feels exciting at this moment is that we are all witnessing, from a shared vantage point, a shift in the very structure of order—and there is something deeply gratifying in sharing that awareness.