Lee Yongwoo: The cross has now become the label of artist Ding Yi. Whenever you look at one of his paintings, you can immediately recognize it as Ding Yi’s work. The cross has become a symbol; it has become his life—not only his art, but his life. His life is a cross connected to that symbol. So my question is: has the cross ever appeared in your dreams?

Ding Yi: Because I rarely dream, I hardly remember my dreams. But the “cross” actually exists in my daily life. It is in a very ordinary state; it is everywhere.

As Professor Lee just mentioned, the “cross” has become my label. I think a label is, in a way, a manifestation of an artist’s style. The “cross” is built upon the grids—grids filled with crosses—so it indeed became a kind of label. But this label also helps me to continue painting anything, to transform in any direction, while still being recognizable as my work. It has become like a baseboard, allowing me not to worry too much about how to……

When an artist reaches a certain stage in their career, their visual language often needs to transform, constantly searching for new possibilities. But in that process, many artists become unrecognizable; there can be a huge gap between their new work and the earlier style familiar to the audience. Some artists even disappear from the art scene entirely because of such transformations. I think my symbol, including the framework of the grid, allows me to avoid getting lost or becoming unrecognizable in the process of change.

Lee Yongwoo: One of the reasons I asked that question is that you may know the English artist Lucian Freud was a portrait painter who dreamed a lot. When he was working on a particular figure, that figure would start to appear in his dreams. He once said that he had already begun practicing painting in his dreams. He believed that this was why he became one of the most famous portrait painters—because he learned through dreaming. He was the grandson of Sigmund Freud, the most famous psychologist, so Lucian Freud’s case is quite special.

You said you rarely dream, which means you don’t dream very often. So I understand that…… So we might say Ding Yi is an artist of the cross—a “cross artist.” s you said, the grid, the cross, and its variations have become a very important part of your life. The cross has almost become a family member—not only part of your artistic life, but part of your life itself. We could say your breathing comes out of the cross.

So have you ever thought about a partial separation from it—meaning that you might not be able to survive or create without the cross? It has become not just an element of your artistic practice, but truly a part of your life. This may sound like a slightly foolish question, but living with a cross for forty years is a long time. Psychologically, it seems to have occupied almost your entire life and continues to do so.

Ding Yi: An artist always has a big picture in mind—for example, the path they want to take over the next twenty years. You keep thinking about how to move forward along that path. You could say that although I use the cross and the grid, they are not really the theme; they are a working method, a certain framework within my creative process.
So whether I am using crosses or not is, to me today, not that important. Of course, I could also use a square to express something; it, too, could serve as a symbol. What I truly want to express is the larger composition formed by the crosses—an overall idea, or even the evolving thought of an artist.
For example, in some of the images we just saw, such as Cross Galaxy, the exhibition Professor Lee curated at the Shenzhen Museum of Contemporary Art and Urban Planning, you can see a horizon line in the red-and-black central tone. It is actually a response to the cosmos and the galaxy as a whole, and a reflection on human history within time and space. What I really want to express is this—not merely the specific symbol of the cross itself.
Once an artist’s practice reaches a certain stage, what matters is expanding ways of expression—not just painting in the conventional sense. I have been exploring works on paper for many years, as well as sculpture. My earlier sculptural works leaned more toward public art, but perhaps I will return to sculpture that is more closely connected to the painterly qualities of my “Cross” series.
In recent years, I have also tried using media such as video and multimedia to extend the symbol. There are many other forms as well, such as printmaking. For instance, I recently created a series of prints using movable-type printing techniques. This is another way of expanding the symbol, allowing it to carry different possibilities and generate new extensions in material and form.

Lee Yongwoo: I’m sorry that today I am mentioning quite a few Western contemporary artists, but I am doing so to explain a kind of classification I am using.

Take Olafur Eliasson, for example. He was born in Iceland, holds a Danish passport, and is based in Berlin. He once presented a solo exhibition at Tate Modern that was essentially one work—the Weather Project. Have you seen it? It is a truly seminal piece. While developing that project, he was thinking deeply about weather as a key issue related to climate crisis, climate justice, and environmental collapse. The work became iconic and immensely popular. It took place in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern and powerfully addressed environmental problems and the future of humanity on multiple levels.
It became one of the most iconic projects in Tate Modern’s history and attracted the largest audiences at that time. It was in 2003—already more than twenty years ago. Many people say Eliasson became famous because of the Tate project, because Tate is such an important institution.
But once, when I was invited to give a talk on that project, I said that Tate Modern became famous because of that project—not that Eliasson became famous because of Tate Modern. Today, major institutions such as Tate Modern, Centre Pompidou, MoMA, or the Guggenheim are very proud of their names, but they must understand that their reputations were built through strong projects.
What I want to ask Ding Yi is this: space must align with an artist’s practice. If a space is not aligned, it does not match. Fame is important for artists, of course, but the space itself must resonate with the artist’s practice. You are fortunate to be invited by many institutions and to have museum exhibitions almost every year. Is there a particular space—without naming it—that you would especially like to collaborate with or exhibit in? Have you found a space that truly fits your artistic practice?

Ding Yi: Today, many exhibitions are deeply related to the spaces in which they take place. Professor Lee’s question reminds me that many architects are now creating new forms of exhibition. For example, Herzog & de Meuron designed the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. It was precisely because of that space that Tate Modern became such an important museum; people around the world anticipate which artist will be featured there each year.
Architecture itself can also inspire creation. Jean Nouvel’s design of the TAG Museum in Qingdao, for instance, gave me a great deal of inspiration when I prepared my solo exhibition there. Gallery 7 has four windows facing the sea, like four seascape paintings. In that space, I created seven works related to the sky and the sea, establishing a connection between the exhibition hall, the architecture, and the surrounding environment.
Similarly, my solo exhibition at the Shenzhen Museum of Contemporary Art and Urban Planning responded not only to the gallery structure and its white spatial quality, but also to the timing of the exhibition. It opened in August, the hottest and most humid season in Shenzhen. That climate triggered certain associations, leading me to install ceiling fans so that visitors would feel a sense of coolness when entering a transitional space before stepping into the main exhibition area. In this way, the exhibition connected with characteristics of the city itself.
Other exhibitions, such as those in Tibet and Ningbo, also involved careful consideration of how the works corresponded to the space. Many exhibitions include works created specifically for them. For example, at the end of July this year, I had a solo exhibition at Contemporary Gallery Kunming. For that show, I used a zigzag-shaped structure for the first time, carrying a mountain-like metaphor. To emphasize this idea, I deliberately opened two window-like cutouts in the exhibition wall—windows the same size as the paintings—to connect the real mountains outside with the mountain forms inside the works.
Sometimes, an artist seeks inspiration through space. Space poses questions to the artist: how do you respond to this exhibition? Those questions generate new creative impulses.
The woodcut-on-wood-panel format I am using now actually originated from my solo exhibition at Long Museum in 2015. When I saw the towering concrete walls—especially in the first hall—I wondered how my work could create a counterforce against such a massive space. Large-scale paintings alone did not feel sufficient; material strength was also necessary. Canvas or linen felt too soft against concrete, so I began using wooden panels. That decision raised another question: before the Renaissance, almost all medieval paintings were made on wood panels—so why use wood today? This led me to explore how woodcut and painting could be combined.
In this way, space pushes you forward. It inspires you and leads you to adjust your materials. Many museums can carry an artist’s dream—of artistic practice and of exhibition-making. There are many iconic museums, such as Tate, the Guggenheim, and the Centre Pompidou. The key lies in how you use these spaces and how you present the tension between your work and the space itself.

Lee Yongwoo: Thank you—that is very inspiring. There is a saying in the contemporary art world that to become a successful artist, you must first find a good space, then meet a good curator, and build a healthy relationship with supporters. This kind of cultural facilitation is very important today. Museums and galleries also need to cultivate healthy collectors—not merely transactional relationships, but sustainable support systems.
My next question concerns unforgettable people in your life. They could be teachers, artists from China or abroad, known or anonymous figures who influenced you spiritually. It could be an individual, a group, or even a historical figure.
I once asked Lee Ufan the same question, and his answer was surprising. He said he was deeply influenced by the Chinese artist Bada Shanren (八大山人). Though not a contemporary figure, Bada Shanren became his spiritual advisor. This historical figure profoundly influenced a Korean-born, Japan-based artist who is now a major figure today.

Ding Yi: I would say I don’t have an eternal spiritual mentor, because throughout an artist’s journey, there are always many people who influence one’s art — whether through the market or……

For example, when I studied at the Shanghai Art and Design Academy, I met Yu Youhan, who introduced me to modernism. In 1988, I met Hans van Dijk, who was the first to line up photos of my paintings and say, “These are connected; those are not.” That helped me understand how the Western art world evaluates an artist’s career—through a clear main thread of thought.
In the early years, there was also Monica Dematté, an Italian scholar who wrote one of the earliest essays about my work. In 1993, when I first went abroad to Venice, I was very young and had no money. Monica was doing her PhD at the University of Venice on Chinese contemporary art, and I stayed at her home for two months.

Throughout my journey, many people have influenced and supported my work. Professor Lee, for example—we have collaborated three times. Lorenz Helbling, too: in 1996, when ShanghART Gallery was founded, I began working with them. My first solo exhibition was held at ShanghART that same year—it was both my first solo show and the gallery’s first exhibition. An artist’s life is full of intersections, where certain individuals appear and offer help or insight. It is a linear process, but also intertwined with historical figures encountered through books. My turn toward rational abstraction, for instance, came from seeing the practices of Piet Mondrian and Frank Stella. I came to believe that such approaches were more reliable than purely expressive ones. These examples guided me and helped me make certain choices.

Lee Yongwoo: That is very much what I expected. You are not someone who maintains a vast network of relationships, but your memory of Monica Dematté is quite touching. You moved your studio from the West Bund to Fuxing Island, correct? You must have accumulated unforgettable experiences there, even during the COVID lockdown, when you stayed almost entirely in your studio.
What does the studio mean to you? When I once met Gerhard Richter, he told me he had used the same studio for forty years. That deeply moved me—forty years in the same space is not a short time. It allowed him to build an artistic career of historical importance, beyond market success. How do you perceive your current studio period at Fuxing Island compared to your time at the West Bund?

Ding Yi: For artists in Shanghai—and in China more broadly—relocating studios is quite common. I have moved about seven times. Each move begins with hope, wishing to stay longer, but circumstances often change.
My previous studio at the West Bund was in a great location, just across from the West Bund Museum, in a compound behind ShanghART Gallery. That entire area was later demolished, though ShanghART remains. I wanted to find a place where I could stay permanently, which led me to Fuxing Island about a year ago. When I first saw the space, I fell in love with it—it was tall, spacious, and even larger than my West Bund studio. I felt it could be a long-term home.
When I first moved to the West Bund eleven years ago, there were no shops or restaurants, and food delivery was unavailable. In a decade, a place can change completely. I chose Fuxing Island because it is part of the Zhonghua Shipyard, and I was its first tenant. Less than a year later, the area began to change again, hosting urban art festivals and large ACG events. Artists sometimes have a keen eye, discovering potential early—only to see those spaces revitalized and repurposed once more.
For me, aside from sleeping, I spend almost all my time in the studio. It is more important than home. Now my home is in Jing’an, about half an hour away by car, but there is a psychological distance. At the West Bund, I could go out to dinner and still return to work afterward. At Fuxing Island, I often choose not to go out at all so I can continue working. If I leave, it feels as though I have mentally departed, and returning late means encountering gatekeepers who are not yet accustomed to artists.
It is still an early stage for the new studio, but I truly like the space. It makes me feel at ease and reduces social distractions. In that sense, the studio has become a powerful and productive environment for my creative work.

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