HANS ULRICH OBRIST I would like to start at the beginning: how did you become interested in art, or how did art come into your life? Was there a specific moment of realization?

DING YI: My interest in art began in the 1970s, a time when authentic art was rare. In China, we were primarily exposed to Socialist Realism art, which was influenced by the Soviet Union, where art served as propaganda. However, I was drawn to its surface- level appeal. Around the age of fourteen, I decided to pursue a career in art, even though there wasn’t a clear definition of an artist’s profession at that time. In the 1980s, China went through a transformative period, especially in the late 1970s and early 1980s. This era of openness allowed us to gain a true understanding of the world and develop a genuine appreciation for art. My artistic awakening happened during my studies in the early 1980s, where I immersed myself in both Chinese and Western art history, including contemporary art. This comprehensive knowledge laid the foundation for my decision to forge my own artistic path. When standing at a crossroads, one must make a choice, not blindly but thoughtfully, based on art history and a broader perspective of the world. This realization was like an epiphany for me, leading to the creation of the “Appearance of Crosses” series in 1988. The early works in this series demonstrate a distinct sense of independence and boundaries, reflecting my initial impressions about the future of my art, impressions that continue to guide me today (see p. 133).

HUO Can you tell us about your parents and your experiences traveling with them as a child? Can you share about that time in your life, including staying with your aunt, and whether you encountered art during that period? Do you remember your first visit to a museum?

DY When I was three years old, my mother passed away. Unable to care for three children on his own, my father sent me to live with my aunt in Ningbo, Zhejiang. We had many relatives in Ningbo, and I spent a year with my aunt between the ages of three and four. There weren’t many opportunities to experience art during that time, but I was exposed to various folk customs, such as funeral ceremonies and Shexi (a pre- Spring Festival ritual). These customs were prevalent in the countryside, and everyone in the township participated. In Ningbo, many ancestral halls still stood, and all public gatherings took place either inside the halls or in the plazas outside. I remember that before the Lunar New Year, each family would bring glutinous rice to the ancestral hall to make New Year’s rice cakes. Once they were done, the cakes would be distributed to each family based on the amount of rice they contributed. These funeral ceremonies, with their drums, gongs, and processions, were traditional customs, not art. However, even folk customs can provide a kind of nourishment. These childhood experiences are deeply ingrained in my memory, and I believe they have influenced me culturally. In the 1960s, traveling between Shanghai and Ningbo involved taking a ferry that would take about a night. I would board the ferry at Shiliupu Pier at 9 pm, sail across the East China Sea, and arrive at Ningbo Port in the early morning. From there, I would take a smaller boat to my aunt’s house, which took another half day. She lived in a town called Huanggulin.

Traveling in the 1960s was not easy, and those voyages across the sea left a lasting impression on me as a child. Particularly at night, standing on the deck and facing the vast, dark ocean, breathing in the slightly salty sea air, listening to the waves, and gazing up at the stars, I felt a sense of tranquility and wonder at the world. We would return to Ningbo almost every Spring Festival, reliving this experience repeatedly.

During the 1960s and 1970s, China did not have truly independent art. There were no museums or art galleries, only cultural centers, unlike today. As a child, I had no exposure to real art, let alone the concept of genius. My first encounter with art occurred at a cultural center across the street from my house. I lived in a second-floor apartment on the first row of a street, and there was a cultural center opposite. Two things about the cultural center drew me in: the movie posters and the large- scale revolutionary propaganda paintings on the iron billboards in the plaza.

The movie posters were hand- painted, and each cinema’s art director had received some professional training. They were considered a standard in the art world at the time. For example, the art director of the Grand Bright Cinema was said to be the best, and there was even some folk commentary on this. The other attraction for me was the large- scale revolutionary propaganda paintings on the iron billboards on two sides of the plaza. These were like the giant billboards you see along the highway to the airport. They were changed about every six months, and there were special people who came to scrape them off and start over. They were very professional, using oil paints. I could see the plaza from my apartment at an angle, and whenever I saw that they were going to change the paintings, I would go to the plaza and watch them paint. I went every day, and this continued until the late 1970s when the political climate started to relax after the Reform and Opening Up. At that time, they wore blue work uniforms, which marked them as artists. This is what attracted me the most, and I dreamed of becoming like them.

Back then, there were no museums in the traditional sense. Museums only began to be restored around 1979. I remember that the Shanghai History Museum held the Boston Museum Exhibition of Original American Paintings in 1981, which was my first exposure to Western abstract art. It wasn’t until the late 1970s and early 1980s, during a period of increased openness, that many exhibitions from Western museums came to China. I remember seeing several exhibitions in Shanghai during that time, such as 19th-Century French Rural Landscape Painting in 1977, 250 Years of French Painting Exhibition in 1982, and Picasso Original Painting Exhibition in 1983. It was only then that I began to develop a new understanding of museums, art history, and even the concept of art itself.

HUO Who are some Chinese artists that have influenced your work, including those from previous centuries and traditional techniques or media like ink? Additionally, could you explain more about what you appreciate in Zao Wou-Ki’s work? In our previous interview, you said, “I never really did traditional painting, but I was in an environment that encouraged it. I try to avoid traditional things in my painting, and get as far away as possible from the genre of traditional painting. I used to like the work of Zao Wou- Ki, a Chinese artist who went to live in Paris during the 1940s, which combined painterly abstraction and a style of painting from the Song Dynasty, but by the time I started doing the cross paintings I wasn’t so interested.” Could you please elaborate on this?

DY When exploring Chinese art history, there are numerous exciting moments to discover. For instance, the portrayal of nature in Tang and Song Dynasty paintings, the interpretation of the shanshui concept, and the emergence of many artistic geniuses throughout different historical periods stand out. Artists like Liang Kai, Badashanren, and Shitao are as extraordinary figures in China’s rich artistic tradition. Their work represents a unique form of innovation, breaking away from established conventions, yet they have become shining examples within the broader art historical narrative. My appreciation for these artists translates into my focus on capturing a sense of uniqueness in my own creative process.

I have also been influenced by some Chinese artists who studied in the West during the 1930s. In the early 1980s, there was a renewed interest in exhibiting the work of these overseas Chinese artists, including Lin Fengmian, Wu Daoyu, and Guan Liang. Additionally, the 1983 exhibition of Zao Wou-Ki’s work in China coincided with a period of academic discussion on the concept of fusing Chinese and Western artistic traditions. These artists reignited my appreciation for traditional Chinese painting.

Growing up in the years following the Cultural Revolution, my education in traditional art forms was severely limited. The Cultural Revolution caused immense disruption. Driven by a desire to learn more about traditional Chinese art, I enrolled in the Chinese painting department. This four-year experience provided me with a foundation in traditional Chinese painting, but it also reinforced my decision to move away from it. I came to the realization that traditional Chinese painting could not surpass the grandeur achieved during the Tang and Song dynasties. Our entire way of life, cultural spirit, and perspective on nature have undergone significant changes. The powerful, long lines that were iconic in Tang Dynasty painting no longer find relevance in our current reality. Our clothing styles have become international, and our ideals no longer reflect the spirit of the literati. For contemporary art, continuing the tradition of Chinese painting poses a challenge because surpassing past achievements is difficult. Therefore, I chose to distance myself from tradition.

In 1983, I saw Zao Wou- Ki’s exhibition for the first time. Access to information was very limited back then, and he was the only Chinese artist who enjoyed international recognition at the time. I was very curious about his work. Zao Wou-Ki’s most prolific creative period was in the 1960s. The works from the 1960s to the early 1970s possessed a powerful tension and a hybrid cultural identity. However, by the late 1970s, his artistic vocabulary began to feel overly refined and repetitive, and the earlier sharpness gradually diminished. As I rapidly developed my own artistic perspective and language, my appreciation for his work started to fade, and now I have almost no interest in it.

HUO Can you further speak to this moment of the first cross paintings? Was there an epiphany or revelation in 1988 that led to the development of the cross paintings?

DY The first “Appearance of Crosses” painting was indeed an epiphany for me, but it was preceded by a lot of preparation. This preparation, for me, came from intellectual readiness, as a response to my understanding and assessment of world art. I once wrote in my notes that I wanted to break away from the context of modernism and Chinese tradition. Before 1988, I was most influenced by the modernist aspects of Western art. In 1988, I was a sophomore in the Chinese painting department and had some understanding of Chinese tradition. These were both things I wanted to avoid. The first “Appearance of Crosses” painting in 1988 was a declaration for me. I wanted to start from scratch, using the three primary colors of paint and the simplest symbols, and begin anew by abandoning modernism and Chinese tradition. So, this moment was an epiphany for me, a judgment that determined my long-term direction. As we know, Chinese contemporary art in the 1980s experienced the New Wave of 1985 and 1986. The New Wave was, in fact, a nationwide rebellion against so- called “official art.” There were numerous contemporary art movements and exhibitions all over the country. My learning background and experiences coincided with this era. For example, I engaged in performance art in 1986 and experimented with abstract art even earlier in 1983. In such a context, you have to respond to Chinese contemporary art. The phenomenon of Chinese contemporary art at that time was still characterized by slogan- like shouting and venting, with a strong expressive element. I wanted to return to rationality, to an art of reflection.

HUO We also discussed your relationship to architecture and the bridge you made. Have you realized other architectural or sculptural projects since the bridge in Pu Dong? In China or abroad? Do you have any unrealized projects for public spaces? And do you have any dreams for future architectural projects?

DY Recently, my focus has shifted toward projects that combine sculpture and architecture. Concrete remains my preferred material, considering the long-term maintenance requirements of sculptures in China’s current climate. Since the late 2000s, I’ve created a number of works that blur the boundaries between architecture and sculpture. These include bridges, like the one we discussed, and Mountain House in Chongqing. This house serves both as a dwelling and a sculpture, with its design complementing the unique topography of Chongqing (see p. 218). Additionally, I’ve incorporated my artwork into the design elements of various buildings, such as the pool tiles in a Zhejiang hotel and the facade of the Yachang Art Center. I have also designed some tower structures that draw inspiration from a combination of local landscapes, legends, and contemporary themes. While not traditional structures, they reflect a connection to modern aesthetics. One unrealized project is a bridge for the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang. Although approval is still pending, I believe these unbuilt projects hold value even if they are not currently feasible. Usability is a central concern for me in my sculptural work. Most of these creations embody a symbiotic relationship between architecture and sculpture, existing in a space between the two disciplines. This interplay is particularly fascinating to me.

However, I see these existing works as a stepping stone, and I am still searching for a way to create sculptures that truly emerge from my paintings and establish a deeper dialogue between the two mediums. In the future, I hope to have more opportunities to bring my architectural and sculptural projects to life. It is my aspiration for my work to have a broader impact on society and the public. I believe art has the power to transform lives, and I want to use my art to make a positive contribution to the world.

HUO Please tell me more about the role of color in your architectural works.

DY The use of color in architectural works is often constrained by the inherent nature of the building itself. The building’s skin is an integral part of its overall structure and is often linked to the intrinsic color of the materials used. In the case of the “Ding Yi Building” (see p. 216) at the Yachang Art Center in Shanghai and the art swimming pool (see p. 219) at the Liangliang Hotel in Xitang, I was able to achieve a more personalized use of color by incorporating my artwork into the overall design using tiles and other media.

HUO Let’s talk about your “kinetic paintings,” specifically your collaboration with Porsche. It was a very complex collaboration. The Vice President of Individualization and Classic at Porsche, Alexander Fabig, said that “what Ding Yi asked of us was the most complex paintwork that Porsche has ever executed. […] The perfect reproduction of Ding Yi’s picture on the body sections took much longer than the painting process for a series production car.” I would love to hear more about the Porsche collaboration and the idea of making a painting on the move, a kinetic painting in that sense. What does this kind of collaboration entail for you? How does the painting expand all over the car? What are the various layers of the painting and the work?

DY My concept for the Porsche collaboration was to create a moving painting, where the artwork transforms as the car moves. By harnessing the speed of the car, I aimed to generate a new form of painting—a dynamic interplay between a flat surface and motion. Another aspect of this project was the public space in which the artwork would exist. I envisioned the car’s exterior surfaces, particularly the doors, as a way to engage with pedestrians and passersby. However, due to technical limitations, the artwork was ultimately applied to the hood, rear, and mirrors. While this constraint somewhat diminished the direct perception of speed, it introduced an interesting visual effect as the moving image creates a flickering sensation for the viewer. Of course, a car is not just its exterior; it also has an interior. For the Porsche car model “Taycan Turbo S B Ding Yi,” I created a contrasting experience within the cabin. While the driver is surrounded by static artwork, the dynamic external images create a sense of movement as the car accelerates.

The Porsche collaboration was an experiment for me, an exploration of the possibilities that arise when artwork moves at high speeds. I was particularly interested in the potential for this project to evoke new emotions and perceptions. As an electric car, the Taycan also presented an opportunity to connect the artwork with the concept of sustainability and environmental consciousness. To further emphasize the sense of speed, I chose a composition with diagonal lines and a bold contrast between yellow and blue colors. These elements convey concepts of passion, speed, and environmental responsibility.

HUO During our first encounter, you told me that you are “free from outside pressure.” But after 1999, the outside world started to enter your system. In our last interview, you described it as follows: “I maintain the system as I react to the world outside, but then I’m not really entering into that world. It is more like I’m looking down from a high place.” I would like to learn more about this “high place.” For a long time in Chinese painting, there wasn’t a view from above; this came only later. I recently had conversations with two protagonists of the New Ink School in Hong Kong, Leung Kui- Ting and Wucius Wong, and they spoke about this shift in perspective and how it’s informed, among other things, by seeing down from planes. How do you define this high place? And how has your work evolved over the last five to ten years, as you spoke about the city entering your work more, while you maintain your aesthetic system?

DY The ability for humans to experience a bird’s- eye view is a relatively recent phenomenon. The invention of hot air balloons and the construction of the Eiffel Tower in 1889, which offered Parisians their first glimpse of their city from above, were both made possible by advancements in technology. Shanghai’s rapid urban development since 1998, including the city’s ambition to claim the title of the world’s tallest building, has provided more people with the opportunity to experience the city from above. The transformation of Shanghai’s skyline and the proliferation of skyscrapers have made this perspective commonplace. Indeed, traditional Chinese painting rarely depicts such a vantage point. Typically, Chinese landscapes are portrayed from the perspective of a scholar or literati looking up at a mountain or, as in the case of the long scroll One Thousand Li of Rivers and Mountains (1113), from a dispersed, flat perspective that emphasizes process and extension. Therefore, our collective experience of looking down from above is rooted in the social structures of today. I believe that art’s purpose is to reflect the realities that ordinary people experience. When our artwork reflects shared experiences, it is more likely to be understood, accepted, and resonate with its audience. Shanghai stands as a symbol of China’s urbanization process, which has brought about both remarkable progress and significant challenges. It took scholars over a decade to begin discussing and reflecting on these issues. I would say that my use of fluorescent colors to depict urbanization spans about twelve years, encompassing a journey from anticipation and excitement to reflection and disappointment. This process has also led to the transformation of regional cultures during China’s urbanization process, as all supposedly “thriving” new cities have adopted the Shanghai model, resulting in a homogenization of urban landscapes. This realization prompted me to engage in a new phase of reflection. In 2010, I shifted my focus away from urban development. Over the past decade, I have been expanding my observations and expressions of different cultures. During this time, I have traveled to numerous Third World countries and explored the ruins of ancient civilizations, including those in India, Africa, Southeast Asia, and the Arab world. I felt compelled to broaden my understanding of diverse civilizations.

Among these experiences, the 2022 exhibition Multi- Verse: Ding Yi in Tibet stands out as a particularly significant endeavor. Having visited Tibet four times since my student days, I felt that an artist should respond creatively to this unique region, its culture, and its religion. The challenge lay in effectively exploring and expressing these aspects. In the exhibition, I divided my understanding of Tibet into two threads: nature and history/religion. Tibet’s topography is incredibly diverse, but capturing this richness in an exhibition setting is difficult. Therefore, I used eight paintings to summarize Tibet’s landscapes, all featuring Mount Everest, the most awe- inspiring and emotionally impactful sight I have encountered. In each of these eight paintings, I depicted Mount Everest at night, reflecting my experience of arriving at Everest Base Camp and facing the vast Himalayan snow- capped peaks under the cloak of darkness. The second thread explores history and religion. Tibet possesses a unique cultural tapestry and a pervasive religious power. I aspired to create artworks that resonate with and engage with religion. This pursuit proved to be a challenging and introspective journey. When two works consistently emerged, I felt I had discovered a path for engaging in dialogue with Tibet. In contrast to my previous practice of using chronological numbering for my artworks’ titles, I employed two subtitles for these pieces: Dorji and Mandala. My Tibetan paintings have prompted me to delve deeper into the spiritual core of painting.

HUO You mentioned four trips to Tibet. Did you paint during any of the previous visits?

DY I didn’t paint a single picture during my first two trips to Tibet, especially during my student days. This was because I hadn’t yet developed my own artistic language. To paint Tibet, I would have had to rely on the methods and languages of others. It wasn’t until my recent two trips to Tibet that I began taking notes and making sketches.

HUO Have you noticed any changes in Tibet? Your four visits span a considerable period.

DY Tibet boasts a rich artistic heritage, encompassing murals, sculptures, polychrome sculptures, thangkas, and mandala performance art, all of which embody profound and diverse cultural elements. However, our artistic expressions of Tibet and the region itself over the past few decades have largely focused on local customs and traditions, neglecting the true spiritual dimension. This is a regrettable omission. I am deeply interested in exploring how abstract imagery can establish meaningful connections with local cultures.

HUO In our last interview, one question remained unanswered that I am really interested in: the idea of organized freedom. It’s something Gerhard Richter once addressed in a conversation I had with him, about how to organize chance, how to organize freedom, and how to find a structure that allows for that but doesn’t become a closure. I wanted to ask you how you reach that level of freedom based on your system? And how does chance enter the work? How does your system allow for chance?

DY The creative process for the “Appearance of Crosses” series has evolved over the past four decades. In the early stages, I used tools to create the paintings, with the freedom primarily residing in the choice of colors. I employed a random color selection method, using whatever colors were available to me.

However, the actual painting process was highly structured and methodical, with the use of color serving to break the rules. A fundamental concept underlying nearly four decades of this series is the grid. All the works are built upon a grid structure, representing discipline, order, and limitation. However, I often find ways to break free from these constraints. For a long time, I avoided creating sketches for these paintings. Instead, I would carefully consider the composition in my mind before starting to paint. This approach introduces spontaneity and freedom, even for large- scale works. I might start by establishing a diagonal relationship between two points, creating a balance between the connections and tensions within the composition. I envision the general direction of the painting, but the final outcome emerges gradually. Each day’s work brings anticipation for the final result, fueling my passion, drive, and dedication to the process. These paintings also embody mathematical relationships, creating a dynamic interplay between precision and chance. For instance, in this work, Appearance of Crosses 2020-1, you can see countless cross- like symbols. How do you organize these elements without a sketch? I typically start by creating a shape along the diagonal line from the top left corner, followed by another in the bottom right corner. Then, I gradually connect these elements. The numerous white dots are not pre- planned; they emerge spontaneously during the creative process, and I guide their development based on my experience.

HUO I would like to further discuss the role of color in your work. In Bauhaus and Black Mountain College teachings, color theories were often used. Can you explain your color theory and how colors have changed with the influence of the city? Can you also talk about your method of teaching? Rainer Maria Rilke famously wrote his letters to a young poet. I wonder if you have any advice for young artists today?

DY One could say that the foundation of my color usage lies in the Bauhaus modernist color theory, which also incorporates the color application methods of Cezanne and Matisse. This color theory has guided the creative practices of modernism, including Picasso and many subsequent modernists. For me, color possesses a temporal dimension, or perhaps even a generational one. For instance, the colors of the 1970s and 1980s were distinct from each other. Additionally, there are regional color systems, such as those found in American Abstract Expressionism and French Lyrical Abstraction, each representing the unique color preferences of a particular nation or region. However, my focus lies on the contemporary color system, which is constantly evolving as paint manufacturers introduce new pigments. Over the past two decades, many colors have emerged that were not traditionally used in painting, such as metallic, phosphorescent, iridescent, and fluorescent colors, all products of synthetic technology and advancements in the chemical industry. I am particularly intrigued by the textures of these new colors and often incorporate them into my artwork. I place greater emphasis on the overall color scheme, whether it’s black, red, or blue. I believe that this color scheme resonates with the current era. I also highly value the power that color can convey.

Color only gains intensity and captivates the viewer through contrast, drawing them in, exciting them, and moving them. During my travels in Tibet, I made a striking discovery. Many sixteenth- century Tibetan murals exhibit modernist color relationships, characterized by strong contrasts and harmonious coordination. For example, purple and yellow, red and green are vividly expressed in these murals. This observation led me to question whether modernist color theory is a mere coincidence or a generalization of color relationships inherent in the world. These relationships can be found in various cultures and among diverse ethnic groups with varying color preferences. I have applied this concept in several of my paintings, particularly those that engage with religious themes.

I taught for twenty- six years and had many interactions with students. However, Chinese education has a rigid curriculum that must be followed. Mainstream art academies remain backward, with everything controlled by so-called rules. As an artist, you need to “steal the beams and replace the rafters” to inject your own ideas. Artists have a broader perspective, don’t they? Many art teachers lack practical experience in art research, creation, and the art market. Some teachers have never signed with a gallery in their entire lives. How can they prepare their students to survive in the art market? But I have been out of the education system for ten years now. Our generation has witnessed the development of contemporary art, exhibitions, museums, art collections, and the art market from scratch. We are pioneers and explorers.

The younger generation of artists is different. They have grown up with a so-called contemporary art education, even an international one. Therefore, we have a sense of history and a vision to change history. Perhaps younger artists tend to overlook this strong desire to change society and history. Specifically, an artist needs to possess a sense of seriousness. Art is not a simple matter; it is a lifelong profession and a long journey. In simple terms, it is about genuineness and sincerity. It is about creating from the heart, with your mind and hand in unison, driven by a deep inner need. Art is never about making assumptions about real- world issues. Today, much of art is based on assumptions, setting up hypothetical problems and implementing such creations and theoretical connections in a project- like manner. However, I believe that art remains a genuine response to reality.

Even today, Western art education is still largely dominated by conceptual art, leading to a repetitive and monotonous international art education. I do not believe that teaching can make an artist. What can be taught can be theorized and summarized, inevitably becoming a kind of dogma. The truly important thing for young artists is to discover their own abilities and emotions and express them in a way that can take them far.

HUO Cui Cancan’s text addresses the early memory of the sea in relation to your work, describing its epic dimension and associating it with the vastness of the sea. It mentions how your crosses appear like floating crosses. I was wondering how you feel about this idea, and if so, could you say more about the ongoing presence of the sea?

DY The sea requires a carrier. When the sea is connected to childhood, the night, and one’s hometown, its grandeur takes on an epic quality. However, when expressed through abstract language, the sea becomes more than just the sea; it carries a multitude of symbolic meanings, encompassing the vastness of history and life experiences. Sometimes it is the sea, sometimes it is not, it can even become a projection of one’s own thought processes, using a two- part composition to construct its grand representation.

HUO Is the sea a recurring motif in your work?

DY No, not frequently. A year ago, when I had an exhibition at the West Sea Art Museum, one of the exhibition halls had four windows facing the sea. To harmonize with the architecture and create a connection to the local Qingdao seascape, I created many paintings that divided the composition between the sky and the sea. The flickering elements can be interpreted as the details of waves crashing, but they also contribute to a more abstract representation of the architecture and the city, an expression that emerged in response to the exhibition hall’s environment.

HUO In your work, there are different periods distinguished in your trajectory. Cui Cancan further describes how your trajectory evolved from realism in the early 1980s to formalism in the mid-1980s, to abstract creation in the late 1980s, to the formation of conceptual art in the 1990s, and then to a return to a mixture of reality and form after 2000. I wanted to ask if you could speak about these different periods.

DY Cui Cancan’s description is largely accurate, especially for the early stages of my work, which mirrored the general situation faced by artists of that generation: moving away from realism and exploring the possibilities and transformations of new forms of art. During this period, artists began to seek paths that aligned with their individual personalities. In the mid-1980s, modernism helped me grasp the logical language of formalism. Subsequently, in the face of abstract creation, rationalism and formalism became crucial tools for maintaining my independence. By the 1990s, the repetition of symbols had expanded, and the use of ready- made grids and extensions resonated with conceptual art. After 2000, my own autonomous language system became further established. Building upon this foundation, I sought to endow abstract art with new possibilities, expanding its boundaries with new hybrids. Abstraction possesses a greater capacity for synthesis, encompassing imagery and elements of reality, while form and mathematical relationships remain important.

HUO I also wanted to talk about the digital. You are part of a generation that grew up in a deeply analog world and has experienced these revolutions and shifts to technology, the internet, as well as AI. I was wondering if these technologies have played a role in your work. Has the internet changed the way you work?

DY These technologies are all around us, right before our eyes, and they are also reflected in my paintings. For instance, this work (referring to the phone case) is a response to the screen- based nature of the internet. I have also experimented with several light installations and interactive media works. Of course, I have no desire to become a mere follower of technology.

My most cherished work remains the long and immersive experience of creation, which inspires my plans and explorations for the future directions of these works. Moreover, I believe that the spiritual dimension of art is still the most important aspect, not just the fleeting moments of visual dazzlement brought about by technology. While there may be a need to engage with technology at times, it is never the sole reason for creating art.

HUO In a previous interview, you said that your style is composed of several factors. “First is the grid, and the whole picture is made of the grid. Second, everything is expressed in lines. Third, the “cross” or “C” character. These three things make up my style.” Can you say more about these three elements, when you came to that conclusion, and how the process of bringing these three elements together has changed over time? Do you ever think there could be other elements entering the system?

DY I believe that this system has remained relatively stable. It consists of two primary elements: the cross symbol or the overlapping of crosses to form a “C” and the grid. Both elements are expressed through lines. While a painting may have a background color, all the drawing is done with lines, which are simply variations in length and thickness. These elements serve as tools or styles in my creative process, but they do not dictate the evolution of my work. The true evolution lies in how I organize these elements and how I present the image in a way that effectively conveys the intended theme. Has this approach to combining elements changed over time? If you compare my latest works to those from last year, you’ll notice that the method of constructing the image is different. While all three elements are still present, the overall structure is key, not the mere application of these three principles.

HUO You also mentioned to me that the cross is a process. If this is the case, I am very curious to know when a painting is finished for you? Can you describe the moment you feel the painting is finished? You famously said: “My art needs time.” So, I wanted to ask about time—can you talk about time in your art? It also brings us to the question of your own time—do you have fixed studio hours when you work? And how many days a week do you work? Do you work during the day or at night? What does a day in the life of Ding Yi look like?

DY It’s quite simple: when all the grids are filled with crosses or swastika shapes, the work is complete. Of course, the grids can be large or small, and there are points that mark their boundaries on the edges, but they follow a self- defined procedure. The fact that my works require time actually encompasses two concepts: the time it takes to create them, as many pieces take a very long time to complete, and the ongoing development and expansion of the system since 1988. This system is still evolving, and from a temporal perspective, it cannot be terminated, summarized, or defined. The past decade has arguably been the most productive period of my artistic career. I left my teaching position to become a full- time artist, allowing me to manage my own time completely. I usually arrive at my studio around noon and work until three or four in the morning. I sleep in the morning, so I can spend over ten hours working in the studio each day.

HUO Yongwoo Lee writes about your work, saying, “As his paintings intentionally avoid establishing a center, each corner becomes its own center. Even in abstract paintings, in most cases, the viewer’s eyes are drawn to the center of the painting according to the concentration of the image, color, and illuminance that the artist intends. However, Ding Yi’s painting intentionally distracts the viewer’s habitual orientation to the center or desire to find the center. Instead, it makes the audience find visual elements of interest while studying the canvas. So we as viewers roam the paintings for a center, keep seeing different parts and there does not appear to be a hierarchy and the periphery is as important as the center.” Yongwoo Lee also notes that people spend a long time in front of your paintings, whereas the average time spent in front of artwork is only about fifteen seconds. In your case, viewers often spend minutes. Do you think this observation and search for the center contribute to the extended viewing time? What does it mean for you to create without a center and to liberate time? In our polarized world, it is important to build bridges and foster togetherness rather than separation. You often bring together various elements in your paintings, such as Eastern and Western influences. Can you discuss this merging of different painterly traditions?

DY This type of creation began in 1988, embodying a state of gridded egalitarianism. Works from the late 1980s to the early 1990s exhibited a resolutely flat perspective. After 1998, a structural transformation emerged, often employing vertical or divergent perspectives. By the 2010s, a multipoint floating perspective had emerged. All these perspectives are related to the constructed perspective and resonate with the concepts of multicentered urban areas, multicentered residences, multicentered commercial districts, and multicentered cultural nodes in the context of urbanization. I hope that my works are inexhaustible. When you focus on one center, you are quickly drawn to other centers. Your eyes constantly search for these different centers, creating a sense of wandering or visual multitasking. I particularly favor the word “synthesis,” which implies generalization and abstraction. In many creative practices, artists constantly synthesize various elements. Of course, there are many choices. For me, combining different images might be a form of synthesis. I am reluctant to limit my choice of materials, especially for paper- based works. I often use different materials, such as Tibetan paper, Indian paper, Japanese paper, and Chinese Xuan paper. I have even custom ordered Chinese Xuan paper thickened to 400 grams, making it ambiguous—it is both traditional Chinese Xuan paper and an ambiguous sheet of paper. I also rarely use ink in my paintings; I prefer hard brushes, pastels, charcoal, pencils, and other materials for painting on Chinese Xuan paper. I am also fond of corrugated cardboard, various types of tracing paper, and even graph paper. The use of these different materials expands your adaptability to a wide range of media. Another aspect is the connection to Chinese tradition. When we look back at the history of the Chinese painting tradition, we face many dilemmas: how can tradition adapt to the realities of today’s society? I continue to use the fusion of surface forms, which seems to have some connection to Chinese tradition. For example, I have created several series of four- panel works in traditional Chinese styles using corrugated cardboard. I also like to use the form of a book, like a long scroll, but with my own symbols. In this type of material, I hope to experiment with a language that seems to be connected to tradition while also expressing the realities of today.

2024.4.24