Art Without Chinese Characteristics
Ding Yi

Time : July 16, 1996
Place : Shanghai
Background : Ding Yi was born in 1962 in Shanghai. He graduated in 1983 from the Shanghai Arts and Crafts School, and in 1990, from the Fine Arts Institute of Shanghai University.
In 1988, Ding Yi began to paint the “+” sign. The “+” sign is a technical term in printing; it is also the symbol of accuracy.[1] At the time, Ding Yi was working with a ruler and masking tape. These “+” signs became the paintings, developing into a visual effect of pure abstraction. In a paper he published in 1993, Ding Yi wrote: “The precision of the ‘+’ series is like ‘one plus one equals two in its completeness and definiteness. To use a clear and pure expression is to get rid of the chaos between right and wrong. […] Choosing colors automatically for the ‘+’ series is a critique of Cézanne and Matisse’s theories of colors.”
It was also in 1993 that Ding Yi’s work began to change. Although the composition of his “+” signs did not change on the painting, their internal structure went from accurate 10 “natural”. Ding Yi stopped using acrylic, brush, ruler, and masking tape, and took up corrugated paper, chalk, charcoal, and painting bare-handed.
From 1989 onwards, Ding Yi participated in practically all of the Chinese avant-garde exhibitions, including the 45th Venice Biennale. Concurrently, Ding Yi’s paintings began to attract the market’s attention.

Xu: Ding Yi, one of my friends who saw your work said that work like yours can drive people crazy, which is precisely what you wrote somewhere: that you wanted viewers to go crazy. Why?

Ding: That’s how I thought a while back. Now with my work of the past seven, eight years, my thinking has evolved somewhat; it is not as simple as that.

Xu: So how do you think now?

Ding: I use more natural materials, the works are more placid. In the past, my style was relatively mechanical and harsh, later it became freer. At first, painting also drove me crazy, because one work could take me an entire month to make, and I would be painting like that every day. My own life was also mechanical. I wanted to make my own work more lighhearted. I first let go of the ruler, then chose to use chalk and charcoal. Now I have gradually returned to a natural state, and consequently revised my initial artistic stand.

I find that, in the painting process, there is often a kind of regression, a kind of circuit. When my colors tend to become numerous and complicated, I often want to go back to a simpler state, from the complex to the simple, and then return to the complex, to return again to the simple.

Xu: When you started painting were you already interested in abstraction?

Ding: Yes. I have always been interested in abstract painting, the field of vision of abstract art is not narrow, comparatively speaking; it is more macrocosmic, more comprehensive, more inclusive.

Xu: But, it seems Chinese people, as far as abstract things are concerned…

Ding: This has to do with my studies of Chinese national painting[2], I studied it for four years in the university, I developed an aversion to it. Chinese painting, more often than not, forces one to think in very concrete terms; the spirit of Chinese culture requires you to make associations of ideas. It’s like this for all things, even simple sightseeing.

Xu: That’s true, when we travel, we often hear the sightseeing guide tell us that this mountain looks like Ashima[3], etc..

Ding: This is a huge aesthetic pattern. I have a strong aversion to such a pattern; in a way, I want to avoid it. That’s why I have chosen a relatively abstract language. If it’s a mountain I want to see a mountain, if it’s a painting then it’s a painting. But, even if it’s an abstract work of art, the viewer tends to spontaneously interpret it, that’s why the titles of my works have always been serial numbers, to avoid viewers misinterpreting.

Xu: If a work doesn’t have an image, what does it have?

Ding: Then it’s got color. When a mountain doesn’t look like Ashima, isn’t it still a mountain? Plus, the painting still has a basic composition. The visual sense it yields creates an effect, induces reflection, that’s why the aesthetics of abstract art are not the same for all viewers, but a very personal thing.

Xu: Haven’t your composition and colors been determined a long time ago?

Ding: Yes, I’ve developed a kind of color preference, a kind of expressive language of color. Once I began to use classroom chalk, the colors of the painting were limited, because there are only some seven or eight colors. This to me was a challenge. I wanted to see if I could break the limitations of these few colors.

One could say that, since I took up chalk in 1993 up to now, practically no two works are identical, they all contain variations. Because when you use chalk or charcoal, chance is involved. That’s something that particularly interests me. The usual painting colors are solid, but when I paint with chalk, chalk eventually falls off; some chance things remain on the surface, or sometimes, I’ve just finished a painting of which some colors have already fallen off.

Xu: That’s also a problem for conservation.

Ding: Right. That’s also a challenge for those people who like my work. An oil painting can be hung for many years, but how long a chalk painting? I don’t know either.

Xu: From acrylic to chalk, what’s different in the experience? How does it feel?

Ding: When you paint with acrylic, the relationship between painter and canvas conventional; you’ve got a finished canvas. Once you’ve prepared the ground of the canvas, you use pigments to paint on it. Later on, I didn’t lay down a base, directly painting on the canvas instead, so that the color pigments would seep into the canvas, thereby making the colors mutually blend into each other. Then I worked directly on the linen, gradually looking for substances which would fuse even more with the canvas. I finally chose charcoal, because charcoal, like very coarse linen, is a natural material. And then I also realized that acrylic colors too are processed, that their relationship with charcoal and canvas was not close enough. I wanted to look for a new material to replace them; that’s how I finally got to chalk.

In comparison with using a brush, having a pile of chalk in one’s hand feels very immediate, there is no phase of mixing colours, one feels like writing immediately. It’s all very tied together.

Xu: Does that kind of feeling have an impact on the painted surface?

Ding: It must have an effect. In the past, when I finished a work in one month, in reality, it was made up of a lot of fragmented thoughts and actions. If you reduce the completion time to one day or two or three, the feelings are less scattered. If you take one evening or one afternoon to complete it, your gesture flows even more.

Xu: This is the same thing you have said in the past: your paintings are like recordings of actions, but does this mean that abstract art can express thought?

Ding: Thoughts in abstract painting are macroscomic. For example, taking students out to paint from nature is of no interest. In the past, I was keenly interested in painting scenery, but now I find that it is too narrow, too restricted. Even if you paint grasslands, or the sky, it is still too limited; it is only grasslands or an expanse of sky from a certain place. Abstract painting can incite you to think of all grasslands, of all people; it is very comprehensive, it’s a kind of experience, an expression of what you’ve experienced.

Xu: Do you find that abstract art is limited by its materials? For example, could Chinese painting express abstract things?

Ding: Behind Chinese painting is Chinese traditional culture. If you don’t abandon this background, you won’t make much of a revolution. The teaching method of Chinese painting is of the master-disciple type; if you stay in this system for long, scrupulously abiding by the Chinese painting models, it becomes easy to pay attention to microscomic things. The stages in the study of Chinese painting, through its meticulous study of painting mountains, trees, leads you to a very meticulous, very conventional way of thinking. That’s why I think that it doesn’t matter which materials you use, ink and brush, rice paper, and so on, the crux of the matter is how to break away from the conventions of traditional culture.

I have, in the past, also done abstract works with ink, but I have always wanted to become independent of the associative condition, not to fall into the Chinese painting mode of associations of ideas.

Xu: Eight years have passed since you started in 1988 to paint “+ signs”. All the critics say that you’re very exacting. Is that what you’re interested in?

Ding: Yes, one could say I have fallen into another kind of microcosmic stand, this kind of scrupulousness is a kind of microcosmic view. If you have a macrocosmic outlook, you will leap out of such scrupulousness. Because, while working, problems constantly arise. I want to overcome every problem. Once it is solved, then I can leave. That’s why my work has a continuity. So far, there has been no way to cut off this continuity.

Xu: What kinds of problems do you face?

Ding: For example, one of my problems… it started last summer, my works gradually began to leave a margin. Before that, my paintings were done in set borders. Now my brushtrokes naturally pour out on all sides. Only in this way they maintain harmony with the naturalness and coarseness of the canvas. Of course, this kind of problem is very small.

Xu: Indeed, quite small. Do you realize that a person like me who looks at your paintings might overlook such questions?

Ding: Still, no matter how, I believe that a completed work, always has a kind of perfection. Even if you paint expressive paintings, this remains true. I find that this realm of perfection is what the artist must seek. I think that this is the criteria to evaluate an artist’s maturity. Art is not a simple game.

Xu: What do you think art is?

Ding: This question is difficult to answer. For many art critics, art theoreticians, “what art is” is also a very difficult question to solve. I think that “what art is” is a question that can be answered by history and by its stages.

In reality, “what art is” for each artist, is something that he or she probes into over and over again during the course of their work; there is no definite answer. An artist does a performance which people of his or her time find very difficult to understand, but he or she understands this performance as art. Other artists paint very commercial, popular works, believing that that is art, and that’s their whole ideal of art and its glory.

Xu: Do you think your works can be accepted by society?

Ding: This depends on public opinion and publicity. There are stages in the education of society. When there was no abstract painting, even the art experts would not dare approve it. Only after many stages, the experts acknowledged it, and many artists also, and then many people who love art acknowledged it. Slowly the general public came to like it also.

Xu: Have you gone through the whole process?

Ding: In reality, I’m right in the midst of it. I also attempt to make ordinary people understand and like my work; for example, to find my colors beautiful, nice to look at, interesting. I have formerly also used Chinese traditional materials, such as fans and screens to do my work. For one, these are relatively close to ordinary people’s lives, and their shapes are also suitable for the expression of my method. They have folds, and also a perspective from large to small, they have light and shade, chiaroscuro shading, that’s why I’m particularly interested in using such materials that have constraints in my work. They are closer to ordinary people; many people look at fans and find them beautiful, so when they look at such paintings they have a heuristic understanding.

Xu: What if an enterprise wanted to mass-produce your work, what would you think?

Ding: This is a very troublesome question for artists. Because you would certainly have to deal with some commercial entity, you have to negotiate, to control this kind of situation. If you don’t control the situation, it certainly will not be an art process; it will become something else, like a print, which may no longer have any link with art.

I have often encountered such problems. Some business enterprises are interested in my work. A rug company is thinking of turning my work into rugs, a screen company wants to produce my screens in batches. I am embarrassed, I don’t know how to cooperate with them. It may be best to stay away from such business. Up to now, I have not concluded anything.

Xu: If your work and industry were to become linked, would that hurt you?

Ding: No. But I find that this is not what I am pursuing. I know this would afford me large profits, but also many new problems. Whether an artist considers that manufactured production is part or not of his own works is something he or she must absolutely choose.

Xu: In Beijing, I have the impression that the public has a desire for this kind of consumerist avant-garde art. I think some artists will slowly build links with the business world. Perhaps this is a question related to “what art is”.

Ding: The coopting capacity of present-day society is very great. Should even more avant-garde art emerge, it will also be swallowed up. In Germany, in Paris, there are many avant-garde artists; five years after their emergence, they have fully been integrated into the most prestigious commercial art galleries.

Because trade formerly dealt with works by great masters of the past, it has difficulty in accepting new things, but society is now developing so rapidly, that even the most avant-garde things can also be tolerated. A work may have just appeared and immediately some people like it, so for the artists, that’s a challenge. As for the artist’s fate, his or her work’s impact, his or her ideas on art, it is very difficult to compare with Van Gogh’s times.

Present-day society has a great capacity for coopting avant-garde art, even the most incomprehensible things emerging can be absorbed in one or two years.

Xu: Anything can be absorbed, no matter whether it’s good or bad?

Ding: Just as long as it’s novel. Once they’ve absorbed you, they immediately consider you as legitimate art. It is very difficult for the artist to control his or her own situation. Because as long as you have not been absorbed, you are staunch, you have lofty ideals, you feel that your thinking is very much in the lead, but you have no idea that this society has such a great capacity to coopt, in no time it will absorb you. In the first-class commercial galleries they sell your works, in the museums they exhibit your works; I think this is an even greater challenge to artists.

Xu: If the artists’ fate is curtailed, the itinerary they explore is shrunk, what will these artists do then?

Ding: It’s hard to tell, it’s hard to find the right way.

Contemporary art faces a very embarrassing predicament. Even when we look at the art renaissance in some European countries from the eighties on, Italy’s transavant-garde, Germany’s new expressionism, France’s new figurative art, they are all in reality returning to tradition. It’s hard to say that they are going forward, because the modernist era is already over. As for the artists, their leading views when compared to other people have already sloughed off, most have reached a kind of tacit agreement with society and nature.

Xu: No matter how avant-garde they are?

Ding: Yes, no matter how avant-garde.

Xu: Then, following this logic, if you keep on painting your way, won’t you have problems?

Ding: Perhaps I won’t pursue the idea of constantly creating the new, and rather delve deeper into my own experience, enter an individualized sphere. I can say that. even in the Chinese contemporary art sphere, I’m a relatively marginal artist, I’m not in the mainstream of Chinese contemporary art. I’m interested in such a positioning.

Xu: Is this a withdrawal from society and the times?

Ding: I think there can be no withdrawal from society and the times. It’s just that you have to find a very autonomous place, because if you don’t withdraw [somewhat] you’ll be carried along with the great tide.

I consider painting as a particular need of mine, as something very personal, as a particular need to be in my own environment, it’s a very autonomous position.

For me, painting is a practice in letting go. I think that the authenticity of an artist’s work depends on the accumulating of pieces. These past years, I have created one hundred pieces each year. If I spent a long time painting a piece, there would be many fictitious elements in it. That’s what I think.

Xu: What do you mean by “fictitious”?

Ding: I mean that, if I want to participate in an all-China fine arts exhibition and paint a great work, then I will be fictionalizing my life. Whether I paint self-portraits, or a hyper-realist grassland scenery, I am still fictionalizing things outside of myself. For example, would take a pose, that pose can be overstated, or modest. Both are distortions of one’s own image.

If you produce in great quantity, you cannot consider each piece as a great work, something you expressly want to achieve. It’s just a life-style. You work non-stop every day, every day you paint, this work is then authentic, it is a portrait of your plain life. think that’s the authenticity of art.

In fact, the spirit of my art lies in this non-stop practice. To acquire non-stop experience from work, so that it can obtain from everyday life a kind of experience. During that kind of experience, I also carry out an exploration of art, but I don’t take infinite pains to achieve anything. I think that this is also a kind of criticism of the Chinese painting view.

Indeed, from 1949 on, Chinese art has always been conceived of as a creation. In one year, they create a few works. First, for their creation, they prepare a lot of material, then achieve a work as if they were leaving something to posterity. Or again, like many installation artists, they spend a lot of time reading books, doing other things, then in one year they will make a few installations. That’s one kind of way of [doing] art. I find that those ways are all of a fictional nature, their creations are not [composed of] daily confrontations, they go through a lot of sorting out in time, through a lot of filtering of thoughts, and then secure their art in a fixed form.

But I want my own art to be constituted through my daily contact with it.

I am not here criticizing installation artists, because many Chinese installation artists do a great job. I simply think that artists’ ways differ. I have simply chosen this one. This way is complementary and oppositional, it counters the former Chinese tradition of realistic painting, and also the contemporary installation artists’ work attitude.

Xu: Your paintings don’t have any cultural signature.

Ding: That’s right, I also want to avoid this. I want to avoid cultural Chineseness, and contemporary China signs. From the beginning I’ve been like that.

Xu: But aren’t there people who think you are somewhat westernized?

Ding: There are some. I don’t take this question very seriously. I think an artist need not exhibit highly localized traits. Sometimes when I am exhibiting abroad, people will ask me, why does your painting not look like what we imagine of works by Chinese artists? answer, this impression derives from what you have seen of Chinese culture coming from martial arts films, historical plays and a few traditional objects (such as antiques). Today Chinese people know far more of the West than the West knows of China. In China, young people’s thinking has already changed. The education in primary and secondary schools is of a scientific nature. Students also need to be guided regarding misconceptions about Western people. Chinese artists understand Western art quite thoroughly, but very few Western artists know anything about Chinese art.

Xu: Your painting emerged from such a knowledge. Do you understand China’s abstract painting?

Ding: Shanghai has some abstract painters. Abstract art from the north differs greatly from that of the south. Abstract art from the north is often the expression of individuals giving vent to their feelings;[4] it’s relatively direct. Abstract art from the south is more minute, it’s more rational. Comparatively speaking, Shanghai’s artists are more rigorous.

Xu: It has something to do with this city.

Ding: Yes, it does have something to do with this city. Speaking from the general state of the arts in Shanghai, it seems as though, whether you start from the 1985 New Wave or from 1989, all in all, there are no art groups; the artists are relatively independent. There are also no art movements, such as a distinct political pop, or cynical realist trend[5]; furthermore, it is not easy to distinguish one generation of artists from another.

Xu: You started creating in the 1985 New Wave, and in 1989 you participated in the “China/ Avant-garde” exhibition.

Ding: In 1985 I did some abstract works which are linked to my present compositions, but they did not constitute a style.

Xu: At that time you were very young; yet, you didn’t choose to give vent to your feelings? At that time, that was the dominant mode.

Ding: Right. Maybe I didn’t move towards that direction, because I don’t have the need for it, or because southerners are relatively restrained, I don’t know, maybe this is a question of geography.

Xu: It’s a geography-in-art question. I wonder if in 1988, when art was at its climax[6], you didn’t wonder whether what you were doing wasn’t art?

Ding: I have never had doubts -people around me have had doubts. The first batch of works I painted almost wasn’t like art, but I’m interested in that situation. I precisely want to make of art a marginal branch of learning; it is at once art, but also other things, such as craft, design, application. Some people say this work is a floor board, others say it’s wall paper, for others it’s a print, but I myself am very clear on this: I think that art within such parameters can produce new vitality.

Xu: What were the critics’ reactions then?

Ding: My works were exhibited in 1989 in Beijing at China’s Fine Arts Museum in the “China /Avant-garde” show, and also in Shanghai at the “Today’s Art” show. Perhaps, up to now, many critics see it as one kind of Chinese contemporary art. Of course, for me, this is not vital, I am pursuing my own things. Critics and I do not share a privileged relationship.

Xu: I can’t imagine that, in 1989 at China’s Fine Arts Museum where someone fired at her work[7], where others showed such [provocative] works, that no one took notice of you.

Ding: Of course. I had thought of this before hand, I absolutely didn’t want attention centered on my paintings, I have never thought that way. Even after 1989, when I started to participate in a lot of very important Chinese art exhibitions abroad, I knew that my paintings would find people who like them, but would never become a media scoop.

My itinerary could never become a focal point for media, especially media focusing on Chinese images. It’s impossible, because in my work there is no obvious Chinese content, no reaction to news, and it cannot become news. It’s not like some figurative works, Chinese-style contorted human portraits which embody Chinese characteristics. That’s why I’ve participated in a lot of exhibitions, but in terms of media coverage, it’s very difficult.

Since 1989, the West has been doing yearly Chinese exhibitions, from one country to another. This has created a situation whereby, if a country has not done a Chinese art exhibition then it is conservative and behind the times. Many countries are now rushing to organize exhibitions. Perhaps because we are able to provide more and more Chinese contemporary art, the artists they select are of a broader range, the styles and schools more varied.

There are two reasons for the attention my works beget. One is that they can put aside ideological things and like my works. That to me is pretty honest. The other is that, nowadays, even the smallest schools have also attracted their attention. That’s an improvement.

Xu: You’ve been to several countries, does contemporary western art have an impact on you?

Ding: I think that if an artist is not independent and staunch, he will suffer. I’ve been twice to the Venice Art Biennale, once to participate, the other time to have a look at other people’s work. The world’s newest art trends are all exhibited there, but as a Chinese artist, I was psychologically prepared. If you look at Western contemporary art it is not at all scary, you can see its drawbacks, its lacks, but also its impetus and innovation. In fact, there is no psychological pressure, it is much more [a question of] understanding what’s going on, of having a look at what questions are preoccupying artists from other countries.

That in fact is a question of background in art. Western contemporary art’s historical background is almost one hundred years old. Western artists have already explored many fields -it is very broad-, including the public’s view on contemporary art which has become widespread. But China’s contemporary art is in a merging phase. One can say that from 1979 on, artists of my age have gone through a lot, in reality we have compressed the West’s one-hundred year history into some ten years. So, its background is not very broad and is relatively insubstantial; the artists remain isolated from the public.

But Chinese contemporary art is progressing very fast; the distance between China and other countries is narrowing more and more, this disparity does not necessarily stem from the artists themselves; it has more to do with a country’s cultural background, with a country’s investment in its art. For example, in Japan, many small county towns have built museums; they exhibit a large amount of contemporary works, they have provided researchers of contemporary art with pictorial museums. But China’s contemporary artists can only go abroad, or else look at books, they have no live material. That is a limitation on those in China who do and who research contemporary art.

Compared to 1983 and to 1989, today the artists’ understanding of the outside world has greatly increased. In the New Wave of 1985, what we could see of foreign materials was outdated Now we can subscribe to foreign art magazines [and receive current issues], and we can often go abroad to travel. This greatly helps the development of Chinese contemporary art. This kind of help is not of a collective nature; it is very individualized, not common at all. If China had a lot of contemporary art museums, more people would get involved in this line of work, the education system would follow the trend; then, in China, we could promote Chinese contemporary art.

What’s sad is that Chinese contemporary art is being promoted abroad, thus creating an even wider gap between Chinese contemporary art and the Chinese public.

Xu: Another aspect about which the Chinese artists can feel fortunate is that it takes longer before they are eaten up by society.

Ding: But that is very passive; this is not an advantage we have expressly willed.

Xu: Right. At the moment, even the main contemporary art trends do not penetrate the public discourse.

Ding: And there are also a lot of disadvantages, which cause many problems for the development of artists. For example, the criteria for the artists’ creations, the focus, is not from within China, but is from abroad, it’s only to be able to go abroad, to obtain the support of foundations. Because the artist has to support him or herself, perhaps in order to be able to exhibit his or her own works, he or she will make up a few pieces, to cater to the art exhibition organizations. I find this kind of development of the artists is not very comprehensive.

On the other hand, people cannot escape history… as new art systems emerge in China, perhaps a new generation of artists will confront this. That’s why it’s not a pressing problem. For several individual artists, there are a lot of advantages. The more there are exchanges between Chinese artists and the West, the more there will be an understanding of Western culture. Fusions, antagonisms, then maturity.

That’s why I think that China’s actual contemporary art will probably not yield, as in Japan or Korea, a school which will have an influence on other parts of the world, but it will perhaps allow a few individuals to emerge.

China’s contemporary art is precisely in a kind of colonial condition, it relies closely on the West. Conversely, there is another tendency towards arrogance; this is but a stage in the manifestation of individualization, a reaction against a present state of affairs. This condition may be slightly exaggerated, and will experience setbacks.

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[1]Western commentators have read Ding Yi’s “+” signs as either the plus-sign or the Chinese character for the word “ten” (translator’s note, and all following footnotes)

[2]Chinese national painting (Zhongguo hua) is mainly landscape painting done with brush and ink, on paper or silk.
[3] Ashima is a beautiful heroine who died for love. She is of the Yi minority, Yunnan province

[4]The term used is “xuanxie”, a fine arts term for the common “faxie” which means “to give vent to one’s feelings”. It is not a technical term, although it includes a range of possibilities such as ink splashing, vivid colours, etc., in the expressionist range.

[5]Political pop and Cynical realism are the dominant trends in China’s new art. Both are predominantly consisting of portraits, the former with Mao as its main icon, the latter with ordinary people in defiant poses.
[6]1988 was the peak year in the “cultural craze” (wenhua re) which swept across all of China from 1985 to 1989, and gave way to heated debates on culture as well as voluminous production in all cultural forms.
[7]On the opening day, in January 1989, by Xiao Lu on her installation aptly entitled “Conversation”.

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