【Interview】Zhou Tianyu: All My Works Are About Myself

Q: How was the imagery of "orange" in the exhibition title established? How do you understand the title "Thousand Trances of an Orange" (It’s a natural cause)?

A: The orange actually has existed in my works—a small orange-colored sphere that repeatedly appears in the paintings, floating. It also manifested in my real life as a physical entity I observed every day. When I moved into my studio in 2024, there was a narrow window with a sill, and I placed an orange there at the very beginning. Over the year I worked in the studio, the orange and I met daily. I didn’t pay it special attention, but my subconscious was always watching. As time passed, the orange’s appearance transformed: it gradually shriveled, changed color, lost its original plumpness, and finally turned deep black. I threw it away before moving out completely. With the passage of time, the orange was no longer the same. It existed as a floating object in my studio and also became a symbol in my works.

The character "hu" in the title is defined in the Han Dictionary as "dim and indistinct, subtle and unpredictable." My works aim to depict objects that exist between abstraction and figuration, lacking a real physical form. Meanwhile, I explore the ending of objects—under different forces, all things will eventually reach an end state. The English title "It's a natural cause" is also the title of one of the paintings, part of which portrays the orange in four distinct life stages, hinting at its natural process of decay.

Q: You have described creation as a process of "decoding." Compared to the final outcome of a painting, you seem to focus more on the creative process itself. What key judgments and decisions typically constitute your painting process?

A: My painting process usually starts with intuition and progresses to logical analysis. I believe intuition reveals things about myself that I am unaware of—providing illogical answers to questions. These answers often take the form of images shaped by colors and forms. I rely on intuition to construct the initial concept of a painting. Once I begin painting, intuition and logic engage in constant dialogue. After intuition makes a choice, logic repeatedly interrogates the reasons behind it. For example, the repeated use of a certain color may stem from a strong personal memory I have of that color or my subjective understanding of its qualities. Green, to me, is associated with humidity—different shades of green may represent dryness or moisture. It is elusive and profound, like the feeling of touching an uneven surface.

Logic’s role is to explore the origins of intuitive ideas, the reasons and purposes behind painting, and how to delve deeper into the self. Through repeated self-questioning, exploration, and reflection, I arrive at a more certain answer. Therefore, I consider my painting a selfish act, serving only myself and addressing my own questions. The outcome is merely a frozen moment of the process and evidence of its existence. I value the creative process far more than the result.

Q: You mentioned that creation often begins with "intuition." Could you elaborate on where this intuition typically originates? After "moving from intuition to logical analysis," how do you specifically embark on the act of painting?

A: I unconsciously capture shapes around me: peeling wall paint in subway stations, bare potted plants, a color that reappears repeatedly, a space I encounter in cycles. For this reason, I control the things that surround me—I filter my daily items based on color. There was a period when I noticed that the color of a sweater I wore kept appearing in my works. Intuition allows me to find the most relevant information from the images I unconsciously collect, yet I remain vigilant toward things of unknown origin and consciously avoid certain information.

Intuition helps me remember what I think I’ve forgotten; it makes me unable to let go or escape. People often describe my paintings as evoking a sense of nostalgia. Memory is not entirely accurate—it embraces self-distortion. I prioritize what I want to remember as the core of my memories, seeing myself within them, with the colors of spaces changing according to my own perception. Intuition is the part of myself I cannot remember.

Before starting a painting, I usually ask myself questions or set a specific theme, then use intuition to respond quickly. I spend about a week conceptualizing the image in my mind and confirming what I want to paint. Logic comes into play when preparing to paint and during the creative process—I ensure that every brushstroke has a purpose, rather than relying solely on intuition. While painting, my movements must be pure; logic repeatedly verifies the intent behind my actions and maintains consistency. In this way, painting becomes a purely intentional act, free from any impure motives.

Q: Your creation involves both personal experience and constant engagement with different cultural contexts. To what extent have personal identity and cross-cultural experiences influenced your creative thinking?

A: All my works are about myself, and my creative purpose is rooted in myself—my paintings have always been selfish.

Language shapes the boundaries of human cognition. During my formative years, I was exposed to two entirely different contexts and cultures—this greatly helped me maintain a sense of self and prompted me to reflect on my identity. I do not know what constitutes "good painting." In different cultural contexts, "good" carries many meanings; I can only strive to develop my own visual language.

I have moved frequently, so I have grown accustomed to ensuring that everything around me is portable and easy to move. It feels as if I am always returning home—I traveled between two countries an average of four times a year during middle school—and also as if I am always leaving. Those who shared similar experiences with me have also gradually left the place I commuted to for a decade. After ten years, I exist between two cultures, floating.

I contemplate the definition of home and where I truly belong.

Q: Circles repeatedly appear in your paintings, serving both as the "frame" of the image and as compositional elements. How do you use and understand the circle as a form?

A: In easel painting, a square frame is the default setting. The frame’s shape forces me to address a problem in my work: its lines suggest a four-sided space, like looking out a window or into a square room. Within the context of abstract painting, this can alter originally abstract expressions, transforming them into figurative "mental landscapes" or spaces. My solution was to redefine the frame’s shape within the painting itself.

Among all shapes, the circle emerged as the optimal vessel for my content. With only one edge (or infinitely many edges), it can simply enclose and unify everything, transforming the numerous objects in the painting from separate entities in space into a single whole. The circle contains the painting’s content in the way I intend, while emphasizing the distinction between the painting and reality, presenting a subjectively personalized viewpoint.

The circle can contain and carry everything, yet it also confines what it encloses. Gradually, the circle itself became a recurring symbol in my works: it can be understood as a living creature or an inanimate object—a citrus fruit, an animal, the surface of a table, a cross-section of a container, a view from the bottom of a well, or the scene seen through binoculars. When the circle can become and enclose everything, viewers are no longer certain if they themselves are the ones trapped within it. They also lose track of their viewing direction—whether they are looking up or down.

Q: In addition to circles, other shapes appear in your paintings, often as bright color blocks against relatively desaturated backgrounds, creating a flat, two-dimensional effect. How do you handle the relationship between spatiality and flatness in your works?

A: My paintings always embody a state of self-contradiction, so I tend to make the spatial dimension ambiguous, stacking different objects within the space. The desaturated background emphasizes the collective atmosphere of the painting’s content—an intangible mass of air that makes the gravitational expression of the objects seem uncertain. I include subtle cues to three-dimensional space: object shadows, shadow-like colors on still lifes. In several works, three simple lines form a corner of a space, serving two purposes: first, to suggest that the figures in the painting are in an indoor space, hinting at the limitations of freedom within an otherwise open and unrestricted background; second, to convey three-dimensional information using the most two-dimensional or even one-dimensional language, pushing the painting toward an intermediate dimension. The flat, two-dimensional expression is more like a self-generated symbol—for example, the three lines that often appear seem to be a frozen, contentless dialogue that once occurred. The ubiquitous orange sphere has also become a symbolic icon. By placing three-dimensional and two-dimensional spaces within the same frame, I explore the contradictions arising from the combination of different spatial dimensions. My work aims to create contradictions, positioning the painting in the gray area between opposing elements.

Meanwhile, certain shapes repeat and replicate across different paintings, forming distinct systems and even breaking away from their original meanings. Through constant reproduction—not mechanical repetition—the specific information of originally figurative content diminishes, transforming them into more abstract symbols. These abstract symbols then derive new meanings depending on the context of each painting. My intentional reproduction amplifies the subtle differences between identical symbols; the essence of the original shape and its multiple reproductions generate new contradictions and conflicts. Gradually, I create new messages and language by repeatedly depicting the same shapes.

Q: The background is always an important component of your works, with the original texture of the canvas intentionally preserved to create a nearly "raw" state. Why do you choose to treat the background this way? What kind of relationship exists between the background and the main subject of the painting?

A: During the first half of my undergraduate studies, I often used pre-prepared canvases—white, somewhat harsh, with a background color that doesn’t seem to exist in the real world. Since then, my visual language has explored the tension between finished and unfinished paintings. For me, an unfinished painting can also be a form of completion; I deliberately leave paintings incomplete and backgrounds unfilled. The white background was too intense and distracting, making it impossible for me to truly see what I was painting. I began experimenting with transparent bases on linen and cotton canvases. The untouched areas of the canvas convey a sense of unfulfilled potential and deliberately neglected spaces. Every erasure is another form of addition, making the preserved raw sections particularly significant.

Linen absorbs and retains paint more easily, resulting in a thinner, lighter image，while cotton canvases become heavier when layered with oil paint. I prefer to paint as much as possible in a single, unbroken brushstroke. To extend the movement of each stroke, I dilute the paint with a significant amount of turpentine, and linen canvas absorbs the oil-rich paint well, allowing me to continue painting with the same stroke for longer. Even when the paint runs low, I enjoy using the dry brush to keep painting until no more color can be applied.

The background color greatly influences the overall atmosphere of the painting from the very beginning. The natural tone of linen closely aligns with what I want to express. The background color is "breathable," and the exhaled air feels solid and slightly heavy. The negative spaces in the background represent the distance between objects.

Q: You mentioned that "many of your works depict subjective things or scenes from an objective third-person perspective." How is this "objectivity" established in your creation? How do you embed personal experience and subjective feelings into the painting from this perspective?

A: Objectivity and the third-person perspective are a disguise and a tool.

One reason is that I engage in a dialogue with myself in painting—the third person converses with the first person, and objectivity dialogues with subjectivity;

The second reason is that I am unwilling to expose myself directly on the canvas. Therefore, I pretend to be an observer watching myself, depicting my true self through the third person. I want to stand far away from myself to truly capture my essence. When humans revisit their memories, they usually adopt a third-person viewpoint.

The third-person perspective also allows for richer information. In some paintings, I aim to depict a group scene. From this viewpoint, I disguise my subjectivity as universal objectivity. Air, space, and time become more visible; my personal feelings become tangible, enabling me to dialogue with myself and stage a theatrical performance.

Q: For you, painting is like a form of self-dialogue. In your opinion, what kind of relationship exists between the creator, the figures in the painting, and the viewer?

A: The creatures in the paintings lack independent consciousness—they share a collective consciousness. Each figure can be myself or someone from my memories.

As I mentioned earlier, I consider my painting selfish, not serving the viewer. To prevent viewers from fully understanding me, I create various contradictions and puzzles. I am both the creator and the viewer, embodying all roles.

Through traps, puzzles, and a glimmer of hope, viewers are encouraged to truly reflect on the painting’s content: contradictory, confusing, seemingly intelligible yet elusive, with fleeting clues and inspirations. Every viewer asks me what the specific content of the paintings represents—whether it’s a piece of fruit or an animal. I usually refuse to reveal the answer or tell them directly, allowing them to experience a moment of realization as if they’ve understood. The surface of the painting and its physical form are insignificant; what matters is its true content. Morandi has been a great inspiration in this regard. He always painted containers, yet no one knew exactly what was inside them. I feel that he painted what appeared to be containers, but they were not truly containers. Painting, as a language, has the ability to convey abstract content that words cannot articulate—even before the invention of writing, humans first learned to paint. Beneath the contradictions and puzzles, the true content I explore cannot be described in concrete language.

Q: You repeatedly mention the concept of "ending" in your creation. In your view, can this exhibition be understood as a phased "ending"? After this juncture, how do you envision the continuation and potential directions of your creation?

A: As the core theme of this exhibition, "ending" has no conclusion for me. Some works in the exhibition depict what comes after the ending, and the concept of ending itself is logically contradictory—there is no true ending. Time flows forward in the three-dimensional world, and endings are constantly being renewed. Although my works will evolve with different content over time, the themes I contemplate, depict, and explore continue to persist in my visual language. Past content does not truly end but progresses along the path beyond the ending. In my visual language, content also flows forward with time; past experiences are preserved like memories, and future works cannot exist independently of these memories. The uniqueness of subtle differences and the awkward, undiscovered wonders of daily life are what I have always explored. "Ending" is just one branch of this exploration. The theme of "ending" will continue to permeate my future works, but after this phase, the focus of the content will indeed shift to other subjects as time progresses.

Regarding my future creation: visually, ink wash backgrounds have greatly influenced me, leading me to create a more ethereal, resonant, and intangible atmosphere in this phase. In the next stage, I will attempt to deconstruct the impact of this background on both myself and the overall painting. Content-wise, I will continue to explore awkward subtle differences, which will largely connect to the changes I am experiencing in my current life stage.

Q: What is the theme of "ending" in this exhibition?

A: I do not intend to explore the pessimism of endings or the fear of facing them. Ending is inherently part of nature—an objective designation for a period of time or an event. In the linear flow of time, ending is an unstoppable existence, an unpredictable future. I have realized that humans consciously avoid confronting endings. From a subjective perspective, endings may be evaded, handled gently, or deliberately ignored. From an objective perspective, endings seem to never occur—after a momentary pause, they leave no obvious traces. When I became aware of the discrepancy and contradiction between subjectivity and objectivity, a rift emerged in my thinking.

It was only after the death of someone familiar to me that I clearly recognized this discrepancy. Because we rarely met, I did not truly realize that their ending had arrived until I learned of their death. I also struggled to objectively comprehend the difference between life and death, much like Schrödinger’s cat. It was only when I was informed of their passing that their death truly registered.

When the subjective information changed, the ending began to reverberate. Did the ending not exist before I subjectively acknowledged it?

An ending is not a period but an extended period of time. It is not a single moment when something happens, but every moment it is subjectively recognized—a repeated reminder. I cannot feel their death, yet I truly understand it.

A red rain continuously enshrouds their ending; the raindrops are so fine they are barely visible. Time is an endless cycle.

Interviewer, writer: Li Qianqian

Translator: Lang Jinhui