Nomads

 
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Ru Marshall

 

Since the start of the COVID pandemic, according to the New York City Commission on Human Rights, New York has seen a sevenfold increase in in incidents of anti-Asian violence. During the same period, tensions between the United States and China have continued to rise. And, reports Cecilia Zhang Jalboukh, the director of Yi Gallery in Industry City, “many young Chinese artists were stranded here during the pandemic. This is a very interesting generation. They’re different than previous generations who came to the US. They grew up when China was going through a unique period of prosperity. They were exposed to cultural opportunities unavailable before.” According to April Z, the founder of Tutu Gallery in Brooklyn, “a thriving community has emerged in the wake of the pandemic. These artists have the ability to reflect on their identity while remaining extraordinarily open to new experiences. More so than many artists who don’t have this transnational experience. They want to be part of a global dialogue.” Critic Barbara Pollack concurs: “I’m very excited about the work they’re doing. There’s tremendous diversity. Discrimination is high, but many doors in the artworld are starting to open.”

I spoke to four of these artists in the summer of 2023.

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Frank WANG Yefeng

 
 

Frank WANG Yefeng, a new media artist, was born in Shanghai and studied at Shanghai University and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. He moved to the United States in 2007. In his work with video, animation, sculpture, and writing he explores the experience of in-betweenness and identity paradigms in the digital milieu. He has exhibited at the CCS Bard Hessel Museum of Art, Gasworks London, the BRIC Biennial, Shanghai K11 Museum, Duolun Museum of Modern Art, and numerous other venues. His solo exhibition, The House of Solitary, curated by Rachel Vera Steinberg, will open at Smack Mellon in December. I spoke to him in his studio in Hamilton Heights.

Ru Marshall: Tell me about this weird, animated octopus.

Frank Yefeng: In 2021, I was commissioned by an organization called Denver Digerati to create a video to be projected on a fifteen-story building in downtown Denver. This was at the height of the “China Virus” hysteria. There was a lot of anti-Asian hate. This was strange for me, coming from China. I wanted to make sense of it.

RM: Can you tell me about how you experienced that?

FWY: You feel it. An elderly Asian woman got beaten in Yonkers. A friend of mine, an artist, was attacked in Chinatown. It was on the news all the time. When I gathered with my Asian friends, we’d talk about it.

RM: How does this relate to octopi?

FWY: I started reading a book called The Yellow Peril: An Archive of Anti-Asian Fear. It’s edited by John Kuo Wei Tchen and Dylan Yeats, and it traces the history of anti-Asian hate from the gold rush to the Asian Exclusion Act. I came across this image of the octopus. It had its origins in Sax Rohmer, the British writer who wrote the Doctor Fu Manchu series. Fu Manchu is depicted as the head of this insidious yellow octopus that’s trying to take over the world, with its arms reaching everywhere.

RM: Jews have been similarly depicted.

FWY: I’ve discussed that with some of my Jewish friends. I also learned about this term, chapodiphobia.

RM: Which is?

FWY: Fear of octopi. Specifically, of tentacles.

RM: Oh, the fear of tentacles!

FWY: So Asians are imagined as part of an evil octopus, ready to take over the world. I was fascinated by this image. And decided to appropriate it. I was thinking about a strategy called subversive nomadic tactics. You take images from the empire, study them, turn them around.

 
 

RM: And make them funny.

FWY: Playfulness is important. I wanted to appropriate the image. And transform it. I wanted to make this octopus do stupid things, have it levitate, have it tell you what it’s reading.

RM: What is it reading?

FWY: The book on the Yellow Peril.

RM: And you projected this in downtown Denver. How did people respond?

FWY: Because of COVID, I couldn’t be there in person. I’m told that, at first, people didn’t know what to make of it. But they were struck by its eerie appearance. And its absurdity. Then, when they found out what it was about, they had a wow moment. Since then, I’ve shown it elsewhere. Kids react differently than adults. They start dancing with the octopus. That’s great.

RM: The same year, you did another public art project in London. With this strange bird. Tell me about its origins.

 

FWY: I’d done a residency in Berlin. I got stuck there during COVID. I took a road trip, driving through the Czech Republic. I love road trips. I was avoiding highways, trying to stay on country roads. On the periphery. I passed this very small café. That’s where I encountered this bird mannequin. It’s life-size. Part duck, part chicken. And it’s waving at the traffic. I went inside and asked the shopkeeper, “Do you know the story of this bird?” But he didn’t speak English. So I wrote a poem about the bird, the gesture it’s making.

RM: How do you read the gesture?

FWY: My first impression was that it was waving at the traffic. But there isn’t much traffic. And then, when there is, it’s ignored. It’s trying to make a connection, but the vehicles just go by. This seemed a metaphor for what it’s like for “others” in this society. Those who are almost viewed as ghosts. Over the years, I’ve encountered lots of curious bird imagery when traveling. I wanted to do something with it. So I started working on some animation.

RM: Which became the public art piece. How did that happen?

FWY: I started making a 3D model, imagining how I could animate it. Then in 2021, I got the opportunity to collaborate with Gasworks in London and the Curating Contemporary Art Program at the Royal College of Art. Four groups of artists were commissioned to do a show. Then the second wave of the pandemic hit. We couldn’t do a physical show. The curators decided to rent a bunch of billboards. I was assigned three. So I decided to turn this bird into a public project.

RM: Along with the bird, there’s text on the billboard. What’s it say?

FWY: Various phrases such as “I see you but you can’t see me” and “Take time, go slow.”

RM: This is an anti-accelerationist bird?

FWY: It’s just standing still there, doing its thing, trying to connect.

RM: It seems to be trying to send a message. Which no one will quite know what to do with.

FWY: Because it’s a ghost, right? A ghost levitating on a country road. Which becomes even more absurd in this urban context, on a billboard. I wanted it to be a gesture of disruption. Of our super-fast-paced life.

RM: And of an environment in which all speech is commerce.

FWY: It’s also about ambivalent identity. It looks at first like an appropriation from a Disney movie. But one you can’t place. It’s familiar and unfamiliar. The unheimlich.

RM: On another level, what first might read as a friendly gesture can also be read as “I see through you. I see who you really are.”

FWY: The viewer may feel a little threatened, sure. Once you see it’s a ghost. Once you see the halo.

RM: Do ghosts have halos? I thought that was just saints.

FWY: My understanding is that it was appropriated from the Christian concept of the Holy Ghost, which traveled to China. The idea arose that ghosts have halos. In Chinese comics, when you draw a ghost, you’ll give it a halo. You see that in Japanese manga as well.

RM: So it’s a dead chicken duck seeing you.

FWY: This project was done in the middle of the pandemic. Which led to a lot of questioning of conventions, of taken-for-granted normality. Having it on the billboards worked out much better than a traditional show. A public which probably didn’t know much about art saw it. They could scan the QR codes on the billboard and see the video online.

RM: Of this outsider bird-nomad-ghost. I think everyone feels, to some degree, like a nomad these days.

FWY: There are many forms of nomadism nowadays. You have your traditional pastoral nomads, your post-human philosophical nomads, your digital nomads, so on. You don’t have to travel to be a traveler. But certainly, my ideas are very informed by a transnational experience. It’s inevitable. As soon as I left China in my early twenties, I knew I no longer wanted to be confined to a single physical location. I’ll just keep traveling.

 

Xingze Li

 
 

Xingze Li was born in Yan’an China. He attended the Xi’an Academy of Fine Arts and received his MFA from the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. His work, which explores the edges between photography, painting, and installation has been exhibited at the Sweet Lorraine Gallery, the Hunter East Harlem Gallery, Tutu Gallery, the Steuben Gallery, Cathouse Proper, and numerous other venues. His work will be featured along with that of Sarah Pater in a two-person exhibition at Yi Gallery in March 2024. I spoke to him in his studio in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Ru Marshall: Tell me how you started making art.

Xingze Li: When I was a kid, I had a nanny who let me watch too much television. I developed a serious vision problem. The doctor told my parents to limit my TV time. So they decided to only allow me fifteen minutes a week.

RM: That’s severe.

XL: It was! I loved a cartoon called Calabash Brothers. Because I could only watch it for fifteen minutes, I obsessively drew the characters. As a way to hold onto them. That’s how I learned to draw.

RM: What kind of work were you doing when you first got to New York?

XL: I painted. In the way I’d been trained in China. But I soon realized I didn’t want to keep doing that. I wasn’t connected to my roots anymore. In China, I’d painted the landscape in my hometown, the elders in my family. I couldn’t do that here. I’d lost the connection. And I didn’t enjoy the way of painting I’d learned in college. I wanted to make art that made sense. Before coming, I’d learned a bit about American contemporary art. It was about why you make what you make. I didn’t have a clear plan. So I thought: what’s in front of me? What do I have? I painted the yellow and green stripes in the subway. I painted light fixtures, my cell phone. And the building I saw out my bedroom window. I thought it was very interesting. I spent a lot of time zoning out, staring out windows.

RM: Tell me more about zoning out.

XL: When I first arrived, I couldn’t follow a lot of what was happening in class. I had to take in a ton of English. Sometimes it felt like hearing aliens talk.

RM: Have you seen the Charlie Brown movies where, when the teacher talks, it’s an incomprehensible drone?

XL: I haven’t. But it was like that. There were so many new things. I needed to spend time figuring out how to stabilize myself. Paying attention to my immediate environment was a way to do that. I’d be out at bars with my classmates. I couldn’t follow what they were talking about. My eyes would start looking for something irregular, something arresting.

RM: Such as?

 
 

XL: I noticed that, when looking at a window, I’d always be seeing it from an angle. I thought: how do you show that?

RM: How do you?

XL: I made some customized wood panels, cut to a trapezoid.

RM: Recreating how the window appears in perception?

XL: Yes. Then I used house paint, rollers, and artist’s tape. And made simple, minimalist paintings.

RM: Tell me about some of your other subject matter. For instance, your cell-phone paintings.

 
 

XL: I was obsessed with my phone. Not with the internet, but the phone itself, when the screen is off. I would hold it tight or stare at it when I couldn’t follow what people were saying. Especially with large groups. For me, the cell phone is a comfort object. And I was obsessed with its objectness. So I cut some aluminum panels in the shape of a cell phone. A rectangular shape with round corners. I painted them black, except for a few streaks of light. I was interested in how the light played on the rounded corners.

RM: Our phones are also cameras. So there’s a kind of circularity to making paintings of the device one is using to take the photos on which your paintings are based.

XL: OK.

RM: Tell me about your move to photography.

XL: I was already using photos as reference materials, a way of saving moments and memories.

RM: Like drawing Calabash Brothers?

XL: Maybe. I struggled to decide if my work should look like the reference material or if I should have my own style. But I didn’t feel I had my own style. Photography seemed more neutral. I like neutral.

RM: You’re not alone. I suppose if you’re trying to make the painting look like a photograph, it’s a small step to just using the photo.

XL: I was working with a photo of the building outside my window, trying to capture the texture of the wall, the lights on it. I thought: there’s no way I can get that with my brush. I tried spray paint. I was holding the photo in one hand, the spray paint in the other. I thought: why bother? So I took some photos and printed them on wood panels and aluminum.

RM: And cut them into trapezoids?

XL: Yes.

RM: So we end up with a series of images of various walls, or maybe the same wall, taken at different times of day, hanging on the wall in the studio. Usually, when I look at a white wall, I register it as white. You’re showing us that there’s an enormous color variation occurring.

XL: I suppose that, after taking so many photos of walls, I’ve learned to see their beauty.

RM: So much contemporary art is concerned with hyper-connectedness. Your work is enormously slow.

XL: I guess I’m just an enormously slow person. I used to feel guilty about that, but I don’t feel it’s a thing I need to change anymore. It takes me a huge amount of time to finalize a few pieces. I’m so not okay with work I feel uncertain about. Part of that is because I need to feel sure it won’t feel like a photograph.

RM: What do you want it to feel like?

XL: More like a painting or an object. I want to re-create or freeze the feeling I had in those zoned-out moments.

RM: If something reads as a photograph, does that distance one from the feeling you’re trying to freeze?

XL: For me. Photography can obviously go in different directions.

RM: Until relatively recently, photography was largely understood as a medium that documented or captured something “out there.” What you’re saying leads me to understand your work as more about being a thing rather than representing a thing. Or doing both, simultaneously. The first time I saw your work, I remember thinking: I can’t tell if it’s depicting light or if light is actually reflecting off of it.

XL: Let’s say you print a photo on photo paper. It’s rectangular or square. Or even round. That’s a kind of frame, a way of cropping reality. I don’t want that. I don’t identify myself as a photographer. I don’t have an education in photography. I don’t even have a camera other than my phone. That’s not what I want to do. I try not to make my work fall into the category of—or have the feeling of—photography.

RM: What do people in the New York art world get wrong about being from China?

XL: I understand it’s always important, here, to know an artist’s background. Where you come from, what’s your gender, if you’re queer. That’s very helpful for an institution to understand you when they’ve no idea who you are. After I graduated, I felt a lot of frustration when I applied for residencies and programs. I noticed that many people who came from a similar background, who were making work examining their identity and proactively speaking about their situation as outsiders— all of which is great—were being selected. I did a lot of self-questioning. I thought: if I send in this application and they see my name and my nationality, they’ll immediately make assumptions about the kind of work I do. Then, when they see my work, it might be hard for them to understand.

RM: A case could be made that, in its steadfast modesty, in its resistance to the obvious ways of seeing and framing things, your work could be read as queer. Certainly as counter-masculine.

XL: I like your interpretation. I wasn’t thinking about that when I made the work.

RM: Do you feel that makes it difficult for artists who don’t explicitly address this kind of identity politics?

XL: I’m not sure. There’s no solid evidence that my guess about that was correct. I haven’t thought about it for a long time. There are so many people making so many kinds of work.

RM: There’s been a huge surge in anti-Asian violence during the time you’ve been in the US. Is this something you’ve experienced?

XL: I’ve certainly experienced an increase in right-in-my-face micro-violent behaviors. I wasn’t surprised by this, since I also experienced it before the pandemic. The NYPD doesn’t help much with it. I feel very sorry for my female friends who’ve experienced it more than I have.

RM: How were you affected by the pandemic?

XL: In many ways. One was that I had more time to stare out windows.

 

Cherrie Yu

 

Cherrie Yu was born in Xi’an, China. She came to the US in 2013 to attend the College of William and Mary. Her work—in film and video, and as a dancer/choreographer—explores human movement, and often involves a response to seminal works of postmodern dance by non-dancers. She has exhibited at Chicago Cultural Center, the Museum of Contemporary Photography, Trestle Gallery, the Contemporary Calgary Museum, and the Chengdu Times Museum in Chengdu, China. She participated in the Fall Movement Series at the Center for Performance Research in December. I spoke to her in her studio at the Sharpe Walentas Foundation in Brooklyn.

Ru Marshall: Tell me about your film Lydia and Matthew. Who is Matthew?

Cherrie Yu: Matthew was a janitorial worker at a condominium building in Chicago. Lydia was a ballroom dance teacher. She’s also a modern dancer.

RM: In the film, Matthew appears on the left half of the screen, Lydia on the right. Their movements seem to be in dialogue with each other.

CY: I went back and forth, collaborating with both of them, but separately. Matthew’s solo took place outdoors, in front of a food hall. Lydia’s was in a dance studio. Both were single-take performances. The movements originated from the performers. Then I’d bring Matthew’s movements to Lydia and Lydia’s to Matthew, and have them respond to each other, generating new material. In the end I introduced them to each other, and that’s where the film ends.

RM: How did you find Matthew?

CY: I was interested in maintenance movement because it was something that was available in public. And workers in Chicago were generally open to being filmed. I’d spend the whole day downtown; there were maintenance workers everywhere. Then I met Matthew, and it became a more investigative process. Being the author of the work, half of the process is figuring out how to work with your performer. Lots of ideas just didn’t work. Like any other relationship, I had to be really patient. Not with Matthew but with myself. He had to be really open. It was a scary position for him. My job was to make sure he felt comfortable.

RM: In other works, such as Trisha and Homer, and your Trio A Translation Project, you had non-dancers respond to work by Yvonne Rainer and Trisha Brown. What led you to focus on the Judson Church movement?

 
 

CY: I didn’t feel entirely satisfied about the ways they aestheticized pedestrian movement. I wanted to push it. What I’ve done is to involve non-performers in my work, to introduce their vocabulary. I’m always interested in working with people who don’t identify as artists.

RM: And then you started dancing yourself?

CY: I started taking ballet and modern in Chicago in 2017 at the Lou Conte Studio. Then, after I started doing this reenactment work, I was introduced to Trisha Brown’s work. There are things that are accessible through learning her movement that are extremely specific and special. It’s not the same as reading about it. I started taking classes with the Trisha Brown Company. This was in 2018, 2019. I’d come to New York to take the company intensives. With dance, what attracts me is that you can never get it right. I can know the material very well, I can do it a hundred more times, but I can still get better. Or it can morph into something else.

RM: How did growing up in China affect your movement practice?

CY: What infused me was a really demotic sensibility regarding movement. This relates to my attraction to pedestrian movement. Space is organized differently in different countries. In China, there are a lot more people in a lot less space. And a lot more group movements. In elementary school, the entire school would congregate in the gymnasium or playground; we’d all do the same exercises. A thousand kids, doing the same movements, every morning. And on Sundays in winter, we couldn’t shower at home because we didn’t have heat. My mom would take us to the bath house. It would be crowded. Naked women everywhere. And someone would come give you a scrub in the back. That’s a tactile, central memory. Or taking a crowded overnight train to the north from a city on the southern coast. Sometimes you couldn’t get a seat. You’d stand the whole night. That’s something I’ll never experience here.

RM: You studied literature before studying art. How did the one lead to the other?

CY: A lot of literary theory deals with performativity. I love the poet H.D. She explores the symbolic meaning of objects. That’s a good thing to think about as a performer. I also read a lot of Faulkner. His books contain so much about watching and being watched.

RM: How do you feel about being watched?

CY: I like it. Everything you do becomes more interesting if you can do it while being watched. And it’s an interesting philosophical question. It’s messy. When you’re performing, you’re representing yourself. But you’re also trying, internally, to be true to yourself. And maybe being untrue to yourself at times. It’s interesting because it’s messy. Being true to yourself while being narcissistic.

RM: Constantly toggling back and forth between those two states. Being in the moment while being aware of what the moment looks like.

CY: Being inside while being aware of being watched from outside.

RM: Does that relate to the experience of being a Chinese artist working in the United States?

CY: Not in this body of work. But I do think being a foreign artist gives me a kind of freedom in how I forge collaborative relationships. I’m more free to come and go. People don’t feel as obliged to maintain something. Because the way I move through space is nomadic. I meet someone, we work on something, I leave, then that’s done. This attracts a certain type of person. People who see in me some sort of alternative to their set routine and lifestyle. That’s the kind of person I end up working with.

 

Jingwei Qiu

 
 

Jingwei Qiu is a multidisciplinary artist whose installations deal with issues of exploitation and censorship. He was born in Guangzhou, China, and currently resides in Flushing, Queens. His work has been exhibited at the Chinese Cultural Center in San Francisco, Unicorn Space in Beijing, the Hartnell College Gallery in Salinas, California, the Sonoma County Museum, and numerous other venues. We spoke at his studio at Residencies Unlimited in Brooklyn.

Ru Marshall: When did you start making art?

Jingwei Qiu: My father was an elevator engineer. He drew blueprints. I’d sit beside him and imitate him, scribbling away. We lived in Guangzhou. My goal was to get praise. Every time I drew something well in the Children’s Palace, my father would take me out to eat hamburgers.

RM: What is a Children’s Palace?

JQ: They’re facilities offering extracurricular activities, including art. I encountered real art in high school. Then I enrolled in the Guangzhou Academy of Fine Art in 2004. The Soviet-style art education system had basically dissolved. People were curious about but bewildered by the boundless possibilities that were suddenly available. There was no coherent philosophy to replace the old system. So my real education came from art magazines and from other online sources. Then, in 2012, my family moved to California, to the Bay Area, where we had relatives. I did my graduate study at Mills College.

RM: What surprised you most about the US?

JQ: The sky was so blue. When I was growing up, Guangzhou was undergoing rapid urbanization. The pollution was severe.

RM: I’d like to ask you about your recent installation Red Diamond. You’ve said that in this work you’re exploring “grassroots worship culture.” What’s that mean?

JQ: In China, “grassroots” refers to the ordinary citizens at the community or village level, as opposed to those of the elites, or of centralized institutions. In contrast, the term “Red Second Generation” describes individuals from influential political families. “Worship culture” refers to the phenomenon of the grassroots idolizing specific objects. Which is closely intertwined with China’s economic development.

RM: Tell me how the piece is made.

JQ: I collect various ready-made objects with the potential for idolization.

RM: Consumer objects, objects of political and religious veneration.

JQ: Yes. I bring them back to the studio and crystallize them.

RM: You literally turn them into crystals?

JQ: Yes. Red crystals.

RM: How?

JQ: I soak them in a solution for eight to twenty-four hours. Depending on factors such as temperature, saturation.

RM: Then you place them in Ikea boxes and create a structure from these boxes. Why?

JQ: These boxes refer to the living environment of the workers in densely populated spaces. In China, giant factories often have tens of thousands of workers living in dormitories with double-decker bunk beds and safety nets.

RM: Why is the piece entitled Red Diamond?

JQ: That comes from a very popular—and censored—internet term in China, “⼈矿.” Ren kuang. Which can be translated as “huminerals.” It refers to people who are treated as expendable commodities from birth. It’s a self-derisive reflection of the living conditions faced by the grassroots. Meanwhile, the mining process of actual minerals, such as seemingly glamorous red diamonds, takes place under unfair and illegal conditions. I’m trying to shed light on the hidden stories behind the supposedly glamorous exterior. To connect the history of such mining practices with the contemporary survival conditions of the grassroots class.

RM: Tell me about your piece Strange Words. What does the title refer to?

 
 

JQ: “Strange words” is a form of “痴⼈呓语” (“ramblings of a fool”), a term used to describe someone who speaks or behaves absurdly and irrationally. In a society with restricted speech, it becomes a portrayal of individuals with differing political ideologies, like Winston Smith in 1984. In this series, I’ve used map pins to outline calligraphic texts on paper, while also using light and shadow to make the characters in the middle difficult to read, thus visually encrypting the content.

RM: Which is?

JQ: A poetry collection by Xu Zhangrun. He’s a renowned professor at Tsinghua University. He was put under house arrest after expressing his disappointment with the current political situation. I’m asking: How can an artwork pass censorship and still be presented to the public with some legibility?

RM: In this piece, and elsewhere, you’re employing minimalist strategies. When and where were you first exposed to minimalism?

JQ: From art magazines. What interests me isn’t the complex production process for this piece but the inherent ambiguity of minimalist language. When dealing with political topics in my country, it’s an effective tool. I’m interested in artists such as Felix Gonzalez Torres and how they use such strategies to discuss political issues. Among Chinese artists, my favorites are Huang Yong Ping and Chen Zhen. They emerged early and received international attention.

RM: If you were to return to China, how would that affect your practice?

JQ: I’m not sure returning would impact my practice. But when it comes to showing my work, that’s quite another question. With the increasingly stringent censorship system, when it comes to a critical discussion of social topics, institutions have to either avoid such subjects or abandon their projects. I don’t have any plans to return. I’ve shown in Beijing before, but at that time I didn’t focus on social issues. It’s a form of spiritual castration. As long as you’re willing to give up certain pursuits, you can still do well.

 
 

Fall / Winter 2023



Ru Marshall

Ru Marshall’s novel, A Separate Reality, was released by Carroll & Graf in 2006. They have twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and their writing has appeared in Salon, Evergreen Review, N + 1 online, the Kenyon Review, Barcelona Review, Another Chicago Magazine and numerous other publications. Their artwork has been exhibited at Participant Inc,, Baxter Street, Studio 10 Gallery, Art in General, White Columns, Cathouse Proper and at other venues in the U.S. and Europe. American Trickster, their biography of Carlos Castaneda, has been optioned for film/TV by Hybrid Cinema and Better Tomorrow Films.



Xingze Li

Xingze Li has had solo and two-person exhibitions in New York City at venues including Ortega y Gasset Projects, Tutu Gallery, and Hunter East Harlem Gallery. Recent group exhibitions have taken place at the Cathouse Proper and Pratt Manhattan Gallery in New York City, Little Berlin in Philadelphia, and Carlsberg Byens Galleri & Kunstsalon in Copenhagen. His work will be included in a two-person exhibition at Yi Gallery in Industry City this March.



Jingwei Qiu

Jingwei Qiu is a multimedia artist whose practice includes film, sculpture, and photography. He has exhibited widely throughout the US and in China at venues including the Chinese Cultural Center (San Francisco), Residency Unlimited (NY), Center for Photographic Art (Carmel, CA), Unicorn Space (Beijing), Bedford Gallery (Walnut Creek, CA), Hartnell College Gallery, (Salinas, CA) and Sonoma County Museum.



Frank WANG Yefeng

Frank WANG Yefeng’s works have been featured in solo and group exhibitions internationally, including the BRIC Biennial (SH, CN), the OCAT Biennial (SZ, CN), City Project of the 14th Shanghai Biennale, Smack Mellon, The Armory Show, CCS Bard Hessel Museum of Art, and the Jeju Museum of Contemporary Art. He has been awarded residencies and fellowships at the International Studio & Curatorial Program (ISCP) (NY, USA), New York Art Residency & Studios (NARS) Foundation (NY, USA), the Asia Art Archive in America, MacDowell, and the Vermont Studio Center.



Cherrie Yu

Cherrie Yu has exhibited her work at the Chicago Cultural Center, the Museum of Contemporary Photography, Trestle Gallery, the Contemporary Calgary Museum, the Kala Art Institute, and the Chengdu Times Museum in Chengdu, China. She has been a visiting artist at Emory University’s anthropology department and a teaching artist at UNC Charlotte. She has been a resident at the Sharpe Walentas Studio Program, and participated in the 2023 Fall Movement Series at the Center for Performance Research in Brooklyn.



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