Exhibition View of “J.Yang” at Magician Space

798 Art: The spatial presentation of this exhibition is quite distinctive—the opaque violet-toned interior, window display–like design, use of mirrors, and a theatrical atmosphere all create a unique setting and psychological response. Could you start by sharing your thoughts behind these choices?

Yang Jun: My first intention was to create a sealed environment, and to signal that sense of enclosure to the audience right from the outside. Covering the gallery’s two floor-to-ceiling windows with construction-grade particle board was the ideal solution—it gives the impression that something is “under renovation” or that a stage is being built. The exhibition information was spray-painted directly onto the boards, turning them naturally into posters—simple, even a bit rough.

The design of the entrance and exit came before the selection of artworks. If the main gallery is seen as a theater, then the entrance and exit act as both a prologue and an epilogue, resonating with the violet atmosphere inside. A mirror reflects the entire exhibition space, including the two paintings on either side representing man and woman, which together form the piece We.

Installation View of “J.Yang” at Magician Space

798 Art: The exhibition also makes notable use of text, or rather, emphasizes the form of text. What was your thinking behind that?

Yang Jun: In fact, the exhibition contains no textual “explanation”—no preface or curatorial statement. Those are deliberately omitted. The only text that appears is the visualized form of the artwork titles, giving them equal importance to the images themselves.Even my own name becomes part of the work. The pink acrylic “J.Yang” sign at the entrance—also the title of the exhibition—resembles a logo. This borrows from commercial aesthetics, inviting visitors to take photos in front of it. I’m not against fashion; in fact, I admire it. “J.Yang” is the pinyin abbreviation of my name, but it also isn’t quite pinyin—there’s something awkward about it. I believe modern individuals are highly sensitive to questions of identity, often caught in vague and awkward situations. But that awkwardness is a genuine theme of life. It’s real.

Installation View of “J.Yang” at Magician Space

Back in 1981, when I enrolled at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, the departments for traditional painting, oil painting, printmaking, and sculpture weren’t accepting new students. So I chose the newly established lianhuanhua (comic strip) department—I was part of the first cohort, and later even stayed on to teach there. Lianhuanhua, as a medium combining image and text, has had a subtle but lasting influence on how I use text in my work. Another aspect is how our way of watching films and television has changed. In the past, people watched movies or plays without subtitles—you just listened. But now, even news broadcasts come with captions. I’ve brought this viewing habit into the exhibition, and it works well. I think that by following these everyday patterns, I can disrupt people’s simplistic understanding of painting—especially the use of terms like abstraction or expressionism. To be honest, I’m already tired of the phrase contemporary art, let alone those other labels.

Wandering in the Summer Night, 500 x 600 mm, Oil and acrylic on canvas

Regarding new art forms, they are essentially imports—just like everyday objects, very few are rooted in traditional Chinese culture. So whether from the East or the West, just take and use them. Those cliché art concepts can be ignored. 

I try not to deliberately create art that looks like contemporary art or conceptual art—for example, writing a profound or highly insightful phrase to preach or indoctrinate others in the name of art. That feels disingenuous to me.

Above the two paintings with dressing mirrors at the entrance, there is a simple text with the artwork information: “We (a.b) 7000 x 9000mm Oil and acrylic on canvas.” Visually, it resembles a movie’s narration or the subtitles that appear at the end of a film. I emphasized this formal aspect to show that the title itself can be viewed as part of the artwork—after all, what I do is visual art.

The Merry Snail, 1550 x 2280 mm, Paint and acrylic on canvas

798 Arts: The images in your paintings seem hard to define strictly as abstract or figurative. They have an ambiguous quality—do your works originate from more concrete things, scenes, or feelings? What guides this visual transformation? Also, judging from the titles, you don’t seem to reject narrative elements in your paintings. How should we understand the relationship between your paintings and reality?

Yang Jun: There’s no single specific source, nor a deliberate process of transformation, because this series isn’t conceptual or theme-driven. I do have other works that require more planning, but overall, this batch does not—it’s open to viewers’ own interpretations. I was trained in painting, which is, to some extent, a process of self-creation. Unlike new media art, painting involves fundamental skills like color and form—similar to training in traditional opera or vocal music—which are exercises of personal ability. I believe these abilities come from one’s own body, so the expression should return to the body.

In contrast, installations and new media works rely more heavily on their medium; they don’t necessarily return to the body but exist as materialized external elements. I separate these two approaches: painting is more for self-expression, a proactive act. If I want to express feelings about reality, I tend to use other media, like photography.

To the Fragrance of Madame Bovary, 1000 x 1300 mm, Oil on canvas

In my painting, I want to reflect my own world, not someone else’s. It primarily expresses a temperament, rather than an attitude or stance. In the tradition of Eastern literati painting, this kind of expression is essentially a transformation of the artist’s personality. It is not restricted by style, form, or content. When we look at Qi Baishi, Zhang Daqian, or the Yangzhou Eight Eccentrics, we see a variety of painting forms—some meticulous and detailed, others bold and unrestrained. Eastern art is closely related to writing; it is a form of inscription, an extension of the artist’s inner world. Conversely, when we approach Western painting, we tend to forget this. Style, form, and concept all crowd in, obstructing our vision. 

As for narrative, I have never rejected it; it is important to me as a personal worldview expressed through art. Through painting, I want to tell others who I am, not who they are. Each of us has our own worldview, behaviors, interests, hobbies, personality, and temperament. Whenever I pick up a brush and dip it in paint, I think of it as my voice, my posture, my body. I must not insert too many social factors into it—otherwise, I might as well just take a photo with my phone.

The Unlucky Romantic, 2170 x 3570 mm, Oil and acrylic on canvas

Photographer: Li Zhen

798 Art: Compared to the works on the walls, which have specific titles, the Painting·Skin series seems to stand apart.  Unframed and suspended like curtains in the center of the gallery, it creates a different kind of presence.  Could you talk about the thinking behind this series?

Yang Jun: The term Painting·Skin literally refers to “painting” and “skin.”  This series began around 2016 or 2017, and I’ve completed over a hundred pieces to date.  What I want to express through this collection of large-scale works is the notion of handcrafted artistic production — preserving a sense of artisanal, industrial trace in an age dominated by rapid digitalization.  In a way, this approach feels fragmented or split, because at the same time, I’ve been continuously experimenting with digital media, including recent NFT works. When the Painting·Skin series was exhibited in Shanghai in 2019, it filled the entire space and none of the pieces were mounted.  They functioned almost like raw materials or semi-finished products.  For this exhibition, I’ve repurposed several of them to hang like stage curtains, but they’re very much still works — or works in the making.

"Jiaqing’s Gift — The Coronation of Napoleon" (2017)
"Painting·Skin (Series)" (2016–2017)
Exhibition view at Duoyunxuan, Shanghai, 2018

798 Art: If you consciously “disregard” style, how do you manage to break free from the influence of established perceptions and training? Or would you say there is still a process of selection and rejection involved?

Yang Jun: I’ve never liked being stylized—more precisely, I dislike being locked into any one mode of expression. If I had to paint in the same style all the time, it would make me miserable and lose interest in art altogether. So my disregard for style is quite strong. Part of that comes from my educational background, and part of it from my personality. I studied in the lianhuanhua (comic-style) department, which was a comprehensive painting program where traditional Chinese line drawing and Western color techniques were interwoven. My first comic project in my freshman year was done entirely in traditional Chinese ink linework. In my second year, I switched to classical Western pencil drawing. For the third, I used oil painting. By the fourth and final project—my graduation work—I blended all of them: oil, line drawing, and even lithography.

As a child, I was trained in Chinese opera. My father was a musician of the Mei School, and he nurtured in me a broad artistic curiosity from an early age—not just opera, but also music, dance, and even writing. I’ve always viewed this as a way of growing. Life, to me, is about experience. The same goes for artistic style. Here, I’d like to quote architect Frank Gehry: “I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I knew, I wouldn’t do it.” Art is a living thing—I don’t want to trap it in a system, or a greenhouse.

The Great String / The Power of Revolution, 1200 x 2000 mm, Acrylic on canvas.

798 Art: In your work, one can detect elements or allusions related to culture, and this cultural orientation is not singular. You have lived across both Eastern and Western contexts—how do you see cultural identity and personal experience influencing your artistic practice?

Yang Jun: The topic of identity sounds quite cliché these days. When I first arrived in Europe, I found that aside from the basics of daily life—eating, clothing, housing, transportation—I didn’t feel deeply connected to much. Yet, when I went to museums, concerts, or theater performances, there was a surprising sense of familiarity. In the early 1990s, it wasn’t like today’s information-rich world—you were quite far removed from your homeland. There was a kind of in-between feeling, as if you couldn’t quite grasp either side. That disconnection subtly led me to contemplate more abstract, metaphysical questions about humanity and the world. Over time, I made friends from around the globe working in various fields, and this broader exposure actually caused a sort of reversal in how I saw identity. I now think of identity more as a surface layer—a kind of outer shell, like a style. It’s something formal, not connected to the brain. Just like style, it can be misleading if taken too seriously.

Interview by: Wang Wei

Images courtesy of: Magician Space and the artist