Can you start by giving us an overview of your practice and what led you to explore the intersection of emotional healing, social care, and psychological reflection?

My artistic practice stems from my personal experiences growing up. I was a child with overwhelming emotions and constant confusion about the world around me, but as an introvert who wasn’t comfortable expressing myself through spoken language, I turned to drawing as a way of communicating. Visual symbols became my outlet. For me, art is a natural language—one that allows me to express unspoken trauma in a different form.

Inspired by Louise Bourgeois, who once said she saw her work as a confrontation with the past in order to achieve self-knowledge in the present, I regard my creative process as a form of self-analysis and emotional healing. Through this process, I reflect, dissect, and search for answers. I aim to pass on my observations and inner discoveries to viewers, hoping to offer a sense of connection to those who may share similar struggles—a reminder that they are not alone. Every emotion deserves to be acknowledged, and every trauma is worthy of care.

Your statement mentions that you are deeply influenced by your own experiences as an asian artist and the social psychological phenomena in East Asia.  How do you approach these phenomena in your practice? What medium do you employ to do so?

I usually begin my work from personal experience, discussing those experiences with friends to uncover common patterns. From there, I conduct research to see if these patterns reflect broader social or cultural dynamics. For example, in my 2D animation short film MoM, I explored a pathological parent-child symbiosis shaped by the "giant baby" psychology that Chinese psychologist Wu Zhihong describes. In East Asian cultures rooted in filial piety, relationships between parents and children are often reversed—children are expected to tolerate their parents’ behavior and care for their emotions. In these dynamics, parents sometimes play the role of children, leading to a dysfunctional form of intimacy where neither party can exist independently.

In the film, I didn’t use a literal mother and child figure, but instead depicted a woman and a fish. In a state of pathological symbiosis, the person caught in it may no longer perceive the other as a concrete individual, but rather as an object—an 'it'. In Chinese symbolism, fish represent passive recipients, as seen in the saying “Others are the butchers, I am the fish.” In the story, the woman, in the name of love, takes the fish from the ocean and travels with it, offering affection in ways unsuited to its nature—eventually causing its death.

As for mediums, I don’t restrict myself. I believe the medium should serve the content. Depending on the concept, I may choose animation, live action, installation, or traditional painting—whatever best conveys the story I want to tell.

You mention themes like the "great mother family structure" in your work. How do these societal dynamics inform the emotional undercurrents in your stories? Could you highlight a specific project that embodies this theme at its core?

In Chinese society, institutions like the government or corporations often operate under patriarchal systems. However, within the family, power is frequently held by an overly emotional, authoritarian female figure—typically the mother of the male head of household. Psychologist Wu Zhihong calls this the “great mother family structure.” In my own family, this dynamic was present in a slightly altered form: my maternal grandmother held that central power, and after her passing, my mother inherited it. They often used threats of suicide as a means of emotional coercion to compel obedience from other family members.

Although I haven’t yet created a piece focused solely on this concept, you can find echoes of it in Eleven, where a mother character—dressed in a hedgehog costume—constantly attacks a silent, mouthless father. The father tries to escape, but the mother’s aggression gives her dominance in the household. Perhaps in the future, once I’ve reflected more deeply on this theme, I’ll dedicate a full work to it.

Could you share why you believe art to be the most direct and sincere way of expression? 

I first came to this realization during my undergraduate studies, thanks to a mentor. At the time, I was hesitant to present my work in public and often avoided deeply personal topics. Instead, I focused on popular themes that felt safer. One day, my mentor told me, “If you can’t be honest in your own art, then where else in the world can you be?” That statement struck me profoundly.

We can only create from within the limits of our perception. If a subject doesn’t connect deeply to our lived experience, the work risks becoming superficial. Since then, I’ve turned my focus inward, constantly asking myself: what story do I really want to tell?

You aim to explore the boundaries of narrative in animation. What are some unconventional storytelling techniques you've experimented with, and what were the outcomes?

I’ve experimented with breaking linear narrative logic by using montage techniques to interweave fragmented scenes, heightening emotional impact. In my experimental animation Self-Inflicted Pain, there’s no traditional storyline. Instead, it’s composed of isolated actions that explore the relationship between the past and the present, memory and trauma. I used live-action to represent reality and animation to depict memory—the boundary between the two gradually blurred, and the trauma became detached from specific past events, internalizing instead as a personal conflict.

In my immersive project Eleven, I also experimented with multiple narrative threads. Inspired by VR/AR animations featured in Spotlight and the immersive theater work of Punchdrunk, I aimed to move away from using the camera to dictate the viewer’s perspective. Instead, I invited the audience into the story world. Within this space, there are six different characters, and viewers are free to choose which character to follow through the narrative. The story they experience changes depending on the perspective they take. Through this approach, I hope to challenge the traditional role of the director and give the audience greater freedom to uncover the story on their own.

What can you tell us about the submitted work, Eleven? What is the concept behind this immersive animation?

As mentioned earlier, Eleven is an experiment in narrative form, and also a story I’ve always wanted to tell. The story features my grandmother, my parents, myself, a red horse, and a hedgehog. Among them, the human characters are all dressed in mascot costumes. I tried to tell this story from the perspective of my 11-year-old self.

The origin of this story came from an experience during university, when I returned to my hometown and accidentally discovered a suicide note that my 11-year-old self had written on the wall in the hallway of my childhood home. In that moment, it felt as if I saw the corpse of my childhood lying in front of me. It opened the door to my memories.

In Eleven, I chose a dreamy, flat picture-book style to present an oppressive story—why I wanted to end my life at the age of eleven. The entire space is composed of four parts: the environment where I lived with my parents and grandmother as a child, my father’s house, and my fantasy world, which includes the ivory tower and the womb jungle.

My grandmother used to shield me when my parents fought—she was my safe haven, my "ivory tower." When she passed away, that tower collapsed. I saw my parents’ marriage for what it really was. After my father left, my mother told me she wished I had never been born and forced me to move out. I went to live with my father, but the door to my room was broken and always left ajar. He would watch me through the gap. Overwhelmed, I fled into the fantasy world and drowned in the lake of Womb Jungle—symbolically marking the end of my childhood.

In your film, Brain Travel, what inspired you to explore the theme of information overload? What were some surprising findings about the cognitive effects of information overload?

I noticed that long-term exposure to fragmented information on social media had affected my ability to concentrate. I even began experiencing reading and writing difficulties, along with disorganised thinking.

During my research, I discovered studies showing that our memory systems tend to prioritise superficial, socially driven text over more complex content. In today’s extractive attention economy, where multiple platforms compete for our focus, basic human faculties like memory and attention are increasingly under threat.

What do you hope audiences will take away from Brain Travel regarding their relationship with information?

I hope viewers will realize that social media operates as a trap in the attention economy. It creates the illusion that we’re absorbing lots of information and learning constantly, when in fact it’s slowly eroding our ability to think deeply, focus, and solve problems.

Do you believe that engaging in artistic expression is a mode of nurturing? If so, what are the reasons behind this perspective?

Yes—I see art as my personal language, one that grows with me. It has marked the milestones of my emotional and psychological development. Through creating, I’m able to connect with the outside world while also turning inward to reflect, question, and process. Each piece becomes a dialogue between my inner world and the reality around me. In this way, artistic expression nurtures not only my understanding of self, but also my ability to relate to others. My work and I evolve together—shaping and shaping each other over time.

What message or call to action would you like to leave our readers with?

To create—honestly and fearlessly. Make work that speaks to who you truly are, not who you think you should be. The world is already full of noise; what it needs more of is authenticity. When you create from a place of truth, your work carries a power that reaches beyond aesthetics—it becomes connection, care, and resistance all at once. Trust that your voice, in its rawest form, is enough.

Find more about the artist here.

Cover image

Stream by Icy Qiao.

All images and video courtesy of Icy Qiao.