Surging forth is the cycle of life,
we are no different from the soil.
One day, you will become a gentle sigh of nature,
melding into the mountains, returning to eternity.
奔涌的，是轮回的生命，
我们和泥土别无二致。
终有一日，你将化作自然的一缕轻叹，
融于大山，归于永恒。
Portrait of My Mom and Dad 16″ x 20″
My brush moves guided purely by my intuition. Life is not defined by flawlessness but by the ever-becoming—the flow of existence where incompleteness and imperfection weave themselves into the very essence of perfection.
Burning Autumn (10″ × 8″)
Float (24″ × 36″)
You and I (24″ × 36″)
Story Behind:
“ Have you ever seen someone dying?”
“No,” I said.
When I saw her at 88, I finally understood what it meant to be “dying.”
Her hair had almost completely fallen out, and her large forehead was covered with deep wrinkles and prominent veins. Her eyeballs were bulging, as if they were about to fall out at any moment. Her body was like a dehydrated, shriveled-up skeleton, curled up. But I wasn’t scared at all.
We helped her open her mouth, gently pried her fingers apart from where she had been sucking, and fed her a bit of food.
“Who is this? This is you!” In the old photograph, she wore a bright yellow skirt, graceful and slender, her limbs long and elegant.
She couldn’t recognize herself.
I looked into her eyes, and it was as if I saw myself. One day, I too will lose my hair, my forehead will be full of wrinkles and prominent veins, my eyeballs will bulge out, as if they are about to fall off, and my body will be like a dehydrated, shriveled skeleton, curled up.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, gazing into her eyes.
“Do you feel happy today?”
“Yes …ha …ha…ppy.” She convulsed her eyes, trembled her lips, and, with great effort, miraculously managed to say the words.
Her pale face regained some color. I saw her eyeballs turn red, the corners of her eyes glistening. We had never met before, but in that moment, as I looked at her, tears welled up in my eyes.
She looked at me, wondering if she was thinking about where this thick, dark hair came from. Was the young version of herself visiting her?
I looked into her eyes, and it was as if I saw myself. One day, I too will lose my hair, my forehead will be full of wrinkles and prominent veins, my eyeballs will bulge out, as if they are about to fall off, and my body will be like a dehydrated, shriveled skeleton, curled up.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, gazing into her eyes.
“Do you feel happy today?”
“Yes …ha …ha…ppy.” She convulsed her eyes, trembled her lips, and, with great effort, miraculously managed to say the words.
Her pale face regained some color. I saw her eyeballs turn red, the corners of her eyes glistening. We had never met before, but in that moment, as I looked at her, tears welled up in my eyes.
She looked at me, wondering if she was thinking about where this thick, dark hair came from. Was the young version of herself visiting her?
“Home…” she lowered her eyes.
“This is your home…”
I looked around. The yellow table lamp was gentle, the purple room dry, filled with a warm, sweet fragrance. It didn’t smell like a hospital or sickness, but like home.
To grow old with such dignity and grace is surely a kind of happiness.
A month later, in that same winter, she passed away.
The only photo we had together became the source of my creation: “You and I” explores themes of death, rebirth, and samsara. I am 20, seated at the edge of the bed, while she, 88, rests on the other side. The contrast of our ages, both connected and separated by the boundary of time and space, mirrors the cycle of life and death. This piece embodies the quiet tension between life’s fleeting nature and the eternal, as we move through the interconnected dance of existence, bound by samsara’s cycle.
“你见过一个人正在死亡吗？”
“没有。”我说。
当我看到88岁的她的时候，我才明白，什么是“正在死亡”。
她的头发几乎掉光了，巨大的脑门上满是皱纹和清晰可见的血管，眼珠子鼓了出来，似乎马上就要掉落，身体如一副脱水的、皱巴巴的骷髅，蜷缩着。但我却一点也不害怕。
我们帮她打开嘴巴，一点点掰开她正在吮吸的手指，给她喂了一点食物。
“这是谁？这是你！”老照片里的她穿着一身鲜黄色的短裙，身姿婀娜，四肢修长。
她没能认出来。
我看向她的眼睛，好像看见了自己。以后我也会这样掉光头发，我的脑门上会满是皱纹和清晰可见的血管，我的眼珠子会鼓了出来、似乎马上就要掉落，我的身体会如一副脱水的、皱巴巴的骷髅，蜷缩着。
“Merry Christmas.”我看着她的眼睛说。“Do you feel happy today?”
“Yes…ha…ha…ppy.” 她抽搐着眼球、抽搐着嘴唇，颤颤巍巍地、奇迹般地吐出两个词。
她苍白的面容有了血色，我清晰地看见她的眼球红了，眼角湿润。在此之前，我们从未见过，可此刻，我看着她，眼泪夺眶而出。
她看着我，是否在想着这一头乌黑厚实的长发从何而来？是不是年轻的自己来找她了？
“Home…”她垂下了眼睛。
“This is your home…”
我看着周围，鹅黄色的台灯很温柔，紫色的房间十分干燥，里面是暖和的清香，一点也不像医院和病人的气味，而是家的味道。
能够这样有尊严和优雅地老朽，何尝不是一种幸福。
一个月后，就在那个冬天，她去世了。
《你与我》探讨着死亡、新生与轮回。我二十岁坐在床沿，她八十八岁卧于另一侧，恰似生与死的圆环。
Heartbeat (24″ × 30″)
Even if half is missing, the heart beats only for him. Even if the body collapses, the heart cracks open, and blood pours out, it still moves solely for him.
He governs the fate of many nations.
哪怕缺了一半，心只为他跳动。哪怕身体崩塌、心脏裂开、鲜血涌出，依旧只为他而动。
他主宰着许多国家的命运。
“Heartbeat” is inspired by witnessing how people chase money and titles, sometimes at the cost of morality, as a kind of irony. On another level, it was also influenced by my travels to Iran, Cuba, and Sudan, where I saw firsthand the devastating impact of U.S. sanctions and geopolitics on people’s livelihoods.
Stories Behind:
Across the Gulf -written on the boat by Chloe Wu
Towards the rising sun, the ship sails across the Persian Gulf, as if drifting along the current from the past to fifty years into the future—moving from an unnoticed,
ancient fishing village to a dazzling metropolis that captures the world’s attention.
On the right side of the coast, the fishing village is a fragment of childhood memory. I stroll along the mosque by the beach, my robe trailing over the sand, my headscarf catching the wind, surfing on the echoes of the call to prayer. I ride a second-hand motorbike through pothole-ridden alleyways, kicking up dust. In summers without air conditioning, wind towers bring relief. I rest in the shade where bougainvillea blooms against a sun-warmed wall, a one dollar seafood sandwich in hand—too large to finish in one meal, so I save half for later.
On the left side of the coast, the international metropolis feels like a dream of the future. People from all over the world gather here, erecting their own towers, building a vast forest of steel and glass. The bus driver on the left earns in a month what a scholar on the right makes in a year. A dress displayed in a shopping mall on one side is equivalent to the price of a vintage car that took years of toil to afford on the other.
From Bandar Lengeh to Dubai, the two shores share the same landscape, the same wealth of natural resources. Yet, a few words of geopolitics, a few sanctions, have torn apart a people bound by the same language, culture, and lineage—ripped asunder by the Persian Gulf itself.
SCULPTURE
This artwork is crafted using period pads, thread, and wool, employing the technique of sewing. My inspiration stems from Michelangelo’s renowned painting, “The Creation of Man,” particularly focusing on the creation of Adam. However, I believe women are the true heroines, as they are the ones who create human beings. Through this piece, I aim to express the idea that women are the creators of the world, with the female womb is the origin of all things. At the center of the artwork is a drop of blood, resembling a water droplet, symbolizing nourishment for all life forms. This sewing project advocates for women’s empowerment and stands against period shame.
《创世纪-创造亚当》
Imprisoned Wale-Soft Sculpture
Trapped within its cage, the whale lies helplessly collapsed on the ground. Beneath its sun-baked exterior, garbage bags swarm its heart, shriveled lungs, and every withered organ.
About the artwork (soft sculpture): The whale’s “skin” is crafted from white plastic, its entrails molded from trash bags, and the exhibition space itself becomes the imprisoning cage.
牢笼之中的鲸鱼，无力地瘫在了地上。它晒干的躯壳之下，垃圾袋爬满了它的心脏，干瘪的肺，五脏六腑。
我的软雕塑作品。白色塑料是鲸鱼的皮肤，垃圾袋做成的内脏，展出房间是牢笼。
