Interview with Alice Chen
"Retreat is a rigorous and determined artistic method"

Editor’s Note: Amid the wind and light of the West Lake in Hangzhou, Alice Chen unfolds her artistic map anew. From her active retreat after Fill in the Blanks to her return to the art scene through Positive Art Research Center, she addresses the real choices artists are confronted with in the face of institutions, migration, and identity issues in the deployment of body, language, and actions. She once said that art to her is not a form but a wooden plank drifting across the sea—something that asks for neither gratification nor explanation, yet travels with you. In our conversation, we talked about shanshui, and the sense of belonging, the repositioning of the artist and the true meaning of her “retreat.” From Yiwu to Beijing, and then to a peripatetic life as part of a diplomat’s family, her trajectory flows like a side stream through the history of contemporary Chinese art: atypical yet profoundly contemporary. Her practice demonstrates a subtle form of persistence, beginning with personal experience and ultimately unfolding into a gentle sense of the collective.
 

By Alice Chen; Jenny Chen

AC: I was born in late 1975 at the point of intersection between China’s policy of reform and opening up and the cultural fever of the 1980s. From 1991 to 1999, when I was studying at school, the society was witnessing drastic changes: on the one hand, the idealism of the 1980s still lingered; on the other, there was the impact of marketization and globalization. I began working independently before my graduation and participated in exhibitions such as Post-Sense Sensibility. I entered the so-called art scene quite early. I’m of the same generation as Liang Shuo and Liang Yuanwei but am often mistakenly thought to be older than them. In fact, I’m always somewhere “in the middle”: influenced by the “grand questions” of the 1980s but not fully part of the generation who went abroad or grew up with the internet. I have never studied abroad. The cultural environment of a simplified Chinese written language constitutes the context for my growth and artistic practice.

I was born and raised in a small town in Yiwu, Zhejiang Province. No one from my family comes from an intellectual background, but I had a liking for literature from my childhood on. I hand-copied an entire book of modern poetry in middle school. My parents were strict, but I longed for freedom. There was no TV back then. Adults often told stories about Tang Bohu and Zhu Zhishan, who were both included in the Four Talents of Suzhou in the Ming Dynasty. I realized that the society had tolerance and affection for “heterogeneous individuals,” and I longed for that world. I started to learn painting in middle school and decided to apply for the high school affiliated to the China Academy of Art. To me, painting was never the destination, but rather a path leading away from the small town and into the world of “literati and artists.” My parents belonged to the generation that transformed their lives through study. Our ambitions differed, but I grew up in that charged environment.

When I graduated from high school, I chose to go to the Central Academy of Fine Arts. Our teachers encouraged us to pursue our ambition in Beijing. I became obsessed with the idea of “reading ten thousand books, traveling ten thousand miles.” I never see art purely as a profession or interest, but a path leading to a better world. It means freedom, meaning, value, and can bring me a touch of happiness amid difficulties. Art is like a wooden plank drifting across the sea; you don’t know whether you can reach the shore, but you have to keep paddling. Along the way, you may meet companions and feel less alone. That’s why I have never adhered to a single form. Despite the training at the art academy, I always believe that expression can move freely between media, and I don’t worry if it can be categorized as “art.” 

Art as Shelter

I love contemporary art and am grateful for the identity of an “artist.” It’s like an amulet: Artists can be whimsical; they can fail or work across disciplines. They can even do nothing at all; just live your life. To me, the world of art is a shelter, a gathering place for “heterogenous individuals” who could understand each other. The sensitivities of my adolescent years found protection in this shelter.

Initially, I wasn’t particularly conscious of gender; I just started with bodily experience. Twelve Flower Months stemmed from a cyclical perception but was flattened into “feminist art.” Later, in Post Twelve Flower Months, I used mosaics to reflect on that oversimplification. Fill in the Blanks was a piece charged with feminist consciousness. It’s both a resistance to the institutional and capitalist logics and a determined departure. I released the work right before the International Working Women’s Day as a critique of the stereotypes imposed on female artists: getting married, giving birth, and retreating from the art world. It was widely believed that I “gave up art because of my marriage.” At first, I tried to explain, but gradually I began to understand that retreat was a decision requiring no explanation.

During those fifteen years, I never left art. I enjoyed conceiving. I didn’t necessarily need a concrete “outcome.” When art once again became a private realm to me, I began to have a clearer idea about when a work needed to be realized and when it could remain in my mind. Fill in the Blanks took this kind of “brain cell exercise” to the extreme. Retreat doesn’t mean a perpetual exit, but a rigorous and determined artistic method.

In 2003, after years participating in exhibitions, I decided to retreat, allowing art to become fully personal. I migrated across different countries with my husband, living a leisurely, drifting life: exercising, planting vegetables, and studying. Quiet and beautiful. But when I approached middle age, I began to question if I wanted to have connections with the society. I tried charity work. But eventually I found art remained the language most familiar to me.

In 2018, Positive Art Research Center (PARC) was initiated. I gave myself a new name: Alice Chen. It’s a pseudonym, a new kind of agency. Rather than an institution, it’s an umbrella title for all of my practices, grounded in a clear ethical and social orientation. The so-called “positive” draws on the Confucian logic of “actively entering the world”—of doing something “useful”—while indicating a vision: Art still has the capacity to summon utopia, even though it does not exist.

Rather than a slogan, “positive” symbolizes a standpoint that is active, lucid, and charged with ethics and social consciousness. It does not evade darkness but keeps alive the possibility of turning toward the light. My work from then on—Project Terrace, my writings, interviews, and on-site creation—has all had a public dimension. Even private works look for communication and response. That’s very different from the “Lingyang Chen No. 2” period. Works produced during that period remained self-contained. But during the “Alice Chen” period, they have needed to extend outward. It is a gesture of re-entering the world, a return after retreat.

JC: I’m conceiving a “space,” hoping to turn my home into a semi-open shared space. Rather than a private residence, I want it to become a place that is intimate yet not closed. We plan to host podcasts, salons, and screenings. Small as the space is—living in Shanghai is expensive—communication within it could be deep and profound. For me, it’s not just a mode of living but also a response to the question of “how to live, how to create.”

AC: This kind of “apartment art” has regained popularity in recent years, especially after the pandemic. In Hangzhou many friends have also turned to opening their homes—not necessarily for exhibitions but as sites for communication or as “artistic nodes” in life.

JC: We used to believe that art has to happen within an institutionalized space, leading to a separation between life and creation. But art and life are intrinsically inseparable. When you truly see creation as part of your life, it would naturally seep into your conversations with friends, family relationship, writing, cooking, even the sense of time as one watches plants grow. Now we prefer to see ourselves as “creators” since the words “writer” and “curator” carry too many implications. When I entered the art world, the system was already quite mature. Many of the writings and much of the curatorial work followed the logic of “Others set the questions and I give answers.” During the three years of the pandemic, this mode became invalid. I even experienced a sense of aphasia. At the time, I had to ponder: “Without a topic assigned by others, what do I want to write?” The pain lasted just for a while, but it made me realize that subjectivity is not what others say you are but what you urgently want to express when facing the world.

AC: We’re quite alike. It is the uncertainties felt during the pandemic that pushed me back into the art world. The ideas behind PARC and “Alice Chen” had been in my mind for some time. But the pandemic made me realize that the virus crossed all borders—humanity suffered together. Rather than being trapped at home scrolling on my phone, I’m better off taking on some interesting project. Project Terrace was the result of that. Artists couldn’t produce masks or food, but we could still act. I used the dependent subsidy to organize events, distancing myself from any cell phone or depression. Many artists joined, and a community formed naturally. Is “Shanshui” Useful Today? was an extension of that line of thinking. My goal is not very ambitious: I just want to find soft yet powerful ways within the existing conditions to continue life and give it meaning. We may not be able to save the world, but we must not surrender to despair.

Is "Shanshui" Still Useful?: An Experiment in Cultural Responses

AC: Is “Shanshui” Useful Today? was a project I initiated in 2023. It stemmed from my post-pandemic reflection: In a time beset with challenges and uncertainties, what can art do? When the pandemic came to an end, the Russo-Ukrainian War broke out. I was deeply affected. At the same time, with the rapid development of AI, what future awaits humanity? I can only address all these great questions in the role of an artist. Could shanshui, a unique form of imagery in Chinese culture, hold renewed relevance today? How could it serve contemporary people and even be shared with the world? That’s the starting point for the project. After nearly fifty years of development, has contemporary Chinese art fully digested its own history? Could we contribute something new to the global history of art? When could we truly stand grounded in our own cultural DNA and face the world with dignity?

Shanshui is both a visual system and a philosophy, a social stance and a way of life. Be it the narrow sense of literal shanshui or the broader ethos of shanshui philosophy, it supports reflection on our conditions. Through this project, I wanted to rediscover the relevance of Chinese art in the contemporary world. It was no coincidence that Hangzhou became the place for the project to take place: West Lake is an exemplary site of humanistic shanshui. And it is where I studied and now live—so it carries both lived and cultural resonance.

In terms of form, I structured the project around “outdoor events and actions at West Lake,” putting emphasis on bodily engagement and path generation—an approach that extends the inner logic of shanshui painting, with its traditions of wandering, contemplating, and recording. The project has gradually developed into three components:

1. Curation: inviting curators to develop thematic programs and public engagement
2. Residency: renting a small apartment as an archive site and space for communication
3. Actions: forming a “Pure shanshui” WeChat group where over 100 participants revisit shanshui through bodily experience—walking and hiking

Later a fourth component will be added, “Pan-Shanshui,” encouraging more open-ended forms of practice. Rather than a fixed “spatial box,” the project builds a fluid structure across the outdoors, the body, and the everyday—anchored in action and in movement.

JC: I feel your project is at once rooted in tradition and responsive to the contemporary context. It extends the imagination of shanshui and gives rise to new forms. This resonates with my postdoctoral research on diasporic aesthetics, which ultimately returns to shanshui as well.

AC: Thanks for saying that. I wonder if you have noticed that whenever China’s external environment becomes tense, people tend to resort to shanshui. I started planning the project during the pandemic. Back then, few people in the art world were talking about shanshui. But now, it seems, everyone is talking about it. It’s not merely a strategy, it is an inner urge. Shanshui has already been inscribed in our cultural DNA.

JC: I agree. Actually, when artistic practice turns toward shanshui, you may find a more metaphysical kind of spiritual grounding. Politically oriented work often involves struggle, confrontation, and ideological collision. It’s an aggressive and directional means of expression. However, what shanshui provides is not confrontational dialogues but a spatial and spiritual unfolding where the tone and profundity shift fundamentally.

AC: Absolutely. I’ve recently been revisiting the choices of intellectuals during the early encounters between Chinese and Western cultures. They sought pathways of integration amid crises: Cai Yuanpei advocated for “aesthetic education in place of religion”; Li Shutong turned to Buddhism; and others decided to retreat from public life. Artists also pursued diverse directions: Liu Haisu and Chang Yu embraced Western avant-gardes; Xu Beihong put emphasis on realism and the public; and female artists touched the heart with their images. Looking back upon their different choices allows us to build spiritual connections across time.

JC: That’s true. And there are scholars working on this topic. I believe many will resonate with such discussions.

AC: Totally. I’m also very interested in the relationship between shanshui and Chinese artistic practice, as you just mentioned. Shanshui has become a part of our cultural DNA. It’s just there, and we barely notice it. Recently I’ve been asking myself: Do I have to become an “international artist”? The anxiety behind that question comes from the logic of “success.” The turn to shanshui might be a way of reclaiming subjectivity. The question may not be about “where to achieve success” but “where to start.” To transform my home into a space, in a positive sense, is an opportunity for art to anchor in the everyday and reach our inner world.

Lost at Home: Finding Settlement While Drifting

I often think of an anecdote: When Mattero Ricci arrived in China, he presented the emperor and officials of the Ming Dynasty with a world map that placed China at the center. This arrangement catered to their worldview yet gently sparked their curiosity about the outside world. I think this kind of “cartographic thinking” can also be internalized on a personal level: If the macro-world is contracted to the individual, then the body—our spine—is the central axis. This “center” doesn’t exclude the outside but lays the foundation for outward exploration. We can stand firmly in ourselves while remaining open to the world.

JC:  You’ve already responded to the tension of “lost at home.”

AC: I’ve long been wondering: How can I settle myself in a place away from home?

JC: Actually, here contains two opposite concepts. For people of my generation, many study or work abroad, and are constantly on the move. The notion of home becomes blurred. “Home” no longer equals “belonging.” The old metaphor of falling leaves returning to the root no longer fits. We constantly ask: Where am I now? Where is my spiritual anchor? The more and longer you migrate, the more at a loss you feel, which is always accompanied by anxiety and a sense of crisis.  

AC: I do understand. The drifting is not only geographic; instead, the entire world feels as if it’s floating. Because of my husband’s work, I often cannot choose my place of residence. Life becomes light but lacks an anchor. I’m still searching: Should there be a specific place to which one is culturally and emotionally attached? Without it, even when “looking toward the world,” something essential feels like it’s missing—a cultural texture that allows true settlement. In this regard, I become increasingly aware of the sophistication of shanshui culture. Be it painting, calligraphy, or the underlying philosophy, it is intricate and refined in ways that are absent from Western traditions. Certainly, I oppose the narrow-minded nationalism; but we should have confidence in the genuine brilliance of our culture. Such confidence is not exclusionary but open and sharable. Shanshui can become a path for contemporary art to converse with the world.  

JC: Your metaphor of the “spine” is beautiful—centering oneself while opening outward. That’s the way for us to “settle ourselves in the world.”

AC: Yes. My motivation behind the shanshui project is not nostalgia but an attempt to reactivate the spirituality embedded in it in new ways. The current Western enthusiasm for topics such as nature, decentralization, and ecology resonates closely with our own shanshui worldview—it’s separated only by a thin membrane. Shanshui is never a closed concept; that’s why it can be re-layered and reinvented generation after generation. Such expansiveness lays the foundation for it to become a contemporary language.

JC: I want to ask a question beyond the outline. I’m conducting archival research on Chinese female artists for the Asia Art Archive. I’m curious about whether, back in your time, you were ever exposed to the concept of “feminism.” In what context was it discussed and understood?

AC: I was in Beijing around 2000. Back then, there were few women in the art circle. Discussions on politics, philosophy, and art history were almost entirely dominated by men. If a woman wanted to get involved, it was often seen as a “transgression,” which might push her off the list of “favored” artists and affect her exhibition opportunities. At the time, male artists and curators had engaged in heated debates about whether they wanted to be called a “Chinese artist,” arguing that the label implied they were selected on the basis of a “quota.” I wondered why they couldn’t understand that we resisted the label of “female artist.” Wasn’t the internal logic the same?

I always believe that to truly solve gender issues requires equality of positioning—not the passive acceptance of labels. In the old system, power was not distributed in an equal way. As a woman, you had to endure both “special treatment” and invisibility. The good news is that, in recent years, many outstanding female practitioners have emerged. More people are beginning to reflect on gender structures. Today we can discuss feminism more openly, without avoiding topics like the body, emotion, and power. As I enter my menopause, I even feel that to some extent I have “transcended gender” and become the “third sex,” a state that gives me more freedom.

Now that I look back upon Twelve Flower Months, the label of “female artist” was a double-edged sword: It brought both opportunities and reductive interpretations, even misinterpretation. In fact, my practice spans multiple directions, but it is often overlooked. I’m an art practitioner, rather than someone defined by the label “female artist.” To be able to read, create, and initiate projects freely now is a relief. At last, we no longer have to explain anything about being women; we can just do what we want. That’s quite good.

THE INTERVIEWEE

THE INTERVIEWER