Interview with Ara Yun Qiu
Seeking a creative life with a sense of diaspora

Editor's Note: Moving between Beijing, New York, Shanghai, Berlin, and Haikou, curator Ara Yun Qiu’s trajectory has slowly woven a personal diasporic landscape. In her varied work, ranging from the moving image to exhibition making, from institutions to community, from female identity to cross-cultural experience, she addresses the material conditions and inner urgencies shared by a generation of young art practitioners through action and writing. At a time when the globalization of contemporary art is decelerating, local resources are being reconfigured, and individual rhythms are reawakening, her practice is rooted in both bodily experience and cross-institutional cultural insights. During our interview, she leads us through her journey in an extremely subtle way and responds to the question preoccupying many women art practitioners today: How can we work, live, and love?

By Ara Yun Qiu; Jenny Chen

From Beijing to New York

JC: Let’s start with a self-introduction, such as your educational background and experience overseas.

QY: I was born in 1989 in Jiangyin, Jiangsu Province, and gained my BA in broadcasting and television directing at the Communication University of China. I moved to Beijing for my undergraduate studies in 2008, partly because I was excited about the upcoming Olympic Games and partly because I aspired to becoming a journalist. As one of the “last generation of TV children” and a “small town girl,” TV was my way to see the world, and I longed to be closer to its “center.” Another thread drawing me toward that “center” was art. I had studied painting since childhood and was always passionate about beauty and creation. I attended the summer camp organized by the Academy of Arts and Design of Tsinghua University in my second year of high school. That was my first time I visited Beijing. At the time, the entire city was immersed in the fervor of preparing for the Olympics and I was captivated by its openness and vitality. As a result, on every line of my college entrance exam application form, I wrote the name of a university in Beijing; and in the end, I was accepted by the Communication University of China through the early admission system. While studying at CUC, I made several documentaries and curated student film shows. Looking back now, I think these were my earliest curatorial experiments. For graduate school, I attended the Art and Public Policy program at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. The program integrates art with social issues. Its emphasis on socially engaged artistic practice aligned with my long-term interest in the public sphere. And for me, certainly, the move from Beijing to New York represented another attempt to be closer to the “center.”

Practicing in the Fissures of the Institution

JC: Did you know about the 798 art district at the time?

QY: During my undergraduate years, the museum I visited most often was the CAFA Art Museum. But it was in New York that I began to systematically engage with contemporary art. Through my internships at MoMA and Asia Society, I got to know more about the field of contemporary art. After returning to China in 2015, my first job was as curator at Shanghai Long Art Museum, where I had the chance to oversee the large-scale James Turrell retrospective. This experience made me realize the positive role I could play in collaborative projects between China and other countries. The long lines outside the museum and the exclamations  of approval from the audience imbued the work with a profound sense of purpose. In the years that followed, I worked at several other art institutes and returned briefly to New York for a residency. In 2019, during a period of rapid growth in Shanghai’s contemporary art scene, I joined the UCCA Center of Contemporary Art and was involved in establishing UCCA Edge. But the pandemic plunged our daily work into unprecedented difficulty. Every international collaboration depended entirely on online communication, and we were all engulfed by anxiety, panic, and depression. As curator and head of the small team, I felt compelled to act as an anchor in the middle of a storm. That’s exhausting. After the spring of 2022, my team and I realized Thomas Demand’s first solo exhibition in China at UCCA Edge. After that I decided to quit, as I wanted to “go out” again. Despite all the difficulties, that period significantly enhanced my professional capacities and connected me with many mentors and friends. While preparing Demand’s exhibition, I not only formed deep friendships with the German team but also got to know more about German history and culture through the artist’s work. At the end of 2022, I applied for two programs, one in Hong Kong and one in Berlin, as a way to express what I have been reflecting on over the past few years. With support from the M+ Sigg Fellowship for Chinese Art Research, I co-founded the research collective Grey Matter with Lin Luqi and Wu Xiaofan, focusing on the early conceptual practices of Chinese women artists. In 2024, we shared our findings in publications and public lectures.

In early 2024, I spent a year in Berlin as a resident fellow with the support of the German Chancellor Fellowship. At the same time as conducting research, I was also thinking about my future direction. During my stay, I finally met Thomas Demand and his team in person, fulfilling the wish left unrealized during the pandemic. In early 2025, after I returned to China, I started preparing “aware house,” an art space in Haikou. This was the first time I actively “distanced myself from the center,” attempting to cultivate a new field in a city away from the hubs of the art world. Perhaps, after years of the anxieties and fatigue that life in the “centers” brings, I began to long for a creative life that has a sense of the diaspora and a rhythm in sync with itself. I certainly want to continue engaging in artistic projects across different regions, carrying forward my curatorial and research practices—with “feminism” as a consistent thread running through my work.

Curatorial Practice as a Woman

JC: You have moved back and forth several times between New York and Shanghai—particularly after participating in some key developments within Shanghai’s contemporary art infrastructure—before returning to New York and later moving to Germany. The word “diaspora” can be used to describe the transformations and mobility across these phases of your life. How do you view this experience? Or perhaps you could reflect on it from a comparative perspective—what it’s like, for example, moving between the Chinese and Western cultural/art systems.

QY: My experience of “diaspora” hasn’t been especially intense. But I have also felt a sense of “rootlessness.” The small town I come from has gradually become unfamiliar, yet I haven’t found another place to truly settle down in. The constant movement and the process of embedding myself in different contexts have also broadened my perspective on the world. For instance, when observing younger artists today, I notice that in China they are just like their peers in other industries and inevitably caught up in the “rat race”: age anxiety and peer pressure are ubiquitous. In Europe, by contrast, a better welfare system offers artists a more relaxed environment in which to create and the long-term conditions necessary for growth. (Immigrant or diasporic artists are faced with very different conditions.) I don’t think one system is absolutely better than the other. The system in Europe may keep people in a prolonged state of being a student or encourage them to approach art more as an interest than as a profession. But is it necessarily a bad thing? Probably it is the constant movement that has enabled me to constantly question the criteria by which a “successful artist” is defined.

JC: In connection with this, could you also talk about the process of awakening your feminist awareness?

QY: As a child, I didn’t have a clear feminist awareness. As an only daughter, I received unconditional love from my parents and never felt constrained by my gender. But as I entered adolescence, gender differences began to surface. Social pressure on young women could be felt almost everywhere. During my university years, I had a strong sense for the first time that I was being objectified. The campus felt like a theater with all kinds of “gender performances” on stage.

When I started working, gender issues surfaced again. I realized I was not just a curator but also a woman curator. To avoid being sexualized, for a time I gave up dresses and makeup in order to diminish my femininity—only to find myself constantly trapped in what might be called “Mulan’s plight.” Eventually I decided not to “perform masculinity.” I have always believed that in a healthy workplace, the core of leadership lies in professional competence rather than masculinity. I also got positive input from my professional achievements at work and the supportive team environment. But still, a certain degree of internal friction is inevitable.

What I’m particularly grateful for is that gender issues have gradually entered the broader public sphere, making it legitimate to discuss them. When you are still an “island,” it’s almost inevitable that you will feel at a loss. At that time, I had few women predecessors in the field, and information did not circulate as easily as it does today. The good news is that women’s perspectives have gradually permeated all walks of life, and discussions on this topic have become more frequent, open, and profound. We could finally exchange insights, share experiences, and mutually affirm one another.

I came to feminist reading relatively late. It probably began with Kim Ji-young: Born 1982, which gave me my first mental confirmation that East Asian women had a shared experience. Since then, I have read works by scholars such as Chizuko Ueno, Silvia Federici, and Dai Jinhua, and through my research I have also engaged with the writings of Tao Yongbai and Liao Wen. In my daily reading, I am particularly drawn to women writers, such as Dubravka Ugrešić, Lin Yihan, Yoko Tawada, and Han Kang. Overall, my reading hasn’t followed any systematic or academic trajectory and has mainly been guided by my passion as an ordinary reader. Recently I’ve been reading books by Tove Jansson and Cho-yeop Kim.

Mobility and Resettlement

QY: In Western contexts, my identity as an Asian often overshadows my identity as a woman. In other words, when I am viewed as an “other,” gender takes the back seat, while race and even class come to the fore. This typical experience of “intersectionality” has given me a more comprehensive understanding of gender issues.

The “old money system” is particularly prominent in the art worlds in Europe and the US. A job offers moderate pay yet requires a high level of taste, academic competence, and social resources—qualities that usually require long-term capital accumulation and are hard to achieve through individual effort alone. I became aware of these “invisible thresholds” rather late. When belief in the idea that “hard work pays off” collapses, it’s natural to feel emptiness and frustration. It also pushes me to reflect on how, at a time when class structures have become rigid, individuals can tackle the unfair structure and sustain the motivation to keep working.

During the pandemic, I had a strong sense that art institutes in China were faced with unprecedented challenges, and this pressure has lingered. Everyone in the field is facing an “unspoken” reality: a lack of funding. It’s the elephant in the room—impossible to ignore yet hard to tackle. “Money” relates not only to the macro-level development of the industry but also to the living conditions of those working in this field. I realized how little I knew about “money.” After years of working in nonprofit institutions, I tend to avoid talking about money, consciously or unconsciously. But such avoidance makes the discussions on the issues hollow, like mirages in the air.

It was around this time that I became aware that the German government had initiated “Neustart Kultur” in 2020 and was planning to invest 1 billion euros to revitalize the cultural sector, followed by another 1 billion the following year. I was deeply impressed by the speed and scale of this public support, which triggered my curiosity about Germany’s cultural institutions. To my mind, Berlin is a city shaped by post-socialistic memories and an anti-capitalist spirit. The rhythm and atmosphere of the city seem to offer an entirely different cultural experience from that of highly capitalized metropolises.

This led me to apply for the German Chancellor Fellowship with a focus on the performance of nonprofit art institutions in Berlin during the pandemic, the implementation of government support, and strategies adopted by institutions and individuals to tackle the crisis. At the end of 2024, when I was about to leave Germany, Berlin announced plans to cut the cultural budget by 130 million euros in 2025, prompting strong protests across the art field. It made me realize that though large-scale financial support could invigorate cultural vitality in the short run, its sustainability and stability remained uncertain at a time of recurring crises.

Interweaving Race, Gender, and Culture

QY: In the meantime, I also felt a certain sense of exclusivity as I conducted my research in Berlin’s art ecosystem. Despite the diversity of exhibition content, institutional staff are mostly native German speakers. Core positions such as curatorial or research roles typically require a high level of German proficiency, something that is almost impossible to acquire in the short term. Fundamentally speaking, Germany is not an immigrant nation and lacks diversity in its cultural DNA. As an Asian woman, finding a place in this system is undoubtedly challenging. While a very small number of individuals manage to break through these constraints, this line of thinking inevitably draws me back into the trap of meritocracy. Yet wasn’t my move here motivated precisely by the desire to escape the endless cycle of self-justification and to pursue more possibilities?

JC: Beyond that, did you experience any cultural constraints?

QY: The issues East Asian feminism is concerned about seem a bit old-fashioned in the German context. Questions that remain urgent and that I’m still living with seem to have become history here. I have a deep sense that in the global wave of feminist movements, there are indeed “time differences.” In Berlin, I often felt I was not “cool” enough. As a heterosexual Asian woman, I seemed to be at the bottom of an unspoken hierarchy of coolness. Nightclub culture, aesthetic preferences, and lifestyles often became some kind of competition over who was “cooler.” It is probably thanks to my moving between environments with such different value systems that I have gradually come to realize that there’s no end to the process of adapting oneself to the constantly changing rules. The only solution is to establish one’s own criteria. Only in this way can genuine subjectivity take shape—much like feminism itself, which was created by subjects who could not, and would not, conform to patriarchy.

“Aware House”

JC: I’d like to talk about the relation between “home” and “identity.” I feel your family has been very supportive, and your reflection on identity probably comes more from external experience. I wonder if your family of origin has also shaped another dimension of “home”—namely, your choices of intimate relationships.

QY: I come from a fairly “matrilineal” family, in which my mom has always been the decision-maker. I’m very close to her, and I consciously maintain that intimacy. For nearly a decade now, each week I’d spend several hours having in-depth conversations with her, sharing everyday life and discussing social issues. I see her as a true friend. At first, she was anxious about my decision not to marry and have children. But through our continuous communication, she gradually came to understand my choice and no longer regarded it as willful. She would collect the books I was reading, without me knowing, to get to know shifts in my thinking. I believe many women have the capacity to absorb new ideas; and for me, a feminist, my mom is precisely the person I most want to reach. That’s also one of the reasons I chose to return to China: We have always been a source of mutual support and nourishment for each other. JC: Besides your own romantic experience, I wonder if your parents’ relationship also makes you realize that a stable long-term romantic relationship is not a necessity. It seems you don’t have high expectations of it, which is also evident in your podcast series analyzing the “romantic brain.”

QY: I don’t reject intimate relationships. But neither do I think they are a must. In ClipClop, a podcast I co-produced with a friend, the most popular episodes revisited classic Taiwanese idol dramas. Through a feminist lens, we re-examined the works that had once shaped an entire generation’s imagination of romantic love. Many of our listeners, just like us, are able to clearly recognize the flaws in these romantic narratives; but they also agree that holding onto such fantasies is not something to be ashamed of. Intimate relationships are, after all, a profoundly complex subject. The good news is that they’re optional.

JC: During the screening program Speaking into the Mirror: A Lonely Prologue at Goethe Open Space, there was a film that had particular significance for me. The queer filmmaker from Wenzhou used a Super 8 camera to document the process of coming out to his mother, faithfully recording her reactions as well. When I watched it, I cried. It reminded me of my own confrontation with my family when I spoke about my decision to divorce. In their view, it was a betrayal of “family.” The film moved many audiences and made me realize that a lot of people chose not to “go back home” not because of the physical distance but the emotional ruptures with their family of origin. The capitalized “Family” and lower-cased “family” are often intertwined. But it seems you’ve chosen an alternative path: not rupture, but reconstruction. Rather than abandoning the idea of “family,” you try to re-situate it in a freer and softer context. So I’d like to end our conversation today with this question: How do you view your current “diasporic” condition? Is the decentralized way of life a response to your past experience? Is it a new chapter of life you’ve actively chosen to open up?

QY: I’m not an adventurous person. I’m even a bit conservative, looking for stability. To launch “aware house” in Hainan Province is a surprising decision, even to me. But amid growing uncertainties, I have come to realize that to pursue stability in a passive manner cannot truly alleviate inner unease.

Speaking of “diaspora,” compared to those who are forced into a diasporic state, the people who can make an active choice to leave are lucky. To me, “diaspora” or “migration” is a small, personal response to the conditions of our time, an attempt to engage with the present by shifting one’s living environment. By doing so, I hope to create some breathing space and allow myself to maintain sensitivity and curiosity vis-à-vis the world around me. That’s already enough. My quiet, restrained period of living in Berlin last year had a profound impact on me; and it was during that period that the idea of “aware house” began to take shape. “aware house” can also be read as “a warehouse,” indicating a space that resonates with the body and the mind. Ideally, “aware house” is not merely an exhibition space but also a community to support woman’s artistic practice and research. It embodies my vision to build connections—with my mom, and with other women. I hope “aware house” can become a place that is away from the “center” yet gives people power and nourishment to sustain them.

THE INTERVIEWEE

THE INTERVIEWER