Xiao He

www.xiaohe.studio

Q: You just had your first solo exhibition in Los Angeles last weekend, and now you're back in San Francisco. How did it feel when the exhibition finally opened? And how are you feeling now that you're back to your daily routine?

A: I was quite tense preparing for the exhibition. The gallery approached me last August about doing a solo show. I thought this show was important to me, so I started preparing from that moment. I used various project management methods, updating the gallery monthly on completed works and progress.

By last December and early January, I began preparing art documentation and discussing the curatorial plan. In February, I was constantly traveling between Los Angeles and San Francisco. When the exhibition finally opened, I felt such relief—like crossing the finish line after a marathon.

The opening night was both exciting and exhausting, talking to different people non-stop. I was especially concerned about taking good care of friends who had traveled far to attend. While I felt somewhat shy with strangers, I felt I should greet them and introduce myself since they had made the effort to come. Now back in San Francisco, it feels quite natural. I can finally cook at home! In Los Angeles, I was always eating out, and my lips got blistered from all the restaurant food.

Q: Could you introduce yourself?

A: My name is Xiao He—"He" as in "congratulate" and "Xiao" as in "small." I'm from Chengdu and came to the United States at 16, first landing in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I loved it there, and although I've lived in many cities since, I still consider Santa Fe my second home. Later, I studied art at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, went through some other experiences, then returned to creating art while also doing other things. Now I live in San Francisco.

Q: I'm curious about those "other things" you mentioned. You once said you have two different versions of self-introduction: one for the art world and another about your other experiences. Could you share both?

A: In tech or entrepreneurship settings, I typically introduce myself as Xiao He, who studied computer science at Carnegie Mellon University for my master's, then worked at Apple on the Vision Pro Algorithm team doing Machine Learning Data Platform. Now I'm running a startup in San Francisco focused on Medtech Regulatory Affairs.

Q: That's interesting. When you introduce yourself in these two different ways, do you switch to different states or personalities? Or is it just two different narratives?

A: My personality doesn't change—I'm always myself, which is essential for internal consistency. But the narrative definitely differs. When meeting people, you might only have a few minutes, and too much information is hard for others to process.

So with tech people, especially in entrepreneurial circles, I generally don't mention my art. Only when relationships develop into friendships do I occasionally bring it up. The art and tech worlds are quite distant from each other, so I also don't actively talk about my tech startup with art friends.

Q: One of your paintings in the exhibition is called "Double Life," featuring an eye. Is this depicting your own dual identity?

A: Absolutely! Though I didn't write that in the exhibition notes (laughs). The painting was inspired by the 1991 film "The Double Life of Veronique." When I watched it, it resonated deeply with me. I often feel like I'm standing between two different worlds when creating art and working in tech, observing both.

I wouldn't call it "watching from a distance," but I do feel split between two worlds. In the art world, I can see things about the tech industry that I wouldn't notice while immersed in it. Conversely, in the tech startup environment, I can view the art world's workings from an outsider's perspective.

Q: Can you tell us how you started studying art? And what later led you to learn programming and even shift toward technology?

A: I actually first encountered technology in high school, before leaving China. I worked on a tech startup project with friends, where I served as the product manager. Though it was just a high school project without significant results, it introduced me to programming.

A friend's mother was a computer science professor who introduced some of her department's students to help with our development. That might have been my earliest exposure to programming.

When I went to study art, I wasn't entirely sure about pursuing it as a career. My first college was St. John's College in New Mexico. It was on a mountain, very secluded, with all courses in seminar format, focused on reading and discussion. We studied the Homeric epics, ancient Greek, and classical music. Overall, it was a very free, ivory tower-like learning environment.

During my time at St. John's, I happened to meet a Tibetan Thangka painter. That experience moved me deeply—he was completely immersed in his artistic creation. After spending three days with him, I became determined to pursue art! So I transferred to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

While at St. John's, I had already started teaching myself programming, initially through Codecademy. I didn't find programming particularly difficult—the hardest part is that people think it's difficult and avoid learning when they see code. But it's just another form of expression, one that's very concise and logically clear.

During my time at the Art Institute of Chicago, I took evening computer science courses at a nearby university. The courses weren't particularly difficult, and I did well, mostly getting As. By graduation, though my degree was a BFA in Fine Arts, I had essentially completed the equivalent of a minor in computer science at the neighboring university. With this background, I applied to Carnegie Mellon University, and that's how I entered the software field.

Q: It's hard for me to summarize your experience. Usually, if someone decides to be an artist, they might learn technical skills to find income-generating work to support their artistic creation. Or, some people are interested in art, but more as a hobby rather than a career path. But for you, it seems both paths are 100% committed career paths, which is quite unusual.

A: In college, despite being at an art school, I never truly believed I could become a professional artist. At the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I saw so many talented people and thought, "I could never be an artist like them—they're the ones with real talent."

So learning programming was partly self-consolation and avoidance. At art school, I felt I might not become a "genius artist," so I found a more practical path. I was genuinely interested in programming and saw it as a solid skill, which is why I gradually went down that route.

Q: Do you feel it's because your personality is more rational and organized, unlike the typical "artist" image? Do you sometimes feel you don't quite belong in that circle?

A: Yes, I often feel that way, even today. I don't smoke, don't drink, go to bed at 10 PM, and wake up early. This is very different from the typical image of an artist. But I'm also not entirely a typical engineer, so I've always been a bit confused.

I used to wonder, "Am I an artist?" Later, I realized everyone has their own lifestyle, and you don't need to conform to stereotypes about artists.

Moreover, these two professional identities complement each other. Creating art has helped me better understand the importance of branding in startups, which has greatly helped me in tech entrepreneurship. On the other hand, tech entrepreneurship requires me to constantly meet investors and clients, showcase my projects, and convince others to believe in them. This ability has influenced how I approach art, making me more proactive in reaching out to others, doing studio visits, and meeting new artist friends. These two worlds actually enhance each other.

Q: Could you elaborate on what differences you see between these two fields?

A: For instance, when doing art full-time, I often felt a sense of powerlessness. I quit Apple in 2022, truly determined to pursue art full-time. I worked hard, painted every day, constantly thinking, "How can I make this my career?"

I put in so much effort, but sometimes it felt like punching into the air, never finding traction. I was using all my energy, but it seemed to dissipate into nothing. I kept wondering—what wasn't I doing well enough? How could I do better? But the reality was, for all of 2023, I might have had only one or two exhibitions, with opportunities being painfully scarce. This left me feeling dejected, so I kept observing, trying to understand how successful people in the art world made it. I desperately wanted to find a pattern, to see if there was a path to follow.

Honestly, it was so difficult. When looking at art or working with galleries, the power dynamics often felt strange. From an outsider's perspective, being an artist seems wonderful—like artists just casually paint in their studios without having to work a regular job. But when you're actually doing it, you discover—it's incredibly hard! However, difficulty isn't a bad thing; it made me realize that many things can't be achieved through effort alone. I was terribly frustrated at the time, feeling I had tried so hard, yet still couldn't succeed.

Later, when I started my startup, I had a comparison. I discovered that in entrepreneurship, meeting clients and investors is so easy! Sometimes, investors are even chasing after you, wanting to meet. I thought: wow, this is completely different from my experience in art.

So I often feel that after doing art, entrepreneurship is actually quite easy. Many things fall into place naturally with clear logic. Whereas art? It also has its commercial logic, but much of it is passed down by word of mouth, without being explicitly stated.

Q: Looking at your exhibition pieces, if no one had told me you were also an entrepreneur or working in Machine Learning, I wouldn't have imagined it. Your paintings are very quiet, contemplative, capturing many subtle emotional states. What state of mind are you in when painting? Creation usually connects with life's rhythm. If I only saw your paintings, I would imagine you as someone with a slow pace of life, introverted and meditative, not as an ambitious entrepreneur.

A: Haha, it is funny. When I later told the gallery owner I was doing a tech startup, she asked what kind, and I said "MedTech Regulatory Affairs"—she burst out laughing. Indeed, these two identities feel quite disconnected.

But people change with their environment and context. In my studio, which isn't at home but in a separate art space, once I enter that space and change into my painting clothes, I naturally enter an introspective, quiet state, more like being alone with myself. When attending startup events or meeting investors, my state is completely different. I dress more formally, and my energy state is also influenced by the environment, adapting like water to the shape of its container. These two states may seem contradictory, but for me, they coexist.

Q: How would you describe your paintings? Do your works have specific themes? How do you typically start a painting or a creative phase?

A: My current paintings mainly draw from films and literature. From movies I've watched, I select compositions, colors, or emotions that particularly move me. If a film, book, or image truly touches me, then I'm motivated to paint it.

Because the process of painting in oils is lengthy. From preparing the canvas, applying gesso, to layering colors, drying, and revising... it requires a lot of time and energy. So, I must ensure what I'm painting is "worth painting."

Q: You mentioned literature—do you have specific examples?

A: For example, I read Vanessa Springora's memoir "Consent". She recounts her relationship at thirteen or fourteen with a much older writer. The book reflects on how she mistook sexual exploitation for love at the time, and later in middle age, she looked back on this experience and wrote this book.

Q: Did this book become one of your paintings?

A: Yes, that's the green painting with the man in white clothes. It eventually became that piece in the exhibition.

When I read that book, I was deeply moved, completely immersed in those emotions, unable to break free. Later, I very much wanted to create something with it as a background. Then I found a 2023 film adaptation of the book. Watching the trailer, one frame particularly struck me: a man sitting in a café, his figure gradually blurring, with a girl's profile beside him. At that moment, I knew I had to paint this.

So I borrowed this composition as a reference, but for colors, I chose an intense green. I don't know why, but I just felt this painting had to use deep green. I painted it many times, making countless revisions, before finally settling on the version shown in the exhibition.

I think the most difficult and special part of artistic creation is—you have an emotion, or a state that's hard to describe, which becomes the starting point for creation. But throughout the painting process, you need to master materials, adjust composition, and eventually transform it into a physically existing work. How do you ensure the final image retains the initial emotion? That's really challenging.

Q: Yes, the emotion in painting belongs to a moment, while the entire creative process is lengthy. How do you manage this?

A: That's the most difficult part. Emotions might belong to that specific moment, but painting heavily emphasizes "execution." I've had times when my heart was turbulent, yet I couldn't paint anything at all.

Especially with oil painting, the material properties dictate a slow process. You paint one layer and need to wait for it to dry completely, which might take a day or two or even longer, otherwise the colors will smudge. Everyone's habits differ, but I usually wait for it to dry before continuing. So this is a process of continuously reviewing and adjusting the image until completion.

In the end, the painting might be completely different from the film frame I initially wanted to paint. But what's most important is maintaining awareness: "Why did I want to paint this in the first place? What was my state of mind then?"

This state of mind changes with time, but I always try to hold onto it. For instance, with that green painting, the color was initially very light, but one day I suddenly felt: "I need to paint the entire background an intense green, leaving the man in white there, creating a dazzling, even somewhat frightening white presence."

After boldly changing the color, I felt: "I've done the right thing."

Q: So in your creative process, do you often have moments of "I've done the right thing" or "Oh no, I've ruined a painting"?

A: Haha, of course! This happens all the time. Sometimes, I make one change and suddenly feel: "Perfect, that step was right!" But often I think: "What was I just doing? I've completely ruined the painting."

So painting is full of uncertainty, which is also why it requires courage. Especially when you've painted to a "good enough" state, but feel something is missing, that's when you need to force yourself to take that step. Like jumping into cold water, you have to force yourself to try. That stroke might destroy the entire painting, or it might make the painting truly complete.

Q: In your experience, which happens more often? Are more paintings ruined or successful?

A: Haha, of course more are ruined! But if you don't dare take that step, it's hard to get good works. I think if I can get one particularly good painting out of twenty or thirty, I'm very satisfied. It's impossible for every painting to become a classic—that's unrealistic.

Q: In your exhibition space, there was a painting with a completely different style hanging near the drinks area. I asked the gallerist, and they said, "Yes, that's also her work, from an earlier period." If they hadn't told me, I would have thought it was painted by someone else. Could you talk about the background of that painting? Why has your style changed so dramatically?

A: Yes, indeed. This exhibition is interesting because it happens to be during a period when my style was changing significantly.

Previously, my painting style was more rugged, more "brutal." I would use a palette knife to scrape and destroy the surface, with very intense brushstrokes. Later, to be honest, I discovered my paintings often frightened people, which made me sad. I never intended to create such a horrifying feeling, but when I heard people's feedback saying my work was depressing, even asking, "Do you have psychological trauma?" I felt very hurt.

Q: Was it people from entrepreneurial circles who found these paintings too intense?

A: No, not just people from entrepreneurial circles. Basically, anyone who wasn't from the art world often had this reaction.

I have many friends who create art and can understand my work. But some non-art friends would completely fail to understand: "Why do you paint these things?" I really cared about this feedback, although many people would say, "Stick to your style, don't worry about what others think." But later, I wasn't even sure myself—was I painting to stay true to myself, or was I changing because of others' opinions?

Many people looking at my paintings would say, "Do you really like Francis Bacon?" Indeed, I do appreciate his work, but I don't want to be a copycat. Gradually, I started disliking some of my past works. They made me sad, and I even felt resistant to looking at them. I began to change my style, perhaps also because my state of mind changed during this period.

I found myself becoming gentler, painting more slowly, and my works became quieter. This, to some extent, reflected my inner state.

Q: Do you think this style transformation was the result of conscious adjustment, or did changes in your living environment naturally influence your creation?

A: Mainly changes in my living environment, though there was some conscious adjustment too.

When I first moved from New York to San Francisco, I was still working, then resigned to do art full-time. At that time, my paintings were very bright, and I was very happy, completely immersed in creation. But later, I found myself painting increasingly darker works. Not that "dark" is necessarily bad, but I felt I was working hard on painting yet couldn't find an outlet or direction.

During that phase, I often heard comments that my paintings were frightening. For artists, such critiques aren't necessarily negative. But personally, hearing these words hurt me. I wondered: "Why do my works give people this feeling? Is something wrong?" This left me confused and discouraged.

Later, gradually, my overall state became more peaceful. Looking back at my works, I noticed the lines had softened, and the colors had brightened somewhat. These changes aren't easily perceived in the moment, but when you look back after half a year or a year, you'll find that paintings are the most honest things—they record your inner state and witness different stages of your life.

Q: Yes, creation itself is very honest; it authentically reflects one's life state, which is what makes it precious.

A: Yes, exactly. But at the same time, it's impossible to avoid being influenced by others' opinions. I don't think I'm strong enough yet to completely disregard what others think. When someone looks at my work in silence, or says something that makes me uncomfortable, I'm still affected.

Q: This solo exhibition must be a milestone moment for you, right?

A: It truly is. After the exhibition, many galleries began contacting me proactively, but I have no more works available, so I can only thank them for their interest and wait until I have more new works to do studio visits.

Q: Do you think there's a connection between your style transformation and the increased opportunities you're now getting in the art world? For instance, earlier you tried hard to enter the art world but didn't get much response, and now galleries are actively contacting you—is this directly related to your style change?

A: Interesting question. I'm not sure if the two are directly related, but indeed, these two timelines do overlap.

When I first tried to work with galleries, my style was still very intense. I worked hard to connect with galleries, but the response was lukewarm. I was very confused at the time—why, despite all my efforts, were opportunities still so scarce? I'm very grateful to the gallery I'm currently working with. When they first saw my work, my style was still quite rugged and brutal, but they liked this style and were willing to exhibit my work.

Later, my style gradually changed, and it's been adjusting from last year until now. But they never questioned or rejected my changes; they completely accepted them. They understand that an artist's work changes, as does the person themselves. This makes me very grateful.

Q: So, did you worry about this before? For example, the gallery initially liked a certain style of yours, but when you changed, did you worry they wouldn't like it anymore?

A: Of course I worried! I used to think: "The gallery liked me that way, but now I'm developing in a different direction—will they be unhappy?"

Later I thought, who cares! I'll paint however I want. If they accept it, great; if not, so be it. I think—what's most important is how artists themselves feel. Many times, artists find a formula or style that works and just keep repeating it. But this actually erases the most authentic, most sincere part. With too much stylization and self-imposed limitations, how can you break through?

So I think even if my current painting style isn't consistent, that's okay. It's not like all paintings have to be the same size, same color, same feeling, same theme to be good. If you appreciate it, that's fine; if not, I'll still paint my own way, however I want.

As an artist, you often face yourself alone, creating in the studio. But inevitably, when you want people to see your work, those around you will give feedback. When this feedback differs from your expectations, you start to doubt yourself. And even without external feedback, there are moments of self-doubt when facing yourself.

Q: So how do you decide when to stick to your own ideas? And when should you consider external feedback or address your own doubts?

A: That's a great question; I wish I knew too (laughs). But my current thought is—if artists chase trends, they'll always be behind them. For example, now on Instagram, there's a trend of linear abstract works, but honestly, sometimes as I scroll, I can't tell whose painting is whose. That's terrible; it shows some people aren't being true to themselves. They're imitating, not creating. This leads to artwork looking all the same, lacking personal style.

So I think artists sometimes need to look less at Instagram and more at art history.

Q: Do you still not fully understand how the art industry works? Do you think successful artists mainly rely on luck, connections, or is there some formula for success?

A: That's a good question. I definitely don't have the complete answer yet.

From my observation, success in the art world requires "effort + opportunity + luck"—all three are indispensable. I can only control the "effort" part; the rest is completely beyond my control. But success isn't entirely random either. For example, how did I connect with my current gallery?

In February 2024, I went to Los Angeles for a medical device regulatory conference. After the conference, I had a few hours of free time and casually visited some galleries. I had intended to see one gallery, but it was closed for installation. I thought "since I'm already here," so I walked into the adjacent gallery. As soon as I entered, I felt the exhibition was excellent. Their curation style and the works on display really attracted me. For instance, one piece had the artist's deceased pet fish sealed in wax, placed in a wooden installation—exhibiting such work requires courage, which I greatly admire.

So I chatted with the gallery's curator for a long time. At that point, I had no intention of exhibiting there; I was just attracted to the exhibition and felt it was worth discussing. Towards the end of our conversation, the curator suddenly asked: "Since you're also an artist, why not send me your portfolio?" I said, "Sure." After going back, I sent my portfolio but didn't have high expectations. A week or two later, they replied: "We really like your work; would you like to schedule an online studio visit?"

Then we arranged a video call, which went well. Towards the end, they suddenly said: "You have a painting that would be perfect for our next group exhibition; would you like to participate?" Of course I agreed. That's how our collaboration began. Later, I participated in two group exhibitions and two art fairs, and then in August last year, they decided to give me a solo exhibition.

So there's luck involved—if I hadn't gone to that conference, if I hadn't stumbled into that gallery, perhaps none of this would have happened. But if I hadn't put in the effort, if I hadn't prepared enough works or a mature portfolio, even if the opportunity came, I wouldn't have been able to seize it.

Q: Hmm, do you think this is somewhat "mystical"?

A: I think it's practically workable, but sometimes it might just take that little extra push for a completely different outcome.

I've had similar experiences before. When I first started doing art professionally, a Paris gallery curator contacted me through Instagram asking for my portfolio. I was really excited but only sent about a dozen photos taken with my phone—ordinary quality photos. Then, I never heard back from them... At the time, I didn't know what I'd done wrong. Looking back now, it was very unprofessional.

This has happened many times. Some curators would initially say excitedly: "I love your work; let's arrange a studio visit!" But if there was a slight delay, like if I got sick and needed to reschedule, they'd say: "No problem, take care of yourself." When I recovered and contacted them again, they wouldn't respond.

I would feel upset at first, but after experiencing it enough times, I got used to it and just let it go.

Q: Will you continue to do both entrepreneurship and painting? How do you allocate time between these two careers?

A: Definitely, though the focus varies by period. Last summer, my startup wasn't very busy, so I was in the studio almost every day. These past two months have been extremely busy, so I might only get to the studio one day a week. There's some periodic scheduling, but most of the time, I adjust based on the current situation. Recently, I've been traveling frequently to Los Angeles, with many meetings, so when I'm in LA, I do things that must be done there, or can only be done in the studio.

Back in San Francisco, meetings still need to be attended, and tasks can't be neglected. The week before the exhibition opening, I had several important meetings that required me to return to San Francisco, but the exhibition was already arranged, so I could only fly back temporarily and then return to LA. During that time, I felt like a spinning top, never still, completely unable to stop. Fortunately, the exhibition has now opened, and things will be easier going forward. I finally have more time under my control.

Q: Would you recommend all artists find a side career? Or do you think they should try to make a living from art as much as possible?

A: I think everyone's situation is different.

If someone can happily focus on creating art, that's actually a great blessing. My current situation is because... actually, I feel a bit ashamed, but I haven't gotten much fulfillment from art. These past few years, I've been sincerely committed to making art, but my self-esteem has become very low. I really dislike when people say: "You're supported by your partner; you don't have to worry about money because someone else is taking care of you."

Hearing these words really makes me sad. I never saw myself as someone incapable of supporting myself—how did I end up like this? It's not about proving anything to others, but telling myself—"you are a valuable, capable person." Because during these years of making art, my confidence dropped to rock bottom. From childhood to adulthood, I had never experienced such low self-esteem until these past few years.

Q: Even now, with a solo exhibition under your belt, you still feel this way?

A: It's better now, but the process has really tested me.

You spend all day, every day in the studio painting, but you don't know where these paintings will go, or when they'll be seen. One year is okay, two years is okay, but what about three, four, five years? If the feedback you hear during this time is still very negative, it's even more difficult. Some artists can completely ignore external voices, which is truly impressive. But I can't do that; I can't ignore what others say.

I can give myself pep talks, brainwash myself: "It's okay, keep going." But at the time, I was really affected.

Q: As an immigrant, although you came to the United States at sixteen or seventeen, understand the culture here well, and have lived here for many years, have you encountered difficulties having your work accepted in this cultural environment? Do your experiences and expressions affect how people here understand you? Might they struggle to accept or understand your style, themes, or ideas?

A: To be honest, I haven't encountered this situation yet. I don't think I've faced issues where people in Western contexts couldn't understand my work. Of course, some people don't understand my work, but that's a personal matter; I don't think it's because I'm Chinese.

Perhaps it's because my art education from the beginning was received in the United States, so the entire trajectory of Western art history is familiar to me, and my creative approach follows this path. Relatively speaking, I know less about Chinese art history because I haven't had the opportunity to study it systematically. This is both fortunate and regrettable.

I have tried to learn, for instance by reading Wu Hung's books, or studying Tang dynasty art and ancient paintings. But it always feels like "scratching an itch through one's boot"—never truly getting to the core. However, when making handmade books (bookbinding), I use both Chinese and English in my creations, because these two cultures are deeply rooted in me. So I don't feel much contradiction.

Q: In recent years, identity politics has been particularly prominent in the art world. No matter what you do, people first look at your cultural background and identity. Some artists actively embrace these identity labels—what's your view? How does this affect your creation?

A: I think identity and an artist's work are inseparable. But for me, being female may have a greater influence on my work. For example, when reading Vanessa Springora's memoir or other literary works, I can particularly empathize. This resonance isn't really related to whether the author is Chinese, American, or French. So, while I don't reject identity politics, my work isn't limited to a "China vs. the West" framework.

Q: When interacting with the American art scene, have you felt they pay special attention to your identity? Or treat you differently?

A: I haven't felt this. But perhaps there is, and I'm just too unobservant to notice.

Q: This might be related to the Chinese community you mentioned. In America, especially in New York and the Bay Area, there are many Chinese cultural communities, whether in art or film. Do you feel that while living here, on one hand identity isn't important, but on the other hand, you need this kind of cultural community?

A: Yes, absolutely. My best friends are undoubtedly all Chinese. Artistic dialogues can cross cultures, but in personal life, having people with the same language and cultural background makes interaction more comfortable and empathetic.

In the Bay Area, there are many people similar to me. They might have come here early for education, then stayed to work in various industries. Some are in tech but still love culture, art, film, etc. I feel particularly happy when I'm with them.

Q: In recent years, I've felt that in the art field, who sees your work, who promotes it, is closely related to the history, culture, and focus of art institutions in that place, and even to the backgrounds of those acting as "gatekeepers." The American art scene, especially curators and museum directors, is still predominantly white, right?

A: Yes, they certainly have their own history, aesthetics, and preferences.

Q: Do you think it's easier to communicate with people who share your cultural background? And for white curators, might they be more inclined to choose artists with cultural backgrounds similar to their own?

A: You make a good point. The art world is particularly focused on "connections"; some people find it easier to establish relationships, while others are more distant. But for me, doing my best work is most important, while also trying to extend outward. I don't think it's necessary to curry favor or please anyone.

Art should be built on mutual respect and appreciation. If we can communicate, resonate with each other, or if my work moves you, that's wonderful. But if you're exhibiting my work just because we're friends, that's meaningless.

A friend once said something I completely agree with: "I never network with curators. I just focus on making good work." Of course, her educational background and platform are excellent, so she has that confidence. But I think this mentality is worth learning from.

Ultimately, what truly speaks is the work itself. If an artist relies solely on connections or hype, that heat comes quickly and goes quickly. But if you can create work that truly moves people, that's the key to long-term standing in the art world. So I focus on doing my best work, and the rest will follow naturally.

Q: Finally—what similarities do you see between being an artist and being an entrepreneur?

A: There are so many similarities! For instance, I think professionalism is extremely important. If an artist is very talented but never arrives on time, doesn't deliver work on schedule, takes 20 days to reply to emails, then whether in art or entrepreneurship, success will be difficult.

Working in the tech industry has helped me develop many good habits that also help me be a better artist—such as professionalism, punctuality for meetings, and maintaining smooth communication with galleries. Additionally, many things require initiative. Although artists collaborate with galleries, which should handle most non-creative matters, this doesn't mean artists can just "lie flat." Many times, people advance through a process of mutual help and cooperation.

So this spirit of collaboration and professionalism is completely common to both art and entrepreneurship.

Interview on March 11, 2025, online interview