Part 2: The First Step in Rebuilding Identity

Allowing Yourself to Be Both Rational and Sensitive

What do the three characters “艺术家 / Artist” mean to you?

A few days ago, during a studio visit with a gallery owner, we happened to talk about this. I told him I felt the word “artist” was too heavy, something I didn’t feel entirely worthy of. He laughed and said:
“Compared to most people, you absolutely deserve to call yourself an artist.”

That made me reflect: what does “artist” actually mean to me?

Honestly, I prefer calling myself “a person who paints.” I’m not always certain whether I should use the word “artist” when introducing myself. The label “Chinese artist” helps others quickly understand what I do, but to me the word feels heavy.

If I must differentiate, I think the difference between an artist and an art hobbyist is mindset:
whether you treat creation as your profession.

Professional and amateur athletes differ not because professionals are more emotional, but because professionals actually need less emotion. It sounds counterintuitive, but a professional artist needs discipline. I know what needs to be done, what steps must be completed. Even the parts I don’t love — social media, promotion, administrative tasks — if they are required for the profession, I must do them.

It’s like being a CEO during my startup days. Maybe I didn’t enjoy sales, but as an early-stage CEO, I had to meet clients, pitch the company, articulate the vision everywhere. That was simply part of the role.

Art is the same. Different people love different parts of the process — the imagination stage, the making stage, or the exhibition stage. But every artist still has to frame their work, stretch canvases, communicate with galleries, arrange shipping, handle logistics.
If you choose the profession, you must carry its responsibilities.

So to me, “artist” means a kind of professionalism:
turning your passion into a vocation, while balancing both the sensitive and the rational sides.

When did you “gain” or “lose” the right to create?

I believe we never “gain” nor “lose” the right to create.
We are born with it.

When we’re children, we already create:
conversation is a form of creation, writing social posts is creation, drawing lines on paper is creation, taking photos of people we love or places we see — all creation.

For me, creation is a state that already exists within life.
This right isn’t granted by the outside world — it comes from the inner desire to express.

The only time I might feel like I “lost” the right is when someone tells me what I can or cannot say — when external pressures limit expression. Social context matters, of course; some topics have real constraints.

I think of Huang Yongping’s 1990s works, or his controversial piece at the Guggenheim that was later removed. Or Kara Walker, whose silhouettes depict racial and gender violence. Their works push boundaries of comfort, but I believe such voices deserve their space.

So the right to create lives within us —
but entering society means navigating the boundaries of reality, ethics, and expression.

When you said “I want to make art,” how did people react, and how did you respond?

The first time I said this seriously was when I decided to transfer from St. John’s College to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I had already prepared my portfolio, recommendation letters, and received my admission. Only then did I tell my parents over our weekly family video call.

They were surprised at first but ultimately supported me.
I know I’m lucky — I am deeply grateful to them. Throughout my life, whether it was my interest in computer science (which made them happy), leaving Apple, or founding a startup, they always supported me.

Because of this, I rarely felt the need to seek permission from others to “do art.”
As I grew older and more independent, I no longer needed anyone’s approval to pursue what I want. I can simply do it — because it is my life.

Are you afraid of people asking, “What right do you have?”

Not at all. I’ve heard this question many times, not just in art.

When I wanted to learn computer science, some people said:
“You’re from an art school, what makes you think you can learn programming?”
Maybe they assumed I wasn’t smart enough or that my math was bad. But I knew I could do it. Once I proved myself, the voices stopped.

When I started pursuing art, people said:
“You didn’t attend an arts high school, your parents aren’t artists, why you?”
But once I got into the Art Institute of Chicago, the questioning stopped. After graduating, even more so.

During graduate school, when I applied for internships, someone said:
“If you get into Apple, I’ll be shocked.”
He thought my coding skills were weak. And honestly, at the very beginning, they were. But I worked hard. People might underestimate your ability now, but after half a year, a year, three years, or ten years — results speak.

Recently, when I began children’s art workshops, parents asked:
“Do you have experience teaching kids?”
I said no. Some looked down on me. But I am professionally trained in art, so I went to parks every Sunday with large sheets of paper. In a few weeks, I had taught nearly fifty kids. And now no one questions whether I can teach children.

There will always be people who say “you can’t.”
Whether you studied art or didn’t study art — someone will still say “you can’t.”

But life is based on action, not noise.

So no, I do not fear “What right do you have?”
If anything, it motivates me to do even better.

If you didn’t have to define yourself by profession, how would you describe yourself?

I would say:

I am someone who loves beautiful things.
Someone who loves dogs.
Someone who loves interacting with people and helping others discover their potential.

How do you now answer the question “Am I too late?”

I don’t think art ever has a “too late.”

Look at Louise Bourgeois — she moved to New York, spent years as a homemaker, raised children, but never let her creative fire die. She worked across decades, and produced profound work even in old age.

That’s the beauty of art:
There is no age limit.
In fact, the more we live, the deeper our work may become.

So no one is ever “too late.”
As the saying goes:
“The best time to plant a tree was ten years ago. The second best time is now.”

Pick up the pen, make the first mark — that is the beginning.
Instead of asking “Am I late?”, ask:
“If I begin now, what can I do today?”

Start first, adjust on the way.
The path becomes clear by walking.