Prologue: A Letter to Those Who Want to Come Closer to Art

Why do we begin longing for a “new beginning”?

Self-Introduction

I’m beginning to record a series of Q&A reflections for Becoming an Artist: Artists Handbook. Through these questions and answers, I hope to gradually shape the structure and thinking behind this book. All the questions come from conversations I’ve had over the years—with friends, and with people who came to me for questions about becoming an artist.

Hello everyone, my name is Xiao He—He as in “celebrate,” Xiao as in “small.” I’m from Chengdu, Sichuan, born and raised there. I came to the United States for college. The first school I attended was a liberal arts college called St. John’s College, where I studied classical literature.

Later, I met a pair of Tibetan thangka artists. We spent a few days together, and after those days I told myself:
“I want to be an artist.”

I was deeply moved by their way of being. They were a married artist couple—unhurried, gentle, never rushing to sell their work. If someone was drawn to their thangka paintings, they would share and explain; and when no one was around, they simply ground pigments in silence and painted, stroke by stroke. Their pure concentration touched me. They weren’t performing or trying to gain anything. They were simply immersed in the act of creating. In that moment, I realized that art is a way of conversing—with oneself and with the world.

Later on, I worked in the tech industry and also had my own startup. This past summer, I finished a two-and-a-half-year entrepreneurial journey. I’m currently in a stage of reflection and transition, and in this mindset, I started writing Becoming an Artist: Handbook. Even though I’ve switched between many roles in recent years—tech, entrepreneurship, research—my art practice has never truly stopped. The only long pause was during my first year of graduate school at Carnegie Mellon University. That year was exhausting and overwhelming, but even then, I kept going to museums, visiting galleries, taking notes, thinking, and staying in a slow but continuous state of creation.

I’m very happy to share that earlier this March, I had a solo exhibition at Reisig and Taylor Contemporary in Los Angeles. I was also selected as the 2025 Berkeley Art Center Jury Award Artist. My exhibition was reviewed in Artillery Magazine, and I’ve participated in many group shows—including at Et al. Gallery in San Francisco, the Palo Alto Art Center, 4C Gallery in Los Angeles, and exhibitions in New York, London, and Paris. I’ve also received several residencies and grants, including Kala Art Institute in Berkeley, the Cubberley Art Studio Program supported by the City of Palo Alto, an upcoming residency with the King’s Foundation and the Royal Drawing School, and the CCI (Center for Cultural Innovation) Artists Grant.

I see myself as someone who has experience in tech, entrepreneurship, and the arts. I understand structure, systems, and logic—but I also understand creativity, emotion, and freedom. I want to organize these experiences and thoughts into a handbook that can help others—especially those who also want to become artists. I truly believe that becoming an artist does not mean abandoning reality; it means returning to yourself and rebuilding your connection with your inner world.

Q1. When was the first moment you felt, “Maybe I want to live a different life”?

Honestly, I’ve had many such moments. I don’t think “changing one’s life” is a single dramatic turning point. It’s more like constant micro-adjustments. Like tasting dishes: you don’t know what you actually like until you try them. Maybe you’ve always eaten Sichuan food, but only after trying Spanish, Italian, or French dishes do you realize how many possibilities exist.

My own “life adjustments” have been like this—exploring, tasting, trying.

If I must pick one moment, it would be around my graduate school graduation. That was when I clearly realized that I wanted to be an artist—not necessarily a “full-time artist,” but someone who lives a life where art can naturally coexist with daily life.

My first year at Carnegie Mellon was extremely difficult. I came from the very idealistic environment of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago—an ivory-tower-like space where everyone talked about beauty, ideas, and imagination—and suddenly landed in a world filled with code, engineering, and product cycles. I struggled so much that first year. I spent every morning debugging code (this was pre-ChatGPT), forcing myself to understand concepts that came more easily to others.

That struggle made me realize something clearly for the first time:
I needed to return to art.

When the year ended, I picked up my brushes again and began asking myself:
What kind of life do I truly want?

Eventually, I moved to New York and painted every day. It was pure joy. But I also realized that if my life only contained art and nothing else, I would feel the world shrinking. I’m a curious person; I need learning, contact with the world, ideas from different fields.

So when I received a job offer later, I struggled deeply. I had originally planned to do art full-time, but I also knew that if I wanted independence—not relying on parents or a partner—I needed a way to support myself.

I eventually accepted the job, telling myself:
This is hard, but it might open doors for my future self.

So really, my “moment of wanting a different life” wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was many small impulses: the urge to explore new possibilities, to live widely first before choosing where to go deep.

That, to me, is also a form of art.

Q2. Where did this impulse to get closer to art come from?

It depends on the stage of my life.

The earliest impulse came when I met a pair of thangka artists during college. Their way of living left a deep imprint on me. They were calm, patient, never rushing to sell their work. If someone was drawn to their paintings, they would chat; when no one came, they simply ground pigments and painted quietly.

That purity moved me.

They weren’t performing, not chasing attention—just fully immersed in creation. I thought:
Art is a way of being with oneself and the world.

Later, I learned more about them—their love story, their life in Shenzhen, their studio above a teahouse. They traveled the world together for exhibitions, came home to create quietly, and lived with gentle independence.

It was the first time I saw a life I genuinely aspired to.
So my earliest impulse wasn’t about “becoming an artist,” it was about longing for that kind of free, warm, grounded life.

Q3. How did you once define “success”? Has art changed that definition?

Everyone defines success differently. Some associate it with wealth, some with status.

I often think of success through the lens of Maslow’s hierarchy. Once basic needs are met, people begin wanting to realize a larger version of themselves—perhaps to help others, create impact, or contribute meaningfully.

That’s partly why I do volunteer work, community programs, and write this handbook. I want to extend something beyond myself.

A little exercise I use is:
If someone wrote your Wikipedia page after you’re gone, what would it say?

I imagine roles I want to hold—artist, educator, investor, someone with a loving family, someone who contributes to institutions that shaped me (for example, I’ve always dreamed of donating an art building to St. John’s College).

Has art changed my definition of success?
Surprisingly, no.

Because “success,” for me, comes from my core values as a person, not the field I’m in. Art, tech, entrepreneurship—these are simply different pathways through which I practice the same inner principles.

Q4. If you could say one sentence to your past self, what would it be?

During my time at Carnegie Mellon, I was lost—emotionally, socially, academically. I recently revisited Pittsburgh and walked past those familiar streets. It made me realize how young and overwhelmed I was back then.

I would tell that version of myself:
This is only a storm inside a cup. Your life will keep moving forward.
As long as your heart stays true, you’ll swim out of the turbulence into open water.

Q5. How do you see the idea of “starting point” now? Are you still waiting to be “ready”?

I don’t believe anyone is ever truly “ready.”
Just like the saying:
“The best time to plant a tree was ten years ago. The second best time is now.”

I strongly believe in starting now.

If you want to learn programming, open a website and start learning.
If you want to learn art, there are countless resources—Instagram, YouTube, public art school courses.

I used to wonder:
“Do I have enough authority to write a handbook? Shouldn’t someone more accomplished do it?”

But then I realized:
If artistic experience ranges from 0 to 10, maybe I’m at 6 or 7.
That means I can help those who are at 1–5.
Everyone can help someone.

So no, I’m not waiting to be fully ready.
Now is the starting point.