Louisiana Museum
of Modern Art
Gl. Strandvej 13
Humlebæk
+45 4919 0719
Made in China
March 16-August 5

The Estella collection comprises more than 250 works from all disciplines of visual art: painting, sculpture, photography, installation, video, ink drawings and prints. From these Louisiana has selected about a hundred works which on the one hand offer a fine insight into the many currents that are moving through contemporary Chinese art at present and on the other hand provide an introduction to art which is on its way at lightning speed to an important position on the international art scene.

Artists in modern China have struggled for a position in Chinese society — despite restrictions on freedom of speech and resistance from the regime. Since the 1990s, small enclaves of artists, especially in Beijing, have defied the difficulties involved in expressing themselves, and have continued to show their art in humble places until interest from both China and abroad turned the spotlight on an exuberant growth layer which is today making an important contribution to the profile of the country. The artistic idioms and statements are many: we cannot speak of Chinese art as such, rather about the exuberance and experimentation at which the exhibition takes a closer look.

The breakthrough for contemporary Chinese art at one and the same time reflects the global perspective of art and a great country which, amidst a radical transformation of society, is on its way to playing a striking role as one of the world’s leading nations in the 21st century. The enormous changes that are gripping the whole of society are leaving visible traces in the works of the artists, where subjects are treated individually in an area in flux between past and present.

Classic subjects — landscape painting, for example — give rise to contemporary images of nature different from those with which we are familiar in the west; at the same time a technique rich in tradition like ink-wash painting is introduced into experimental and challenging frameworks where the Chinese written character, to take another example, is manifested with the human body as ‘canvas’, and the calligraphic symbol is developed into pure abstraction. Works with their point of departure in bodily action play a considerable role in the exhibition and reflect even more nuances of a formal idiom whose codes are different from ours. The tradition from a thousand-year-old culture is thus present as one legacy, even when it is a China in radical movement that is reflected: huge social and town-planning restructurings, the administration of the legacy from the Mao period and the immediate political horizon around the country’s new position.

The extensive reforms in China and the ruthlessness with which they are implemented are central to the work of several artists. As the old China is being torn down with profit in mind, it is being replaced by reinforced concrete. There is no nostalgia in the almost unreal transformation of China from isolated monolith into global trading nation.

Wang Jinsong's One Hundred Signs of Demolition is a good example of art that is rooted in social reality. The sign written on the buildings in the hundred photographs means "To Be Demolished." The hundred signs may refer to an ancient Chinese tradition that goes back to the Jin Dynasty of the 12th-13th century. The character for long life is written in a hundred different ways and calligraphed on silk scrolls, embroidered on carpets, and inscribed on stones or on the surface of plant pots and teapots, which then make popular birthday gifts, especially for the elderly.

Ai Weiwei stands with a Han Dynasty urn in his hand. He lets it go, and it is smashed. The work is literally out of the hands of the artist: he can control it up to a point, and probably know more or less what will happen, but the exact result is left to chance or physical reactions beyond his control. Yet Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn is not just about control; it is also a transformation of something functional into something else. Ai Weiwei takes a historical work of art and destroys its nominal value while creating a contemporary conceptual artwork.

These two photographs were made in connection with a series of installations and performances by Zheng Lianjie and other artists in a mountain area near the Great Wall of China over a period of seventeen days. With help from assistants and a large group of volunteers Zheng collected more than 10,000 pieces of rubble from the grass along the Wall and carried them up to the top of the Wall. Afterwards, 300 metres of red cloth were wrapped around the stones, and they were spread out over a 300-metre stretch of the Wall. Each stone represents the past: wrapped in red (a colour used in funeral rites to summon the soul) and moved from their original position to prompt reflection, the stones erect a memorial to the many people who died in the past building the Great Wall of China.

Song Dong sits in the Lhasa River in Tibet with a large wooden stamp in his hands. Again and again he slams the stamp, into which he has cut the Chinese character for water, into the river, which is barely affected by his acion. The project is hopeless from the outset: the properties of the water are different from those of paper, even if the physical process seems to be the same. When the artist brings his stamp to the surface of the water, the result simply disappears.

The processual in the creation of art is the focus of this work, but it is difficult not to see the political connotations, too. The Chinese character for water is stamped on a Tibetan river, which — literally — is not impressed by this violent pressure from the outside, and the work can be interpreted as a comment on the Chinese/Tibetan conflict.

Bat Project I, II, III Memorandum documents in images and texts three earlier works by Huang Yong Ping, all taking their point of departure in the diplomatic crisis that arose between the US and China when an American spy plane was forced down over southern China in 2001. The work seen here is not directly about this event, but tells the story of the three preceding works, which reconstructed parts of the famous spy plane. All three were removed by the Chinese authorities from the exhibitions in which they were to appear. Bat Project I, II, III Memorandum is a documentary description of the grotesque diplomatic situation in which the artist's works became involved.

Xu Bing's installation The Living Word consists of more than 400 Chinese characters hovering in space — characters from different Chinese periods for the word bird. The installation emphasizes their visual power and offers a dynamic explanation of the way in which Chinese writing culture developed from simple representations towards more and more abstract signs. The character starts at the top as a recognizable bird and then flies through time, which gradually transforms it until it becomes the present-day abstraction. In the end it lands on a plate that reproduces a dictionary entry about the character (in translation, "Bird: a type of terrestrial vertebrate, endothermic, oviparous, pulmonate, feathers all over its body, the hind part can walk, the forelimbs become wings, can fly."

Chairman Mao goes to Anyuan is the title of one of the most famous images of Mao Zedong. During the Cultural Revolution this painting — which showed a young, strong, idealistic Mao against a mountainous ladnscape, gazing with determination into the future — was reproduced in hundreds of millions of copies. All those who lived through the Cultural Revolution know this picture of Mao, which, along with other propaganda images, filled the public space. Yue Minjun's picture bears the same title and the landscape depicted is the same, but the figure who dominated the original is no longer there. In Sui Jianguo's Legacy Mantle, the Chairman's jacket, the basis of the uniform worn by all Chinese under his regime, is a hollow shell. The age of Mao has passed, but the landscape in which he stood remains, and this triggers the memory. It reminds us of what has been: the regimentation, the uniformity, and the ideology.

Memory has become a central theme in a country that is changing at lightning speed, where physical monuments to the past are being eradicated one after another. Shao Yinong and Mu Chen work with memory, and their Assembly Hall series is an attempt to preserve a fragment of the past that is disappearing. The photographs show the halls that were used for local political meetings during the Cultural Revolution. Some now serve different purposes, others stand quietly decaying. Since 2002 the artist couple have spent months traveling around China looking for People's Assembly Halls. the photographs resemble one another, Because the photographs were taken from exactly the same angle every time, they resemble one another and clearly form a series.

Chen Shaoxiong constructs three-dimensional street scenes from photographs of cars, pedestrians, advertising signs, bicycles, and so on. Afterwards, he takes the street scene and holds it up in front of a real street to photograph it. Unlike ordinary photographs, whose instant reproduction of the subject has a documentary aspect, Chen Shaoxiong's photographs reveal themselves as what they are: constructs in which the artist changes and manipulates reality. The ordinary photograph is insufficient, he claims, since it leaves out far too many things, and his street series can thus be seen as an attempt to construct a truer image of the eternal mutability and changing dynamics of cities- and of today's world in general.

The Four Seasons was a popular and very widespread subject in classical Chinese art. Altough Hai Bo's photographs on this theme may be ingeniously staged, the landscape in his pictures is real enough, the same site viewed throughout the year. But because the seated figure always assumes the same posture, the work takes on a symbolic character. The passage of time, the erecting of monuments, and similar ideas associated with memory are central to Hai Bo's art. And at a time when many people are turning their backs on both nature and tradition (if they have the material resources to do so), his work seems particularly compelling. What we see is actually only there for the split second as the shutter is released — after that something has changed. The artist thus assumes the role of ferryman between the present and the past.

Feng Mengbo's film Q3 begins with the news on CNN, a report on shootings, then cuts to a digitalized version of the artist's own body, moving around in a virtual, violent 3D world and reporting on what he is experiencing as if he were in a real war zone. Cao Fei, too, deals with the slippage between reality and fantasy in her COSPlayers (an abbreviation of Costume Players) series. But this time the opposite has happened: the virtual world has become part of the real one. China's young COSPlayers, inspired by Japanese popular culture, assume the identity of their favorite characters from futuristic anime films and stage mock battles to save the universe. Their costumes and other props give them magical powers with which they can liberate themselves from an otherwise rather dull reality. And Cang Xin's work raises the fundamental question inherent in the young people's attempts to forge an identity for themselves, an identity that is strikingly different from that of their parents. By changing clothes with people in various occupations, this artist asks: Is identity is something you put on, or do you have it even when you are naked?

In Liu Dan's view, stones and rocks represent the essence of the Chinese people's sense of time and space; this is where the "stem cells" of the landscape lie hidden. In the classical tradition they make up a microcosm, a small-scale world that is typically arranged in the dwelling or garden. Stones direct your thoughts towards the natural landscape and a more profound order and, as an artistic intervention, they unite nature with the man-made. The text prescribes dedication to nature, the renunciation of frustrations and everything worldly. In Su-en Wong's feministically motivated incorporation of young women in the landscape of the tradition, however, the traditional element in the work is subjected to considerable pressure.

Opera by Miao Xiaochun is about dramatized forms of presentation in the broader sense — the representation of nature in the rocky landscapes of Chinese art and the Zoo's arrangement of so-called nature around the animals. In Opera we are both comically close to the apes and tragically cut off from any real naturalness — just as China is at present brutally cutting off many traditions and large stretches of the landscape, replacing them in leaps and bounds with new constructions. A figure in a historical costume — a mannequin of the artist, in fact — bears witness to this, just as the conspicuous landscape format reflects the disjointedly successive reading of classical Chinese picture scrolls. The work provides a glimpse of what once was, but it is also about the premises on which one can create any continuity at all in life.

As early as the 1980s Gu Wenda began creating his pseudo-writing works. At first the character in the work Mythos of Lost Dynasties e-3 looks like readable Chinese calligraphy. The character is a construct, however; it cannot be read, even by those who know the many variant scripts of the Chinese writing culture. Yet there is just a possibility that the particularly knowledgeable will discover that this is a combination of two other characters and might thus be said to mean something specific. The character (written in "seal script" dating from 1200 BCE) was made up by the artist, who trimmed down, rotated, and combined two signs, hua and shi. Hua is part of shenhua, which means "myths"; shi is part of liushi, meaning "lost."

On the face of it Qiu Shihua's canvas looks empty. At first one may think of Western minimalism and works by artists like Robert Ryman or Piero Manzoni. But the canvas is not empty. If you look at it for a long time, a landscape will slowly begin to emerge on the canvas; but it takes time — and that is perhaps the point: this work cannot be experienced in passing. You must take the time to experience it. The calm and meditative have always played a central role in Chinese art. Lake is in that sense a traditional Chinese work of art, but it is painted on canvas, not on paper, and is thus moving from the traditionally Chinese towards a modern universal statement.

Xing Danwen's poetic work Sleepwalking shows images from big cities and appears dreamlike and unreal. It is not easy to get one's bearings, and it is hard to say where one really is. Each city looks like another; the distinctive has been replaced by the general; and in the new globalized world the individual walks around as if in a dream state with indefinable city sounds in the background. The trunk that floats in space is made in a style characteristic of the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) and the historical distance also elevates this practical object to a degree of generalization: It is the baggage you always have with you in the more metaphorical sense, an image of memory on which the many different impressions are projected and in which they are stored.

Qiu Zhijie's Grinding the Steles consists of a video and five imprints. The artist has taken the tombstone of an American girl who died in 1915, and that of a Chinese man who died in the year 526 (his tombstone tells us that he was friendly, reliable, and loyal to his friends). Over a period of two weeks, the tombstones were ground against each other, causing the inscriptions on both stones to disappear gradually. During the process Qiu Zhijie took regular impressions of the stones, which help to document the gradual erasure of the writing. Together, the five imprints and the video became a symbol of time slowly effacing the individual from memory. At the same time, the work is an obvious comment on global development and the parallel erasure of cultural differences, which ultimately may result in complete uniformity devoid of national and regional peculiarities.

Conscious dialogue with tradition is expressed in several ways in this room. Qin Feng's West Wind East Water 0604 looks at first like a piece of ordinary calligraphy, but the paper is colored with coffee and tea. Wang Tiande's calligraphic works are characters and landscape combined. The characters mean mountain, river, and so on. The works are painted on the traditional xuan paper used for calligraphy, but cigarette burns have been added at the end, clearly leaving their mark on what are otherwise traditional works. Qin Feng and Wang Tiande are both pointing to the inevitable impact of modern (Western) culture on the tradition, which does not necessarily mean a deterioration; the changes may bring new creative expression. Zhou Tiehai makes calligraphy with an airbrush — and Zheng Guogu turns everything on its head, although his agenda looks like that of the others: he has had the icons of popular culture (film stars, mobile phones, books about sex, etc.) sewn into a carpet. The modern is woven directly into the traditional, and vice versa.

Wang Keping was a member of the famous group called "Stars," artists who exhibited works critical of the regime in front of the National Gallery in Beijing in 1979. His sculptures, unlike Social-Realist art, are not monumental. They are small, and their messages are far from easy to read. Wang Keping likes to use unusually shaped pieces of wood, in forms that somehow already contain the figure the artist brings to the surface. His most famous work, Idol, was shown for the first time at an exhibition in 1980. The figure, which looked like a mixture of Mao and Buddha with a lazy eye, was controversial because of its critical representation of Mao Zedong. In 1984 Wang Keping moved to Paris as a political refugee.

If, for instance, you reproach the masses for their utilitarianism and yet for your own utility, or that of a narrow clique, force on the market and propagandize among the masses a work which pleases only the few but is useless or even harmful to the majority, then you are not only insulting the masses but also revealing your own lack of self-knowledge. A thing is good only when it brings real benefit to the masses of the people. Your work may be as good as "The Spring Snow", but if for the time being it caters only to the few, and the masses are still singing the "Song of the Rustic Poor," you will get nowhere by simply scolding them instead of trying to raise their level. The question now is to bring about a unity between "The Spring Snow" and the "Song of the Rustic Poor", between higher standards and popularization. Without such a unity, the highest art of any expert cannot help being utilitarian in the narrowest sense; you may call this art "pure and lofty" but that is merely your own name for it which the masses will not endorse.
— Mao Zedong
Talks at Yenan Forum
on Literature and Art
May 23, 1942

The Spring Snow and the Song of the Rustic Poor were songs of the Chu Kingdom in the third century BCE. The music of the first was on a higher level than that of the second. As the story is told in "Sung Yu's reply to the king of Chu" in Prince Chao Ming's Anthology of Prose and Poetry, when someone sang The Spring Snow in the Chu capital, only a few dozen people joined in, but when the Song of the Rustic Poor was sung, thousands did so.

Liu Wei's manipulative photomontage, Landscapes No. 1-6, points back to the ongoing presence of tradition while engaging in a humorous dialogue with China's strong taboos against showing the naked body. In a high-spirited reappropriation, the classical Chinese landscape motif — with spectacular peaks and clefts — is fused with the naked human body in a carnal here and now. Like the landscape, the body is processed and imprinted by history and tradition: it is concretely rooted in time and culture, which determine the ways in which it is allowed to bend and flex.

Dry wit and an obsessive attention to detail characterize Hong Hao's oeuvre, from his early silkscreen prints to his more recent photographic works. Begun in 1992, the masterful Selected Scriptures screenprint series consists of over 30 trompe-l'oeil images representing the pages of a fictitious open book that, judging by the page number appearing on the Postscript print, is a weighty tome of 3,561 pages. The earlier Selected Scriptures prints, which earned Hong a place among the Political Pop artists, humorously juxtapose Cultural Revolution icons with symbols of Western consumerist culture. Later prints in the series extend the focus to embrace issues of international relations and global consumerism, mixing together Western and Chinese images from diverse sources.

Hong highlights the tension between traditional Chinese culture and 20th-century excess in Holy Caves Waiting for Visitation, where Cultural Revolution characters, an emperor, and scantily clad beauties inhabit niches reminiscent of China's ancient Buddhist caves. In The King of Medicaments, Vol. 1, a heroic revolutionary opera character is poised on tip-toe across the double spread of pages. Lines lead from various parts of her body to supposedly explanatory texts: her elbow in its sleeve, for example, is labeled "Bolsheviks, Stalin," and a line from her long braid leads to the telephone number of an international public relations and media firm in New York.

A quarter of the Selected Scriptures prints feature subversive variants on the world map. Although a map is generally regarded as a reliable representation and bearer of information, Hong Hao's maps force the viewer to reconsider that trust: The New World Physical reverses water and dry land, and The World No. 1 makes a comment on the relationship between the Third World — which is entirely missing from his map — and all other countries, of which Japan is most prominent.

Ma Liuming is one of China's pioneering performance artists, having established his career while a resident of Beijing's so-called East Village, where dozens of young artists once lived. His performances of that era were conducted as "Fen" Ma Liuming, an alternate feminine persona he devised. For the notorious Fen-Ma Liuming's Lunch, the nude artist cooked some vegetables and a watch for a select audience in an enclosed courtyard. Shortly after the performance, he was arrested for pornography and imprisoned for two months, and the police shut down activities in the East Village.

Trained as a painter, Ma Liuming embarked in 1993 on his Baby series of paintings and small groups of sculptures as a counterpoint to performances (from which he has since retired). These works disconcertingly join the Fen-Ma Liuming feminine head to the body of a baby boy. A group painted in 2004, following the birth of the artist's son by cesarean section, presents elongated views, as if through the long narrow opening from which the baby emerged.

Renowned for his gunpowder drawings and his site-specific installations and events, Cai Guo-Qiang creates elegant works from diverse materials, often incorporating his expertise with gunpowder. Over the years, he has developed an interest in charged spaced and materials, as well as history and fable, creating new meanings through juxtaposition and displacement.

In his 2004 exhibition, Inopportune: Stage Two, at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, Cai Guo-Qiang displayed a group of realistic tiger sculptures leaping and twisting and shot full of arrows, thus belying the animals' traditional association with good luck. The gunpowder drawing Two Wandering Tigers expresses the same explosive tiger energy that Cai captured in Inopportune. It was created in a controlled burn of gunpowder laid on paper.

Like all academy-trained sculptors of his generation, Yu Fan has a grounding in Socialist Realism, but has journeyed beyond his training to find a personal idiom. His preferred medium is fiberglass, which is lightweight, presents a clean, flawless surface, and takes color very well. All of these qualities contribute to the success of Sacrifice of Liu Hulan. At first sight, the young figure lying in a pool of plastic blood seem to evoke the events in Tiananmen Square that presaged the more open China of today — but Liu Hulan was in fact a Communist martyr of the Revolution, killed by the Nationalists in 1947 when she was only fifteen years old. A heroine of the Civil War, she organized resistance in her village, Yunzhouxi, and was decapitated when she refused to betray her fellow-Communists. It was of Liu Hulan that Mao wrote the famous words "a noble life, a glorious death." In the numerous statues of her that were erected, she stands defiantly in her Mao suit; in propaganda posters, she is also shown doing good works in the pastoral setting of the village. The actual moment of her execution is never depicted.

Yu Fan has reconsidered Liu Hulan: the reality is that she was a young girl brutally cut down before she could grow into a woman. This portrayal restores the dignity of being an individual rather than a model martyr, and although she lies in a pool of blood, she remains lovely, unsullied by her bloody end.

Smooth, almost perfect, dispassionate faces fill the canvases in Zhang Xiaogang's Bloodlines series. These tragic, mask-like visages are part of a personal symbolic code that the artist has been developing. The impetus for the works, which deal with the question of individual identity within the strongly rooted collectivism of China, came in 1993, when for the first time Zhang saw an old family photograph of his mother as a young woman. It is not surprising that he had never seen this type of picture before: the Cultural Revolution destroyed most such mementos of bourgeois life. The wrenching contrast between the self-possessed beauty in the studio portrait photo and the very ill, schizophrenic woman he knew as his mother had a profound effect on Zhang.

Poised and still, the figures in the Bloodlines series appear to be isolated in their own emotional universes, despite being grouped with family members. The artist captures the superficial homogeneity of the collectivity through the unblemished faces and evenly staring eyes — touched up as they would have been in a photographer's studio. Small idiosyncrasies — one crossed eye, a mole, imperfect teeth, or a wisp of hair gone astray — reveal individual differences. Many of the paintings in the series, including Bloodline and The Big Family, No. 3, depict a pair of parents with one child, the standard family in China under Communist rule. The child is more often than not a boy. A fine red line meanders across the canvases in the series, leaving no visible trace as it enters and exits the figures' skin. This metaphor for the invisible connections between people is similar to the folkloric belief that a red thread links certain people, even before birth. One kind of invisible linkage between people is genetics; others include social conditioning and even mysterious, unknowable forces. In another reference to fate, the light-colored patches on the figures' faces suggest that there may be unknown — and especially genetic — flaws within each person, waiting to emerge at some time in the future.

Zhang Huan is widely regarded as one of the most important Chinese performance artists of the 1990s. Before moving to the United States in 1998, he gained a considerable reputation in Beijing for provocative performances, particularly ones in which he submitted his own nude body to tests of physical and mental endurance.

Zhang Huan's first performance pieces after he moved to New York were rich in Chinese symbolism. For Pilgrimage — Wind and Water, he performed ritual obeisance, to the accompaniment of Tibetan music, while walking along a path leading to a Chinese bed covered in ice. He then lay prostrate on the ice for almost ten minutes, with dogs of various breeds sitting nearby, symbolizing a kind of community unique to New York and its dog-walkers. Although the pain caused by the freezing ice focused the artist's mind beyond his body, it also symbolized the hardship of his recent relocation.

For My New York, commissioned by the Whitney Museum of American Art, he dressed as a bodybuilder in a suit of muscles constructed from layered slabs of beef. Walking through the streets of New York and with the help of bystanders, he periodically released doves into the air. His massive muscularity acted both as a reflection of New Yorkers' strength and as a warning to America about the dangerous role of a military superpower. Just as a bodybuilder who pursues the sport to extremes may appear strong but actually have a weakened heart, so may a nation become internally weak through excessive military buildup. The artist's wish for the future was expressed through the freeing of doves, which not only represent peace, but also allude to the Buddhist belief that the release of live animals helps one achieve grace.

Zhang's complex Family Tree relates to culture and self-determination, as well as to corporeality tempered by spirit. Having experienced chest pains for some time, the artist was concerned about his fate. He directed three calligraphers to write texts chosen by him on his face and extended the activity into dusk, so that his darkened face blended into harmonious oblivion with the darkness of night. The texts included the well-known Chinese story The Foolish Old Man Who Moved the Mountain, which teaches that anything can be achieved through determined effort, and words about fate, something that is supposed to be "written" in the physiognomy of the face. But the meaning of the calligraphy was lost through repeated overwriting, just as the features of Zhang's face disappeared, leaving only his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Quie Zhijie, Tattoo II, 1994, Courtesy Estella Collection.

Feng Mengbo, Gray Sea Hold Hands, 2006, GAcrylic and VeeJet on canvas, Courtesy Estella Collection.

Wang Ningde (born 1972), Some Days No. 3, 2002, Black and white photograph, Edition of 10, Courtesy Estella Collection.

Guo Wei, Inside with Mosquitoes and Moths (Girl), 2006, Oil on canvas, 160 x 100 cm.

Ma Liuming, Fen-Ma Liuming Series I, 1993, Photograph Xu Zhiwei.

Yue Minjun, Sitting and Watching the Clouds, 2006, Oil on canvas, 80 x 100 cm.

Zhang Xiaogang, Little General, 2003, Oil on Canvas, 130 x 110 cm.

Hong Hao, My Things No. 2, 2001-02, Digital photograph, 127 x 216 cm.

Wang Jinsong, No. 2 from the Parents series, 1998.

Zheng Lianjie, from Bricks and Stones, 1999.

Song Dong, Breaking Mirror, 1999, Video still.

Huang Yong Ping, Overturned Tomb, 1998, Graphite and watercolor on paper, 18-3/4 x 24-5/8".

Xu Bing, (born 1955), The Living Word, 2001, Installation: carved and painted acrylic characters, four sketches, Edition of 4.

Sui Jianguo (born 1956), Legacy Mantle, 1997, Painted aluminum, Edition of 6.

Shao Yinong (born 1961) and Mu Chen (born 1970), The Assembly Hall – Renzhaiqian, 2002, C-print , Edition of 8.

Chen Shaoxiong, Collective Memory: Dawang Tower, 2006, Ink (fingerprints) on rice paper, 06 x 385 cm.

Hai Bo (born 1962), I am Chairman Mao’s Red Guard, 1999, Two photographs, C-print, Edition of 8.

Miao Xiaochun (born 1964), Opera, 2003, Five panels, C-print, Edition of 3.

Gu Wenda (born 1955), The Mythos of Lost Dynasties — Form a: Flying Pseudo-characters in Landscape, total 9 works, 1996-97, Splashing ink on rice paper, seal, 132” x 59” each. (Shown here: Free Expression and Chaos)

Su-en Wong (born 1973), Secluded Beach/Icing on the Cake , 2006, Colored pencil/acrylic on panel, 30 x 28".