In the winter of 2025, I traveled to Dali at the invitation of artist Liu Weiping, helping him push forward his upcoming solo exhibition.
What was meant to be a straightforward residency—part production, part documentation—unfolded over seven days into something much more: a field study on people, place, psyche, and artistic tension.

The wind in Dali was still as clean as I remembered, but what it revealed wasn’t “healing” at all.
It was reality—layered, raw, sometimes overwhelming.

This article is the full account of those seven days.

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Day One: When the Landscape Becomes a Mirror

I first came to Dali at 16. It was quiet then—clear water, open sky, a small town untouched.

More than twenty years later, as my plane descended, I saw a very different place: a city half-dissolved by buzzwords like “freedom,” “spiritual retreat,” and “new youth energy.” A place where local identity had been replaced by something commercial, vague, and restless.

Into this setting I stepped, carrying cameras and notebooks, heading toward Liu Weiping’s studio.

The first thing he said to me was:

“Come, let me enlighten you a bit.”

I froze for a second.
Later, I learned this wasn’t humor—it was his natural linguistic posture.

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The Artist: A Person Built From Order, Fracture, and Repair

For seven days, I followed Liu Weiping everywhere—painting sessions, interviews, long walks, late-night conversations.

Three forces run through him like a looping ecosystem:

1) Childhood Order

Born in Pingyao, raised among ancient city walls, he absorbed a strong internal sense of structure.
That quiet, almost ritualistic order is the backbone of his paintings.

2) Urban Fracture

Moving to Beijing at nine, he grew up under the tension of modern life.
His work often holds this duality: calm surfaces stretched over inner turbulence.

3) Rural Repair

As an adult, he lived in Nanshan, Huangshan, then Dali—repeated cycles of withdrawing to nature, healing, rebuilding, then creating again.

He isn’t just painting portraits.
He’s reconstructing a fractured but resilient internal architecture.

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Seven Days: Walking, Talking, Working, Being Pulled by Language

His daily rhythm was relentless:
paint → interview → film → walk → repeat.

And his language carried a certain “vertical authority”:
• “Let me teach you something.”
• “Your problem is you haven’t been activated.”
• “Most people are brainwashed—I extinguish their fire.”
• “I’ll show you how to rebuild your life.”

These aren’t manipulative lines—they’re how he genuinely processes the world.

If you’re tired, sensitive, or caught in self-doubt, this kind of language can easily overwhelm you.

But beneath his forceful expression, I also saw:
• anxiety,
• self-denial,
• perfectionism,
• pressure from the upcoming show,
• an almost painful sensitivity to people,
• a mix of pessimism and longing.

He wasn’t trying to control others.
He was trying not to be consumed by his own inner chaos.

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Dali Isn’t a Retreat —
It’s a Place Where Everything Gets Exposed

Each day, I walked nearly 20 kilometers across Dali—
from the old town to the studio, to Erhai’s shore, through quiet villages and chaotic alleys.

I saw a place drowning in the aesthetics of “spiritual retreat,” yet full of:
• extreme personalities,
• people packaging laziness as freedom,
• people using “retreat” to escape responsibility,
• people selling mysticism as guidance,
• people using “fate” and “energy” to disguise manipulation.

Liu once said:
“Dali is one giant field of shifting energies.”

To me, it felt more like a magnifying glass.
A place where people’s inner structures—good and bad—are exposed under bright sun.

By the fifth day, I could feel a growing tension between the work, the environment, the artist’s intensity, and my own physical limits.

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Day Seven: I Decide to Leave

Leaving wasn’t impulsive.
It was a conclusion formed by three converging pressures:

1) My body was depleted

The nonstop walking, shooting, and working took a physical toll.
Fatigue made my emotions fragile.

2) My psychological boundaries were shrinking

Between the artist’s intense language, the ambient spiritual theatrics of Dali, and the pressure of production, I found it harder to remain a neutral observer.

I realized that if I stayed longer, I would lose my ability to think independently.

3) The gap between duty and emotional reality

I came to help, to document, to create—not to be pulled into someone else’s psychological orbit.

Collaboration is professional.
Boundaries are survival.

On the seventh morning, standing by Erhai with the wind cutting across the water, I finally understood:

I needed to return to Chengdu—
to a place where my judgment could breathe again.

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Writing This: Not a Complaint,
But a Record of Reality

Liu Weiping is sincere and raw.
His forceful language is a coping mechanism.
His worldview is shaped by years of sensitivity, fracture, and rebuilding.

This article is not an accusation.
It is:
• a documentation of an artist’s real state,
• a record of how environment affects the mind,
• a study of language and power,
• a reflection on emotional boundaries,
• and a conscious act of self-preservation.

This is not a story about conflict—
it’s a story about honesty.

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In the End

Leaving Dali, I realized one thing:

Real spiritual practice doesn’t happen in Dali.
It happens after you leave Dali,
back in your everyday life.

Artists carry pressure and brilliance.
Cities impose speed and competition.
Rural life offers quiet but also emptiness.

And we—
we have to navigate between these forces and find our own ground.

The seven days in Dali made me understand more clearly:
• the structure of an artist’s psyche,
• the tension between city and countryside,
• how environment shapes human behavior,
• how language forms subtle power,
• and how to stay independent while being close to others.

The wind in Dali is still the same.
But I am no longer the same person who arrived.

This chronicle marks the end of a residency—
and the beginning of a new clarity.

Artist: Tutou Juren (Li Xiaoqiang)
Exhibition: Nov. 15 – Dec. 6, 2025
Venue: Faun Gallery, Chengdu

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1. Personal History Meets Art History

Tutou Juren—real name Li Xiaoqiang—has one of those life stories that naturally spills into his art. Born in 1963 in Tieling, educated at the Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts, he’s lived through several major cultural shifts: the openness of the 1980s, the entrepreneurial chaos of the 1990s, the early-2000s blogging boom, and the visual-first world of today’s social media.

All these phases stack together, and you can feel them in his work.
His visual language—the exaggeration, the humor, the absurdity—didn’t come from following a school or movement. It came from living through multiple eras, each with its own contradictions.

As he puts it:

“I don’t match anything out there. I’m just me.”

Surprisingly simple, but it sums up exactly why his style is so hard to categorize.

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2. The Echoes of the ’85 New Wave

When Li was studying at Lu Xun Academy in the mid-80s, China’s art world was waking up. The ’85 New Wave was reshaping everything, and art students were suddenly exposed to ideas, images, and cultural references they’d never seen before.

He remembers that time as a period full of energy:

“Every day something new was happening. It felt like anything was possible.”

That sense of openness didn’t just shape his worldview—it planted the seed for the kind of self-driven expression that later became central to his work.

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3. Blogging: Where His Absurd Universe Began

Between 2003 and 2006, Li went through a difficult chapter—life stalled, family issues piled up, and he felt lost. So he turned to blogging. He wrote novels, essays, scripts—close to a million words in total.

Ironically, what brought him back to visual art wasn’t ambition, but a simple internet truth:

“Write 3,000 words, barely anyone reads it. Post a drawing, boom—hundreds of likes.”

It wasn’t about vanity; it was clarity. Images communicate fast. People connect instantly.
And from his blog doodles, the first versions of his now-iconic “Little Yellow Man” characters began to appear. What started as casual sketches slowly grew into a fully formed personal visual system.

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4. Why He Calls Himself “Absurdist”

Li’s “Absurdist” label isn’t a gimmick. It reflects how he processes the world. His characters are exaggerated, distorted, naive, cynical, humorous, and strangely honest.

Most importantly:
he always paints himself.

That choice matters. It means the humor and critique in his work never feel like he’s attacking someone else. The absurdity is a mirror, not a weapon. And because the “self” becomes a universal placeholder, his work opens up room for viewers to project their own interpretations.

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5. The Medium Shift: From Ink to Blogs to Oil Paint

Li’s career moves through clear media phases:
• early ink drawings → raw, impulsive expression
• blogging → narrative structure and storytelling
• oil painting → deeper emotional and visual complexity

He explains the change simply:

“Oil painting holds more. It carries the absurd better.”

Oil allows him to layer emotions, contradictions, and visual density in a way that ink or digital sketches couldn’t. His current practice feels like the fullest version of his inner world so far.

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6. Why So Many Characters Wear Hospital Gowns

If you look closely, a lot of his recent figures wear hospital outfits.
The reason? Surprisingly logical:

“Regular clothes make people think the painting’s about them. Hospital gowns make everything make sense.”

It’s funny, but it’s also real.
The hospital gown becomes a way to neutralize identity—everyone becomes vulnerable, strange, and strangely relatable. It also adds a layer of emotional truth: in a shifting, uncertain era, who hasn’t felt a bit like a patient waiting for something to make sense?

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7. An Artist Outside the Art-World Bubble

Li doesn’t live in Beijing or Shanghai, doesn’t “play the scene,” and doesn’t rely on relationship networks. In his words:

“This is a society built on connections. I just don’t play that game.”

His independence keeps his work raw, unfiltered, and free of the politics and trends that often shape contemporary art circles.

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8. The IP Question: Potential vs. Reality

Li’s visual system is incredibly consistent—and yes, extremely IP-ready. He knows this.
But he also knows how commercial IP really works:

“To build an IP, you don’t need two shovels. You need an excavator.”

To him, it’s not about printing T-shirts or toys. Real IP development takes real infrastructure: funding, branding, strategy, distribution. He’s open to collaboration, but he wants the right partner—one who can scale the world he’s built, not flatten it.

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9. Art as Attitude and Temperature

Li has a sharp eye for social issues, but he’s not confrontational. His stance is gentle but firm:

“We can’t change society. But we can express our attitude and our temperature.”

That “temperature” is crucial.
His work isn’t cold irony—it’s warm, human absurdity. The kind that tells you:

We’re all struggling. We’re all ridiculous.
And somehow, that’s what makes us real.

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Closing:

Absurdity as a Way of Being**

At Faun Gallery, Li’s yellow-and-black figures, distorted faces, and drifting emotions create a world that feels both surreal and painfully honest.

He’s not following any movement.
He’s not trying to shock.
He’s not building a brand or chasing trends.

He’s simply expressing what it feels like to be a person living through shifting eras—and doing it with humor, self-reflection, and a stubborn commitment to authenticity.

In a time when images move fast and attention moves faster, Tutou Juren offers something rare:
a visual language that speaks directly, honestly, and with just the right amount of absurdity to make truth easier to face.

Art School Alumni Growth Interview Series

When I got a DM on Xiaohongshu applying for the interview, I thought it was from a young creator.
She introduced herself: “I type slowly. I’m 68 years old.”
I froze. On the other side of the screen was someone who had crossed time itself to return to art.

Her name is Deng Yimei. She entered the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute in 1985, graduated in 1987.
Now, at nearly seventy, she’s still growing stubbornly—using old newspapers, fallen leaves, pinecones, and light to keep creating.

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1. Back Then: The Rare Chance to Learn

“Getting into Sichuan Fine Arts in ’85 was no small thing. The learning atmosphere was amazing,” she recalled.
Even the professors were moved by their students’ dedication: “Seeing your energy reminds us of ourselves back then.”

Her classmates came from different workplaces, sent to study art full-time. Most were already married, with kids, so they cherished the opportunity as if every class were gold. “People were scared to miss even one lesson,” she said.
Some had it rough financially—one classmate fainted in the dorm after surviving on just one steamed bun a day.

For her graduation project, she chose printmaking, inspired by Käthe Kollwitz:

“Prints have a raw, powerful energy of their own.”
Under the influence of Zhuang Hongyi and Mi Jinming, she moved toward imagination and contemporary expression.

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2. From the Cultural Center to the Museum: Reality vs. Hidden Desire

After graduation, she returned to her job in the cultural system—making propaganda posters, guiding amateur artists, organizing rural art workshops.
Life was stable, but it quietly smothered her creative spark.

“Inspiration came less and less. I was buried in administrative work.”

She took things too seriously—so much that even in her sleep, her mind wouldn’t stop. Eventually, her health broke down.
Severe vertigo made normal work impossible.
She once served as the head of an art association, but the endless bureaucracy pushed her further away from creation.

There was a time when she could’ve gone to Beijing, to a more open art scene.
But she didn’t. “Family concerns,” she said simply. “My biggest regret is letting down my teachers’ trust.”

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3. Retirement: Reigniting the Fire

Her true creative explosion came after retirement in 2014.
She rented a small, rough studio in the countryside.

She’s always been fascinated by little, overlooked things—so once she finds something interesting, she never lets it go.
Old newspapers, wrapping paper, bottles, leaves, pinecones—all her materials.
Once she even picked up a piece of Russian newspaper on the street.

She transforms the most ordinary waste into shiny, metallic-looking abstract art:

“Paper is soft, but I make it hard, powerful.”
“There’s no trash in my eyes—just treasures in the wrong place.”

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4. Compassion Makes Her Contemporary

During the interview, she often brought up compassion and life.

“I feel moved looking at a blade of grass, or a stone.”

Her old dog can barely walk, yet she still takes care of it tenderly.
She’s the kind of person who cries watching cartoons.

Her work radiates that quiet empathy—it’s never loud, but it cuts straight to something universal:
How do we use what’s been discarded?
That question carries both environmental meaning and her own life metaphor.

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5. Her Time Feels Even Tighter Than Ours

“I never feel like I’m 70. I feel young—really young.”

She practices yoga, doing poses most people half her age wouldn’t dare try.
She’s learning AI tools, running her Xiaohongshu account, trying to reach people who understand her art.

Retirement didn’t slow her down—it turned her into a late-blooming genius catching up on a long-overdue homework.

“My biggest joy is discovering and creating beauty in everyday life.”

Her next dream?
To hold a large solo exhibition in Chengdu, one that truly fits her art.

“Maybe it’s a wild dream,” she laughed, “but I want to see it happen.”

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Epilogue

Every life has a doorway where you can start over.

When I finished writing, I remembered what she said at the very start of our talk:

“I just feel there’s never enough time. How could I ever be bored?”

She’s not one of those effortlessly gifted artists.
She’s someone delayed by life, yet still fiercely believing in art.

We always say young people need role models.
But Deng Yimei shows us something deeper:
The brightest moment of life doesn’t have to happen when you’re young.
Whenever you burn—that’s your youth.

And if you, too, have wavered between reality and dreams, regretted, given up, or started over—
then join us in Rising and Falling Lines.

Art will never think you’re too late.

Right in the heart of Chengdu, Hunter Charles’ FAUN Gallery quietly stands on an old street. Unlike the high-end galleries in commercial districts, there’s no glittering lights or champagne receptions here—only a sense of honesty and warmth.

Hunter, a gallery owner from Los Angeles, came to China with nothing but “a backpack and a dream.” His goal: to help more people in the West see the vitality and complexity of contemporary Chinese art.

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Why He Came to China

Hunter recalls that his decision to come to China was partly instinct, partly ambition.

“China is the world’s second-largest economy, full of potential in both production and buying power. More importantly, I wanted to help talented Chinese artists—those who are underrecognized internationally—get the attention they deserve.”

But what made him stay was Chengdu itself.

“The city is full of color, culture, and calm. The rhythm of life here is gentle. The landscapes, the people, the food—it’s all alive. In the West, we’re often taught that China lacks freedom or creativity, but what I’ve seen in Chengdu is the total opposite. The artists here are incredibly smart and brave, always pushing the limits of expression.”

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From Accountant to Gallerist

Before running a gallery, Hunter was an accountant—making good money but feeling completely empty.

“I thought I’d spend my whole life behind a computer until COVID hit. Working from home nearly broke me. One day I told my dad, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’”

So he took everything he’d learned about business and invested it into what he truly loved—art.

“I started my first gallery with my own savings. No investors, no backers. I just wanted to show good art, and let the work speak for itself.”

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“The Art Industry Is a Scam”

Hunter doesn’t hold back when talking about the art world.

“The art industry, at its core, is a scam. Whether it’s art schools, auction houses, or major museums—they’re all driven by capital. Art has become a bar of gold traded among the rich, not an expression of the soul. I don’t hate money, but I hate hypocrisy.”

He adds,

“Too many art events are just social gatherings where people only care about swapping WeChat contacts or taking photos. Real conversations about art are becoming rare.”

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Searching for ‘Real Art’ in Chengdu

FAUN Gallery sits across from People’s Park on an old street that Hunter calls “the real China.”

“I didn’t want to open in a luxury mall or a trendy district. I wanted a place with real life around it—grandparents, kids, food stalls. That’s where culture grows.”

He says the young artists he’s met here have deeply inspired him.

“They’re not trapped by systems or obsessed with fame. Their work is honest, emotional, and thoughtful. That’s what art should be.”

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On ‘Guanxi’ and the Social Scene

Hunter also has strong opinions about relationship culture, or guanxi:

“Whether in China or America, the art world is tangled up in connections and power games. People care more about what you can offer than who you are.
I’m not here to please anyone—I’m here to break that cycle and bring art back to art.”

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On Controversy and Public Judgment

Hunter has faced online criticism and personal attacks, but he remains calm about it.

“I’m not perfect, and I’ve never claimed to be. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve grown from them. I don’t waste my time arguing online. My shows and my work speak for me.”

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China and the West: Different Art Worlds

When it comes to comparing art markets, Hunter is clear:

“China’s art market is still shaping its own identity—it doesn’t need to copy the West.
China has its own cultural spirit. I just hope to see more support for everyday artists, not just the names that keep appearing in the elite system.”

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Epilogue: The Sincerity of Art

At the end of the interview, Hunter spoke about his long-term commitment:

“I may never be Chinese, but I’ll give all my time and passion to show great art.
Even if one day FAUN no longer exists, I hope people remember that there was a foreigner in Chengdu who tried to show something real.”

Hunter smiled and added,

“Art shouldn’t be a bar of gold—it should be a mirror that reflects the human soul.”

Interview & Text by: Tan Xiaozheng (Editor-in-Chief, BACKWALL)
Location: FAUN Gallery, Chengdu
Date: October 14, 2024

On a sunny afternoon in Chengdu, artist Liu Shi sat quietly under the soft light of FAUN Gallery, speaking slowly and calmly about his forty-year journey with painting. There was nothing exaggerated about the way he talked—just like his paintings, his words carried the weight of time: honest, stubborn, and free.

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“At first, I wanted to be a soldier.”

“I actually wanted to join the army when I was a kid,” Liu said with a laugh. “Several of my relatives were soldiers. But because of my father’s political background, that path was closed to me.”

He admitted that as a boy, he didn’t like painting at all. “Back then I thought art was for soft guys. Soldiers with guns—that was real man stuff.”

But his father insisted, guiding him step by step into art. By middle school, Liu had enrolled in Chengdu No. 25 High School, where he met his first real mentor, Li Jixiang, a painter active during China’s ‘85 New Wave’ movement. “That was the first time I truly fell in love with painting,” he said.

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Youth and Idealism: From Sichuan Fine Arts Institute to Abstract Expression

In 1996, Liu entered the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute. It was an era dominated by realism, yet he was drawn to abstract expressionism.

“When some foreign artists came for exchange, it really shook me up,” he recalled. “Out of maybe fifteen classmates, I was the only one painting abstract. I just wanted to do something different.”

But reality hit hard after graduation. “I thought I’d serve the country after college,” he said, “but I couldn’t even pay my rent.”

He worked part-time at a business college in Chengdu, earning 180 yuan a month, saving every bit to buy paint. “Those were the years when ideals collided head-on with reality.”

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The Blue Roof Years: Freedom and Loss

By 2004, Liu had joined Blue Roof Art District, a legendary place for Sichuan’s contemporary artists. “Everyone was broke but pure,” he laughed. “We painted, debated, and drank together every day.”

Then disaster struck. After the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake, floods in 2009–2010 destroyed nearly 70% of his work. “That day, I went crazy,” he said. “I even posted on Weibo: ‘God asked me if I’d lost my mind.’ I didn’t paint for half a year after that.”

The loss became a turning point. “I started questioning everything—what is art, really? Is it worth betting my whole life on it?”

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Refusing Representation: Staying Wild and Independent

“In 2006, a Beijing gallery offered to represent me,” he said, “but they wanted me to make things that would sell. I turned them down.”

His tone stayed calm but firm. “Art shouldn’t be controlled by sales logic.”

Since then, Liu has handled most of his own shows. “I once saw FAUN Gallery’s account on WeChat, left a message: ‘Would you like to collaborate?’ They replied the next day, we added each other on WeChat, and three days later the show was set.”

“I don’t think self-recommending is embarrassing,” he added. “It’s confidence. Western artists do it all the time—why can’t we? Putting yourself out there honestly is a kind of strength.”

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The Art Scene and Its “Rivers and Lakes”

When asked about the Chengdu art world, Liu smiled slightly. “Anywhere there are people, there’s jianghu—the rivers and lakes,” he said, referring to the Chinese word for social undercurrents and hidden politics.

“I realized a lot of relationships were just surface-level. So I became more independent, stopped hanging around the scene.”

He still respects Blue Roof for what it gave him, but he added, “Now I’d rather be one of the old Blue Roof guys—unaffiliated, unclassified.”

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“Not a Contemporary Artist”—Just an Artist

“I’ve never labeled myself a ‘contemporary artist,’” Liu said. “I’m just an artist. Since I was a kid, maybe I was destined to live for art.”

His paintings often feature soldiers, wars, and tension—echoes of his childhood dream. “I’m not painting violence,” he explained. “I’m painting power. Honesty in conflict.”

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Epilogue: Painting as Faith

As the interview wrapped up, Liu spoke softly:
“Painting, to me, is a form of faith. I don’t live off it—I live through it.”

From a boy who dreamed of the army to an artist who insists on freedom; from canvases ruined by floods to the courage to knock on new doors—Liu Shi’s story, like his paintings, doesn’t please or explain. It simply stays true to itself.

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🎨 Postscript

At FAUN Gallery, Liu’s latest works radiate a strange duality—both violent and tender. That tension is his true color, forged over time. In a noisy, distracted world, he remains proof that an artist can stay awake and burn bright.