Mocube is pleased to present Paragranum, a solo exhibiton featuring artist He tianqi. The following text is an extended conversation between curator Yuan Fangzhou and the artists, offering further reflections on the themes of the exhibition. In the following interview, "Yuan Fangzhou" is abbreviated as "Y," "He Tianqi" as "H".
Y: Compared to your previous works, the pieces exhibited at Mocube Gallery show some noticeable shifts. Earlier, your creations seemed to focus more on the psychological effects triggered by painterly qualities and color intensity, and the objects in your works often featured flattened and symbolic characteristics. However, one of the most prominent changes in your recent works is the introduction of specific forms, with each piece constructing complex spatial relationships around these forms. Is this shift intentional or unconscious?
H: In this series, I deliberately abandoned the shallow treatment of my earlier works and introduced symbolic forms with mythological connotations. However, I did not intend to tell any specific fables. Instead, I aimed to embed these animal and plant forms into a structure that functions as a "visual machine." By constructing spatial relationships where forms interconnect and overlap, these specific images go beyond mere symbols in the composition. Now, I am more fascinated by how to make these forms stand "independently" within the space while simultaneously acting as part of a greater whole. This "visual machine" of painting allows viewers to vaguely sense an underlying order driving the visual experience when faced with seemingly independent yet interconnected forms. This order is not about causality but the attraction, repulsion, integration, and interweaving between forms. In short, this shift is intentional—I wanted to explore the visual power that arises when perceptual forms meet rational, almost mechanical spatial arrangements. For me, this is a transition from intuition to systematic expression. I hope this process can evoke an exhilarating effect. The forms are merely visual cues; the logic of their assembly, which operates with the precision of a finely tuned instrument, is what I truly hope resonates with viewers.
Y: You have mentioned considering theatricality in your work. Theatricality typically implies setting plots, arranging narratives, and stage choreography. Although the forms in your works exhibit strong dynamic relationships, the overall impression carries a constant classical undertone. Moreover, these paintings do not seem to be guided by narrative and even appear void of plot. In what sense do you understand this theatricality?
H: I do not rely on narrative to drive my creations. For me, "plot" is a spatial mechanism. Although there is a dynamic system within the composition, I attempt to eliminate specific narration, striving for this dynamic system to present an overall sense of eternal tranquility. This tranquility does not stem from nostalgia but from a question I have long been concerned with: the critical state between the coldness of technical images and the handmade nature of painting. I use theatrical stage choreography to simulate a cold, machine-like perspective, such as technical monitoring or scanning. However, this machine perspective also differs from the machine interfaces we are familiar with (it is worth mentioning that monitoring interfaces also presuppose a certain aesthetic framing, subject to a kind of theatricality). I believe that challenging habitual visual expectations can allow complex symbolic relationships to directly impact psychological mechanisms. The "classical undertone" you mentioned might be related to my composition design. In works like "Rome-Landscape," I indeed drew inspiration from the stable geometric structures of classical painting, but I also used various layers to dissolve and scatter this structure. The tension between stillness and movement may also be a component of theatricality. In my view, theatricality ultimately points to a "visual ritual," always leading to deep experiences beyond narrative.
Y: Many works seem to unfold within a deep, space-like setting. Is there a particular intention behind choosing this kind of "stage backdrop"?
H: This deep, space-like backdrop can be seen as an "exosphere"—it isolates real-world scenes while not being entirely an abstract void. I wanted to construct this weightless theater in my works because I aimed to strip away specific sociological contexts or cultural metaphors. Therefore, this space is not a sci-fi setting for me but a vacuum zone within a system.
Y: In this series, the intensity and stimulation of colors have significantly diminished, and large areas of black appear in many compositions. I recall that you once seemed resistant to using black.
H: Reducing intensity is about finding the threshold of perception. In the past, I focused on high-intensity color stimulation, but now I am more inclined to explore the critical point between visual comfort and numbness. Diminishing the stimulation of color relationships and introducing large areas of black are meant to lower the "visual noise" in the composition. When color intensity is reduced, the viewer's attention shifts from the initial sensory impact to the dynamic relationships and visual mechanisms within the work. The use of color is no longer to serve vision but to mobilize it.
Y: The amorphous black substances in your works remind me of what Freud referred to as the "death drive" (Todestrieb), which tends toward an inorganic state. Do these substances serve as some kind of dangerous or destructive negative element in your theater?
H: "Negative elements" are necessary because they are also productive. I want the forms in my works to possess a kind of "non-biological beauty." This beauty essentially involves the removal of life's warmth. The amorphous black substances in the compositions can indeed be seen as a kind of danger, like an entropic process constantly threatening specific entities, aiming to achieve absolute tranquility. Although they hint at a destructive tendency, they also provide an extremely pure background. It is precisely because of this backdrop that the animal and plant forms can be examined like high-contrast samples in a laboratory. Of course, this "negation" is not a nihilistic abandonment. I aim to maintain and utilize this "crisis" to counteract the tendency of painting to slide toward lyricism.
Y: This reminds me of Groys' discussion of beauty, where he argues that beauty is precisely transhuman because both organic and inorganic entities—whether viruses or the universe—can share the predicate "beauty." Returning to the exhibition's theme, "Paragranum" (Miracle Medical Grain). You first learned about Paracelsus' work of the same name through reading Agamben. Why were you so drawn to this Renaissance medical treatise?
H: In "Paragranum," Paracelsus emphasized that medicine must be rooted in philosophy, astronomy, alchemy, and a holistic understanding of the body-world relationship. This medical perspective is not about technical manipulation but a method of harmonizing with the cosmos as a whole. This aligns with my motivation to integrate technical images, symbolic connotations, and perceptual experiences in painting: How can we reclaim images from mechanical visual stimuli and allow them to function again as experiences in the viewer's body? In this regard, Agamben's discussion has been enlightening. In interpreting Paracelsus, Agamben repeatedly emphasizes a core issue: the signature relationship between things and language. He argues that language is a reproduction of the world, an operation that solidifies the flow of life force. Art can return us to a pre-linguistic state of openness. There are indeed many animal and plant forms in my paintings, but they first involve a heterogeneous transformation of perception. When we encounter states beyond our cognition, we always try to capture them with language, but this process itself is a projection of subjectivity. Therefore, the grafted and mutated forms in my works are primarily a measure to dissolve presuppositions. Borrowing the concept of "Paragranum," I hope that images can directly act on the human perceptual system, tearing open gaps in existing cognitive structures and allowing a heterogeneous vitality to seep in.
Y: The root "granum" in "Paragranum" means grain, pill, or foundation, while the prefix "Para" literally means "beyond" or "outside of." Paracelsus' medical thought carries strong theological undertones; however, in your works, the transcendent "miracle" does not seem to come from God's preordained prescription but is rooted in the hidden instincts of nature. To me, the various animal forms in the compositions seem to suggest some kind of natural healing instinct. Could you elaborate on the animal imagery in these works?
H: In Paracelsus' view, "Para-" indeed points to a transcendence within a theological order: the foundation of medicine is not merely material drugs but the correspondence between God, the cosmos, and natural laws. However, in my work, this "transcendence" is redirected—it no longer points to a sacred external order but to an endogenous instinct rooted in life itself. I repeatedly use animal forms precisely because they possess the most primitive survival instincts and resilience, carrying a pre-cultural intensity of life. If, in the context of "Paragranum," "granum" represents the most basic, indivisible unit of medicinal potency, then animal forms in my work are the most active components of this foundation. They do not rely on language, ethics, or symbolic systems but survive through breathing, expansion, and movement. This unmediated way of existence is itself a "miracle"—it requires no prescription but explores unexpected connections in extreme environments, reflecting life's potential to transcend established frameworks. In my compositions, animal forms are often assembled into complex image machines, where their "biological warmth" and the "coldness of technical images" clash and interact. In a sense, these animals act like sensors—they pause, endure, escape, and thus modulate our posture and perception. When technical images continually weaken sensory thresholds and empty experience of its content, this instinct rooted in nature, even carrying connotations of escape and defense, becomes the most reliable anchor.
