10 Questions with Chen Yiting

Chen Yiting, a visual artist, illustrator, and ecological narrative researcher, was born in Beijing in 1994 and currently lives and works there. After graduating from the Beijing University of Civil Engineering and Architecture, she was initially influenced by architectural concepts concerning spatial order and urban ecology. This inspired her unique artistic approach, combining environmental observation, the expressive power of colour, and sensory experience. Her artistic practice spans illustration, spatial installations, textile mediums, and functional art, continually exploring the "voice of nature" within urban environments and attempting to rekindle emotional connections between people and their surroundings through artistic expression.

In recent years, Chen Yiting has steadily established herself within the international contemporary art and design scene. Her work has been exhibited at renowned global platforms such as Maison&Objet in Paris, ICFF in New York, the Macau Creative Design Competition, and NYCxDesign Week. She has also received prestigious international accolades, including the 2025 French Design Awards Gold Prize (for her work Summer), the MUSE Design Awards Gold Prize, and the NY Product Design Silver Prize (for her work Afternoon in the Garden). Additionally, her creations have been featured prominently in mainstream media outlets such as VOGUE, Designscene, Create! Magazine, and ELLE.

Chen Yiting's visual language is known for its gentle, restrained, yet powerful style. Skillfully blending watercolour and digital media, she meticulously crafts delicate shifts in colour and precise negative space, resulting in transparent and poetic visual, ecological spaces. Within her artistic philosophy, nature is not merely an object of visual aesthetics but an entity worth listening to and resonating with. Consequently, her work emphasizes quiet, poetic contemplation rather than dazzling visual effects, guiding viewers to reconnect with nature's subtle rhythms outside the clamour of urban life.

Beyond her personal creative endeavours, Chen Yiting actively participates in visual curation and ecological aesthetics advocacy. She collaborates extensively with brands, museums, cultural institutions, and educational entities, applying her visual language to functional art pieces such as scarves, tapestries, storage items, and carpets. By championing the concept of "Life as Exhibition," she successfully extends art from galleries into daily life, enabling fragments of beauty and nature to permeate everyday experiences. Chen is also dedicated to ecological aesthetic education, frequently conducting workshops and lectures in higher education institutions, where she shares her creative methods and promotes creative expression rooted in sensory awareness of nature. Through these efforts, she seeks to foster a renewed intimacy between the public and their environment, enriching urban dwellers' ecological awareness and emotional experiences.

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ARTIST STATEMENT

Chen Yiting's artistic practice is a subtle exploration that traverses visual, ecological, and emotional dimensions. To her, art is not merely a visual presentation but a reconstructive process involving ecological behaviour and social perception. She defines her artistic endeavours as gentle yet profound investigations, closely observing how nature whispers, exists, and resonates with humanity within urban environments. Preferring a soft and restrained visual language, Chen employs delicate brushwork and nuanced tones to quietly address complex ecological and emotional themes.

The core of her work consistently revolves around the "interweaving of urban and natural worlds." For instance, Afternoon in the Garden intricately portrays interactions between figures and plants, evoking viewers' nostalgia for childhood and nature's comforting presence. Her work Summer depicts a mother and child boating, symbolizing warmth and hope in life's cycles and seasonal transitions. Meanwhile, Journey: Urban Oasis delves deeper into ecological awakening and the potential return of nature within urban spaces. By skillfully combining watercolour, textiles, and fibres, she employs delicate strokes to convey profound ecological philosophies, capturing quiet yet meaningful dimensions of human existence through visual narratives.

The concept of "Whisper of Matter," proposed by Chen, represents an extension and deepening of her artistic philosophy. To her, materials such as canvas, textiles, and ink are not mere creative media but bridges connecting emotion and materiality. She emphasizes the intrinsic warmth and memory of these materials—the roughness of yarn, the graininess of gouache, the reflective lustre of stainless-steel frames—which collectively act as "semantic vessels" for expressing ecological emotions, subtly articulating the internal resonance between human perception and the environment.

Even within the increasingly commercialized art market, Chen Yiting remains committed to creating art in a slow, poetic, and nuanced manner. She firmly believes genuine art stems from internal slowness and a deep appreciation for natural rhythms. Ultimately, the aim of her art is to offer an ecological oasis within viewers' hearts, providing them with a renewed sense of inner tranquillity and warmth amid the uncertainties of the world.

INTERVIEW

Your academic background is in architecture and engineering. How did your studies in spatial order and urban ecology shape your artistic vision, especially when transitioning into visual art and illustration?

Although my academic background lies in architecture and energy management, that training has quietly shaped my artistic practice to this day. Architecture taught me to read the order of space and to navigate the tension between rationality and emotion while prompting me to reflect on the relationship between people, the city, and the natural world.Faced with the high-rise skyline and relentless pace of urban life, I often wonder: Where is nature, and what connection do we still share with it?
Those questions gradually became the language of my paintings. I no longer construct space with concrete and steel; instead, I use brushstrokes, negative space, and colour to express subtle yet genuine feelings. I am drawn to moments that typically escape notice—such as a girl sitting on the grass watching butterflies, or a lone tree growing on the city's edge—because I sense a quiet power in these scenes.
So, when I shifted from architecture to art, I was not abandoning anything but rather adopting a gentler, more introspective way of expressing myself. I hope my work functions like a soft conversation, inviting people to pause amid the rush, to feel nature's breath again, and to reconsider our place within the city. This "sense of space" is no longer a three-dimensional construction; it is an emotional realm, a living bond that has never truly been severed between humanity and nature.

Your practice spans several mediums, from watercolours and digital illustration to textiles and spatial installations. What draws you to work across disciplines?

For me, the medium is never a limitation—it is simply a set of different channels through which emotions and ideas can flow. My practice continually circles one core question: how can we help people re-establish a gentle yet authentic bond with nature? Because this question is open-ended and multilayered, it resists confinement to any single mode of expression.
At times, the softness of watercolour can perfectly convey the fleeting mood of a moment; at other times, I feel that moment needs to be tangible, woven into the everyday. Then, it becomes a carpet, a silk scarf, or even an immersive installation. Afternoon in the Garden, for instance, began as a scene on canvas, but I later translated it into textiles and household objects so that viewers are not merely "looking at" the work—they are "living within" its poetry.
Crossing disciplines is, therefore, not a deliberate tactic but a natural outgrowth of my approach. I want art to step beyond the gallery frame and enter daily life—something people can touch, use, and share. Especially in an era oversaturated with information and sensory stimuli, I hope my work can offer a quiet escape, communicating the same reflections on ecology, emotion, and warmth through many different forms.

And how do you choose the medium for a particular project? What considerations come into play when starting a new project?

For me, a project never begins with the question "Which medium will I use?" but rather "What do I want to say?" The medium surfaces gradually, shaped by the weight of the emotion, the atmosphere of the space, and the texture of the theme.
When I worked on the Summer series, for instance, I wanted to express the gentle yet hopeful interaction between people and nature at the height of the season—a mood that is fluid and buoyant. I therefore chose a delicate illustrative language and extended its vitality through prints on fabric, so the imagery could be felt as well as seen. By contrast, when I explore the rupture and potential repair of urban ecology—as in Journey · Urban Oasis—I turn to installation and spatial composition to recreate the pathways by which people "encounter nature" in the city's fissures.
Before starting any new project, I spend time "listening" to the theme: Is it static or dynamic? Does it call for an immersive environment, or does it demand quiet contemplation? At that moment, the medium ceases to be a tool and becomes a vessel for emotion.
I believe every medium carries its own memory, gaining fresh meaning as it interacts with people. Each choice is therefore a collaboration—water, paper, fabric, and light working with me to bring a new story to life.

Nature plays a central role in your work, and you often speak of "listening to nature". How does this idea shape your creative process?

"To listen to nature" is not a metaphor for me; it is a literal method of creation. Before I begin, I quiet myself—not to design a landscape, but to let nature's own emotions enter first.
I walk a lot. I go to botanical gardens and to the untamed edges of the city. The moments when the wind moves through tall grass, or sunlight filters through leaves become my starting points. Sometimes, it is the flight path of a bird; other times, the ripples on water. These impressions do not directly appear in the work; they become an atmosphere—a breath that is invisible yet palpable on the canvas.
In Afternoon in the Garden, for example, I employed extensive negative space and gentle brushstrokes to echo "nature's way of speaking"—not with noise, but in whispers that are subtle yet deeply penetrating. In Summer, I painted a mother and child travelling along a river; the water's undulations and the birds' freedom symbolise my respect for and yearning for nature's order.
Thus, "listening to nature" is not about my mastery over it; rather, nature becomes my teacher. In every piece I create, I try to allow its rhythms, colours, and temperatures to emerge on their own—while I serve simply as the person who hears and translates them.

Your visual language is often described as gentle and poetic yet deeply resonant. How do you use softness to explore deeper themes?

I have always believed that softness is not weakness; on the contrary, it is a more resilient form of expression. In a world overwhelmed by high-impact colour and relentless speed, a gentle visual language becomes an invitation to slow down—a quiet force that encourages viewers to pause, look, and feel.
I prefer to build images with low-saturation hues, airy brushstrokes, and "breathing" negative space. This lightness is a deliberate choice when I engage with heavy themes: the loss of natural ecosystems, the sense of alienation brought by urbanisation, and the unspoken emotions between people. These subjects are anything but easy to convey, yet I hope audiences will encounter them within a tender setting rather than through abrupt shock.
For instance, in Journey Urban Oasis I explore the growing rift between city and nature. Instead of a confrontational tone, I chose a subtle composition to portray greenery stubbornly pushing through urban cracks. My message is that even within the coldest concrete and steel, nature still possesses the potential for poetic growth.
Softness is my way of conversing with the world. It is not avoidance; it is the transformation of complex—sometimes painful—topics into artistic forms capable of being held gently, woven with a deeper emotional density.

How do your works, such as Afternoon in the Garden or Summer, reflect your interest in memory and nature?

I have long been fascinated by the place of "memory" in contemporary life. In a time when cities change at breakneck speed and personal relationships become increasingly fragmented, we can easily lose our connection to nature—and to our own emotions. Through my work, I aim to rekindle those gentle yet authentic sensations that everyday life tends to obscure.
Afternoon in the Garden is one of the most important series in my practice. It grew out of a real stroll through a garden—sunlight, grass, butterflies, and a girl sitting quietly. The harmony of that moment reminded me of carefree summer afternoons in childhood. Using watercolour's airy brushstrokes and translucent hues, I sought to fix this "temperature of memory" on paper, then extended it to scarves, carpets, and other everyday objects, so the memory could be not only seen but also "worn" and "used."
Summer, by contrast, is a meditation on nature and hope. I employ green to symbolise the season's vitality, depicting a mother and child drifting in a small boat across rippling water. More than a landscape, the scene is a metaphor for intergenerational bonds, ecological continuity, and inner optimism. This piece earned me the French Design Awards Gold Prize, and the message I wanted to convey is clear: even at the city's noisiest moments, we collectively yearn for a symbiotic existence with nature.
Whether in Afternoon in the Garden or Summer, the works are not just visual compositions but emotional homecomings. Memory, in these pieces, is no relic of the past; it is an echo in the present—a poetic continuation of the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

Can you explain the concept behind Whisper of Matter and how materials speak in your work?

"Whisper of Matter" is a mode of perception and a creative philosophy that has taken shape gradually in my work. It grows out of my sensitivity to materials and my conviction that every substance possesses its own emotion and language.
In my practice, the grain of the paper, the flow of watercolour, the tactility of fabric, and even the reflections of light and shadow within a space are not passive carriers of meaning; they are active participants in the narrative. I do not try to "conquer" materials—I try to listen to them. Often, the way pigment bleeds naturally across paper has more vitality than any composition I could design, and the folds in a length of cloth can mirror the trace of wind across a meadow.
The idea first emerged in my early illustrations, but it fully crystallised when I began translating art into everyday objects. While turning Afternoon in the Garden into carpets, scarves, and other pieces, I realised that material qualities themselves embody feeling. Soft yarns and rough natural textiles evoke memory through touch and create an emotional field in daily life.
"Whisper of Matter" is thus a slow, gentle form of expression. It suggests that we can form deep connections with the world even without words. Through this approach, I hope to remind people to sense the "seemingly silent" things around them—things that have always been speaking if only we choose to listen.

You've received several international accolades for your pieces. What is one lesson you learned from these experiences? And how do you apply it in your creative practice?

Winning international honours such as the French Design Awards, MUSE Design Awards, and NY Product Design Awards has been more than encouragement for me; they have acted as mirrors, prompting me to re-examine my work and to recognise more clearly that creation is not a monologue but a cross-cultural dialogue.
If there is one crucial lesson I have learned, it is that sincere expression possesses a power that transcends language and geography. When I first submitted my projects, I did not try to follow trends or second-guess what an international jury might prefer; I simply presented my own emotional experience with nature as faithfully as possible. It was precisely this authenticity and detailed storytelling that resonated with jurors from diverse cultural backgrounds.
That experience has strengthened my resolve. I now devote even more time to listening to my inner voice and to translating my observations and reflections into works that are gentle yet profound. In everyday practice, this commitment to "returning to authenticity" makes me focus on the creative process itself, resisting the urge to produce quickly and instead treating each piece as an honest exploration.
In the creative world, technique can always be refined, but what truly moves people are expressions that originate from genuine feelings and carry the warmth of life. This insight is the greatest gift I have taken from the international stage, and it remains the core belief that will guide my work going forward.

You often lead workshops and educational initiatives focused on ecological aesthetics. What role does education play in your practice, and what do you hope participants take away from these sessions?

For me, education has never been a one-way transfer of knowledge; it is a process of mutual inspiration and attentive listening. In my ecological-aesthetics workshops, I see myself as a facilitator rather than a lecturer. Together with participants, I sense the warmth of materials, trace the veins of plants, and contemplate the natural gaps within the city—experiences that go beyond mastering technique and become a journey toward renewed perception.
In an age of rapid consumption and homogenised taste, I hope this form of teaching helps people rediscover a slower pace. We are in no hurry to finish a painting; instead, we feel the flow of each stroke and the response of every material. This attention to detail, this sensitivity to nature, is the essence of ecological aesthetics: it concerns not only the natural world but also the way we relate to it.
I want each participant to leave the workshop with more than a finished piece; I want them to carry away a new way of seeing. Perhaps they will notice how sunlight enters their home, or—during a walk—spot a small tree they had "never seen" before. Such subtle shifts are, in fact, the truest echoes of art education.
To me, then, teaching is an integral part of artistic practice—a warm, living "work" that exists alongside, yet beyond, the pieces I create.

Lastly, are there any upcoming projects, exhibitions, or themes you're particularly excited to explore? How do you envision your practice evolving in the coming years?

Yes. I'm excited about all my upcoming projects, especially a thematic series now in preparation, provisionally titled "Breathing Landforms." Blending illustration, ink, and textile work, the project will use a more "geographic" visual language to depict the ways human emotion settles in nature and echoes back to us. It extends my ongoing ecological concerns, yet places greater emphasis on the dialogue between natural forms and inner perception—showing how a mountain's stillness, a river's flow, or the trace of wind can become part of our shared memory and imagination.
At the same time, I aim to push the work into fully immersive spaces that dissolve the conventional distance between the exhibition and the viewer. Future pieces may leave paper and fabric behind altogether, integrating sound, light, and even scent to create an "enterable sensory ecology."
Looking further ahead, I hope to broaden my practice not just across media but across disciplines—linking art, ecology, the humanities, and education. That might mean collaborating with research institutes, expanding my workshops into a structured curriculum on ecological aesthetics, or publishing image-and-text volumes on sensory encounters with nature. These ambitions are not about expansion for its own sake; they address a deeper question: in an increasingly fragmented world, how can art become a path that reunites us with nature and with our own inner selves?
I will continue to move forward in softness, yet with an ever-stronger commitment to carrying this gentle power farther and deeper.

Artist’s Talk

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