Perpetual Still Life 1, 2023.
Mixed media on canvas, 47.25 x 39.5 in.

Image courtesy of the artist and Hive Center for Contemporary Art.

Ouroboros, 2025.
Acrylic and oil on canvas, 42.5 x 31 in.

Image courtesy of the artist and Hive Center for Contemporary Art.

Fugue of Fading Flesh, 2025.
Acrylic and oil on canvas, 59 x 47.25 in.

Courtesy of the artist and Hive Center for Contemporary Art.

TBC, 2024.
Mixed media on canvas, 50.5 x 79.15 in.

Image courtesy of the artist and Hive Center for Contemporary Art.

memory/

One time, by chance, when I was ten years old, I picked up a large stone and started drawing on it. When I was thinking about what to draw on this stone, I noticed that the pigment on the brush didn’t really absorb into the stone; instead, it interacted with the texture of the stone and created this incredibly beautiful diffusion. This experience surprised me–it told me that texture, too, could be part of painting. This pursuit eventually found its way into my painting style today, where I depend on heavy moisture and flowing pigment to interact with the canvas naturally. It was completely different from simply using a brush to make conscious marks. It’s all rooted in that first accidental, beautiful interaction with the stone. That moment was the beginning of my painting journey.

I think uncertainty is one of the more unique aspects of my work. This kind of uncertainty is, more often than not, ugly, because you can’t deliberately shape it into what you want. The result is often unsatisfying. I’ve struggled with that, trying to find ways to incorporate this imperfect, uncertain element into my work. It’s not a kind of beauty born from careful depiction. So I think it might represent a beauty that isn’t based on conventional standards, but rather rooted in accepting imperfection.

The artist’s studio.

Courtesy of the artist.

line/

I like using the body as the subject of my work because ever since I began engaging with art, it’s been the most emotionally powerful element for me. It’s so primal–it can convey violence or fragility. The body I depict isn’t necessarily mine, and it’s not anyone else’s either. It’s more like an exploration of what “the body” is, in itself. I really like Deleuze’s idea of the “body without organs”: a body that isn’t defined or restricted by what society assigns to it. That concept of bodily fluidity and ultimate freedom is something I’ve been chasing.

When it comes to the depiction of bodies in my work, I do have some control. For example, I’ll plan out the composition of the bodies and the tension between the two figures. But within the body, how the color flows inside the body, and how the pigment behaves on the canvas, I leave space for the element of uncertainty to emerge.

Many people notice the grotesque bodies, their sexual overtones, and the monstrous qualities in my work. I deliberately avoid creating beautiful images. I want there to be strangeness–ugliness–because I aim to challenge the viewer’s visual expectations. Naturally, people associate the human body with eroticism. This stereotype leads to a gaze that objectifies the body in my work. But when I render these bodies as grotesque and violent, yet still infuse them with erotic elements, it becomes a visual provocation. I’m not giving viewers what they want–neither traditional beauty nor sexual appeal. Instead, I reverse the gaze. I want viewers to question: when eroticism no longer serves your desires, what remains? It's a challenge to conventional visual aesthetics. It's not surprising when people see sexuality in my work. I don’t intentionally express sexuality, but I accept that interpretation. I quite enjoy it. It’s amusing to me. I don’t try to make my work sexual, but people still perceive it that way. That’s a delightful surprise, like discovering something new, like my painting on the rock.

I think people who don’t know me might assume I’m an explosive, provocative artist–someone deeply immersed in erotic research or radical ideas. But in reality, I’m quite reserved. People often say, "Why do your paintings look so violent or sexual? You’re nothing like that!" But I love that contrast. I don’t feel like I have to make work that aligns with my outward appearance. My image of being a “cute girl” creating violent, sexualized works is part of my challenge to the viewer. I express my darkest, weirdest self through my art. That grotesqueness balances things out.

Still from Plight, 120 minutes-long performance at Richmond Park, London, UK.

Courtesy of the artist.

color/

If you asked me to just sit down and paint a picture without doing anything else first, I couldn’t do it. I need to engage with the world physically through my body. Only by experiencing something through action can I then express it in a painting. Performance gives me the chance to feel my body’s state. I remember that sensation, and then I express it. My performances are often a way of venting emotions and responding to unpleasant or painful moments. After venting, I feel more complete, more myself.

Generally speaking, every series of my works begins with a performance–an action–as the starting point. Whether it's tearing my skin or cutting hair, it’s always about using violence or destruction to give birth to something new. My earlier practice involved thinking about how to break through personal limitations. Back then, I felt I was in a state of constraint and dissatisfaction. My early stocking series involved a performance where I wore a bodysuit made of stockings, treating it as my second skin. I walked through a forest in Richmond Park, getting scratched by branches. Through this, my second skin experienced violence and exposed the fragility of the material.

Stockings have always been a key element in my art. They carry multiple meanings: a symbol of mass production, a sexual object, or a signal of intimacy in relationships. When the outside world tore at my stocking suit, it was a form of protest–breaking the rules imposed on me and reconstructing my identity in pursuit of true freedom. I wanted to store that violence in memory, to document the pain. So I found a way to merge painting and printmaking techniques, creating the series of works I have today.

For me, the performance itself is a form of primary research. After such a performance, I use the inspiration, reflections, and visual impressions it brings to carry out the second phase: creating a series of body-related paintings. My paintings are expressions of the physical and emotional state I felt during the act, transformed into distorted, sometimes painful images.

The artist and her mother performing during the exhibition "Drifting Bond," Hive Center for Contemporary Art | Beijing. July 2024.

Written and interviewed by Sarah Qing Markovitz.

Sarah Qing Markovitz is a writer and curator based in Beijing, China, where she serves as the Director of International Programming at Hive Center for Contemporary Art.

Published May 27, 2025.

Courtesy of the artist.

Mingxuan Zhang

Mingxuan Zhang (b. 1998) is an artist based in London and Hong Kong. She received a Bachelor’s degree from Central Saint Martins in 2020 and a Master’s from the Royal College of Art in 2023.

Zhang’s artistic practice centres around the fluidity and desymbolisation of the body, examining the relationship between the body, space and gaze through contortion and absence. Her work has been shown in solo and group presentations at Hive Center for Contemporary Art, China; Tate Modern, UK; ASE foundation, Shanghai, China; Haricot Gallery, London, UK; ASC Gallery, UK; Southwark Park Galleries, UK; and Pumphouse Gallery, UK.