Artist Chen Yujun's practice focuses intensely on exploring emotional connections between the individual and their homeland, as well as the relationship between natural and constructed spaces. Over the past two decades, through more than a dozen relocations, his current studio has become a sprawling repository of creative materials and life artifacts—layered and stacked like a palace of memories, serving in some way as an anchor for the artist's inner world. Every corner bears traces; each object might be the "loose thread" of a clue, tugging at which could lead upstream to wondrous vistas.

On a rare sunny day in early spring's lingering chill, we visit Chen Yujun's studio on the outskirts of Shanghai. The courtyard outside is paved with stone slabs and gravel, while the floor-to-ceiling glass by the entrance displays recent exhibition announcements. This space functions not only as his studio but also occasionally hosts exhibitions.

Every corner refracts the artist's personal journey and thoughts: the ground-floor painting area is divided by furniture and plants; the tearoom near the entrance is enveloped by broad-leaved greenery and orchids stacked overhead; the small fish in the aquarium were caught by Chen and his family during weekend river outings; the table bases and sections of walls are pieced together from reclaimed wood scraps.

The painting zone retains the original high ceilings, with long south-facing windows flooding the space with sunlight. Adjacent sits a small hut reminiscent of Zen courtyards, constructed from old wooden doors and planks—echoing elements from his past exhibitions. Two stone lion statues guard the wooden steps. A large painting in progress sprawls across the floor, deftly avoided by the studio's small black dog during its playful dashes.

Upstairs, several partitioned rooms continue the collage aesthetic below, blending wood and glass to maintain transparency. From the corridor, one overlooks the entire painting area. The first room features a sloping ceiling that descends to eye level, inviting close inspection of sculptures arranged like mythical beasts atop traditional roof ridges. "After reshaping the space, it needed the imprint of daily life to truly come alive," Chen remarks. He describes himself as a "compass": "I linger in each spot, sensing what needs adding or altering. Wherever my radar pings, that's where I settle for the day."

Chen recalls his first studio in Hangzhou, shared with his brother Chen Yufan: "There, I suddenly realized I had space—both as a creative vessel and the ultimate display medium. It later became the precursor to my debut solo Empty Room (Boers-Li Gallery, 2010), a fully realized comprehensive work."

His current studio took much longer to renovate, including a month-long pause due to stylistic uncertainty. Then the concept of a "village" struck him: How might art expand possibilities? He envisioned crafting a personal "village" to reignite passion for the unknown: "Within these sterile concrete walls, how could I make it feel like a garden, my village, my spiritual home?" Post-renovation, he repurposed accumulated installation materials, achieving catharsis.

Mulan Creek, a river flowing from Putian to the Sanjiang Estuary before merging into the Taiwan Strait, has nourished generations. Their ancestors drifted south across the strait to Southeast Asia, later influencing local culture in return—a blend of Nanyang (Southeast Asian) and native flavors that nested in Chen's memories as creative inspiration.

Since 2007, Chen and his brother have collaborated on the Mulan Creek project. In 2020, they invited media and scholars to their hometown for Return to Mulan Creek: wandering Yuantou Village, watching Puxian opera, feasting at banquets, absorbing local architecture and landscapes.

As a child, Chen loved perching on his ancestral home's high windowsill, observing a ditch below that flooded during rains. "Things carried by the river would linger there. That sill felt like a cozy portal to the world," he recalls. "In creation, I too seek such vantage points—where layers accumulate rather than confine."

Chen's upcoming exhibition relates to his alma mater's Synthetic Painting department at China Academy of Art. The notion of "synthesis" has long preoccupied him: "My training fused Eastern and Western traditions. Visiting my mentor recently, he asked how I now view this duality. I said I once felt straddled on a wall between them—sometimes clear, often adrift, yearning to leap off and forge my own path. Now, that wall is my path."

He considers synthetic painting "closest to the soul, temperament, and technical essence." Like all students, he initially emulated masters, risking the loss of his own voice. True clarity demands discipline.

"Revisiting classics today—does anything still move me?" Four years ago, en route to Italy for sculpture work, Chen detoured to MoMA for a self-test. Asked which pieces endured, he listed: "First, Cézanne's tiny painting of rotting apples. I marveled—why does this still captivate me? Like seeing the world anew, or through clearer lenses. I adored him as a student; after worldly pursuits, those humble apples remain transcendent. Next, Picasso, whom I once resisted due to overexposure. But his swift, raw figure studies revealed undeniable genius. Finally, Bacon's steak-obscured portrait near the entrance. As a youth, I pored over reproductions; now, I grasped his unpretentious power."

01 Divination Blocks

Used in southern folk rituals to seek divine approval. When choosing between Xiamen University and China Academy of Art, Chen's father took him to a Putian nunnery. The blocks landed one yin, one yang—a "yes." He kept them.

02 The Temple of the Golden Pavilion

"Beauty is the Golden Pavilion? Then I must destroy it." Reading Mishima unsettled Chen—that terror of beauty's fragility, the urge to preserve or shatter what may not endure.

03 Lightweight Sculptures

Colorful abstract experiments in texture and form, scattered like studio-grown plants.

04 Corn Teapot

His parents' whimsical teapot, with corn-silk "hair" as the lid, embodies pragmatic charm from another era.

05 Plane Model

Made during lockdown from discarded bottles and scraps.

06 Sony Camera

A tool to externalize thoughts. "The photo matters less than being struck by a moment's aliveness."

07 Lego Sculpture

Built spontaneously with his son's toys.

08 Lion Figurines

Folk-art guardians brought from Putian, morphing playfully across traditions.

09 Monkey King Statue

The revered Sun Wukong still thrives in Fujian, Taiwan, and Southeast Asian temples.

10 Memory Drawers

Student-era photos, flea-market finds, foreign buttons—sorted treasures as creative "threads."

Q&A

Q：From student-era tickets to furniture repurposed from installations—your studio brims with objects. How do you decide what stays through so many moves?

A：Editing is about channeling—transforming things into new material. I believe everything must integrate into the work. Maximizing an object's use fascinates me; it's not just display but reconfiguration. That's why I can't discard much—each severed thread loses a potential path.

Q：What constitutes the uniqueness of your artistic practice over the years?

A：I thrive on exchanges with diverse fields. The richness and randomness of mundane life—interactions with neighbors, strangers, the city—feed me more than art-world discourse. Childhood experiences and cultural roots shape my physicality, while professional struggles carve distinct trails. Then there's the ineffable—like one's voice, impossible to fake.

Q： Your painting titles intrigue—Exile and the Kingdom, Wavering Faith... Later, you borrowed from literary giants like Camus' The Stranger or Proust. What inspires these references?

A：Titles emerge last. First comes the image, then a psychological pull needing direction. Wavering Faith struck me amid Putian's rubble—stones pulsing with life. The Stranger responded to photos of European ruins I commissioned. Their decay dialogues with classical ideals, devoid of human spirit. Camus' themes of societal rupture mirrored my work. Titles are gateways, often accidental.