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Jessica Wan (JW): Why poetry? I’d like to begin with an exploration of what poetry means, both conceptually and literally. I have been reading Lunch Poems (1964) by Frank O’Hara during meals, my mind wanders as different flavours and textures enter the body. It was new for me to encounter poems that feel like conversation, casual yet electric, capturing the immediacy of New York City. I could relate to that fleeting energy. Living in a metropolis like London, moments often pass before I can find the words to describe them.

The way O’Hara approached ordinary gestures such as walking, eating or looking as poetic material led me to think about the intersection between urban experience, pop culture and identity. I am drawn to his rejection of formal structures like fixed rhythm and assonance, and his embrace of a natural flow of thought. In his work, poetry seems to offer itself as a form of communion rather than communication. It does not necessarily make sense through logic but bypasses reasoning to create a transitory space for intimacy. It is less about articulating events than about feeling them; less about documentation than embodied recollection.

When we were in your studio speaking about the unexplainable, the ongoing search born from namelessness, and the human need to know, that was when the seed of our poetry exchange was planted. We hoped our dialogue would reach readers not as an intellectual exercise, but as something closer to a correspondence between friends.

Li Li Ren (LLR): Yes! I remember how my words kept failing me, my stuttering. I remember the way you listened, so attentively, following my scattered thoughts until they opened into a small path where you and I could meet. I remember the words you spoke, their tones and inflections.I remember your delightful laughters and your occasional confusions. I remember our pauses, and then how we continued.Sometimes I think our conversation was less about what we said and more about the places we paused and those quiet, shimmering moments when meaning arrived in the space between the syllables.

When I look back, I don’t remember conclusions or our beginnings, I remember the feeling of walking with you toward something unnamed, and the gentle surprise of finding we weren’t alone there. As you mentioned, the moments when words turn to seeds: those brief, fragile instants when a thought hasn’t yet found its form, but is already reaching for light. Sometimes I think the conversation itself was soil, and we were only tending what might grow, quietly, without knowing the names for anything we were planting.

JW: In the context of your new solo exhibition, its title, Nameless here for evermore, comes from The Raven, a poem by American writer Edgar Allan Poe. Could you tell us why poetry is important to you, and how you first encountered it?

LLR:  I’ve always felt haunted by this line. Even without fully understanding it, there’s an energy that draws in all the emotions I’ve experienced over time. It feels magnetic, like it gathers and holds feelings across different moments.

When I encountered Nameless Here For evermore, I reflected on naming. Naming is a uniquely human act, a first creative gesture, almost a way of assuming control over the world. I wanted to challenge that. For me, Nameless represents a state of being—a liberation from self-imposed responsibility or righteousness.

I don’t read him regularly, but I’m drawn to certain works, like a story about a salmon I read in Chinese. I admire his precision with language. Because of my dyslexia and dyspraxia, I experience words non-linearly—they’re material rather than narrative. Characters evoke imagery more than sound, which aligns with my visual practice. Reading poetry brings vivid images that spark imagination and inspiration.

JW:  Yes, words as raw material rather than literal meaning. The Raven does something similar. It evokes a vivid scene and feeling without explaining anything explicitly. The reader is immersed and left to inhabit the scene.

LLR: Exactly. That aligns with how I wanted the show to feel: opening a space, a feeling, without trying to articulate a message or impose meaning. Words are slippery and they can’t fully capture our experience.

JW: The first work in the show, Nameless (2025), features three ribcage-like sculptures made from stainless steel and fiberglass, suspended beneath a black, dune-like tent pierced by a custom-made arrow. Could you talk about how you created these sculptures and why you chose to display them this way?

LLR: I have always been fascinated by what we consider human in terms of form and structure. Since last year, I have been working with pelvic and rib structures, exploring the flow of air and Qi through the body. By removing the organs, I emphasized the ribcage as a vessel. Turning the forms horizontally shifts perspective, creating something both familiar and strange. I made three sculptures of the same shape but in different sizes to capture repetition and movement in the world. I chose arrows to represent invisible forces, motion, and energy, making the unseen visible. The glass material of the arrows, with its dynamic forms, suggests growth and fluidity. It is still forming and still performing.

JW: Walking alongside these sculptures, I could feel the sense of motion through the arrow suspended within contrasting with the stillness. It reminds me of seeing a whale carcass on the desert shore recently in Namibia, decaying yet giving life to other creatures—a transformation that feels sacred. Your work recalls that sense of shifting perception when we are exposed to see the familiar in new ways.

LLR: Yes, that connection resonates. I love the idea of the whale fall, that giant whales can feed millions of other animals. So beautiful.

JW: The next work, An Act of Balance (2021), is a free standing piece made of copper rods and black glazed ceramic, evoking a choreographed figure. How did this piece develop, and in what ways does it dialogue with your other works?

LLR: This piece was made a few years ago and first shown in another solo exhibition. Then, I was thinking about how my works interact spatially and aesthetically, exploring movement, repetition, and organic patterns. The forms hint at spines or organisms, emphasizing performative motion. I wanted to show the development of my visual language and continuous interests.

JW: In your new work, Encounter (2025), the folded copper sheets and their scorched surfaces form a monumental, almost war-torn presence. The piece evokes the tension between civilization and nature — the human impulse to forge tools for survival, recalling the bow and arrow in both archery and hunting. Beneath this copper shield and arrow, you’ve concealed a turtle. In this context, what does the turtle’s shell signify?

LLR: The arrows carry historical references and context, which is interesting. I approach them bodily, sensing the historical and cultural weight in the body itself. There is a strong physical urge to break free from human constructed ideas and to resist symbolic meanings. The work embodies that resistance.

Turtles are mythological symbols across cultures, especially in Chinese mythology, associated with creation and longevity. I don’t assign a fixed meaning here; it’s about raising questions, capturing curiosity, and allowing viewers to wonder. The copper sheets are rigid, precise, yet they contain fluidity, reflecting my interest in the logic of the cosmos and organic forms.

JW: In the second room, a two-part installation, Wild Nights (2025), seems to be inspired by DNA sequences and fundamental forms in living beings, using bronze, rope, silicone resin, yarn, and rubber. What role do the rubber seeds and the volcanic elements play in these pieces?

LLR: I don’t aim to tell a story directly. I work with emergent stories, letting the work suggest experiences or dreams. I explore repetition and motion, capturing feelings that are hard to articulate while connecting to the hidden structures of life.

The rubber seeds… They feel frozen, like creatures crouching on Ice Age land. It is very surprising to find little seeds there. I think where this sits is quite important. It offers a glimpse of conviction—things can happen there.

It is interesting how you say “things captured,” because I was looking at the rubber seeds. I got them from my grandmother’s collection. After she died, my sister brought back a huge bag, which surprised us because she was not a collector in the usual sense. She was an ordinary Chinese woman from northern China, who lived through hardship and sacrificed for her family.

Before her death, I thought she was ordinary, but then I discovered her fascination: she collected, she created, she was a poet. I never understood why she collected, but I wanted to keep it. Rubber trees grow in the south, yet she lived in the north. There is a mystery in that, and I find beauty in it. It makes me think about what traces I will leave behind.

She was not practically part of my life, but like all grandmothers, she is spirit. She is one element of this energy, and somehow that captures the idea strongly. From that small story, I feel we are part of something larger, both sad and fortunate.

JW: Hearing you and I’m reminded of Maya Angelou, a Black American writer, on her perspectives of heritage and legacy. She said that “when you walk into an office, you don’t go alone. Bring everybody who has loved you with you.” She talks about self-love and how all the past spirits are celebrating each one of us. Remembering these spirits gives courage; it reminds us that life is never truly lonely because we carry and receive something from the past. Despite struggles, we are lucky to be here, able to pass things on. Angelou suffered significant trauma and hardship, but spoke of heritage as a way to find truth and strength. We are always living in someone’s memory, almost drawing from the legacy of those who came before. I’d also like to talk about the work next to this, Tara Arising from Compassionate Tears (2024). What is the story behind it?

LLR: Tara is a female Buddhist figure. There are twelve Taras, each a different color, each blessing different areas of life. They are formed from the tears of Buddha. I found that fascinating…

JW: Does Buddha have tears?

LLR: Apparently, yes. But I approach it both fictionally and realistically. I think it’s beautiful that something comes from tears. Tears are about compassion—they mix different emotions. Mostly we associate tears with humans, but who knows about animals? Some research suggests camels, for example, may have simple emotions associated with tears. I’m fascinated by the shape of tears—it’s a universal truth in a way. Some people think the tears in the work look factory-made because they’re so perfect, but I like it precisely that way—calculated, exact.

JW: And in your work, repetition plays a role. Repeated water drops could be tears, or rain. Water is fundamental to everything we live by, yet we don’t often think about it. Assigning meaning—“this is a tear”—adds layers: sorrow, compassion, grief. It connects with myths and storytelling, the way humans create meaning. Tears carry emotions chemically and they release what we feel, connecting us to the earth and nature.

LLR: I once saw a picture of Rwandan women mourning. They carry bags of water, cry together, then poke holes so water drips slowly. It was interesting—the connection of tears and collective care, maybe even self-soothing. And if it’s just water, it still cares for the world, regenerates life. Tears aren’t only sadness—they’re a way of rebirth, a cleansing. And thinking about humans… death is central. It defines us, yet we hide from it. My work may not directly touch on death, but I think about it constantly—it shapes humanity.

JW: Indeed, binary thinking about death makes it a taboo. Ernest Becker wrote a book arguing that everything humans do relates to death. We monumentalize life, pursue endless productivity, and seek immortality of spirit or consciousness. Every human drive, every desire, even attempts to control nature, stems from the fear of death. Death shapes perspective; it is a universal constant.

LLR: Human knowledge, yes.

JW: And your work is liberating in that context: combining symbols, remaking forms, representing ordinary things in new ways—allowing viewers to see differently, beyond human or non-human perspective. This connects to Memento, The Salvager’s Dream (2025), which consists of bronze, glass and rubber seeds visible when you view from above.

LLR: I made the rubber seeds less visible, secretive somehow. This piece roots in my fascination with bones, especially the pelvis. After giving birth, I felt a special relationship with my own pelvis—it changed, and I worked with it through exercise and practice. The pelvis fascinates me for its shape and structure. I enjoy exploring how materials support each other. I blow glass into bubbles and let them rest on the bronze pelvis. As they cool, they form naturally, without too much intervention. The result is alien yet familiar, almost vessel-like—open, porous, like a human body. The bubble can hold things, a form that is both complete and open.

JW: This brings us back to your ideas about repetition and structure. Working with cultural symbols, unlearning and reconstructing allows for new perspectives on relationships, materials, and life. It feels like a kind of rebirth within our lifetime. When we look at microscopic life, complexity and porosity appear everywhere. Butterfly wings, for example, form a mosaic of tiny overlapping scales, like shingles on a roof. Objects that seem solid are often porous and interconnected. Shifting perspective through microscopic or non-human vision reveals multiplicity, openness, and fluidity in what we usually assume is static.

LLR: Humans may have begun with a perception closer to Earth’s interconnectedness, but learning, schooling, and socialization create fixed ideas. Babies, for example, cannot yet differentiate themselves from the world—a state of natural interconnection. That awareness is now accessible only through imagination, because memory is lost.

This work, Abundance, placed on the floor, connects to the others through shape and material. I follow an energy I cannot fully put into words. The piece could sit on a larger work, yet it also stands alone. I am fascinated by the human body as a cosmic sphere. Visiting churches in Italy, I saw decorative spheres suspended in sacred spaces. They seemed to link the body with the cosmos or spiritual realms. I wanted to recreate that sense—the glass form is a kind of comfort. It is not about religion, but about human longing, desire, and abundance. It celebrates rather than marks a lack. Alongside it is the hue of attention—a work shaped by a warm, diffused yellow glow filtering through an irregular space. A long, polished copper rod extends outward, reaching just far enough toward the viewer that, in its reflective surface, they almost recognize the faint outline of their own face. This nearness—this nearly-but-not-quite clarity—creates a subtle invitation to attend, to soften, to notice. The piece grew from Simone Weil’s idea that love is a radical form of attention without grasping, holding space for the unknown and unnamed.

I find a quiet sense of hope.

JW: Hope is central. The beauty lies in something forming but it doesn’t need to reach a goal. It allows openness, supports growth, celebrates what exists, and doesn’t require completion.

LLR: That’s the state I hope to be in.