Wenhui Hao was born in 2000 in Taiyuan, China, and studied painting at the Royal College of Art in London. Her debut U.S. solo exhibition, By the Rivers Dark, just closed at Half Gallery in New York. Working with thick layers of oil paint and a visual language shaped by both Chinese landscape painting and anatomy atlases, Hao’s work confronts themes of bodily trauma, desire, and state control. In this conversation, we talk about chickens, chaos, and what it means to paint from the wound.
You’ve said painting feels close to surgery. In China, abortion wasn’t a personal choice but something enforced for decades. When you’re working and building up paint layer by layer, is that history on your mind?
Wenhui Hao:
在中国和美国关于堕胎有着不同的语境。我在开始这一系列创作之前的调研阶段，了解了很多关于堕胎手术的医学资料和与女性生产相关的解剖图像，试图了解中国计划生育的那段历史的同时，我也调研了美国的堕胎法案和女性为了身体自由的权利的抗争的历史，感受颇深。
我认为当我的创作涉及到这一公共的政治性议题时，我需要明确我历史旁观者的位置，因为我并非真实遭受到计划生育政策创伤的那一代女性。
我的创作一贯十分感性而依赖直觉，我的创作路径主要是从我的身体经验和情感体验出发，所以我只能通过我非常私人的自身堕胎的经验进入表达，绘画时我想起在那个夏天，我伴随着剧烈的疼痛流了整整一个月的血，冰冷的金属探测仪反复伸进我的体内。那个夏天我的身体被反复破坏和修复，像绘画一样。
我试图通过画面构建女性复杂的生命经验。但是为表尊重，我觉得我无法代表在这段历史中真实受到创伤的女性来谈论计划生育这段历史。
In China and the United States, the contexts surrounding abortion are vastly different. During the research phase before starting this series of works, I studied a lot of medical information about abortion procedures and anatomical images related to childbirth. While trying to understand that period of family planning history (one-child policy) in China, I also researched the history of abortion laws in the U.S. and women’s struggles for bodily autonomy, which left me deeply moved.
That summer, my body was repeatedly broken and repaired, much like the process of painting itself.
I believe that when my work touches upon this public, political issue, I need to clarify my position as a historical observer, because I do not belong to the generation of women who personally suffered the trauma of the family planning policy.
My creative process has always been highly intuitive and emotionally driven, primarily stemming from my own bodily experiences and emotional perceptions. Therefore, I can only approach expression through my very personal experience of having an abortion. While painting, I recalled that summer when I bled intensely for a whole month accompanied by excruciating pain, and the cold metal speculum repeatedly inserted into my body. That summer, my body was repeatedly broken and repaired, much like the process of painting itself.
I attempt to construct the complex life experiences of women through my imagery. However, out of respect, I feel I cannot speak on behalf of the women who were genuinely traumatized by this history when discussing the era of family planning.
Salt and the Silver Twilight, 2025.
Oil on Linen , 59 x 69 in.
Soft Landing, 2025.
Oil on Linen, 23.6 x 15.7 in.
You started with fruit. Now there are cut-up chickens, hollowed-out grapes, bodies without skin. What’s the connection between food and the body for you?
Wenhui Hao:
我说过我最初是由绘画水果开始进入我的抽象绘画探索的，在刚开始绘画抽象作品的时候，我一直在观察和描绘食物，我认识到食欲和欲望之间的深刻联系。它涉及原始冲动、对智力的拒绝以及对满足欲望的渴望。拆卸和烹饪食物的过程本质上是暴力的，是一种放纵的操纵，作为抑制欲望的出口。
我曾经发现自己被掏空的充满种子的水果迷住了。当我掏空并从它们的腹腔中取出所有的种子时，我感觉就像在对水果进行流产手术一样。我认为我的绘画过程一直近似一种解剖。
“我观察到无花果被切开，露出它们像牙齿一样密集的种子。它们丰满湿润，形状像女性生殖器。我拍摄了木瓜被切开，种子和果肉变得一团糟，闪光灯扮演着入侵者的角色。我把手指插入火龙果里，红色液体和黑色种子混合从洞里涌出。我知道我在实施暴力。我用勺子刮掉西瓜的皮，西瓜已经变得如此薄，其静脉都清晰可见。西瓜发出沉闷而暧昧的砰砰声，仿佛我在敲它的子宫壁，抚摸它的骨头。
真正让我对西瓜感到刺痛的是，不仅它们看似圆润丰满的身体实际上充满了沉重的淤泥和沙子，而且当一勺一勺地刮干净时，它们薄薄的绿色表皮，静脉清晰可见，但又硬又半透明，小心翼翼地抱着它们孕育的血液。”
在我在Rca读硕士的期间，我绘画了一整只鸡被解剖、清空并塞满酱汁，正准备腌制。在中文语境中，“鸡”的隐喻含义与滥交的女人的贬义词有关。在鸡的背上覆盖着我用刀叉刺穿的洞。鸡的形状有着扩大的腹部和张开的腿，类似于古代描绘分娩的雕像。
在后来的抽象实践中，我不仅解剖食物，也解构河流、森林、山谷。我试图发掘并解剖每一个可以和欲望和女性身体产生链接的自然意象。我试图在画面中构建纷繁复杂的空间，交叠着破碎而流动的抽象的人物躯干。
我消融我的身体在被我反复解构的荒野。
I’ve mentioned that my initial exploration into abstract painting began with painting fruits. In my early abstract works, I persistently observed and depicted food, recognizing the profound connection between appetite and desire. It involves primal impulses, a rejection of intellect, and a craving for satiation. The process of dismantling and cooking food is inherently violent—an indulgent manipulation serving as an outlet for suppressed desires.
I once found myself fascinated by hollowed fruits brimming with seeds. When I scooped out all the seeds from their abdominal cavities, it felt as though I were performing an abortion on the fruit. I consider my painting process akin to a form of dissection.
“I observed figs split open, revealing their dense, tooth-like seeds. Plump and moist, they resembled female genitalia. I photographed papayas sliced apart, their seeds and pulp reduced to chaos, the camera flash acting as an intruder. I plunged my fingers into dragon fruit, watching red liquid and black seeds gush from the wound. I knew I was enacting violence. I scraped watermelon rinds with a spoon—the flesh pared so thin its veins became visible. The fruit emitted a dull, ambiguous thumping, as if I were knocking on its uterine wall, caressing its bones.
What truly stung me about watermelons was not just how their seemingly plump bodies concealed heavy sludge and grit, but how—when scraped clean spoonful by spoonful—their thin green skin, veins exposed yet hardened and translucent, cautiously cradled the blood it conceived.”
During my MA studies at the RCA, I painted a whole chicken dissected, emptied, and stuffed with sauce, ready for marination. In Chinese context, the metaphor of ‘chicken’ carries derogatory connotations linking to promiscuous women. The chicken’s back bore puncture wounds from my stabbing fork and knife. With its swollen abdomen and splayed legs, its form echoed ancient statues depicting childbirth.
In later abstract practice, I dissected not only food but also rivers, forests, and valleys. I sought to excavate and anatomize every natural image that could intertwine with desire and the female body. Within the canvas, I constructed intricate spaces layered with fragmented, fluid abstract torsos.
I dissolve my body into the wilderness I deconstruct again and again.
In “Dionysus,” the river hangs in midair before it crashes. There’s ice, there are spasming bodies, there’s a Milky Way. Do you see chaos as a way to deal with pain?
Wenhui Hao:
在绘画时各种纷繁而华丽的意象涌进我的脑海，我看到野花、瀑布、冰川、丛林和破碎的河流。
我真切地感受到了各种猛烈而复杂的情感，不仅是痛苦，还包括狂喜、悲悯、平静和失落。
我的绘画过程是一种纯粹的依赖直觉和感性的过程。绘画向我所有复杂而强烈的情绪打开双臂慷慨地承接一切，而我所做的只是将情绪平衡而不是整理。
“混乱”对我来说不是一种必要，而是一种方法。
While painting, a torrent of intricate and opulent images floods my mind—I see wildflowers, waterfalls, glaciers, jungles, and shattered rivers.
I viscerally experience violent yet complex emotions—not just pain, but also ecstasy, compassion, tranquility, and loss.
My painting process is purely intuitive and emotionally driven. The canvas opens its arms generously to embrace all my chaotic, intense emotions; my task is not to tidy them, but to balance them.
To me, “chaos” is not a necessity—it is a method.
You grew up in Taiyuan, studied in London, and are showing in New York. Do you feel like you’re always translating? Or do the images do that work for you?
Wenhui Hao:
对于我来说，所处环境时间空间方面的流动，会让我收获生命经验和知识的更新和积累，而不完全是身份和思想上的转变。
在初次来到新的不同文化背景的环境时，绘画一直都对我融入新环境有很大的帮助。
因为一直以来和绘画有关的一切构成了我生命中很主要的部分，绘画潜移默化地影响了我看待事物的方式很和行为处事方式。画家和画家之间经常完全可以通过绘画了解对方是一个怎么样的人，即使不用通过语言交流，也会互相吸引，我很珍视这种幸运的默契。
绘画这个媒介本身就是我的第三语言，绘画让观者通过绘画语言更好地理解我。在非母语的国度我可以跨越语言和文本，通过绘画本身认识大家交流。
我的绘画本身也是一种不断翻译景观的过程，绘画语言将肉眼捕捉到的瞬间，和头脑里虚幻的幻想转译出来凝结在物质的绘画中，获得感受的永远存留。
For me, the fluidity of environment, time, and space brings about the renewing and accumulating of life experiences and knowledge—not necessarily a transformation of identity or ideology.
When first entering a new environment with a different cultural background, painting has always been instrumental in helping me integrate. Because everything related to painting has long constituted a major part of my life, it subtly shapes how I perceive the world and conduct myself. Painters can often understand each other’s essence entirely through their work; even without verbal communication, a mutual attraction exists. I deeply cherish this fortunate, wordless understanding.
The medium of painting itself is my third language. It allows viewers to understand me more profoundly through its visual vocabulary. In a non-native language land, I can transcend linguistic and textual barriers, connecting with others through the paintings themselves.
My painting is also a continuous process of translating landscapes. The language of painting captures moments perceived by the eye and transcribes intangible fantasies of the mind, condensing them into the physical artwork—achieving permanence for sensory experiences.
Courtesy of the artist.
Some have called you the Lucy Bull of China, but your work feels more political, more wounded. Do you think the Western art world has the language to talk about what you’re doing?
Wenhui Hao:
将我与Lucy Bull类比是一种有趣的联想，但我的创作根植于完全不同的文化土壤与历史语境中的个人身体情感经验，如果要给我自己下定义，我愿意称我是一位女性主义艺术家。
中国社会在过去几十年经历的独特而复杂的转型，塑造了我们这一代人的集体记忆与个体经验。如果我的作品给人以‘政治性’或‘创伤感’的印象，那或许是因为它诚实地回应了女性身份在时代变迁中的生存状态。它关乎身份、记忆、失落与韧性，是超越单一政治维度的生命叙事。
至于西方艺术界是否拥有‘语言’理解我的作品？我坚定认为艺术本应超越语言的边界。
西方艺术理论提供了重要视角，但任何文化框架都有其盲点。真正的对话需要双方的努力：我需要更清晰地呈现我的文化基因，而西方观众或许也需要放下某些预设，尝试在‘差异’中寻找共鸣的锚点。
我所理解的深刻的艺术永远在邀请观者进入一种‘共同的人类体验’——无论来自东方还是西方。我期待的是开放、平等的交流，而非单向的解读。
The comparison between me and Lucy Bull is an intriguing association, but my creative practice is rooted in deeply personal bodily and emotional experiences emerging from entirely different cultural soil and historical contexts. If I were to define myself, I would call myself a feminist artist.
The unique and complex transformations Chinese society has undergone over the past decades have shaped the collective memory and individual experiences of my generation. If my work conveys an impression of being ‘political’ or ‘trauma-laden,’ it is perhaps because it honestly responds to the lived realities of female identity amidst epochal shifts. It speaks to identity, memory, loss, and resilience—a life narrative that transcends any singular political dimension.
What I anticipate is open, equitable exchange, not unilateral interpretation.
As for whether the Western art world possesses the ‘language’ to understand my work? I firmly believe art should inherently transcend linguistic boundaries.
While Western art theory offers valuable perspectives, any cultural framework carries its blind spots. Genuine dialogue requires effort from both sides: I must articulate my cultural DNA more clearly, and Western audiences may need to suspend certain preconceptions, attempting to find anchors of resonance within difference itself.
The profound art I envision always invites viewers into a realm of ‘shared human experience’—whether from the East or West. What I anticipate is open, equitable exchange, not unilateral interpretation.
Featured image: Wenhui Hao, Dionysus, 2025. Oil on Linen. 59 x 59 in.