Sun Yitian in the Studio

The boundaries between the natural and the artificial blue in the hyper-realistic paintings of Sun Yitian. Mass-produced Ken dolls, for instance, are given agency, while the snaking hair of Medusa is rendered more like rubber toys.

To mark her solo exhibition, Once Upon a Time__(18 October–24 November 2023), at Esther Schipper in Paris, Ocula Advisory sat down with the Beijing-based artist to discuss her work.

Sun reflects on her increasingly imaginative approach, how she achieves surrealist feeling in her work, and her most recent paintings showcased in Paris.

You studied painting at the Central Academy of Fine Arts in China and are currently studying for a doctorate in Philosophy at Tsinghua University, Beijing. How has your study of literature influenced your practice?

Currently I'm interested in delving into the concept of the object within the realms of literary theory and art history. I'd like to find connections between my academic study and my artistic expressions.

I used to rely on my intuition and observations, fearing that the intuitive part of my practice could be jeopardised by theoretical frames. However, my increasing exposure to the broader theoretical world has brought new visions and angles into my practice, even though I still find myself at the initial stages of navigating this world.

In your recent show, Once Upon a Time, at Esther Schipper in Paris, you brought together artificial objects and natural objects, which were previously separate in your work. Why?

In my earlier paintings featuring artificial objects, I deliberately avoided storytelling. For instance, when I chose to paint an inflatable cactus, my intention was to strip away any potential narratives. I wanted the cactus to captivate and immerse the viewer without conveying a specific story or invoking any context. It exists in a vacuum.

Since I was 16 years old, I've also developed a series of works depicting nature, which has never been publicly exhibited. This intimate series revolves around storytelling, reflecting my readings and encounters during those moments.

In my most recent pieces showcased in Paris, I combined the two motifs, aiming to portray objects not in a lifeless state anymore but to position them in space and history.

You render the backgrounds with zigzagging shadows and deserted landscapes, whereas in your earlier paintings, you tend to depict figures against a monochrome background or doll heads on a tabletop. What inspired these changes?

I've painted many consumer goods that reflect my personal narrative—my upbringing in Wenzhou, a city in Zhejiang Province renowned for its manufacturing industry, and my childhood familiarity with inflatable toys.

In my recent works, I aimed to break away from the personal. I took into account my identity as an East Asian artist exhibiting in Europe, the opulence of luxury stores surrounding the gallery, and the broader cultural context of objects in today's society.

I read that you work from staged photographs that you take yourself. Could you tell me about how you approach each painting?

In my earlier works, I often staged scenes with toys that I purchased and then painted from photographs. However, I don't quite rely on photos now, but create the subject, composition, and texture from my imagination.

The figures in your paintings, particularly those depicting Greek mythological figures like Medusa and Dionysus, convey a guileless beauty while looking distinctly doll-like. Is it more challenging to appropriate and contemporarise these widely depicted figures in art history than, for example, to paint an industrially produced toy?

Indeed, creating this series of paintings was a laborious process, unlike when I paint toys or the head of Ken, where I am confident in my approach, techniques, and the resulting texture.

In Once Upon a Time (2023), my intention was to create a classical human figure by merging various elements that I find symbolic in classic portraiture in Western art history, much like what AI does.

The resulting canvas featured a figure between male and female, plastic and fleshy, with hair rendered using Chinese ink painting techniques to convey a peculiar polish, an artificiality.

Similarly, in my painting of Medusa, I employed a comparable approach by merging the mythological figure from art history with the figure as a commodity, symbolised by the Versace logo that intrigued me as a child. The depiction of her snake hair doesn't follow Caravaggio's manner—they were intended to look fake, akin to a cluster of rubber prank toys. It's a hyperrealistic portrayal of an object, not of snakes.

My recent works are about exploring the relationship between commodity goods and art history or broader culture, creating figures that are hybrids of objects and humans.

Many of your paintings convey a surreal, uncanny atmosphere. How do you create it?

I don't aim for a sense of strangeness that arises from creating a dreamlike landscape. Instead, I achieve this surreal feeling by juxtaposing contradictory scenes, employing exaggerated scales, or introducing dissonance in colours, textures, and light—all within the bounds of our familiar visual experience.

In Cruising Creatures (2023), for example, I painted an iconic fish shoe by French designer André Perugia, set against a backdrop inspired by a family photo of a strangely desolate seaside.

I introduced a symmetrical composition featuring two classic Ionic columns and incorporated various of natural, artificial, and unconventional lighting angles. The sense of strangeness emerges through the juxtaposition of these seemingly ordinary objects.

What's next for you?

For the next year, my primary focus will be on my dissertation. I guess that, much like painting, writing demands sustained engagement over an extended period to produce high-quality work.