Xu Bing: The Artist Who Rewrote Language and Meaning

Few artists have reshaped the boundaries of language and image as profoundly as Xu Bing. Born in Chongqing in 1955 and trained at Beijing’s Central Academy of Fine Arts, he emerged in the 1980s with Book from the Sky, a sweeping, cerebral provocation—thousands of printed volumes and hanging scrolls filled with elegant yet entirely fabricated Chinese characters. The work was a linguistic paradox: familiar yet unreadable, scholarly yet subversive. It cemented Xu as an artist who doesn’t just critique systems of meaning but rewires them from the inside out.

Xu Bing’s preoccupation with writing—as a visual form, a historical construct, and a tool of power—has fueled decades of work that moves between playfulness and profound cultural inquiry. His “square word calligraphy” cleverly disguises English words as Chinese characters, forcing viewers to question the assumptions baked into language. His Living Word installation literalizes the transformation of text into image, as calligraphic symbols of “bird” flutter skyward, evolving from Mao-era simplifications to ancient pictographs.

After moving to the U.S. in 1990, Xu Bing’s practice expanded into new conceptual terrain, earning him a MacArthur Fellowship in 1999. Yet his work remains deeply rooted in the shifting political and linguistic landscapes of China. His return to Beijing in 2007 as Vice President of the Central Academy of Fine Arts signaled a new phase—one where institutional authority and artistic autonomy exist in uneasy dialogue.

From the Venice Biennale to the British Museum, from Phoenix—his monumental installation built from construction debris—to his experiments with tobacco and propaganda, Xu Bing continually reinvents how we see, read, and interpret the world. Whether transforming language into a sculptural medium or dismantling its ideological underpinnings, he remains one of contemporary art’s sharpest and most original thinkers, proving that the written word is never just ink on a page.

An Interview with Xu Bing

By Carol Real

How did growing up during the Cultural Revolution in China influence your artistic perspective and the themes in your early work?

My main visual memory of the Cultural Revolution is the “sea of words” at Peking University. The power of words is like knives and guns; those who experienced the Cultural Revolution are still haunted by it, feeling as if they might not recover generations after. I have mentioned my personal and special relationship with words in old writings: my mother worked in the Department of Library Science at Peking University; she was very preoccupied, and often, during meetings, she would keep me in the book storage. I became familiar with the appearance of various books early on, but they were still unfamiliar to me because I couldn’t read them at that time. When I could finally read, no books were available except for a copy of the Little Red Book. I returned to the city after the Cultural Revolution and grabbed any book I could find and devoured translations of Western theories, which made my thoughts even more unclear as if I had lost something. It was as though I was a hungry person who suddenly stuffed himself to the point of indigestion.

This is also why my art is always entangled with words. Words are the most fundamental elements of human cultural concepts. To engage with words is to engage with the essence of culture. To transform words is to transform the fundamentals of thought. Throughout history rulers have understood this well: to establish a regime and become a sage for generations, the first order of business is to transform and unify language. This kind of transformation touches the soul; it is a true “cultural revolution.”

Can you describe a typical day in your studio? How do you maintain creativity and inspiration daily?

I am someone who blends life and art. For me, art is both my work and my life. Creating art is not only my job but also a way to relax, entertain myself, and connect with society. I find it hard to imagine working in a studio according to a strict nine-to-five schedule. For me, the essence of art lies in contemplation; I can’t force myself to start thinking creatively at a specific hour of the day. I live in social settings, and my inspiration comes from firsthand experiences. My art reflects my own perspectives on their changes and issues, expressing my attitudes in my own way. It’s unnecessary to repeat what others have already expressed; if I do speak about it, I strive to do so with feeling, finding a new way to convey it effectively.

The modes of expression used by past masters were suitable for their times, but new artistic languages emerged because those old methods could not be directly reused. This is why new forms of artistic expression continue to evolve.

Your education at the Central Academy of Fine Arts played a significant role in shaping your artistic journey. Can you describe some pivotal moments or influences from your education?

The Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA) has a unique character as the largest and oldest art academy in Asia. The faculty members are mostly traditional artists with backgrounds rooted in Chinese social and cultural contexts, yet they also pursue new ideas and study Western painting techniques. This blend makes the school’s cultural genetic makeup complex and multi-layered. Compared to other art schools around the world, its foundational education is extremely rigorous. Basic sketching training isn’t just about learning to draw something; it’s about transforming an individual into a refined, disciplined person who understands methods and can perceive nuances between the whole and its parts. Even contemporary artists need this ability. Our teachers, having survived China’s unique social and political environment, possess a special ability: the capacity to push art to its limits with limited resources. I’ve found that this ability has profoundly influenced me, teaching me how to turn limitations into useful, distinctive elements and apply them in artistic creation. Regarding the pivotal moments, I now think it was when China had just opened up, and young people were yearning for Western civilization, which made me eager to study oil painting as a freshman. However, for various reasons, the school assigned me to printmaking, which I was unhappy about, and I wanted to transfer to the oil painting department. After completing my first long-term sketch assignment of the plaster statue of David, the professors observed that my modeling skills were quite adequate and suggested I study oil painting. The academic dean subtly hinted if I still wanted to transfer to the oil painting department. However, by that time, I had spent some time with the eight classmates in the printmaking department. Due to my family background and personal nature, I tend to be more accommodating. I said that leaving the printmaking department would affect the other students, and in the end, I didn’t transfer to the oil painting department. Looking back now, it was indeed a stroke of luck. My foundational training came from printmaking, and the unique, inherently contemporary quality of printmaking has strongly impacted my later work.

What drew you specifically to printmaking, and how has your approach to this medium evolved over the years?

As I continue to make work and develop a deeper understanding of art, especially the relationship between art, social contexts, and the progress of human civilization, I increasingly believe that the core and energy of printmaking stem from its inherent relationship with contemporary civilization. It can be said that printmaking’s multiplicity, indexicality, and contingent expressivity align with the way humans, driven by new technologies, are increasingly living in a pluralistic manner. Our smartphones, products of mass production, have identical interfaces. Today, the smartphone is an intermediary medium to showcase our self-expression to the world. The tools we use for expression are not unique to us; they are predetermined and categorized modes of expression.

Your works often explore the boundaries between text and image, particularly through your creation of nonsensical characters in Book from the Sky. What is your conceptual process behind blending language and visual art?

This aspect stems from the uniqueness of Chinese characters. Chinese characters are the only still-living script with pictographic origins. The functional expression and the relationship between the characters’ meaning and appearance are distinct characteristics compared to any other writing system. Exploring, understanding, and delving into this uniqueness can help me reach the essence of my own culture and that of other cultures around the world, which is very helpful for me. Written language is the fundamental element of cultural concepts; engaging with written language means engaging with the very root of culture. Transforming written language is akin to transforming the most fundamental aspects of human thought. By creating art with written language, I am essentially using language to loosen and blur the cultural order set by words, characters, and letters. Though art is often categorized under “culture,” its function is actually the opposite. Art uses the “form” of language to explore aspects that extend beyond verbal expression.

How do you decide which medium best suits a particular concept? Could you share an example where the medium itself transformed the message of your work?

Strictly speaking, the medium itself is not the issue. I have never wanted to confine myself to a single medium just to establish a distinct personal iconography or style within the art world. Committing to one medium for a lifetime would be quite a painful endeavor. Artistic inspiration often comes from diverse and obscure sources; sometimes concepts precede the choice of medium, and other times, the medium dictates the concept. Regardless of which comes first, the driving force behind creation is the artist’s exploration of new methods or materials to express ideas that have not been previously articulated.

For instance, in 2004, I was invited by the American Academy in Berlin to present a solo exhibition at the Museum of Asian Art in Berlin. During World War II, 90% of the museum’s collection was claimed by the Soviet Red Army and relocated to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. This is a fascinating piece of history; each artwork had an even richer backstory before this event. During a layover at the airport, I was captivated by the intriguing effect in the airport’s office area where potted plants behind frosted glass walls resembled the delicate rendering of Chinese ink painting.

This observation inspired me to think about the large glass display cases at the museum and its lost paintings. And this was the inspiration behind my work Background Story. For this installation, I transformed the front side of the display case into frosted glass. When objects in the case were placed directly behind the frosted glass surface, they would appear as clear images. Conversely, when objects were at a certain distance from the frosted glass, the images became blurred, thus mimicking the effect of ink washes in traditional Chinese ink painting. By manipulating the lighting in the surrounding space, I created a unique light-based painting. These works are not physical paintings made of Xuan (rice) paper or canvas but are instead ethereal paintings composed of light. This approach subtly suggests the re-emergence of the “spirit” of the stolen artworks that were once in the museum.

Many of your installations, like the Phoenix Project, are monumental in scale. How do you envision the relationship between the physical size of a work and its thematic or emotional impact?

For me, scale is part of visual expression. I create pieces that vary from monumental to minuscule. The scale is often determined by the concept of the work, the amount of information it conveys, and its exhibition environment. For instance, the Phoenix Project is so large because it reflects the inflated emotional state before the Beijing Olympics, a time characterized by massive architecture that mirrored the characteristics of the region and era. Additionally, my works often employ strategies like staging or diversion to stimulate viewers’ thinking. To make the “fiction” created by the artist appear “genuine,” substantial effort and large-scale presentation are sometimes necessary to enhance the absurdity of the work and add tension to the artistic language.

You are often described as an artist who bridges East and West. How do you navigate and integrate these cultural dialogues within your work?

With a background in traditional Chinese culture and operating in the Western world, my practice is often viewed as a fusion of East and West. However, if the work only serves to blend these two cultures, it would be superficial. All humans, regardless of origin, have something in common, and I pursue exploring and understanding this aspect. One should not be distracted by superficial cultural differences across regions and waste energy on these relatively insignificant issues.

How does your work engage with the complexities of contemporary society, both in China and beyond? Are there particular pieces that, in your view, have gained new urgency or significance in today’s political and cultural climate?

The large-scale installation Gravitational Arena, currently on view at the Museum of Art Pudong (until Aug 21, 2024), is an important example. When I received the invitation to create this work, I was in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, which had become the center of a global epidemic. I was afraid to leave my small studio building. At that time, I often wondered how the world had become more and more strange over the years. Human civilization has come to this day, but how did the world become like this? What has human civilization done? No one likes the way the world looks today. Today, human beings attack each other with missiles. Is there any difference between this and our ancestors killing each other with spears? If you ask me, this aspect of civilization is questionable. Moreover, it seems humans’ philosophy, religion, and original values have become ineffective today and unprecedentedly passive. So I thought of making a vortex of words in the central exhibition hall of the Museum of Art Pudong, and at the same time covering the floor with mirrors, so that the 30-meter-high exhibition hall visually doubles into a 60-meter hall. Together with the mirrors, the installation creates a wormhole-like gravitational model, which places the audience and the words together in an inverted relationship, stepping into empty space or losing the pivot point. When a visitor enters this exhibition, driven by the desire to read and interpret, they will naturally seek the ideal reading and viewing angle, but they won’t find a complete perspective anywhere in this space. So, where is the ideal viewpoint? It is an inaccessible point in the sky beyond the museum. This is inspired by a passage from Wittgenstein’s later philosophy writing, Philosophical Investigations, the classic text in which he discusses the duck-rabbit head and different ways of seeing. Scholarly accounts of the origins of civilization vary, but the most widely consensual point is the beginning of writing, which is the beginning of naming and categorizing things. At that time, there was a bold imagination: the conflicts today and the divergence of civilizations began when different groups started to name everything. Civilization, on some level, is composed of different cultural perspectives, each with its own interests and viewpoints, using civilization as a mask to express and defend its culture. This is also an evolutionary instinct. Undoubtedly, the development of civilization has brought great benefits to humankind, but at the same time, it is also exacerbating conflicts.

How does your work grapple with environmental themes, not just as subject matter, but as an active force within your practice? What draws you to these elements, and what tensions or truths do you aim to surface through their presence?

I like to use everyday, common, and inconspicuous materials for artistic creation. Transforming or representing common things in unusual ways can evoke a strong reaction in the viewer. Some say I am good at using scrap material to create art; these so-called scraps are essentially “cultural residues.” Today’s artistic creations increasingly employ readymade, found objects, and scraps. Perhaps it’s because people have found that there’s not much room left for truly original “artistic creation” (according to art historical classifications); a more direct reason is that the rich detritus of civilization forms a new living environment. It has become “second nature” and constantly provides artists with materials they haven’t gotten a chance to explore.

Dragonfly Eyes best illustrates this question. The materials used in it were not produced for this work, but are leftovers from other purposes. These surveillance images were intended to monitor events in specific places and times. If no special incidents occurred, the machines would automatically delete them. Essentially, I repurposed these images produced for other purposes in my work. The objective of these surveillance images was not filmmaking, but by using them to create a film, I was recycling and upcycling. My philosophy on environmental friendliness unfolds from this perspective.

The Book from the Sky is one of your most iconic works. How did you develop the idea of creating thousands of unreadable Chinese characters, and what reactions or interpretations have surprised you the most?

This work will spark different interpretations and responses in different cultural periods. When I look back at it again, I feel a sense of strangeness, at the same time, it is a kind of new revelation. The most inspiring reaction for me was when a professor came out of the exhibition hall and said to me enthusiastically, “The Book of the Sky made me feel the dignity of words for the first time.”

In Square Word Calligraphy, you create a script that combines Chinese character structures with English words. What were you aiming to achieve in terms of cultural perception and literacy?

In fact, I have forcibly combined two entirely different writing systems. The result is that when you read or write, you don’t know whether you’re writing in English or Chinese, because it truly exists between two writing systems or two cultures. When I exhibit my work in different places, Westerners often ask me, “Aren’t Chinese people unhappy that you transformed Chinese characters into English?” I respond that we are quite pleased as I’ve adapted English into Chinese.

In reality, our existing concepts fall short when applied to this type of calligraphy. This work isn’t about blending cultures; rather, many of my works create obstacles within existing modes of thinking. Usually, language functions through conveying meaning, expression, and communication, while my “language” operates through non-communication, misdirection, and confusion. I always say that my “language” is not a usable library of words but more like a computer virus in the human brain—from the exchange between the legible and the illegible, as well as the inversion of concepts, the inherent thought patterns and fundamental ideas become disrupted, thus creating barriers to connection and expression, and challenging the inertia of thought. This is the function of my “language.” After a reset, it opens up more thinking space.

Can you share your philosophy on the role of art and the artist in society? How has this philosophy influenced your body of work?

Since ancient times, there have been many opinions regarding the role of art. As someone who has been making art for a long time, I believe that an artist should create things that have not been defined before. Then art critics can summarize the concepts and produce new knowledge. The value of art depends on exploring a new civilization, and whether it can suggest a new direction to the world. Contemporary art, or art that is oriented towards progress, is similar to coronavirus because they both come from unknown sources. They disrupt and reorganize the previously established biological and scientific classifications, thereby creating opportunities for innovation.

How do you envision your legacy in the art world? Are there any new directions or themes you are eager to explore in your upcoming projects?

In my view, some artworks have growth potential, while others are not worth pursuing. Artworks with growth potential touch upon issues that humanity will always have to face. If an artist presents unique insights and perspectives on the issues through his or her work, when people have to engage with similar questions in the future, they cannot avoid the profound reflections that the artwork has already provided. In recent years, I have devoted considerable effort to making and promoting the realm of space art. I believe that the theme of “space” connects with different eras and disciplines, and space is a significant indicator of the next stage of human civilization. Space art effectively captures the profound effects that innovative technologies have on human awareness, and it will become a futuristic field. As the rights to use space technology shift from government control to public access, there are also more resources and possibilities for space art. Perhaps space art can serve as a stepping stone for the future development of society and culture, at least as a pioneering experiment in future art forms. On February 1, 2021, art satellite SCA-1, led by Xu Bing Studio and Beijing Wanhu Chuangshi, was successfully launched and has been in orbit for three years. This launch initiated the Xu Bing Space Art Residency Program, allowing artists and professionals from around the world, as well as the general public, to share the rights to use this satellite. Together, they create new art in the unique environment of outer space, within a shared legal space that transcends national boundaries.