Multi-media artists Anna Ting Möller and Yasmine Anlan Huang have been crossing paths for the past eight years—first at Central Academy of Fine Art in Beijing then seeing each other’s work at Tutu Gallery (Möller) and Whitney Biennial (Anlan Huang) respectively, and finally participating in an exhibition at New Uncanny in New York in 2024. Now, until October 19, their work meets again in “Clairvoyant,” a group exhibition at Ceysson & Bénétière’s New York outpost.
“Clairvoyant”’s curator Anna Mikaela Ekstrand ends the show’s press release with the sentence: “Seeing clearly sometimes simply means daring to sit in your own body.” With this in mind, Li Tang brought the artists together for a (serendipitous) conversation in which they discussed their practice and dug deeper into language, ‘east,’ kombucha, Shojo, and other elements that figurate in their work.
Yasmine Anlan Huang: I’m really glad to finally have the chance to talk with you about your practice, as our previous encounters have been filled with crowds, (pleasant) surprises, and a sense of dizziness… Although we crossed paths loooong ago, the first time I saw your work in person was actually just half a year ago, at Island 83 and Tutu Gallery, where you showcased two series of works. In Island’s whitecube space, your wall-based work seemed grotesque but exquisite; while in Tutu’s apartment setting, the works were more casually performative and inviting. I’m curious—at what stage in your creative process does the “exhibition space” come into play, or are you more hands-off and only think about curation after the work is complete? Or is there an ideal exhibition space in mind that can best accommodate your practice?
Anna Ting Möller: It’s serendipitous how our paths have intertwined over the years. I still find it ironic and heartwarming that our first encounter was at the Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA) in Beijing back in 2016, during our exchange semesters—different studios, yet the same University. Life certainly has a way of surprising, and you never know who might be around the next corner. New York, as a melting pot, fosters these kinds of interactions, and I’ve experienced a few of these “filmic” moments.
Okay, so to answer your questions: The role of the exhibition space in my creative process varies depending on the project. Since I’m currently in the early stages of establishing my practice in NYC, I’ve found it advantageous to remain flexible. That flexibility allows me to respond to different spaces, but I’m also mindful of the downsides and how it can affect the work. I do like to consider the space from the beginning and integrate it into the work, especially since much of my practice is installation-based. The work often shifts and adapts depending on the environment.
That said, I’m a bit ambivalent about whether it’s essential to know where a project will end up right from the start. While it can be compelling to have that certainty, I believe my work can adapt to almost any space. As you noted in my shows at Island 83 and Tutu Gallery, different environments lead to different expressions—whether it’s the more formal or casual.
I’m very familiar with your work now, especially after seeing your video at the film program hosted by the Whitney Biennial 2024 and our shared participation in an exhibition at New Uncanny in New York earlier this year. I read online that your work often explores the shōjo or ingénue archetype. Could you briefly explain, for someone like myself (banana) who grew up in the “West,” what these archetypes represent? Additionally, I’m curious—how do you navigate the cultural and historical differences in these representations across different cultures? How does this process inform your storytelling in your art?
YAH: I have been struggling to contextualize my work for a long time, somy artist statement iterating year after year. Initially, I framed my work like emotional entanglement in late capitalism. In a later iteration in 2021, I referred to it as commodified love. I mean, I’m genuinely interested in the human condition under late capitalism, but it comes to a point that I was just avoiding using the term “girl”, with a fear that people might not take me seriously or that the term would evoke notions of “innocence” in a trivial way.
The idea of “girl (Shojo in Japanese)” when I grew up was deeply associated with Japanese subculture—anime, coming-of-age movies, and the idol industry, but when I moved to the States I found those are things people would frown upon. At that time I realized, the celebration of “innocence” was something I took for granted. And it’s about my upbringing and my culture.
The core of my practice can’t be right-in-your-face as I am a shy person; the answer shouldn’t be obvious on the surface; it sounds pretty lame if I say I’m making works about girls and idols—it should be presented more subtly. From another perspective, I am always interested in the universality within narratives. For example, I think of my narratives as fables, featuring talking animals to convey broader themes. My works are then talking “me” trying to convey broader themes that transcend cultures and history.
My partner was actually the first one to use the term ‘ingénue’ to describe characters in my work. Ingénue refers to an innocent or unsophisticated young woman, especially in a play or film. As someone unfamiliar with Japanese culture, he borrowed a French loanword to describe my characters, while my reference to ‘girl’ in the ‘east’ was borrowed from Shojo in Japanese culture. I love how this kind of cultural interplay in the evolution of words itself just manifested so I kept using these two terms.
Regarding how to navigate these differences, I believe the most important step is discovering commonalities, just like those great literary works that endure over time. I once tried very hard to ‘educate’ my audience about what my research topic was really about, but later realized it wasn’t necessary. Some very fundamental human conditions, emotions, virtues speak for themselves. (Again, think about fables!)
I still remember my thrills when you told me how the kombucha-mother overarches your entire practice and life story, and how you smuggled the kombucha the way you crossed the border. In this context, I’m curious about how you choose and use other inorganic materials in your work, such as the glass from Urban Glass, the tubes used in your performances, and the nylon thread—how do they interact with your “living materials”?
ATM: The relationship between organic and inorganic materials in my work reflects a broader meditation on duality, contradiction and impermanence. The kombucha mother, as a living entity, symbolizes growth, transformation, and decay—a constant reminder that life is always in flux. In contrast, materials like glass, tubes, and nylon thread might appear static at first glance. Yet, in reality, everything decays; each material simply does so at its own pace.
Glass, for instance, may seem timeless and rigid, but it too succumbs and breaks over time. How does these “static” materials interact with the organic, as both are engaged in their own processes of change. The contrast is less about opposing forces and more about different rhythms of transformation. Each material, whether living or inorganic, carries a history of change. I’m interested in the intersection where their timelines briefly overlap, they temporarily coexist, and then continue along their respective paths of decay and alteration.
It was somewhat a little random how I began working with the kombucha mother, but it quickly became a powerful metaphor in my practice and echoes the fluidity of relationships and environments, where everything is constantly evolving and situational.
YAH: What do you think is the essence of your entire practice? (For example, many people think I’m a writer first and foremost). Do you see yourself as a performance artist with the sculptures as byproducts or props? If not, how do you view the relationship between your different practices?
ATM: There’s definitely a performative core to my practice, though I’m not entirely confident labeling myself as a performance artist. If I had to choose a label, “installation artist” might be the closest fit, as it allows ample room for experimentation and the exploration of unconventional presentations.
My multidisciplinary practice comes from a place of being too curious about things, which can become overwhelming in the endless possibilities. Therefore, to create boundaries for myself, I developed a framework based on the materiality of the kombucha, so in a way the culture is the essence in my work.
ATM: As a multilingual artist and writer, how does your fluency in multiple languages shape your poetic expression and the themes you explore? In what ways do you think language enhances or transforms the emotional depth and nuance in your work?
How does your choice of language influence the themes and emotions you convey? Do you find that certain subjects resonate more deeply in one language over the others? I must admit, I’m so envious—I’d love to speak Cantonese and Mandarin.
YAH: I have a complicated relationship with languages. For a long time, I felt self-conscious about my language skills. In terms of speaking, I often feel inadequate no matter what kind of language I am speaking. In middle school, classmates made fun of my Cantonese because it wasn’t “posh” enough, as the school I attended was in a very traditional area, people had the most ‘authentic’ old Cantonese accent. I also struggled with Mandarin; I couldn’t differentiate between the sounds ‘z’ and ’zh’ in pinyin, as I couldn’t curl my tongue and couldn’t hear the difference for a very long time.
But I feel that my poor verbal expression and pronunciation are compensated for in my writing…Cantonese has many expressions and rhetoric that carry an ‘ancient’ quality, which helps a lot. Observing the differences between Cantonese and Mandarin can also train me to pick up the nuances when it comes to word choice in writing. Observing the differences between Cantonese in Hong Kong and Cantonese in Guangdong (and even British English and American English) further teaches me about the relationship between language, politics, and power.
My healthy relationship with English has only recently been established. (American) English is my working language, and I can always stay organized, analytical and logical. It would be a total mess if there’s a meeting I can ONLY speaks Chinese as my thoughts would be here and there. Oh, also! Unlike many people, I can only have therapy in English. I always feel embarrassed expressing my problems in Chinese because it feels too close. I guess this is also the reason why I edit my script in English and then correspondingly translate to Chinese, as being more distant allows me to objectively identify where the issues are.
When it comes to food, emotion, kinship, some positive feelings, or when I can indulge in metaphors, I befriend Chinese again. The differences between Japanese loanwords (gairaigo) and their original meanings in English often catch my attention.
ATM: In the video “Her Love is a Bleeding Tank,” you describe the narrator as a projection of yourself, embodying virtues often overlooked in today’s fast-paced world. How do you approach balancing personal vulnerability with broader cultural commentary in this work? And, I love the “eye as a theater,” not a question only a comment.
YAH: I also love the idea of the eye as a theater! For me, it represents passiveness—the act of witnessing your fate crush down upon you without a blink.
Back to your question, I was incredibly depressed and was consumed by the need to tell my story—a story that was pure but condensed. Honestly, when I made that work, I was too suicidal to think about anything. I finished the work in February 2020, right after coming out of the depression, and right before COVID-19 spread to the U.S.
However, I can now clearly articulate the influences I was under at that time. I was reading Svetlana Alexievich’s Voices from Chernobyl, where all the characters recount their stories of survival after tragedy. Their passive struggle against fate resonated with me. When I was a kid, I had read Wang Zengqi’s A Decade of a Hundred People, a book about Cultural Revolution, and it was then that I realized narrating one’s own story—plain but precise—is one of the most effective ways to document the times. Only now do I see the honesty embedded in the narration in “Bleeding Tank”—the helplessness within honesty, along with the longing and effort for love, striking at the heart of the era‘s dilemmas.
Clairvoyant featuring Bianca Abdi-Boragi, Yasmine Anlan Huang, Ayana Evans, Linnéa Gad, Katya Grokhovsky, Katie Hubbell, Anna Ting Möller, ORLAN, and Hanae Utamura is on view at Ceysson & Bénétière, 956 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10021 through October 19.
About Artists
(text & photo courtesy of Anna Ting Möller and Yasmine Anlan Huang)
One thought