(Almost)Everything You Need to Know about Chinese Art from One of the Founders of Chinese Art Curatorship, Gu Zhenqing

Shenzhen can be described as one of the most interesting cities in China today — a kind of Silicon Valley, and a clear manifestation of the country’s technological boom. It is often considered the third most important city after Beijing and Shanghai. However, there is one very important difference between many major cities of China and Shenzhen — the city’s history as a megapolis, rather than as a fishing village, began as late as 1980. That was when Shenzhen officially received the status of China’s first Special Economic Zone (SEZ). This decision was part of the “opening-up” policy initiated by Deng Xiaoping. It took the city just 40 years to grow from 30,000 residents to 17 million.

If you ever visit Shenzhen as a tourist, you will also notice that it differs greatly from both “the capital of Communist China,” Beijing, and the glossy, cinematic, almost Wong Karwai–like Shanghai. Shenzhen is more about work, skyscrapers built for financiers in the Futian district and startup founders in Nanshan. All culture here is essentially contemporary, created for China in its modern understanding. Among all these futuristic buildings, you can find many equally modern, almost brutalist art spaces: the He Xiangning Art Museum, the Museum of Contemporary Art and Urban Planning, the Hua Art Museum, the Yachang Art Gallery, and the Shenzhen Institute of Fine Arts. All of them are perfectly integrated into the city’s architecture and urban fabric, which is perhaps why OCAT — the OCT Contemporary Art Terminal — stands out so strongly among them.

One of the most pleasant aspects of visiting OCAT may be the chance to meet its chief curator and academic director, Gu Zhenqing. Despite his modesty, you can be sure that you are meeting a “living legend,” a person who was among those who shaped the representation of Chinese art.

We interviewed Gu Zhenqing so that you could understand what lies behind Chinese art, how it developed in the past, which artists are worth following, and what he thinks about AI art.

— How would you formulate your role and position today?

— First of all, I am an independent curator. I regularly receive offers to take up director positions in both private and state museums. But I cannot and do not want to work in a museum full-time: independence is more important to me. I have my own curatorial team — three assistants — with whom we work on different projects in different cities. During the exhibition Parallel Universe, held from December 1 to January 31, I served as an academic curator at OCAT. What will happen next is still difficult to say.

— Why such uncertainty?

— The main problem of all museums in China today is survival. We have a budget for these two months, but that does not mean we have one for a year, two years, or three years ahead. We are currently negotiating with sponsors and large companies, trying to attract funding. It is difficult, but we are trying.

— In Kazakhstan, new museums often open thanks to large entrepreneurs or former politicians. How does this work in China? Who finances museums and contemporary art — business or the state?

— The situation is very complicated. I can fully finance my own curatorial studio. But a museum or public space is a completely different level of expenses: rent, electricity, water, salaries, exhibition installation, equipment, projectors and screens. These are enormous costs. That is why I cannot promise that I will take on the management of a public space or a private museum. Without a stable budget, it is impossible to say, “Yes, we will run this museum.” In the current situation in China, no one can give such a guarantee. In six months or a year, a museum may simply disappear because it fails to find a permanent sponsor. China’s economy is not in its best shape right now.

— So even state museums face a lack of funding?

— Yes, and very often. They have very little money. In addition, if you want to manage a state museum, you must be part of the Party system. I do not want to be part of it. Independence is important to me. In my understanding, democracy suits humanity better than dictatorship. That is why I maintain my position as an independent curator, even if it means instability.

— At the same time, you have many projects running simultaneously. How do you combine them?

— Independence is exactly what makes this possible. For example, I have an offer from Shaoxing, Zhejiang Province — an art residency with a budget. I want to bring artists from ten countries there. At the same time, I have a project with another museum: the opening of an exhibition. On June 6, I will curate a group exhibition of artists from Mongolia in the Box Art Museum format. In addition, I collaborate with commercial exhibitions at the Shenzhen Bay Art Center.

— Do commercial projects contradict your beliefs?

— No. In my mind, there is always a desire to create a truly good museum. But this is only possible when circumstances and resources align. Even state institutions today often lack funding. If I can find sponsorship for this museum, I will continue working here. If not, I will become a curator in another space. That is the reality. It may look unstable, but that is exactly how the art scene exists in China today.

— You also work on the international scene.

— Yes. In June, I will be a curator of the Curitiba Biennale in Brazil. I also plan to propose my curatorial concept for the Havana Biennale, which will take place on April 1, 2027.

— You speak about fighting the system. Is this a personal experience?

— Absolutely. I have conflicted with the system since 1992. Before that, I worked within it in official institutions. I was an editor and a journalist. It was an incredibly boring and exhausting job: proofreading, editing, trips to factories and print control. Every month was the same — it was mentally exhausting and deeply unfulfilling. At some point, I realized: I could not continue like this. In 1993, I became an independent curator. Eventually, I found myself among the first generation of curators in China.

— What do you mean by the first generation?

— In 1992–1993, there were only five curators in China. And I was one of them. That is why I became well known quite quickly: artists, museums, institutions — everyone turned to us. I worked a great deal, including outside mainland China: in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, Malaysia, and Thailand. We call the period from 1998 to 2005 the “golden years of curatorship.”

— Why was this period so important?

— Because at that time, the curator was at the center of the artistic community. China did not have a developed gallery system, there was no effective marketing of contemporary art, and there were no strong auction houses. Curators did everything. We built an independent curatorial system, formed final exhibition statements, and created museums literally from scratch. For example, in Shanghai, we initiated the creation of the first contemporary art museum — Shanghai Duolun MoMA. During that period, I directed two museums in Shanghai. At the same time, we tried to create an art district in Beijing — the 798 Art Zone. I was not its main initiator, but I participated in shaping this space and became one of the co-founders of the White Box Museum, which emerged within this art cluster.

— So you repeatedly held institutional positions?

— Yes. Over my career, I have been the director and chief curator of four museums.
The first was Shanghai Duolun MoMA in 2003, the second museum in Shanghai in 2006, the third was the White Box Museum in Beijing around 2009, and the fourth was the Jia Pingwa Art and Culture Museum, which opened in 2014. Usually, I worked in each museum for two to three years and then left — because I always had many international projects. In 2001, I became the chief curator of the Chengdu Biennale — one of the oldest contemporary art biennales in China. The Shanghai Biennale was the first, and the Chengdu Biennale was the second. Later, I initiated the Land Art Biennale project — it takes place in rural areas and has existed since 2019. I also became the curator of the Land Art Biennale in Sichuan Province, in the city of Guang’an.

— Can you name them and explain how this group emerged? Was it a conscious movement or a coincidence?

— It was not as if five people came together and declared, “Now we are art curators.” But in fact, that is what happened. In the early 1990s, we began to show how art could and should function — in museums, at biennales, and in public spaces. The other four curators were also very active in the 1990s. But after the 2000s, only two truly remained in the profession.

— Who exactly?

— The first is Feng Boyi. He is still very active. This year, he is curating the Marco Biennale, and earlier, he initiated the Wuzhen International Art Exhibition in Zhejiang Province — one of the most well-known exhibition projects in China. He works as an independent curator but also actively collaborates with state institutions. The second is Huang Du. He was the chief curator of the Today Art Museum and curated the Today Art Biennale. Unfortunately, he now has serious health problems, so he hardly works and focuses on recovery. The remaining two from our group moved into other fields — they became writers or withdrew from active curatorial practice. As a result, today, only Feng Boyi and I remain truly active from the first generation.

— But that period ended?

— It was not so much stopped as intercepted. After 2005, Chinese art very quickly moved toward marketing. Capital arrived. Galleries, auction houses, and collectors appeared. The curator moved from the center of the system to the periphery. Today, I am on the edge. The center now belongs to artists with strong marketing portfolios. Curators cannot be superstars under the spotlight.

— How do you assess the period after 2005?

— From 2005 to 2012, the market grew rapidly. China’s art market developed actively, major auction houses arrived — Sotheby’s, Christie’s, especially via Hong Kong. Many private museums founded by collectors appeared. For example, the HOW Art Museum and the Long Museum in Shanghai, the Time Museum in Guangzhou, the Today Art Museum in Beijing. Even the Ullens Center for Contemporary Art was founded by a private collector and at that time became the number one museum in China.

— Did collectors become key figures?

— Yes. And not only Chinese ones. For example, the Swiss collector Uli Sigg. He assembled around 2,800 works by contemporary Chinese artists, investing enormous sums. Later, he donated 1,476 works to the M+ Museum in Hong Kong. Thanks to this collection, M+ became the leading museum in the region and one of the most significant contemporary art museums in Asia. We are close friends. I am his informal advisor: I recommend artists, works, and directions for collecting. We met in 2001 at the Venice Biennale. Then he came to China, visited the first Chengdu Biennale, which I curated, and since then, our collaboration and friendship have lasted for 24 years.

— But new generations of curators are emerging. How do you assess this process?

— Our generation was born in the 1960s. The next one was in the 1970s–1980s. They work very hard, but they have a limitation: many of them do not speak English well. Therefore, they mainly work within China, with local museums and institutions. The youngest generation, born in the 1990s and later, is completely different. They study abroad, speak English fluently, and possess an international mindset. When they return to China, they bring a global context with them. Some of them become my colleagues, work with my team; others launch independent projects. Therefore, I am confident that Chinese academic curatorship has a future as a full-fledged discipline.

— You often say that you brought the Western curatorial model to China. What exactly do you mean? Why did China and Asia in general not develop their own curatorial style?

— Because before the appearance of the curatorial system borrowed from the West, we only had a socialist propaganda model. This was not professional curatorship. Exhibitions served purely political purposes. We remember well the experience of the Soviet Union. Therefore, our task was to begin doing curatorial work in a professional, cultural sense. I worked not only as an independent curator for biennales or underground exhibitions. Many of them were banned by the government. Avant-garde performances often did not pass censorship. So we simply ignored censorship policies and organized exhibitions ourselves. Then we returned again to cooperation with state institutions for museum projects. We constantly moved between these poles: leaving the system and returning to it. That was the essence of the “golden age of curatorship” in China. We promoted not a single format, but the entire ecosystem of contemporary art: the museum system, curatorship, galleries, journals, awards. For example, I initiated the bilingual journal Visual Production. It was the first contemporary art journal in China, published in both Chinese and English. It cost me a lot — about three million yuan. At some point, my wife simply said, “Stop.” And the journal closed. Only eight issues were published. But it was a real journal — high quality. Libraries and museums in the United States purchased it. Visual Production became an important document of its era. In addition, I initiated contemporary art awards. We truly built the ecosystem of contemporary art in China.

— Did you consciously orient yourself toward the Western model?

— Yes. I always tried to study the Western system and adapt it to the Chinese context. This was not only about exhibitions, but about a holistic ecosystem: curatorship, award systems, and sponsorship systems. All of this must exist simultaneously: in museums, public spaces, non-profit institutions. That is why, in that period, the curator became an active and key element of China’s artistic community. Above all, we learned from Harald Szeemann. I consider him the first true independent curator in history. He worked for eight years at Kunsthalle Bern in Switzerland and constantly invited international artists and curators. Local artists hated him — he hardly worked with them. Eventually, the system pushed him out. But he became the pioneer of independent curatorship. His exhibition, When Attitudes Become Form, was pivotal — it was a radical shift in understanding what an exhibition and a curatorial position could be. Later, Szeemann became the chief curator of Documenta and twice — in 1999 and 2001 — the chief curator of the Venice Biennale. It was then that he first presented Chinese artists on a large scale in Venice, and Chinese contemporary art became visible on the international stage. We also studied the institutional models of Tate Modern, the Centre Pompidou, MoMA in New York, and museums in Germany — Hamburg and Berlin. This was a system where curatorship was embedded in the museum as a key function. We tried to transfer this model to China — not to copy it literally, but to adapt it.

— How did China move from socialist propaganda and posters to contemporary art?

— This became possible thanks to reforms. Deng Xiaoping effectively overturned the old economic system. The planned economy began to absorb elements of the market economy, and we began learning from capitalism. Globalization and China’s accession to the WTO — we were fortunate to be in this historical moment. China grew very fast, and the government at that time was relatively open. We learned how to survive within complex and sensitive systems. Gradually, Chinese contemporary art began to move beyond national borders and eventually became a distinct concept in the global art context. It differs from Soviet-era art, from Russian art, and from European art. The term Chinese Contemporary Art (CCA) emerged.

— But does CCAA exist as a unified artistic phenomenon?

— If you look deeper — no, it is not a coherent community. Chinese art is very diverse. Shenzhen, Shanghai, Beijing — these are different contexts, different logics. In Japan, for example, there was the Gutai movement in the 1950s and Mono-ha in Tokyo in the 1970s. In China, everything is different: artists from different cities work simultaneously, within a single field. We cannot clearly separate “Shanghai art” and “Beijing art.” As a result, one general designation remains — CCAA. And honestly, this also has an advantage: many cities are involved in the country’s art history, not just one center.

— What is the main problem of the system, then?

— We have almost no evolution of thinking and academic themes. Evolution occurred mainly through marketing. Many artists became rich. Then some of them became poor again. But my task is not to blindly follow America and Europe, but to improve the system of perception of contemporary art itself. Over the past ten years, I have greatly changed my position. Until about 2015, I constantly traveled to Europe and the United States. After that, I consciously turned in another direction — toward Africa, Latin America, and Mongolia. I chose a rather solitary career, but I believe this path is the right one. Essentially, I became a pioneer for the countries of the Global South. In Mongolia, nearly 50 artists know me; in Malaysia — about 30; in Taiwan — about 50. I am familiar with a vast number of artists outside the Western art world. I initiated the Ulaanbaatar International Media Art Festival in Mongolia and curated joint projects in Egypt, Turkey, Brazil, and African countries — for example, on Réunion Island in the Indian Ocean, near Mauritius. I worked in Poland, Germany, and other European countries, and curated a photo festival in Istanbul.

— Do you feel like part of the international curatorial community?

— Yes, but in a special position. Well-known Chinese curators are working abroad — for example, Hou Hanru, who lives in Rome, or Wu Hung, a professor at the University of Chicago. But I am the only international curator of Chinese origin who constantly moves between countries. I spend about 200 days a year abroad and about 100 days in China. I think it is a good life. I like my work. But it is very hard. Sometimes I simply need recovery: a hotel, a swimming pool, swimming. The body must be taken care of. Being a curator is difficult. A huge number of tasks, constant tension. But I can still withstand this rhythm.

— If you were asked to name five of the most important contemporary artists of mainland China, whom would you choose?

— First — Sun Yuan and Peng Yu. This is a duo. Last year, they had an exhibition at the Giardini of the Venice Biennale. One of their most famous works is the KUKA robot collecting water. They have exhibited at the Guggenheim and many museums around the world. I have worked with them fourteen times and plan to bring their project to the Havana Biennale. The second artist is Shen Shaoming. He is also the chief curator of the Shenzhen Biennale. Next year, he will create the project Winter Room at the Shenzhen Museum of Contemporary Art. He will create a hall with a temperature of about –20 degrees Celsius. People in Shenzhen have never seen snow and ice. Shen Shaoming was born in Heilongjiang Province, where winters are −20 or −30 degrees, and he transfers this experience into the museum space. It is a fantastic project. The third artist is Xu Zhen. In Shanghai, he is considered the leading avant-garde artist in China. The fourth is Yang Fudong. He is an outstanding artist and art-film director. And the fifth is Cao Fei. She recently had solo exhibitions at the Pumidu Art Center and the Wunan Art Center.

— If we speak not only about contemporary art, but more broadly, which artists should people from other countries know to understand Chinese art as a whole?

— Then we need to go beyond contemporary art alone. If we are talking about understanding Chinese art as a whole, we must mention modernists. The first is Zao Wou-Ki. He was a French-Chinese artist who worked with abstract painting for several decades. He became a recognized master in France and, at the same time, had a huge influence on artistic thinking in China. The second artist is Ai Weiwei. He is widely known as an anti-government artist and lived in Germany and other European countries. He has had numerous solo exhibitions in the world’s largest museums, and his contribution to the global artistic discourse cannot be ignored. The third is Xu Bing. He is a very intellectual artist. He lived in New York for fifteen years and then returned to Beijing, where he now works at the Central Academy of Fine Arts. He has a strong team and works with what can be called satellite art — working with satellites, space, rockets, creating installations and video projects at the intersection of art and science. The fourth is Cai Guo-Qiang. He lives in New York and is known for his “explosive art,” which he realizes all over the world — in Florence, Qatar, China, and the United States. He is one of the most recognizable Chinese artists on the global stage. The fifth is Huang Yong Ping. He lived and worked in Paris and, unfortunately, passed away several years ago in his studio. His large-scale installations using images of dragons, snakes, bones, and animals became iconic for international contemporary art. His influence extends far beyond China.

— China was closed for a long time, and art developed in isolation. Is there something today by which one can immediately tell that an artist is Chinese?

— Over the past 40 years, Chinese artists have indeed borrowed a lot from the West — styles, methods, forms. But they are also very intelligent in using cultural mimicry. In painting, installations, and sculpture, elements of traditional Chinese culture are almost always present: pandas, bamboo, the Forbidden City, dragons, ink painting. This is easily recognizable. But it is not about direct quotation. The keyword here is transformation. These elements are translated into a contemporary language and placed in a current context. That is why Chinese contemporary art is so well received by museums in Europe and America, while still preserving its cultural identity.

— So the identity has not disappeared?

— No, and it will not disappear. China has changed greatly, but there are things that cannot be completely erased. For example, the works of Wang Xingwei. In one of his pieces, a mother teaches her daughter to eat cheesecake with chopsticks. When European artists and curators see this work, they are surprised. We interact with scientists, programmers, and artists from Southeast Asia. Our experience is valued because it does not copy the Western model, but offers a different route. That is why Chinese curators will increasingly work in the decentralized space of the Global South. Previously, there was only one center — America and Europe. Now, more and more people do not want to follow them automatically. They want to follow their own thinking.

— How would you describe this new stage?

— This is no longer classical contemporary art. Perhaps we should speak about post-contemporary art. Contemporary art has become classical — rigidly structured by the system, centralized, fixed. Post-contemporary will move into digital and virtual space, into the Global South, to islands, to peripheral but living points of the world. It does not have to be New York, and it does not have to be London. Their influence is gradually declining. There is no longer a need to always strive to show yourself in Venice or in America.

— Do you think the post-contemporary era has already begun, or is it only beginning?

— It is already in our hands.

— Who do you think could become the first post-contemporary artist?

— At first, these will not be very famous names. But in a few years, individual artists, individual masters will gradually begin to stand out. Right now, they are only potential. These are not figures like Damien Hirst, Olafur Eliasson, or Yayoi Kusama. They are backed by the market, which is why they are shown everywhere. But if we consistently support strong artists from Kazakhstan, Mongolia, China, Vietnam, and Indonesia, in ten years, they may become truly significant figures on the global stage.

— You have spoken a lot about capitalism in art. In Russian, there is an expression: “an artist must be hungry.” How do you feel about this?

— Capital always supports a certain type of commercial art — this is normal. But you can negotiate with institutions, foundations, companies, and state structures, and seek resources and support. This does not happen by itself. If you are a good curator, you always work with foundations and do not wait for money to fall from the sky. That does not happen. For example, for many years, I have been engaged in educational programs for the new class of “new money” in China. I give lectures and participate in forums. Over time, some representatives of capital say, “Mr. Gu, perhaps we could support you.” Sometimes I simply knock on the doors of museums or creative clusters and say:
“May I do a small educational project with you? If you give a very small salary, a ‘small potato.’”They study my biography and my experience — and suddenly offer a “big potato.” So I calmly start small and move toward big projects. In China, independent curators do not fight capital — they negotiate with it. I do not consider capital to be evil. But if capital tries to use you, you need to be very careful. Sometimes you are invited to promote purely commercial artists, and this can destroy your reputation. That is why a curator must be independent. If the funding source is questionable, you can refuse it. If a foundation is professional and respects artists and the curatorial position, then you can move forward. We are neither left nor right. We are professional curators trying to survive in a complex system. Our goal is to create academically significant events, not endlessly repeat old models. We need to renew thinking and the perception of art — only then can a new history be written. If you constantly follow others, you will not find your own path either. You need to keep your mind and your gaze open. That is why I actively study ARTC, crypto art, digital and generative art. I work with young artists: programmers, designers, crypto players. And honestly, I am happy to find my teachers among them. They have taught me many things — Bitcoin, blockchain, artificial intelligence. I constantly update my knowledge. If you do not try to please everyone — neither people nor capital — you eventually find your audience, your partners, and preserve your career.

— How do you feel about AI artists?

— I believe that AI artists are not ready yet. I have seen several truly strong works, but they were made by artists who were already good digital creators and then began working with ARGC, ChatGPT, Sora, Midjourney, and other tools. ARGC is easy to produce, but most works look alike. When an artist offers alternative thinking or form, it is immediately visible. There are very few such works. Most AI works are empty. In the future, ARGC may become a strong tool for collaboration between humans and machines. For now, I maintain a cautiously open attitude.

— Are there AI artists today whom you consider truly important?

— At the moment, I would name Wu Ziyan. He studied in New York and created a strong ARGC work inspired by a legend about a dove. There is also Song Ting, a well-known artist and code artist. She previously received an award at the Venice Film Festival for an ARGC film. Now she has created a new science fiction project — not her most successful one. But I like her work without a nonlinear narrative. It is like an abstract painting that functions as animation.

— Does it not seem unfair to you that AI artists receive space in museums, while artists who work with their hands often remain without space?

— We need to give this time and not worry too much. In the end, bad art will disappear, and good art will remain.