By layering pale colors many times, everyday motifs such as fruit and birds emerge without the need for contour lines. Li Manjin’s work is born through rich brushwork that arises from a struggle with inner sensations. She talked about her starting point as an artist, the sources of her inspiration, and the shifts in her creative style.

- Could you tell us about your starting point as an artist? What were the initial influences, such as books, paintings, or childhood events, and how did they lead you to the style you have today?

Li: When I was in fifth grade, I happened to see a pencil portrait rendered with such realism and dimensionality—it was the first time I became aware of drawing as a practice. In middle school, there was a painting interest group, and only two students in the entire school signed up. I was one of them, and that’s how I more or less formally began learning to paint.

During university, I came across a book by Ba Huang titled The Temptation of Sunshine and the Wilderness. I stayed up all night to finish it. That summer, I spent over a month traveling along the Silk Road, visiting grotto murals, sculptures, and stone inscriptions, encountering firsthand the contexts in which art comes into being. No form of artistic expression emerges out of nothing—it always corresponds to its time and carries a clear historical trajectory, something entirely different from the rigid narratives found in textbooks. This experience likely shaped my creative philosophy: to begin from within—feeling, experiencing, and then allowing something to emerge. This “within” is the foundation, a perceptual sediment formed through my interactions with the world. It allows me to glimpse broader historical forces not as something hollow, but as something grounded and tangible.

My earliest works with a distinct personal language were made in charcoal. I combined charcoal with very dry acrylic paint, applying great force—so much so that my brushes wore down completely. I worked in this way for many years. Later, I shifted to unfamiliar materials, attempting to incorporate more diverse elements, gradually giving rise to my current series. Each adjustment revealed new possibilities, even though the process was often painful, even at times despairing.

Whitestone Gallery Taipei

- What are your primary sources of inspiration? Do they come from the external world, or more from your internal thoughts?

Li: I observe, reflect, and feel through everyday life. Living itself provides me with the richest material.

When I first began creating, I set myself the rule of depicting only things with a strong sense of vitality. I was fascinated by the untamed growth of nature, such as stray cats and dogs and dense jungle landscapes. I drew them vigorously with charcoal, as if projecting my own state of being onto the surface of the image.

Later, as my life circumstances changed, I became more attentive to the ways ordinary things could move me. I began to use color, which allowed me to approach pictorial problems with greater ease and composure.

Take the Fruit series, for example. As early as my Jungle series, forms resembling fruit had already appeared. At the time, I titled them Seeds. I grew up in the countryside, where fruit was a scarce commodity. There were only a few fruit trees in the entire village, and whenever a household had fruit, children would climb over the walls to get to it. These childhood memories are deeply ingrained in me. The scarcity of resources during certain periods would instantly reignite them. Another important internal factor was my focus at the time on clustered, mass-like structures. Together, these elements contributed to the emergence of this new body of work.

Whitestone Gallery Taipei

- How does a work typically come into existence, from the first spark of an idea to the finished piece?

Li: I need to establish a connection with my subject matter first. I believe painting must be related to myself—it has to move me before I consider how to express it.

The “Longing to Fly ” series is a theme I have been working on for a long time. I’ve taken many photographs of birds, and when I became interested in clustered forms, I suddenly revisited these materials. New works began to grow naturally from there.

The most difficult part is still the process. Creating a painting takes time, and I need that duration to gradually arrive at certainty. The structure of the image is not derived purely from vision, but from a prolonged perceptual negotiation. I aim to handle form and color with freedom, reducing unnecessary narrative as much as possible. I often encounter creative blocks as well—before, I would confront the painting head-on, but the results were rarely satisfying. Now, I choose to pause; learning to wait has become another method.

“Longing to Fly” series (Whitestone Gallery Beijing)

- Are there any specific techniques, materials, or steps in your process that are essential to your work?

Li: For me, what matters most is the repeated shaping and adjustment throughout the process. How can one accurately reflect the experience of visual perception? It is about translating the immediate, lived experience of the subjective self into an objective image. I try to continuously subtract, to uncover something enduring, to distill a more solid internal structure, and to reconstruct a certain kind of order. It is precisely this process of constant refinement—the struggle, the trial and error, and the occasional moments of ease—that forms the powerful core of the work. The processual nature of the image naturally emerges, allowing the depicted “object” to become more like a symbol that carries a certain spiritual weight.

Close Up

- In your earlier works, forms were defined by very clear outlines, sometimes even with blank spaces left along the edges. In your more recent works, however, these clear contours have gradually disappeared, with images emerging through layers of brushstrokes. Could you share with us the process behind this transformation and the thinking that informs it?

Li: At that time, I was more concerned with the relationships within the overall structure of the image. The blank space along the edges became part of that structure—it was exactly the feeling I was seeking. Traditionally, much emphasis is placed on the seamless transition between contour lines and background, but I have always wanted to blur the relationship between subject and background, making them equally significant.

In Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, he reduced the sense of spatial depth to emphasize Cubism, inserting large areas of white between the figures and the blue background. At its core, this was also an attempt to establish a new kind of pictorial relationship.

However, overly distinct personal motifs can sometimes become limiting. Now, I am more focused on the deeper construction of the depicted forms. Through repeated refinement and “polishing,” I aim to solidify the various experiences that arise during the creative process within the work itself.

- What is currently capturing your interest, and how do you see your work evolving in the near future?

Li: For now, my work mainly continues as an extension of several recent series, and I will keep exploring these themes in greater depth.

Recently, I’ve been revisiting art history and rediscovering many intriguing ideas, which may influence my upcoming work.

I’m also increasingly aware of the power of AI technology. It is already reshaping our lives, and it may well impact my practice in the future. In any case, I’m quite looking forward to my new work.

Whitestone Gallery Taipei

Early on, Li Manjin also used charcoal and drew forcefully to convey the vigor of life, but now she seeks a connection between the material and herself, refining her work through adjustments and repetition. As a result, she blurs the relationship between subject and background while establishing both as equally important within her works.

The Fissure of Perception: LI Manjin, MENG Yangyang, Misha