Red Leather Suitcase My Masks and Inner Child
Red Leather Suitcase: My Masks and Inner Child This work is part of an ongoing series in which the artist probes identity, emotion, and the fragile ties that shape our lives. Red Leather Suitcase: My Masks and Inner Child reads like a visual act of self-reconciliation. In the lower left corner, the red suitcase lies quietly, holding a whole childhood inside it—it marks the beginning of a life bound to packing, leaving, and drifting. Beside it, a small bare-chested girl is lifted by a green lotus leaf: the “inner child,” just pulled from the water, vulnerable and finally seen. Three faces appear in the painting. On the left, a gently smiling mask represents the “pleasing me” that shows up in social settings. In the upper left, a mask with tightly closed eyes suggests an invisible authority that once governed the artist’s life. In the center, the open-eyed face is the present self, courageously examining her own masks. Above, the full moon and the emerging butterfly signal transformation and the shifting, fluid nature of identity. On this night, both the self behind the mask and the inner child on the lotus leaf come into view—both are real, both once ignored. Bold colors and dynamic compositions in this body of work are more than aesthetic choices; they embody emotional landscapes. Drawing from personal journeys and cultural memory, the artist turns the red suitcase, masks, moon, and butterfly into a visual language of “Who am I?” This painting becomes a gesture of healing—a quiet truce with herself. Viewers are invited to stand before this suitcase and these three faces, and to recognize, perhaps, the hidden child and the many masks within their own stories.

She Stands in the Narrow Gap – Testimony for Early Rain Church
This work is an expressionist “witness painting” and a spiritual portrait of life in the contemporary city. The composition is built from fierce clashes of orange skin, ultramarine towers, crimson and bright yellow. Neither the figure nor the buildings follow realistic proportion; they remain deliberately childlike and flattened, outlined in thick, decisive lines. Color no longer imitates natural light, but writes directly from the heart—like an emotional eruption that lays fear, tension, hope, and prayer openly across the canvas. Drawing on the interplay between geometric and organic forms, the artist constructs two dense walls of high-rises on either side, made of repeated verticals and small squares. They are windows, but also iron bars, beating out a claustrophobic rhythm like a cage. The central female figure is shaped with more organic, undulating strokes: her hair and clothing are not smooth, but layered, ridged, and full of tension, like years of accumulated emotion and scar tissue. Wedged into the narrow gap between the towers, she becomes a witness besieged by the city. Above her head hang two surveillance cameras and a crescent moon, enclosing her in a dark, watched night—she is frightened and alert, yet remains painfully awake. Text and symbols turn the painting into a kind of monumental urban archive. At the bottom, a red band bearing the words “Qiuyu秋雨 / Early Rain” is crossed by arcs of yellow, like the lines of a crossroads. The word “成都Chengdu” in the lower right fixes the work firmly in a real city. In the cramped doorways at lower left and right, tiny black silhouettes stand in the shadows; on one door, the character “7 / seven” appears, pointing to the seventh year of the Early Rain case and hinting at those who watch and monitor the church from the dark. Countless short yellow strokes fall through the background like rain, or like sparks of prayer and passing messages, flickering in the blue-black night sky and forming a fragile, spiritual connection between individuals and the wider body. Together, these symbolic words and images form a visual language of “urban existence”: the towers are structure and prison at once; the figures in the doorways are both onlookers and potential perpetrators; the woman in the narrow gap is at once an individual and a collective emblem. Her gaze turns slightly to the side, carrying fear and hyper-vigilance, but also a stubborn clarity. She is not a mythologized martyr-hero, but an ordinary person—weak, afraid, and still holding to her faith. She is the embodiment of “Early Rain” itself. Through her, the artist invites viewers to ask: in this city, under surveillance and fear, how do we stand, how do we bear witness, and how do we keep a living conversation with others, with God, and with this wounded city in the tightest of spaces?

《亚伯和该隐的DNA》“The DNA of Abel and Cain.”
Oil on Canvas; 24 x 36 in; 2021 Inspired by the Genesis story of Abel and Cain, this painting imagines human history as a multi-dimensional spiral. The vast rotating form at the center suggests the continuous flow of time and memory, while the tiny brothers on the left and the DNA helix on the right hint at how jealousy and violence are written into our bloodlines and replayed across generations. Between intense reds and deep blues, a soft beam of light breaks through, suggesting that even what is inscribed in our “DNA” may, by grace, be rewritten. 布面油画，24 x 36 in; 2021 这幅作品以创世记第四章中亚伯和该隐的故事为起点，将人类历史描绘成一个多维螺旋的整体。画面中央巨大的旋转体象征时间与记忆的连续，而左侧渺小的兄弟身影与右侧清晰的DNA螺旋，指向罪的暴力与嫉妒在家族与人类血脉中的反复重演。在强烈的红与蓝之间，透出一束光，提醒我们：写在基因里的旧故事，可以在恩典中被重新书写。

Four Sisters with Roses – Between Loss and Home
This painting was created on August 27, 2025, shortly after the memorial service for their mother. The four Hong Kong sisters stand shoulder to shoulder, almost the same height, facing the viewer in silence. They hold red and pink roses in their hands. Their black dresses are mourning clothes; the white dots scattered across them suggest raindrops, stars, or tears—grief that cannot be put into words. On the right, a slender yellow candle and a soft pink scarf form a quiet, warm presence—the guiding light of God, an invisible embrace around the four girls. I deliberately left their faces without features, as a gentle veil to protect their privacy and as an acknowledgment that their sorrow runs deeper than any expression or language can fully carry. On December 1, 2025, the four sisters were formally adopted by a Hong Kong–American family moved into their new home. Looking back at this painting now, the candle and blue sky point not only to loss, but also to a path that had already been prepared—a way leading them from sudden orphanhood into a new family. What began as a record of mourning has become an image of the threshold: one foot still in the memorial service—black clothes, dotted skirts, red and pink roses; the other already stepping toward a wider sky and a new home. Here they are held on the canvas by an unseen light: they have lost their mother, and yet they have found a new home. December 3, 2025

Two Beds, One Circle – My Sister’s Final Blessing
Oil on canvas, 24 x 36 in This work is built around the “distance between two hospital beds,” tracing my sister’s inner journey—from “I must stay alive” to “I can now let go in peace.” The painting folds the years 1995 and 2024 into a single space. On one side is my sister in 1995, after massive bleeding, almost pulled away by death. She kept saying, “I feel terrible,” yet what truly tormented her was not only physical pain, but the fear hanging over her heart: “What will happen to my daughter if I die?” On the other side is my sister in 2024, in the final stage of cancer, speaking calmly to my niece: “I’m not suffering—not at all.” By then, her daughter had a family of her own, children, a job, and a life taking root. The life task that weighed on her more than anything else—bringing her daughter safely into adulthood—had finally reached its completion. Through a visual language that weaves surrealism and expressionism together, the painting sketches a “maternal timeline”: its starting point is my sister fighting desperately to stay alive for her child; its end point is her entrusting her daughter to God, and to her daughter’s own grown-up self in God’s hands, and then allowing herself to leave. Vivid, high-contrast color fields and a composition that is both fluid and still intertwine memory, loss, and rest. In the figures’ eyes, there is both reluctance and release; on the motionless hospital beds, the ripples of time continue to move. For me, this painting preserves a “live moment of the soul.” It is a gesture of comfort and blessing—for my sister, for my niece, and also for myself. It invites each viewer to return to the hospital rooms and threshold moments of their own life, to reflect on how we are held by love, and how, in the face of farewell, we learn to stand.

Dream in a Bottle 《瓶中梦童年的原型之光》

Peace on Earth The Third Day
This painting brings “Peace on Earth” back into a world where Pastor Wang Yi has been sentenced to nine years in prison for public worship. On the left is Christ’s profile beneath the crown of thorns—not a distant icon, but a gaze that still witnesses human suffering. The manger below reminds us: peace does not begin with comfort; it begins when God enters affliction. On the right stands the risen Christ on the third day—alive after death, passing through shame and locked doors, hands open with nail scars still visible: bondage is not the final word. The blue currents move like tears, like winter wind, and like life still pressing forward.This is a witness: true peace passes through the cross—and comes with resurrection.

《坠落之翼》Falling with Wings A Dream on New Year’s Morning (1)