“Extremism” and “loneliness”—inside the boundaries of artist and climber Wu Chi-Tsung

Wu Chi-Tsung: I grew up in an artistic atmosphere that blended tradition and modernity, East and West.

I learned calligraphy as a child—in fact, at the time, every child was expected to practise it. Later, I turned to drawing: mountains at first, then experimenting with pencil, watercolour, charcoal, and more. It’s hard to imagine a Western artist beginning with calligraphy, but in Asia, that’s a typical starting point. We belonged to a bilingual generation in terms of culture—steeped in diverse artistic influences—so it was natural for us to be exposed to a wide range of mediums and approaches from both traditions. Even so, the art education I received early on was more technical than imaginative. It focused on precision rather than sparking creativity. I always questioned why I had to draw or write the same way as everyone else. I wanted to find my own way. Perhaps that’s why art didn’t truly engage me until much later in life.

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When I entered art college, I began to explore. I experimented broadly. By coincidence, I met a renowned Taiwanese artist and critic—also a friend of my father’s—who had made a name for himself through collage work since the 1980s. He was one of Asia’s pioneers in the field. I remember an essay he wrote titled “Western Art Made in Taiwan”. It was both witty and biting, pointing out how many Taiwanese artists copied what they saw in the West without developing a voice of their own. I admired him greatly because he challenged tradition in ways I hadn’t seen before. He passed away around 2015. In tribute, I began experimenting with collage techniques. That’s when I created the Wrinkle Texture series—an idea that altered the course of my practice.

The Wrinkle Texture series reimagines Cun Fa, a traditional method for building texture in ink wash painting. But instead of brush and ink, I turned to the cyanotype photographic process. Rice paper is coated in light-sensitive chemicals, then crumpled and shaped under sunlight for half an hour. After rinsing, the folds and creases are locked into abstract compositions—shifting blue forms that echo craggy cliffs and mountainous terrain. This series eventually evolved into Cyano-Collage, which remains ongoing. For me, these works have become a kind of archive—of light, of time, of the gestures we leave behind.

It was around my second or third year of college that I discovered video art. That was a turning point. Although I had studied painting for years, I began working with video, photography, and installation. At heart, I still felt like a painter—I just swapped the traditional tools for something else. These new mediums opened doors for me. Installation and multimedia gave me space to develop in ways I hadn’t expected. I think I’m a reasonably good painter, but if I had only painted, I doubt I’d be much different from those who came before. Working with different materials gave me an advantage—it allowed me to practise art in a way that feels wholly my own.

Of all forms of installation, mechanical installations—with their motors and machinery—may well be the most complex.
My father was something of a tinkerer, and growing up, we weren’t allowed to play with toys or games. Instead, we were handed tools—real ones—to build whatever we liked. At the time, I saw it all as a kind of play, but when I began studying art seriously and moved into mechanical installations, model-making, and experimentation, I realised how useful those early experiences would become.

I don’t really see myself as a cinematographer, or a photographer, or anything of the sort—they’re all simply different ways of expressing the same idea, all in service of something human. That mindset, I think, is essential in approaching multimedia art. Consider the late 19th century: when photography emerged, many portrait painters turned their hand to it. During the Renaissance, oil paint was a novel medium and artists raced to master it. Or take the advent of indigo dye—once discovered, it sparked an entire wave of innovation. These were all experiments. That’s how I feel about new materials today. In the past, artists worked with only a few available tools. Now, after thousands of years, we’re surrounded by possibilities.

That’s why some of my works, which at first glance might appear to be paintings, are actually created using photographic processes. An installation of light and shadow might have originated from a painting. To me, there’s no great difference. I don’t distinguish between mediums—I simply need the right space to explore an idea.

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Often, when I begin working on an idea, I imagine one material—but the final piece turns out quite different, both in form and in medium. Many of my works come about unexpectedly. If I notice something—an unusual occurrence or phenomenon—I’ll pursue it, and often it leads to something new. I rarely begin with the material in mind. Take, for instance, the installation I presented at Art Basel in Basel, Switzerland: it involves a telescope typically used for observing Mars. I used it to view a dust cloud in space, linking it to a projector lens and then connecting that to a camera. When something interrupts the light at just the right moment, an image emerges.

So, visitors could witness dust in the air—viewed through a telescope, captured by camera, and projected in real time. This piece, in fact, was born of pure coincidence. Back in 2006, while preparing an art exhibition in England, I happened to block the light while adjusting the camera and saw a shimmering halo of dust around my hair—like something out of a fairytale. I began trying other objects, and within an hour, the piece was finished. It remains, to this day, the luckiest work I’ve ever created—something I doubt will happen again.

Wu Chi-Tsung: It’s a classic example of how much of art simply can’t be planned.

It happens to you. In the past, many cultures saw artists as messengers—conduits between the divine and humanity. And honestly, I often feel as though artworks arrive without explanation. That, to me, is endlessly intriguing.

There’s a widespread belief that artists have large egos and are meticulous perfectionists, always in command of the creative process. My method is the opposite. The more I try to control my work, the worse the outcome. But when I let go—when I simply play with my tools—the results are often unexpectedly good. Discovering this changed the way I create. In other words, when you know too well what you’re doing, it becomes hard to make something truly new. Creativity demands risk. It calls for an approach that hasn’t existed before.

“Go with the flow”—I think my artistic practice reflects a strong influence from Taoism and Buddhism, particularly through meditation. I was first introduced to meditation in high school, and even then, I sensed it was essential for artists. I don’t practise meditation and yoga every day, but when I do, I notice a shift. They help me tune in more deeply when I make art. My sensitivity sharpens. I feel calmer, more focused. My vision expands. I feel more. And I believe these effects go far beyond art—they’re meaningful to anyone. In a meditative state, the world appears entirely different.

To me, climbing is closely linked to art—it’s extreme, it elevates you, and it’s profoundly solitary. Even when there’s someone belaying below, you’re alone in front of the mountain. You feel fear. You feel danger. It’s a raw, powerful sensation—you must stay absolutely focused, and learn to manage your fear. Honestly, I’m afraid of heights, but that’s why I climb. It makes me feel alive. There’s an instinctive rush, a surge of adrenaline when you come face-to-face with fear. And strangely, at the same time, it feels meditative.

There are times when I don’t climb, and I notice that I lose a kind of sensitivity. But when I return to the mountain, the energy returns. It resets me.

Climbing is when I feel my best—physically and mentally. Without it, I wouldn’t have the same ability to concentrate. I bring that same focus to my work. Climbing shapes not only my art but my entire way of living.

Wu Chi-Tsung

This article was originally published in Tatler Vietnam, December 2024 issue. It is based on Wu Chi-Tsung’s story.

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