The exhibition has been going on for a few days. The installation day was quite exciting. the Two of my largest paintings were lifted up by the crane, like the opening scene of a movie. After all paintings were hung, I didn't feel as excited as in my first solo exhibition, but looking closely at these paintings and the people in them, hmm, nothing changed. They are as spirited as the time when I started sketching. Standing in the middle of the gallery, surrounded by all paintings and figures within, some of them were staring at me, and I suddenly felt a bit embarrassed.

In my last exhibition, there were many self-portraits, and portraits of my friends, people I knew or didn't know. Figures in this exhibition, however, I have never seen them before, mostly dancers. I want to see what kind of distance will arise from this.

I studied ballet, so I understand the bodies of dancers, and their pains. I have the same muscle memory, so I paint with confidence. Even if there are some distortions at times, I seem to know how to change them. I know where the joints are. In my opinion, dance is more brutal than painting. To become a master, besides innate conditions, one must start training from a young age, put in endless sweat, and have a short period of youth, so dancers don’t have as much pretension and prejudice.

When creating these works, I also practice dancing myself, preparing for performances. On the one hand is to rekindle this muscle memory, and on the other hand is to create competition for my painting time: I'm afraid that if I can freely paint from morning till night, I will become sluggish and lethargic; but when I dance, I often concern about the painting I am working on. I think of a detail, a spark of inspiration, and I can't wait to go back to the studio to paint, while still covering in sweat that hasn't dried yet, looking somewhat glorious. Sometimes those fleeting thoughts in my mind disappear before I have decided on the colors to use or the characters to depict.

Although I paint dancers, in these works, I don't portray difficult dance movements or the most beautiful moments. I want to capture dancers in their neutral state, outside of the stage. The dancers' bodies are their face: they don't need overmuch expressions to express themselves, so I strive to use the same sincerity when painting their fingertips as I do to their eyes, where their emotions and feelings reside -- fragile, sad, neurotic, powerful, bold… They can have a hundred of different moods at the same time, or they can be completely empty. They are people who don't need a "persona" and even a specific stage. Different souls can reside within their bodies and be expressed through dance, constantly being reborn.

Determination, freedom, following instincts, trusting intuition – these are the qualities I admire and long for. Therefore, when I paint, I hold them in reverence, feeling like these figures have entrusted themselves to my brush, and I must treat them seriously and try my best to depict them. I can't help but give them some gifts: gardens, flowers, dance shoes, black cards, trumpets... and animals, as well as my own secret symbols. It's as if they can become braver. Sometimes I become restless and anxious. I want to capture stillness and speed at the same time. If I can't achieve what I want to paint, I become impatient and frustrated. Some of that frustration might even stay on the canvas.

A few days ago, during the final rehearsal before a performance, a solo dancer accidentally dropped her fan. The teacher shouted from below, "You must find a way to pick up that fan, otherwise the audience won't continue watching you dance; they'll keep staring at that fan." How cruel it is. No deviations or mistakes are allowed. Painting seems to tolerate these deviations and mistakes. The fan you dropped might be an innovation.

"The Rite of Spring" was the first exhibition theme that popped into my mind, because when I painted, I listened to it countless times. It seemed to be able to overcome the sound of renovation that had been going on upstairs and downstairs for half a year, suppressing my collapse.

The first time I saw "The Rite of Spring" was a performance by Pina Bausch's team. It was incredibly shocking, and my heart was almost jumping out of my chest. That wild vitality and the collective hypnotic frenzy – ballet can be like this! It can be completely unrelated to elegance, so audacious.

Painting today is difficult to cause a big sensation, and difficult to shock people. It seems that all subversions have been done. Commerce makes art more standardized and more lively. Sometimes I wonder, are my paintings cool? Trendy? Whatever. I know I will keep painting for a long time and there are still many possibilities. The feeling of painting is a bit like a low fever, and I want to maintain this kind of low fever.