KINTU STUDIO TALK: YUZHOU
Some time ago, right in the middle of summer, I met Yuzhou at Kintu. She visited our studio with a very attentive and calm eye, looking at each piece carefully. We ended up talking for a long time about art and everything around it.
Later, I discovered that Yuzhou is also an artist. She shared some of her work with me, and not long after, we decided to collaborate. It’s always a special feeling when someone walks into your studio, and it turns into a creative journey together. So today, I’m really happy to introduce you to the work of Yuzhou.
Hi Yuzhou, it’s such a pleasure to talk with you!
KS: To start, could you tell us a bit about where you’re based at the moment and what brought you there?
After finishing RCA Print, I moved back to my hometown, Jingdezhen. I used to resist “going back”—it felt like a compromise—but I’ve come to see that being born in a world-famous porcelain city is its own kind of luck. After these years of study, I’m clear that I prefer quiet exploration over proving or presenting myself. Jingdezhen has a complete ecosystem—materials, skills, community. I mostly do illustration and print, but ceramics isn’t foreign to me. I want a setup like school again: steady access to tools and support—and Jingdezhen gives me that. I’m after unhurried days: sometimes pinching clay, mostly just playing with a clear mind. Practically, I can eat really well—spicy— and spend very little. That’s enough for me.
KS: You’re originally from China—how does that part of your story shape who you are today?
It’s a broad question. Literally speaking, every day and every encounter has shaped me. I grew up with my grandparents; their quiet taught me to notice still things—objects, smells, habits left in the corners. With my parents busy, I filled the blank with imagination and daydreams and built a tiny world I could live in.
As a kid I made houses in the grass for imaginary fairies and treated my pencil case like a laptop. Those were games, but also practice—practicing imagination, self-placement, and how to fill an empty space. The funny part is: what looked childish later became my way of seeing.
Traits that once felt like gaps turned into nourishment. Sensitivity, fantasy, the urge to play—these stopped being escapes and became my tools. I try to treat my old quirks gently—not erase or dramatize them, just work with them and see what power they carry. So now I keep the child’s curiosity and meet it with an adult’s patience.
KS: What kind of inspiration do you find in the place where you live now? How does it influence your mood, your work, or even daily life?
Honestly, my biggest inspiration from objects at home. There’s a lot of it; each of them feels important, as if it could become a story. That both overwhelms and excites me—maze and treasure hunt at once,burden and gift.
Abroad I was already hoarding and cataloguing, even turning things into a print collection. I realized the urge to grab, keep, even replicate came from a fear of loss. Replication felt safe and eased that fear. Later I saw my simply love these things; they satisfy me.
Back home my days feel like childhood again: eat, go back to my room, investigate, make—and the day disappears. Objects are almost companions now. Next, I want a series that doesn’t just collect but looks at the desires objects can’t satisfy. Through making—to sense, to restore—and to keep a real link with the world as an adult.
KS: And when you think about your homeland, what role does it play for you today? Do you still draw energy or inspiration from it?
My hometown feels like a safe house. It’s not that I always drew energy here; it’s that I finally admit it can be my source. I used to think that after seeing the big world, returning to a small city meant I’d failed; and that ceramics, however developed, had nothing to do with me.
Now I’m learning to accept it—and to see the luck in it. It’s rare to find a city this inexpensive, slow, a little unruly, that lets me be fully myself. It lets me live without a rigid plan and create freely—because it’s home.
The “inspiration” is more of a background tone: people are straightforward, sometimes a bit rough, funny, and quietly kind. Those qualities don’t show up directly in my images, but they steady my days. That steadiness is what lets me keep creating.
KS: In your creative practice, do you notice any elements or feelings that connect back to Chinese aesthetics or traditions?
The first thing I think of is leaving space (留白). In my drawings I often let the paper’s blank be part of the image. Over-filled pages feel airless—and less
fun. Even in theme, I don’t want to explain everything; if you can see the end at a glance, it’s hard to stay with it.
Culturally we value space and duration: you can return to the same thing again and again, so when making we naturally leave space so the aura lasts longer. For me, leaving space is also an invitation: linger, go deeper, co- create, or walk away and stay quiet. I want the work to be open, not didactic —a little suspense, and the viewer’s freedom. That “not overfilling” is probably my natural link to Chinese aesthetics.
KS: Can you take us back to the beginning—how did your journey with art start? What first drew you in?
My path began in childhood. To beat boredom I drew and stuffed my little stapled booklets with fantasies. I remember a cat’s birthday story—even a scene of doing the dishes. Funny now, but it was pure instinct: a child’s urge to create and mimic life.
Later, on the art-exam track, I drew the same things from morning to night. It hurt. Basic skills matter, but back then they mostly brought frustration: my first color still life felt great to me, yet others couldn’t tell what it was. That gap stung—but it also told me that this unpolished way of speaking is my language.
Looking back, I’ve always liked the “makes-no-sense” route: blocks of color to carry feeling, avoiding too much detail. Even with more training and more academic rooms, the strongest joy lives in childhood—making with no purpose or frame, just intuition.
KS: When you’re working on something new, what usually sparks the idea? And how does your creative process unfold from there?
Most projects start with an urge—the need to pick up a pen right now or grab materials and play. The source is life: what I’m going through, puzzling over, or feeling. My body and mind answer existence—sometimes rational, sometimes messy, always real. Earlier, when I didn’t understand myself well, the images were mostly abstract. As I’ve understood more, the work carries more concrete sensation. When an idea lands, I try to act immediately—draw, write, outline a series—because if I miss that moment, it’s hard to re-enter the same clear feeling. Once the core motive blurs, I will lose the point. So ideas that sit too long, I rarely chase.
KS: Could you tell us the story behind the illustration you made for our tote bags? What was on your mind while creating it?
The illustration is called “If I Had a Sister...”. The idea came from a bedroom design I once saw in a home décor magazine. It struck me—the oversized, dreamy canopy, the soft lighting, the greenery outside the window, the tiny single bed. It felt like one of those quiet afternoons you could almost step into. That moment stayed with me.
A few nights later, without planning to, I drew a bedroom I imagined sharing with a sister. There was the canopy I longed for, and two small beds of our own. I’ve always loved bedrooms—they let me be still and let my imagination wander. I love windows overflowing with green; I love the feeling of being gently wrapped by the world. Honestly, I wished there were someone who could always play with me.
If, in some parallel world, I had a sister, then our bedroom back home might have looked like this—yellow walls, a brown roof—born entirely of my imagination, present in feeling but absent in time and place. Creation, existence, and imagination give us brief glimpses of the impossible becoming possible.
KS: When you create in general, what does the process look like for you—from the first sketch to the final piece?
My process follows intuition. I sense a “texture” first, then let it lead me through materials and tools. I rarely know what a piece will become until it’s done. Even with a plan I don’t force the outcome; what matters is whether each step still feels joyful and answers the “let me try this” impulse.
During my MA I explored a non-narrative language through etching. I often felt lost. My tutor, Flora, asked, “Are you still happy doing this?” “I don’t think so,” I said. “Then let it go—do what you truly happy with.” That line gave me the confidence I work from now. To me,a piece is never finally “finished”. Some click years later; some stay as they are. Moving from trying to control the process to letting the work and myself be as we are has been practice in self-exploration and acceptance.
KS: Do you find yourself naturally drawn to color, or do you also enjoy exploring simplicity through black and white?
I admit I love and enjoy color—maybe it’s temperament. Different hues bring different feelings; most of the time they simply lift the mood. Color is a language to me; each color says something different. Even with brown, cool brown and warm brown feel entirely different in different contexts; the same hue shifts its tone like word choice in a sentence.
Black-and-white, to me, is also color—essentially no less than chroma. My illustrations are mostly colorful, but in printmaking I’m very at ease with
black-and-white (or a single tone). In me they feel like two coexisting temperaments: illustration is more outward and lively; printmaking is quieter and more restrained. Maybe that built-in restraint of black-and-white makes dust, linear doodles, images, and my expressions of time and distance feel closer to it—so I go that way.
I don’t force a preference—both are languages. Whether black-and-white or color, I enjoy working with them to find the most fitting expression.
And finally, a more personal one:
KS: Outside of art, what are the things that bring you true happiness?
Okay, I’ll say it: I love watching totally “nutrient-free” funny videos—the more absurd and nonsensical, the better. I also (shamelessly) believe I have great taste in picking them. They give me absolute relaxation: no preaching, no moral, just pure silly laughter. Maybe because my work often swims in tiny feelings and details, this “just-for-fun” laughter is precious—like a small pause button for my brain, a reminder that not everything needs meaning to be good.
KS: Thank you so much :)
Thankuuuuuuuu:)
PS: Totes are also avaible for you!