My disdain for the current fascination with what’s termed ‘national studies’ runs deep. The real tragedy lies in our lost capacity to engage with the most profoundly humanistic aspects of our traditions. Instead, there’s a frenzied embrace of the superficial – lifestyles and survival tactics that leave us merely playing roles. A few, blessed with excess energy, don an affectation of appreciating the ancient ways, revelling in a nostalgic ecstasy. The vast majority, however, devoid of any real substance, are unwittingly dragged into a dream of revival. This dream dulls their ability to feel the sting of reality, all under the noble guise of self-improvement and character cultivation. In a collective masquerade of tranquillity, society partakes in this charade. Furthermore, the leisure activities and philosophies of life, presumed to be imbued with an old-world allure, have been so thoroughly altered by those who are either carelessly indifferent or deceitfully intentional that what’s left is but a distorted shadow of original wisdom, a hollow echo of past brilliance.

Artists, especially those in contemporary Chinese art who have built their careers on critiquing reality and expressing individuality, should remain impervious to the ebb and flow of popular trends. Alas, times evolve. On one hand, works that demand analysis through semiotics, iconology, or sociology no longer deliver a vivid and direct stimulation as they drift from confronting grim realities and challenging a harsh society. On the other hand, the creators themselves evolve from carefree mavericks to respectable elders. Revisiting past themes no longer excites either the creators or their audiences; exploring new styles, meanwhile, risks exposing the frailties in their technical prowess and refinement.

Amidst this dilemma, some artists continue to seek sustainable growth within their established stylistic language, conservatively upholding an outdated notion of ‘contemporaneity’. Others venture into new thematic territories by paying tribute to tradition. In China, drawing from the past to innovate for the future is often seen as the most prudent strategy for change, as well as the most effective way to disguise deficiencies. The former strategy maintains dignity and the latter embodies elegance, both admirably preserving their hard-earned ideals. The issue at hand is not whether contemporary artists need a profound understanding of traditional art or should always exhibit a pioneering spirit. Rather, my curiosity lies in the extent to which these decisions to seemingly retreat are driven by a pure focus on the art itself.

Within my purview, the talent Yin Zhaoyang exhibits through his painting language, alongside his capability to stand alone in the evolution of his style, commands respect among contemporary artists. Reflecting on his nearly two-decade artistic journey, one can discern the overarching narrative of contemporary Chinese art, as well as the unmistakable marks of ingenuity at every pivotal moment.

In the realm of contemporary art, we often encounter painters whose work immediately transcends imagery and technique, where the awareness of concept merges prematurely with linguistic consciousness into a sense of identity. In an era that prized ‘hard truths’, this approach undoubtedly served as an effective tactic to capture attention. However, it is with regret that we observe some artists whose brilliance sustains only a fleeting moment of inspiration before succumbing to an inevitable silence. Others linger too long in this predictable acceptance, finding it too late to disentangle themselves as times change and their talent fades. Yin’s awareness lies in not hastily confining himself to any singular, unique skill nor becoming too engrossed in conceptual and visual pitfalls. His persistence, or rather, his commitment, lies in his continuous advancement and innovation in technique and language across various themes. Even if at times he might have overemphasised visual impact, he always manages to recalibrate in time.

Through series such as Youth Fades Away (《青春远去》2000.001), Utopia (《乌托邦》2007.002), Myth (《神话》2005.001), Square (《广场》2005.002), Radiation (《辐射》2007.003), Dizziness (《晕眩》2011.001), and Serene Buddha (《安详佛》2007.004), it becomes clear that Yin has not lost touch with the capabilities of contemporary art to explore profound depths and wide expanses. Moreover, the agility of his thought leaps and the tempo at which his expressive language evolves far surpass the norm, dazzling onlookers. He appears to dive wholeheartedly into a theme, unleashing his energy with full force. Before critics and audiences have the chance to digest and respond, he’s already moved on to his next fascination. There was a period when I questioned if this seemingly capricious spread of his talents and energies might result in missing genuine opportunities for linguistic innovation – a task that undeniably demands prolonged dedication and an unwavering resolve not to be swayed by fleeting trends. Nonetheless, having engaged directly with Yin, I realised such concerns were unnecessary. Each transition in theme is intricately linked to his current contemplations, embodying reflections that are as much about art as they are about life itself.

I contest the idea that an artist’s accumulation of experiences solely lays the groundwork for their eventual mature style. Similarly, I reject the assumption that Chinese artists, as they age and their perspectives mellow, will naturally gravitate towards traditional art. We have seen many artists falter in their later years and have become familiar with the clumsy attempts at a return to tradition. Yin began engaging with themes related to tradition and drawing inspiration from traditional art well before the recent trend of revisiting roots emerged. Additionally, compared to his renowned contemporaries, he is notably more vibrant and energetic. These two ‘early adopter’ advantages will only become more evident with time. Yin’s venture into his landscape series carries the same vigorous spirit that marked his previous creations. As a result, these works have been devoid of staleness or a sense of decline from the very beginning; they have offered a broad vision and a generous opening of possibilities. The shift in technical language is startling, and the strength of the visual impact commands respect.

Traditional Chinese art, notably calligraphy and painting, has refined its intrinsic logic to seamless perfection over more than a millennium, achieving a profound harmony between operational norms and aesthetic preferences. This tradition is imbued with an undeniable ‘linguistic violence’ and is compelling in its clarity and authority. Further compounded by long periods of cultural discontinuity and a general detachment from traditional studies in younger generations, the majority of contemporary practitioners of calligraphy and painting find it challenging to truly master these forms, much less to transition from the divergent sensibilities of modern artistry into this domain. Yin’s distinction lies not in merely appropriating snippets of traditional art to forge images that are neither wholly ancient nor fully contemporary; nor does he leverage the structural advantages of oil painting to dabble in a disjointed ink language; nor utilise the calligraphic spirit of traditional painting to produce lukewarm visual expressions. Instead, he chooses landscape painting – the genre most deeply suffused with religious and humanistic ethos in traditional art – as his point of entry. Capturing the spirit rather than merely imitating the form, and losing himself to the essence of his craft, he initiates a forthright conversation with tradition through a novel technical language. His approach neither imposes upon the ancients nor awkwardly emulates them; it is at once an homage and a breakthrough.

The saying, ‘Technique can be clumsy or refined, but art transcends time,’ highlights an artist’s need for heightened sensitivity to exceptional works, irrespective of their historical or cultural origin or who created them. A truly discerning artist, by nurturing such sensitivity, embraces the principle that ‘All that I see becomes a part of me.’ Outstanding creations act as both inspiration and challenge. Technique, then, becomes a means to channel this pressure. The concept that ‘each stroke bears a legacy’ speaks to the buildup of this pressure. Even with understanding, the path forward might not be immediately clear. Ancient masters often expressed, ‘The divine resides in the eyes, and the wrist wields the magic,’ encapsulating Yin’s ability to recognise brilliance and wield his brush with an ease that brings forth renewal. Whether inspired by the ancients or the natural world, everything is within his reach, ready to be transformed anew, even without explicit understanding. Thus, it’s unnecessary to probe what new techniques Yin may have derived from ancient masters, or how the landscapes of the Central Plains have enriched him. Even as he bestows his works with titles reflecting ancient elegance such as Empty Mountain Sunset, A Valley Temple on a Sunny Autumn Day, Layered Rocks and Dense Trees, or Asking the Way on Mount Song, these landscapes unequivocally belong to Yin. They stand independently, embodying their own unique charm and grace.

Yin has a fondness for engaging with text, frequently writing critical articles and participating in comprehensive dialogues that explore his artistic trajectory, a practice increasingly uncommon among contemporary artists. His writings often express his thoughts directly, with precision and sensitivity, tinged with traces of youthful dissent. I maintain that within contemporary art, indignation embodies strength, and the spirit of youthful defiance is invaluable. Those who prematurely abandon this force and spirit render their creations devoid of intensity and vitality. In Yin’s own terms, such works resemble those ‘produced by the deceased’. Naturally, not every dissenting youth achieves prominence, but those who rise above, even at the cost of softening their edges, are truly admirable. While Yin might not acknowledge much anger within himself nowadays, a discernible sense of unrest pervades his paintings and prose, a testament to his vigorous and uncompromising engagement with art.

Lu Xun wryly observed that ‘Arrogance and a penchant for antiquity are hallmarks of the scholar.’ Yet, if we reinterpret ‘arrogance’ as a sense of ‘self-strength’, then even a reverence for the past can breathe new life into the perspective of the ‘scholar’, elevating it above the commonplace. Landscape painting, traditionally aimed at reflecting inward peace, serves as a foundation for ‘spiritual wandering’ and ‘soul liberation’. However, delving into the works of Jian Jiang and Shi Tao reveals that even their realistic portrayals of Mount Huang are imbued with a straightforward and upright character. It mirrors how Tao Yuanming, amidst his chrysanthemum picking, could occasionally reveal a heroic ethos of ‘wielding my axe like Xingtian, my relentless ambition ever present’. I once said to Yin, ‘Since the times of Jian Jiang, Shi Tao, and Mei Qing, no one has captured Mount Huang without succumbing to cliché.’ Yin replied, ‘I’ve already conceived how to approach it. Once I’m through with my current commitments, I’ll show you.’ I eagerly anticipate it.