Forget Me Not: A Conversation with Xu Yang

Edited by Beata Li

From the ornate salons of Versailles to the intimate clay-formed dumpling, Xu Yang's visual language is both opulent and tender, situated at the intersection of personal memory and collective history. In her latest solo exhibition, Forget Me Not, presented at Château de Lantheuil in Normandy, she reclaims the aristocratic codes of Rococo and embeds them with narratives of domestic resilience, diasporic identity, and feminist solidarity. Speaking with Xu is like stepping into one of her paintings-rich with detail, vulnerability, and unexpected warmth.

The Cold Magazine (CM): Your work carries an unmistakable emotional authenticity. As an artist who creates from such a vulnerable position, does this openness ever exact a personal toll? Xu Yang (XY): Honesty remains fundamental to both my art and my life. My father instilled in me the importance of truthfulness, regardless of consequenceperhaps that's why I find it impossible to separate myself from my work. Yes, such openness can leave you feeling exposed, but I've discovered that when you're genuinely grounded in your identity, criticism struggles to penetrate that core self. I've come to understand vulnerability not as weakness, but as a methodology of truth-telling. CM: That emotional depth appears deeply rooted in familial memory. How have your parents shaped your artistic philosophy? XY: Their influence has been profound. My father abandoned his business career to become a farmer because he despised the performative aspects of China's corporate culture. His love for nature and commitment to authentic living demonstrated that following your heart matters more than accumulating wealth or social approval. He taught me that integrity itself is a form of prosperity.

My mother embodies fierce resilience. She operated a small business while constantly navigating sexism, yet she never allowed those encounters to diminish her composure or define her worth. When everyone else considered my decision to study art abroad foolish, she supported me unconditionally. From my earliest years, she encouraged me: "Don't be like me-go chase your dreams." Her belief in me gave me the courage to leave China and follow a path no one else around us understood.

CM: The dumpling motif, particularly prominent in this exhibition, carries profound symbolic weight. What inspired you to introduce this element into the château setting? XY: During the pandemic, I was unable to return home for three years. When I finally did, my mother greeted me by making dumplings. Each wrapper carried her thumbprint-it was such an intimate, tactile gesture of love. I began sculpting dumplings in clay as a way to preserve that moment. My family members each wrap dumplings differently, and those variations became a kind of portraiture.

I also wanted the installation to feel intimate, like a living room, with soft furnishings, cushions, and warmth. The idea was to let people feel surrounded by the work, but also relaxed inside it. The dumpling room in particular carries a quiet, nostalgic charge.

Across cultures, meals are where much care and communication take place. I hope this space becomes a kind of trigger, not just for memory, but for softness. For a kind of emotional permission.

​CM: Many of your works feature animals, particularly dogs. What do they represent in your visual vocabulary?

XY: While I'm generally more of a cat person-my dad, for example, has four large dogs on his mountain farm, specifically there to protect the property-I'm really fascinated by those small, pampered dogs you see strolling through Chelsea like little aristocrats. For this series, I painted them almost as if they were royal portrait sitters: elegant, stylised, and a touch absurd. They became stand-ins for human performance, class, and entitlement. It's a gentle satire, a way to explore status without being too heavy-handed.

​CM: There's a distinct feminist undercurrent in your practice, though it often manifests through care rather than confrontation. How has your understanding of feminism evolved?

XY: It continues evolving constantly. Initially, it emerged from personal experience, witnessing my mother being underestimated, or having to prove myself in male-dominated environments. Over time, I've embraced feminism as deeply intersectional. Reading thinkers like Judith Butler revealed how transgender rights, bodily autonomy, and challenging toxic masculinity are all interconnected struggles.

Sometimes feminism simply means creating space-offering women time, patience, and opportunities to speak without interruption. Revolutionary acts don't always require volume to achieve transformation. CM: You've described your studio practice as intensely personal. How do you navigate collaborative working relationships?

XY: I share a studio with Victoria. We've worked together since our student days at UAL, so there's a deep respect and understanding between us. This includes very clear boundaries, especially when it comes to feedback. We never give unsolicited comments, especially on unfinished work. The reason is, even a compliment can unintentionally influence the direction of a piece or create a subtle pressure. If you later want to modify something that was praised, you might worry about losing that "good" part or feel obligated to keep it. So, unless one of us explicitly asks for an opinion, we don't comment. That kind of mutual trust is really important for maintaining our individual artistic integrity and allowing us the freedom to explore.

I've also learned a lot about my own working rhythm. When I was in college, I used to feel immense pressure to work quickly; everyone around me seemed to be producing so much. But I've come to accept that I'm not a fast painter, and that's perfectly okay. I used to push myself relentlessly, sometimes twelve-hour days, particularly when I was based in Brixton. Eventually, my body started protesting-headaches, nausea, exhaustion. I realised I simply couldn't sustain that pace.

Now, I try to follow a more balanced rhythm. I come in with the office workers, typically around 9 AM, and leave when they do at 6 PM. This routine has been incredibly helpful. I've learned that rest isn't a luxury; it's an integral part of the work itself. When I'm well-rested, I paint better; I'm more focused and my decisionmaking is clearer. My mother is a very patient person, and I think some of that patience is finally starting to grow in me, too, informing how I approach my process. CM: How did your collaboration with curator Lucy von Goetz come about? What was it like developing this exhibition together at Château de Lantheuil?

XY: Lucy's support is truly exceptional! She approached me with the idea of doing a show at Château de Lantheuil, and as soon as I saw photos of the space, I was instantly drawn to it. The architecture, the history, the atmosphere-it resonated so deeply with my long-standing fascination with Rococo aesthetics. I've been working with this colour palette and this sense of opulence for over seven years, so the setting felt like a natural extension of my visual world. She really understood my work.

CM: The château presents a fascinating contextual framework—traditionally patriarchal, aristocratic, hierarchical. How did this environment influence your installation approach?

XY: Château de Lantheuil carries centuries of history—some violent, some tender. Rococo aesthetics have always resonated with me, not merely visually but ideologically. Women of that era employed fashion and ornamentation as subtle forms of resistance. Marie Antoinette once posed for a portrait wearing what was considered underwear at the time—a genuinely radical gesture.

Placing my work—the dumplings, portraits, my Pegasus—within such a space becomes an act of rewriting historical codes. The château’s owners demonstrated remarkable generosity, even relocating family portraits to accommodate mine. That gesture speaks volumes about the possibility of dialogue between past and present.

CM: Having exhibited internationally—from Shanghai to Zurich—how did showing in Normandy compare?

XY: The experience was slower, more profoundly human. The château possesses such deep historical memory that it prompted me to consider time differently, not just political or historical time, but emotional time. The kind you spend with family, or that lingers after someone departs. The work responded to that particular energy in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

CM: If your fifteen-year-old self could visit this exhibition, which painting would you prioritise showing her?

XY: Definitely the Pegasus. That painting is about hope and escapism.

Growing up, I think many girls believed Pegasus was real. I know I did. There’s something so pure about that belief, and I’d want my younger self to hold onto it, no matter what difficulties life might bring.

Even if the world feels heavy, that one small piece of you—the part that dares to believe in magic—should stay intact. That belief can carry you farther than anything else.

CM: What would you say to other young female artists who feel disillusioned or silenced?

XY: It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, especially given the current political climate. But try focusing on what remains within your control. Surround yourself with people who genuinely care about you. Concentrate on work you love. I’ve received numerous negative comments, but they often reveal more about the commenter than about the art itself. Don’t allow anyone to shake your belief in what you’re creating.

CM: Looking ahead, how do you envision your practice evolving? Will familial and cultural references remain central to the narrative?

XY: Absolutely. The Rococo influences will persist, as will the Asian and familial elements. But the work evolves with lived experience. After COVID, returning home changed me profoundly. Seeing my parents aging, realising how much I’d missed during those years apart—that emotional shift now informs my practice. While the visual language may maintain consistency, the emotional landscape continues to expand.

CM: If you could share afternoon tea with any historical female figure here at the château, who would you choose?XY: Artemisia Gentileschi. She endured so much and yet never stopped painting. She survived again and again, and each time she came back stronger.

At a time when it wasn’t fashionable—or even acceptable—for women to paint portraits, she did it anyway. And she didn’t just paint; she used her work as a weapon, as a form of rebellion against the patriarchy. That courage speaks to me deeply.

She’s like a figure from The Handmaid’s Tale, but real—someone who channelled trauma into strength and created beauty from resistance. I would love to sit with her, to feel the weight of that resilience in person.

CM: Since you posed this question to Artemisia, I’ll ask you the same: what keeps you going?

XY: Love. I love my work, my family, and my friends. I feel incredibly fortunate to live this life without requiring a second job—that’s genuine privilege. When circumstances feel overwhelming, I try focusing on small, beautiful things—horses, flowers, the work itself. I remind myself that people’s criticisms often reveal more about their own insecurities than about you. If you believe deeply in what you’re creating, don’t let anyone shake that conviction. Stay kind, stay strong, and keep going.

CM: In a world facing ongoing political, emotional, and cultural fragmentation, what keeps you going, not just as an artist, but as a person? What message would you like to leave with your audience?

XY: I honestly don’t see myself as particularly inspirational. I just do what I do, and if people feel connected to it, I’m grateful. But yes, it’s been hard. During COVID, I was deeply affected—not only by the isolation from my family, but also by the way Asian people were treated in public spaces. Nearly all of my Asian friends experienced verbal abuse. For a while, I felt I needed to hide.

But then I asked myself: Why should I disappear? Why should I erase myself just because others are uncomfortable with who I am? That’s when I began painting my own face. It wasn’t just self-representation—it was a refusal. A way of saying: I’m here. I have every right to be here.

I think the work resonates because it comes from that place, not of defiance, but of honesty. I’ve realised over time that painting doesn’t have to be fast or loud. Patience is a form of belief. Rest is part of the process.

The work, ultimately, is about love and resilience. It’s not about me. It’s about making other people feel a connection, making them resonate with something in their own lives, perhaps triggering a new thought or feeling about themselves.

So my message is simple: stay honest. Believe in what you’re doing, even when the world feels like it’s collapsing. Whether your faith is in art, in nature, in family—it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is that sustains you, hold onto it. We don’t all have to change the world alone. But if each of us supports what’s right, even in small ways, I believe it will get better.

What makes her work feel urgent is its sincerity. In an era when many artists feel they must choose between being political or personal, Yang offers an alternative approach. She paints her own face not as a performance, but as a presence. She honours both Marie Antoinette's rebellious portrait and her mother's patient encouragement. Her art suggests that the most radical thing we can do is expand our definition of what deserves to be remembered, celebrated, and preserved.

Xu Yang's exhibition "Forget Me Not" was on view at Château de Lantheuil in Normandy, France, from June 12 to July 10, 2025. She was recently included in the 2025 Herbert Smith Freehills Kramer Portrait Award, with her work to be presented at the National Portrait Gallery from July 10 to October 2025.