The Cook and the Artist

Shen Lieyi

I’m a sculptor, and today I’d like to talk about two professions that seem unrelated — the cook and the artist.

A cook’s daily work is to produce food — products that satisfy our taste buds and provide the nutrients and energy we need every day.

An artist also produces products, and part of these serve to beautify life.

The clothes you wear, the buildings you’re in — they’re beautiful because artists designed them.

That kind of work makes our daily life more pleasing to the eye.

But aside from that, artists also produce something else — things that pass through your eyes, perhaps enter your mind, and sometimes even reach your heart.

I’ve always thought that being a good cook is something to be proud of.

A cook’s work gives an immediate sense of accomplishment, and its standard is simple:

when a dish is served, you taste it — it’s either delicious or it isn’t.

But art doesn’t have such a clear standard.

Some even say “there is no good or bad in art.”

I don’t agree.

If art had no standards, then all the art prizes — the Golden Lion, the Golden Horse, the Mao Dun Literature Award — wouldn’t need to exist, because what would they be judging?

So what is the standard for art?

I think, first, it depends on who you’re asking and from what standpoint.

From an investor’s or gallerist’s point of view, profitable art is “good” art.

From an art historian’s or critic’s point of view, art that advances art history or exemplifies a style is “good.”

From an art academy’s grading committee, art that fits the curriculum is “good.”

But if we strip away all these roles, and return to the most basic, honest human state —

then there’s only one standard:

art that moves you is good art.

Art that moves people has levels.

The first level moves your eyes — visual pleasure.

And that alone isn’t easy.

It’s like walking down the street, seeing a beautiful woman — you fall for her just because she’s pretty, marry her, live together,

and after a year or two, you don’t even see her beauty anymore.

Of course, if she were ugly, you wouldn’t see her ugliness anymore either.

Then you wouldn’t need a “seven-year itch” — one or two years would be enough to itch plenty.

It’s like the beautiful clothes we wear or the decorative paintings on our walls —

good-looking things catch you right away, but they rarely withstand time.

Deeper art, however, passes beyond your eyes and connects with your inner emotions.

Like Stephen Chow’s film The God of Cookery:

at the end, the protagonist makes a bowl of “Sorrowful Rice,”

and when the judges eat it, they’re moved to tears.

That means the taste went beyond the tongue — it spoke to the heart.

That’s a higher realm.

And all art that reaches that level has one common quality: truth.

You can call it realness or sincerity, but to me, it’s the truthfulness of the creator’s state.

This painting here is by my daughter, six years old.

You might not recognize it — it’s a frog eating a white mouse.

She has a heavy taste.

Another one she painted shows herself at home —

and then here, these are prehistoric cave paintings by early humans.

If you asked those ancient painters, “Is this art?”

They wouldn’t even understand the question.

And if you said “It’s not art,” they wouldn’t care —

they were simply happy creating.

Their state was pure instinct.

I think that instinctive state is something we professional artists — who live by art — ought to learn from.

Of course, I tell my daughter not to get cocky either.

The gap between her and a master is huge — in technique, in method —

but more importantly, in her understanding of the world and of her own inner life.

That’s the real distance.

So after “truth,” the second standard I think of is one’s experience of the world.

Let me use my own work as an example.

This sculpture was made around 2000, when I was about thirty.

It’s called Looking at the Sun.

The figure is a clown gazing upward at the sun.

It reminds me of Gu Cheng’s poem:

“The night gave me black eyes,

But I use them to seek the light.”

Humans all search for a perfect, ideal world.

But can we really face it?

The relationship between man and perfection, I think,

is like that clown staring at the sun.

Gu Cheng was brave — he pursued his ideal to the end, and his end was tragic —

just like the clown, gazing into blinding light.

(Looking at the Sun)

These next ones are from that same period — The Super Ball Queen and The Last Beast Tamer.

From my twenties to my thirties, I kept working with the clown theme.

Clowns make a living by making others laugh.

Some are naturally cheerful — they love bringing joy, which is wonderful.

But if you depend on it to survive, there’s a sadness behind the smile.

That theme reflected who I was then —

my relationship with the world, with others.

Rock music, rebellion, violent emotions —

all part of that age.

Those works wore their feelings on the surface — like waves crashing in a stormy sea.

Power easy to see, all outside.

After 2008, in my late thirties, something changed.

The saying “At forty, one is no longer confused” makes sense.

With more ability comes more control — over yourself, over your surroundings.

You start to accept what you can’t change.

The work shifts, too —

like sinking from the roaring surface into the quiet depths.

Underwater, everything is silent —

but beneath the calm, powerful currents still move.

This sculpture, Crossing at Night, from 2008 —

a man and a horse wading through deep, heavy, silent water.

Nighttime, crossing the river together.

(Crossing at Night)

This one’s called Carrying Clouds, Carrying Snow.

And this one, Watching the Water.

I graduated from the China Academy of Art in Hangzhou.

One year, I went back and sat alone by West Lake.

The weather was perfect — wind, sunlight — and I watched the water for a long time.

Suddenly, I felt a connection —

everything around me shifted,

and there was only me and the water.

I wanted to capture that — that pure relationship.

(Carrying Clouds, Carrying Snow)

This one, Night Walker.

A man walking alone at midnight, followed by a wolf —

always at a steady distance.

The recent works are calm, yet full of hidden energy.

Even when I make something strong,

the strength is contained, not adolescent — not whiny or fragile anymore.

(Night Walker)

This one, Catching the Crane —

two muscular figures, like Roman heroes, wrestling a crane.

(Catching the Crane)

Then The Lost Deer —

the deer, a spiritual creature of nature,

but I placed it on a human sofa — comfortable, but wrong.

For the deer, perhaps a tragedy.

(The Lost Deer)

This one’s Our Sea.

I made it after scrolling through WeChat Moments.

Every friend posts their little world — meals, trips, routines.

Each lives inside their own circle.

Like the two little sailors here, staring into their bathtub, thinking it’s the sea.

But the world is so much bigger.

(Our Sea)

And this one, Genesis.

Inspired by Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel —

God stretching his arm to create Adam.

But here, I cut the arm off at the root — flesh and bone exposed.

A tragic metaphor, I think.

(Genesis)

For me, art is a form of human cultivation.

The growth of your work follows your own growth.

Of course, that doesn’t mean age automatically brings better art —

there’s no such guarantee.

But in a given stage of life, in a given environment,

if you can perceive your inner world and the outer world sensitively, deeply,

and express it sharply and truthfully —

then that work will be good work.

That’s what I call good art.

Every artist hopes their work can connect deeply with the audience —

touch something inside them.

How to do that?

The key is to put yourself into the work.

When I live superficially, my work becomes superficial —

and naturally, shallow audiences will like it.

When I live deeply, my work becomes deep —

and deep audiences will respond.

Both are fine — healthy even.

But one thing you can’t do is fake it.

The moment you fake, it becomes false — and bad art.

I’ve talked so much about the artist’s truth,

but audiences also need truth when they experience art.

Many non-art friends tell me,

“I go to a contemporary art museum and can’t understand anything.”

Of course — sometimes the problem lies with the work,

sometimes with the viewer,

sometimes it’s just a world you’re not meant to “understand.”

If you did understand it too easily, it might not be art at all.

But suppose we take the usual explanation:

“If you don’t understand the work, you should study art history,

learn the context, the artist’s background — then you’ll get it.”

That makes some sense, but it’s too simple.

It’s like going to a restaurant, eating something terrible,

and the chef comes out saying,

“You just don’t understand culinary history.

If you studied my background, you’d know how great this dish is.”

That can’t be right.

I’d explain it differently.

I love cheese — especially blue cheese, which ferments with green mold,

a strong taste, like China’s stinky tofu.

The first time I ate it, I almost gagged.

I threw it away.

Then I spent a year eating milder cheeses.

When I tried blue cheese again, it wasn’t so bad —

and later, I loved it.

Art is like that — a gradual cultivation of taste.

Art history is vast, far richer and more complex than cheese.

When I graduated from college, I was young and arrogant.

Professors had praised me — said I was talented — and I believed them.

So I thought: I must make a work that enters art history,

that surpasses everyone,

that contains everything I’ve got.

I asked myself: throughout human history,

what’s the greatest spatial art ever made?

After thinking long and hard, I decided — the Egyptian pyramids.

In an endless desert,

a man-made form — simple, geometric, colossal.

A human stands before it and instinctively kneels.

That’s power. I loved that feeling.

(The Pyramid)

Of course, there are many kinds of works that make you kneel —

but I no longer dream of making “the one that surpasses all.”

That’s unrealistic.

Now, I just hope to express myself honestly — that’s enough.

(Greek Sea God)

(Venus)

In art history, Greek sculpture was once described as

“noble simplicity and quiet grandeur.”

They depicted gods.

From ancient Greece to Rome, to Michelangelo and Baroque, then Rodin —

I see a movement from gods to men.

In a way, it’s the West’s decline —

from the divine to the human.

And humans, frankly, are less than gods.

In China, look at the Qingzhou statues from the Northern and Southern Dynasties —

slim, elegant, refined.

But as you move forward through Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, Qing,

to today’s temple Buddhas,

you can see the East’s decline, too.

(Qingzhou Buddha)

This is Woman with a Snake by Zhai Qingxi, a professor at the China Academy of Art.

Our sculpture education came from the West —

from Greece to Rome, to Michelangelo, to Rodin, to post–World War II Europe —

then brought back to China.

We’ve learned that system well.

But the West no longer makes sculpture that way.

(Woman with a Snake)

Here’s Court Ladies Adorning Their Hair with Flowers by Tang dynasty painter Zhou Fang —

the classic “plump beauty,”

a very different ideal from today.

(Court Ladies Adorning Their Hair with Flowers)

Then Tang Bohu’s Four Beauties.

His figures — big heads, tiny hands — distorted, but intentionally.

That’s not a mistake — that’s taste.

A cultivated kind of exaggeration.

(Four Beauties)

Then a Yangliuqing New Year print from Tianjin —

folk art, lively and popular.

Compare it with Tang Bohu’s — one is literati refinement, one is folk charm.

Both good, but distinct.

(Yangliuqing New Year Print)

And this, a modern gongbi painter, Zhang Jian —

I don’t know him personally, but I like his work.

His compositions use Western perspective —

a woman in front, landscape behind,

with the kind of realism you’d see in Mona Lisa.

It’s very Western in structure and modeling.

(Zhang Jian’s Work)

Then a Republic-era calendar girl —

commercial, glamorous, close to real people.

(Calendar Girl Poster)

If we go back to our theme, “the cook and the artist,”

we might say:

Tang Bohu is like aged Shaoxing wine,

Yangliuqing prints like homemade grain liquor,

Zhang Jian’s works like imported spirits,

Calendar girls like herbal tea in a can — mass-produced,

and online popular pictures, maybe just sugar water.

Taste evolves.

At first, an untrained eye — maybe an old lady from the market —

likes sugar water.

But with exposure, your eye changes.

Eventually, you find beauty even in distortions —

a big head, a small hand — that becomes a refined taste.

This next work — many people might dislike it, but I love it.

It’s by the contemporary painter Li Jin, much older than me.

He’s like blue cheese —

smelly at first, but deeply flavorful once you learn to taste.

(Li Jin’s Work)

This one is extremely expensive —

by Damien Hirst, whose market success is immense.

You might know his diamond skull — sold for fifty million pounds.

Here, he used butterfly wings to compose a piece;

in another, he skinned a white horse and painted it into a zebra.

His works are heavy-tasting —

he sees himself almost as God, creating life and worlds.

(Damien Hirst’s Works)

And Jeff Koons — another hugely successful contemporary artist.

His famous Balloon Dog —

compared to Hirst, Koons is like Coca-Cola: sweet, mass-market, perfectly packaged.

Hirst is strong liquor; Koons is soda.

(Jeff Koons’ Work)

This one, by German artist Anselm Kiefer —

post–World War II generation.

His barren landscapes are full of religion, desolation, suffering —

a heavy taste, but sincere.

(Anselm Kiefer’s Work)

All these are what I’d call “chef-type artists.”

Recently, someone asked me,

“In an imperfect world, should art always be critical — is that its highest function?”

I think art’s range is vast.

In relation to our world,

art can be food — daily nourishment —

or medicine — for healing.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

Art is just a tool.

There are many “spiritual chefs”:

Chopin in music, Tagore in poetry, Gu Cheng in modern Chinese verse,

even a paper-cutting grandmother in a Shaanxi cave.

They all feed our spiritual hunger.

And then there are the doctors and dissectors —

Lu Xun, Jia Zhangke —

artists whose work has medicinal power, showing the disease of society.

I love this photograph series The Wheat Harvesters by Hou Dengke.

He photographed the migrant workers who follow harvests around the country —

poor, exhausted laborers.

He saw them with level eyes — no pity, no elevation.

That’s great art.

(The Wheat Harvesters)

And this — a documentary photo from a psychiatric hospital in Indonesia.

I don’t know the photographer, but it shows the dark side of life —

weak, broken humanity — painfully real.

(Indonesian Psychiatric Hospital Photo)

If the art world were a canteen,

then artists would be its cooks.

For different reasons, they make dishes of all flavors.

Today’s world moves fast;

people rush; restaurants abound; taste buds go numb.

To grab attention, chefs add spice.

That’s why Sichuan and Hunan restaurants are the most common.

Artists do the same.

Of course, some “heavy flavors” — like that Indonesian photo — are genuine.

But many works today are all spice, no substance.

Personally, I prefer Hou Dengke’s quiet approach —

showing suffering plainly, calmly, truthfully.

Like my own taste — I don’t like overly spiced food.

I prefer Western cuisine — less cooked, more of the original flavor.

So, after all this, we come back to two questions:

how we create, and how we appreciate.

Each of us wears many identities.

In the studio, I’m an artist.

In a gallery, I’m an audience.

You, sitting here, are listeners —

but when you pick up a brush to doodle, you too become artists.

What do we all face in common?

Our spirit — our need for inner nourishment.

If you’re serious about your own life,then you must face that.

Art’s value, to me, is like that of a tool.

It helps us confront our inner world;

it nourishes our spiritual life.

So when we engage with art—whether creating or appreciating it—

we must be both serious and honest.

Because honesty is what keeps art alive.

Without it, both the cook and the artist would only be feeding others illusions.

Thank you.