Yiqi Zhao is a visual artist and illustrator whose works reside in a powerful space between personal mythology and social critique. Navigating themes of gender, migration and cultural identity, Zhao employs a distinct ink-based visual language that brings out a great extent of surrealism and iconic subversion. Her meticulous yet emotionally raw composition interrogates how the body, particularly the shape of the woman, is shaped by external forces and expectations. From intimate watercolors to densely packed ballpoint pen illustrations, Zhao’s art captures the meaning of endurance, adaptation and reclaiming.
This is the most vivid thing to see in her Limited strength A collection of works that turn traditional Chinese symbols such as series, cranes, mirrors, and flowing hair into complex metaphors of restraint and resilience. in run awayviewers encounter an impressive visual vortex of a figure submerged in ink dark water, with long hair entangled and locked in. One woman rises rebelliously over chaos, pulling herself up with her own hair. Other works in the series such as A safe home or prison? and shut up It reinforces this tension and depicts a crouched, faceless body derived from a decorative yet oppressive motif. The technical accuracy of her lines contrasts with the raw urgency of her theme, creating a sense of internal rupture contained in meticulously drawn forms.
In this interview, we explore how Zhao will regain human form as a place of both struggle and resistance. Her iconic vocabulary, why hair is repeated again as both shackle and strength, how concealment acts become an act of commentary, and her cross-border journey from China to the US, and now the UK discusses how to inform her layered, often-unforgettable stories. What emerges is not just artists who document emotional states, but also shaped visual culture through personal and politically charged storytelling.
With limited strength, we regain the shape of a naked woman through ink and surrealists. How do you balance the balance between vulnerability and rebellion in these depictions? Also, what makes your body such a powerful site for resistance to your work?
For me, nude bodies are a battlefield where vulnerability and rebellion clash. At limited strength, I use ballpoint ink (a medium as uneven as social scrutiny) to etch the appearance of the posture vibrating between collapse and rebellion. In silence, the woman’s hair transforms into barbed wire and sucks in the skeletal crane (a traditional symbol of wisdom twisted by the oppressor). The power of the body lies in beings that do not have this attitude. The naked body removes the armor and forces the viewer to stand up to life humanity. Rebellion is not seen in epic gestures, but not in the quiet act of occupying a quiet space.
Traditional Chinese symbols like cranes and hair appear as both the lifeline and restraint of your work. How do you deliberately overturn these motifs to criticize cultural and patriarchal narratives?
The cultural symbol is the Palimpussest. We carry on not only their beauty, but their burden. A symbol of longevity and nobility in Chinese tradition, the crane becomes silent and enforcer of silence, grabs a woman’s throat. Hair, traditionally a marker of femininity, transforms into chains and weapons. By distorting these motifs, it reflects how the patriarchal system weaponizes tradition. Subversion here is a way to reclaim a story buried under centuries of anticipation.
VagaBondage captures the emotional cost of travelling through a single sparkling umbrella. What does this vulnerable object reveal about your experience of displacement? And how do you translate it into visual language?
The yellow umbrella from VagaBondage is my paradox. The shelter is easily broken and threatens to flip into the cage. Its glow is a desperate plea for visibility. Look at me. But don’t define me. I drew an umbrella hanging in the calm rain. It shook the inside, scattered with sparse, starlight-like droplets. Floating in the grey-tone drizzle, the umbrella is both cradle and quarantined. Displacement is not physical, but a state of mental halt, longing for recognition, but eager to resist classification. Umbrellas are not shelters. It is the semi-transparent boundary between the self and the other.
The media does not seem to separate from the messages of practice, such as ballpoint ink, watercolors, and oils. How do these materials shape the emotional tension in your work and what attracts you to them over digital or more traditional techniques?
The permanence of ballpoint pen ink reflects social judgment. At limited strength, that rigid line reflects the flexibility of gender expectations. Watercolors predictably bleed (like anchor capillaries) and reflect the body’s fragile resilience. The tactile layer of oil (Vagabondage) carries the weight of memory. Digital tools don’t have this richness. Traditional mediums breathe, stain and resist. They are not just instruments, they are collaborators.
The anchor enlarges the ankle and converts it to a ratio phor for endurance. Why does it reveal about that part of the body, and the quiet and often overlooked strength you explore throughout your practice?
The ankles are not heavy heroes, but are rarely celebrated. At the anchor, I enlarged my ankles to map the terrain. It is a tendon network like the blue, root system of hematomas. This microcolumn reflects macroresilience. We stick to the grand display of strength, but survival depends on the quiet persistence of a person that is often overlooked. The ankles require constant readjustment, like moving. Balance is not static, but adaptive muscle memory.
Your visual language sits at the intersection of surrealism and personal myth-making. How will this dream-like approach help us to confront the psychological aftermath of cultural dislocation and identity fragmentation?
Surrealist gives permission to destroy logic. When I draw hair as both Jos and Lifeline (escape), or when the WWII radio operator draws in the AI-dominated landscape (lost and discovered), I am not escaping reality. It distills that absurdity. Dislocations crush identity. Surreal reassembly is a coping mechanism. These dream scenery are not fantasy, not emotional x-rays. They reveal the bones under the skin of “normality.”
As an artist shaped by China, the US and now the UK, how did your evolving sense of “home” affect your creative voice? And how do you see practices that contribute to conversations about transition, memory and resilience in a global context?
For me, “house” is a verb. It is the act of sewing roots from a temporary moment. My job (lost, discovered, wandering abondage) rejects the myth of seamless belonging. Layering materials reconstructs the patchwork identity of immigrants – dyed paper, WWII photographs, and fade textures of honeycomb grids on foam boards. Globally, transitions are often reduced to trauma porn or statistics. My practice argues for its complexity. It’s a loss, but it’s also an invention. Not only is it ruptured, but it also regenerates.
Source: Our Culture – ourculturemag.com
