Silent Rebels

Duo show
Zou Shunqing & Wang Hua
Tabula Rasa Gallery | London
4 Oct – 14 November 2024

The exhibition brings together two self-taught artists from China, Zou Shunqing and Wang Hua, whose deeply personal works reflect their resilience and creative independence. Both artists transform their life experiences into visual narratives, offering unique perspectives on rural life, family, and the struggle for self-expression.

Zou Shunqing’s large-scale works reflect her determination to be seen, with stylised human figures and vibrant depictions of animals and plants. Her work is rooted in her village life, exploring themes of defiance, family conflict, and survival through vivid, dynamic forms. Wang Hua’s art, created in the confines of a basement, is marked by her obsession with lines. Her 300-metre scroll series, Ten Gates, reflects the emotional currents of her life, with fluid, uninterrupted lines that mirror both chaos and tranquillity. Despite instability, her commitment to her art remains unwavering.

Together, their works challenge the boundaries of outsider art, offering a raw and powerful reflection of their lives and environments.





On ZOU Shunqing
Huang Jingyuan
artist, initiator of ‘Writing Mother’ and ‘Sweat! Stop! Rewrite!’

*Zou Shunqing was a participant of ‘Sweat! Stop! Rewrite!’ project


My first encounter with Zou Shunqing (Qing) was at my painting class for children in the countryside. She was the only adult in the class, unlike other adults who would often be bashful and reluctant when invited to paint. Her extroverted and curious nature quickly set her apart in the eyes of outsiders. It wasn’t until later that I learned she also stood out to the local social worker, someone deeply embedded in the village’s social fabric. He shared with me how Qing had always made a strong impression on scholars and volunteers during their visits over the years. Two notable things about her was specifically mentioned—she loved to tell her own stories, and she was very aware of securing personal space within her family. The first point was soon embodied in her actions—besides speaking about her life, she eagerly showed us the memoirs she had been writing. The sheer volume of notebooks filled with cramped characters spoke to her desire to express herself, in spite of her writing, since she dropped out of school in the fourth grade, often left much to be interpreted. The second point became apparent when I visited her house and saw that she had spared herself a private room in the attic.

It became clear why the social worker, upon seeing her sit down and paint among the babbling children, immediately encouraged me to lead her towards broader forms of expression—particularly visual art. I was happy to take on this task, as I was also fascinated by her vigour and candours. I quickly gave her ample feedback during and outside of class, offering suggestions on using lines to depict objects and discussing whether it was necessary to use realistic representations.

After her first session, Qing returned home and brought back her only family photo, which she began to paint from. At the time, I had given each family in the class a stretched canvas, and she immediately began working on this large surface, undaunted by its size. Figures in her painting were in a doodle-like style, which somehow reminded me of stick figures. She struggled to portray any of the complex features—male or female, young or old, nor their expressions, but I could sense that she was depicting a family in her own style. Starting with subjects she was interested in, she quickly moved from pencil and pastels to liquid paint and brushes, and from black-and-white to colour.

Her primary interest seemed to be in human figures, but animals and plants soon began to appear in her work, as with many rural female artists. From the stories she told me, I gathered that she had a deep connection with various crops and animals, and a wide variety of fond memories tied to them. It was interesting to see that she often portrayed plants and animals in a very concrete way, while her depictions of people tended to be more stylised and symbolic. In her early works, the relationship between the figures and the background (usually animals and plants) was always intriguing, and her use of colour was bold. Sometimes she would try to capture everything she saw, cramming her daily experiences onto canvas so that every element received equal attention. Other times, she would highlight figures in specific scenes, foregrounding the theme in a much more straightforward way.

Another striking characteristic of Qing is how quickly she embraced large-scale works. Within less than a week after she picked up painting, she started to paint on unused quilts at home for large-scale works. Recently, upon returning to the village, she even began painting murals on the walls of her mud-brick house. Her move towards large-scale work was influenced by several factors. First, it was a result of her physical strength and personality—she is a go-big-or-go-home type of person. Second, she has met plenty of people, including those who have gifted her art supplies. Many artists, including myself, encouraged her to experiment with different mediums. And lastly, I believe it reflects her determination of a sort. When she began painting on discarded at home, it was, to some extent, an act of defiance against her husband. She wanted to be seen, and painting on a large scale was an effective strategy for that.

In terms of being seen, her painting practice was never just about making art, but often represented broader family dynamics. Qing’s current husband is her second, and they have long been trapped in a cycle of mutual resentment and contempt. For years, her efforts have been met with his ridicule and rejection. Of course, Qing was never just a passive victim—she would often fight back and exact revenge on him in her own ways. Their fights soon centred on her painting: besides forbidding her from painting at certain parts of the house and secretly disposing of her works, her husband would belittle her paintings, referring to them as ‘ghostly talisman’ (guǐ huà fú). While this was meant as an insult with connotations of infelicity, the reference to ghosts ironically touched upon a unique quality of Qing’s work.

So, what is this quality? In my words, I would describe it as ‘the walking dead’ —figures that are lifeless and soulless, yet fiercely alive. The more I learned about her life, the more I realised how consistent it was with her personal experiences. Whether working in the fields or running a small business in the city, she has always taken on the hardest, most laborious tasks. This quality became even more apparent when we collaborated on a series of paintings and writings about her own life. Many of her stories revolved around untimely deaths and frequent illnesses—from witnessing relatives die during the Cultural Revolution and floods, to seeing the disposable lives of migrant workers in the city. When speaking of the tragedies of people dying for lack of money or treatment, she was full of rage and sorrow, but also moved on quickly. This unique tension between anger and numbness, which could be seen in the interpretation of lived experience by many self-taught amateur artists, continually fascinates me to reflect on constantly. On one hand, I deeply respect and have made conscious efforts to preserve the primitivity that matches her identity, as it is precisely this lack of overthinking that helped her stay motivated and optimistic in a world of living dead. I cannot imagine how she would have survived multiple brushes with death without her carefree spirit and dynamism. But on the other hand, when I see her struggling to capture concrete emotions and situations, I start to wonder: Should I teach her more about realistic ways of expression? Should I encourage her to delve deeper into the pain she might otherwise skim over? I am constantly wondering where this trait would ultimately lead her. I don’t know how she will navigate this tug-of-war between numbness and fierceness, both in her life and in her work.

There is another dimension in Qing’s works that I have come to realise over time. While many aspects of her work bear the hallmarks of rural folk art—such as the absence of horizons or perspective and her preference for bright, high-contrast colours—her outlook is somewhat broader. First, she has been exposed to a wide range of people due to the long-term presence of the public welfare campaign in her village. She occasionally hosts university students, professors, anthropologists and rural travellers in her home. Second, by actively promoting her artworks on social media, she has built her own social network. These outward connections have exposed her to an extensive variety of resources (including myself), and among all that she has accessed, it seems that images of Dunhuang murals have had a direct impact on her. (I’m not referring to the Dunhuang culture itself, but rather a stereotypical version of its mythology.) In her later works, she increasingly portrays figures in an ancient or myI have no idea why and how she gravitated towards this Dunhuang-ish or archaic aesthetic among all others, nor can I trace the whole process. But the shift from magical realism to a fixed decorative ancient style adds another layer of complexity to the tension I mentioned earlier.

It has now been four years since Qing picked up painting. In a rough sense, she has evolved from a ‘ghost’ to a ‘fairy’; her life has also shifted, from a drifter and beneficiary in charity campaigns, to now an almost-famous artist with a foot in the charity world. Although I was her first art teacher, my practice no longer holds a significant visual influence on her. My own perspective inevitably comes to play as I reflect on the various phases of her exploration of ways of expression. In my own view, her autobiographical works are the most compelling as they are grounded in her lived reality, behind which lies the cost of China’s brutal urban-rural development. I also have a nagging sense that if I don’t consciously put my views as an intellectual into this, the aesthetics she eventually adopts might end up converging with the picks of TikTok algorithms. But my influence over her life is pale in comparison with the chaos in her own life. Whenever I ask her about her life over WeChat, the responses always comes with a whirlwind of unexpected incidents: sometimes about saving a homeless man, sometimes about narrowly surviving a car accident, sometimes about being promised to have an exhibition in New York; sometimes about giving a lecture at a university; or about being a figurehead on stage for a charity event. But more often than not, the news is about a sick relative needing a large sum of money. When I recently asked her if she had expanded her art practice, her response seemed more mature. She realised that the ups and downs brought by painting were fleeting, and that loads of professional artists were still struggling, let alone someone like her. Nevertheless, painting had somewhat calmed her restless heart, and connected her with a diverse range of people, for which she is very grateful. When I combine these waves of emotion with the limitations she spoke of, I feel like I’m beginning to catch a glimpse of the world behind her ghosts and fairies.

There is much debate about whether the marginalised can truly have a voice. Judgement from an artistic point of view seems always more complex than a commercial or charitable one. I knew she had a voice from the very beginning, and my concern has always been whether she is making informed choices and is aware of those choices. But does it really make a difference even if she is? What I do believe, perhaps naively, is that if painting and its visibility can bring more equality—whether in terms of aesthetic opportunities, income, or social status—it is a belief worth holding onto, and thus, a journey worth celebrating for her. As for what will happen next, and whether we can escape the fate of the ‘walking dead’, I don’t have an answer.





 
On WANG Hua

Sammi Liu
gallerist, founder of the first outsider art festival ‘Almost Art’ in China


The first self-taught artist I met was Wang Hua, who at that time was still working as a cafeteria attendant at the Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA). Back then, she lived in a small, damp, and dimly lit basement, which was less than ten square metres. There was no space for a chair, so she would sit on her bed, using a small table to paint. She bought a 30-metre-long roll of drawing paper for children from IKEA for 39 Chinese yuan, and her dream was to complete ten rolls of scrolls, making a total of 300 metres, and eventually hold a large exhibition. She had even named this series from the start, calling it Ten Gates—the gates leading to art.

Wang Hua was fascinated by lines, or rather, obsessed with them—the way they changed on the canvas. These changes in the lines would reflect her state of mind as she painted, sometimes soft and flowing, other times chaotic and disordered. When she worked, the construction and direction of the lines seemed to come to her without thought, as if the moment her brush touched the paper, they would begin writing on their own.

This girl, who left her hometown in Fujian at the age of 16 to head north for work, travelled all the way to Shanghai and tried many jobs. She had always loved art, though she didn’t understand it, but whenever she had the chance, she would visit various art galleries. At one point, she worked as a receptionist at a sculpture studio in Shanghai, and it was during that time she heard about the vibrant art scene in Beijing and CAFA, China’s best art school. She decided to visit Beijing. After wandering around CAFA’s campus, she instantly fell in love and decided to stay. Eventually, she found a job in the academy’s cafeteria. It suited her well, as she only had to work three hours each day at lunchtime, leaving her plenty of time to paint. Despite the meagre pay, she had ample free time to practice art or to attend free lectures and performances on and around campus.

When I met her, she was about to complete her fifth scroll. Slowly, she unrolled it on the small table in her basement, which was less than 50 centimetres wide. The lines seemed to surge on the paper, as though they had been imbued with life. What amazed me even more was that, due to the limited space, she could only unroll a small portion of the scroll at a time to paint. She would fill one section, roll it up, and then unroll the next to continue, yet when she unrolled the entire scroll, there were no visible breaks or starting points—the lines flowed naturally and seamlessly together. At that time, Wang Hua complained about the dampness and dim lighting in the basement, which had caused her several health problems. I thought of a friend who owned a bookshop nearby, so I took her there for a visit. That was how I introduced her to OWSpace. The bookshop owners were so impressed by her work that they immediately decided to offer her a job there, allowing her to become their ‘artist-in-residence’. Wang Hua then became a bookshop artist, working from nine to five in the café while painting, and within three years, she completed the remaining five scrolls.

In 2018, I decided to help her realise her seven-year-old dream by exhibiting all ten of her scrolls in one go, bringing her 300-metre scroll project to a close. Afterwards, the scrolls spread across various museums and art mentors. Up till 2024, Wang Hua has still been searching for a job that allows her both financial stability and plenty of time to create. Her life remains turbulent, yet she still refuses to live by social conventions, continuing to find strength through her art.