The Second Chapter : Interview with Kavieng Cheng (English ver.)

The eighth conversation in our series, The Artist’s Muse, introduces Kavieng Cheng, an artist for whom art is not merely a vocation, but a phenomenological mode of existence. Born in Hong Kong and refined through her time at Central Saint Martins, Kavieng navigates the roles of artist, art director, and photographer as a fluidity of gazes. To her, these are not separate professions, but shifting lenses used to interrogate the unspoken textures of human life.

Kavieng’s practice is a rigorous archaeology of the micro-psychological. She is possessed by the pre-linguistic realm—the gestures that occur before words form and the tension held in the body. She seeks out the fissures in social performance: a one-second hesitation or a tremor in a gaze. These fragments, which she envisions as reflexive surfaces, serve as gentle mirrors that dissolve the boundary between the observer and the observed, inviting us to encounter our own submerged truths.

In this dialogue, Kavieng reflects on her transition from constructing to excavating, a shift sparked by the realization that depth requires radical honesty. This is powerfully embodied in her work Egg-pilogue, a meditation on the sacrificial transformation of our containers. Through the organic memory of wood and the violent precision of laser-cut forms, she explores the paradox of the human psyche—structured yet chaotic, resilient yet profoundly fragile.

Whether embroidering with human hair to explore the anxiety of separation or molding ceramic cigarette butts to visualize unburnable memories, Kavieng maintains a sensory porosity to the world. This conversation reveals the world of an artist who stands in the quiet depth of the unassuming, proving that the greatest truths are often found in the minute actions we so often ignore.

We now invite you to step into the silent, yet profound depths of Kavieng Cheng’s world—a place where objects hold our most honest stories of how we love, how we hurt, and how we finally say goodbye.

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Q. Thank you for joining us today—it's wonderful to meet you. I'd love to begin by hearing about you and your practice. How would you introduce yourself as an artist, and what work are you currently engaged with?

A. Hello! I’m Kavieng Cheng from Hong Kong. It is a pleasure to engage in this dialogue.

Rather than defining myself through a single profession, I see my practice as a fluidity of gazes. Navigating between the roles of artist, art director, curator, and fashion photographer, I do not see these as separate jobs, but as shifting lenses through which I interrogate reality. For me, art is not merely a vocation; it is a phenomenological mode of existence—a continuous, rigorous practice of sensing the world, questioning the "given," and interpreting the unspoken textures of human life.

My work is more like an archaeology of the micro-psychological. I am obsessed with the pre-linguistic realm—the gestures that occur before words form, the tension held in the body, and the fragmented moments that often escape the conscious filter. These overlooked fragments possess a raw truth-valuethat language often obscures. I envision my works as reflexive surfaces—gentle mirrors where the boundary between the observer and the observed dissolves, allowing the viewer to encounter a submerged part of themselves.

On Materiality, I engage in a dialogue with materials—print, paper, wood sculpture, and laser-cut forms. I am drawn to the temporal weight they carry. There is a paradox I explore: the tension between the organic warmth of wood and the violent precision of a laser cut. This duality reflects the complexity of the human psyche: structured yet chaotic, resilient yet profoundly fragile.

Currently, I am deepening this inquiry through installation works and a research project on traditional Chinese hair embroidery. Hair is a profound material—it is both of the body and separate from it, a remnant of time and biological memory. By using hair to embroider, I am exploring themes of corporeal attachment and the anxiety of separation. It is an investigation into how we bind ourselves to others and to the past. These works, which attempt to weave together the visceral and the emotional, will be exhibited in Hong Kong this coming February.

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

Q. What is the main source of inspiration for your current work? When did this particular muse first become meaningful to you, and can you describe that initial encounter?

A. My practice is anchored in a form of existential attunement—a heightened state of listening to the frequency where emotion, embodiment, and consciousness intersect. I am possessed by the pre-linguistic realm: the micro-behaviors that spill out before language can organize them into a coherent sentence.

I look for the "fissures" in social performance: the one-second hesitation before an action, the tremor in a shifting gaze, or the almost imperceptible somatic adjustments one makes to align with the "Norm." To me, these are not trivial details; they are somatic echoes of deep psychological mechanisms. They reveal the hidden architecture of the Self—how we are conditioned by culture, and how we negotiate our own authenticity.

This gaze permeates my specific projects:

Eg. The Cigarette Book is not about smoking, but about the ontology of habit. Is repetition a ritual of self-stabilization, or a surrender to dependency? It questions the agency of the hand that lights the fire.

No Politics expands this micro-observation into the Foucaultian disciplinary space, exploring how individuals recalibrate their bodies under the weight of power and ethics.

Egg-pilogue treats the eggshell as a dialectical metaphor: protection and confinement, nurturing and rupture. It mirrors the paradox of the human psyche—fragile yet resilient, a closed system that must break to become.

Q. When you first discovered this source of inspiration, what emotions did you experience? How did it change your artistic direction or working methods afterward?

A. I’ve always been slow to understand my own artistic direction. The turning point was not a thunderous event, but a quiet intervention by a teacher at Central Saint Martins. He pointed out my specific sensitivity to human behavioral subtleties—a remark that acted as a mirror, allowing me to see my own intuition as a valid methodology.What I felt was a curious blend of emotions: surprise, the rare comfort of being understood, and a quiet, unexpected affirmation.

I remember asking myself: Can something so unassuming—a simple question, a mundane gesture—truly bear the weight of art?

Time provided the answer: Yes. I realized that depth does not require complexity; it requires radical honesty.

This realization shifted my practice from "constructing" to “excavating." From the External to the Internal: I stopped chasing grand, external narratives. Instead, I allowed the micro-politics of emotion to take center stage.

That moment of gentle "reminding" taught me that the strength of a work lies not in its ornamentation, but in the intensity of its attention. It gave me the courage to let the smallest observations speak the loudest truths; Inquiry as Form: My process became recursive. I began to ask fundamental, almost naive questions: Why does the body remember what the mind forgets? What is the texture of silence?

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

Q. How does your muse typically appear to you—as visual images, sounds, spatial feelings, or particular emotions? Could you describe its specific characteristics or qualities in detail?

A. My muse does not arrive as a distinct image or a hallucination; it manifests as a shift in perceptual consciousness. It is less about "seeing" a picture and more about sensing a texture of existence. It is a form of affective attunement—a sudden sensitivity to the invisible currents that flow beneath the surface of social interaction. Its quality is quiet, recessive, yet brutally honest. 

It is not an impact, but an infiltration. Like a suppressed breath or the absence of a sentence, these "minor" details hold more ontological weight for me than grand narratives. They are the cracks through which the light of humanity truly enters.

Q. Could you walk us through one specific work that you feel most powerfully embodies your muse? What was the journey from initial inspiration to finished piece, and what challenges or discoveries emerged along the way?

A. If one work could serve as the archetype of my inquiry, it would be Egg-pilogue.

The genesis of this piece lay in a profound biological fact: as a chick develops, the calcium from the hard shell is reabsorbed to form the embryo's skeleton. The shell thins as the life within strengthens.This struck me as a powerful metaphor for the human condition of individuation.

The structures that protect us—family, attachment, early identity—are not just barriers; they are the very substance we consume to become ourselves. We are formed by the sacrificial transformation of our containers.

Driven by this logic, I embarked on a ritualistic process before turning 24. I carved twelve wooden eggs—one for each week, symbolizing the cycle of time (24 hours to form, 24 days to hatch, 24 years of life).

I chose wood for its organic memory—it, too, grows from a seedling to a tree, hardening and bearing weight. I then used UV printing to inscribe my own photographic history onto these wooden surfaces.

The "shell" thus became a literal carrier of memory, a skin of the past. The challenge was to transcend the mere visual representation of an egg and touch upon the phenomenology of growth. Through the slow, repetitive act of carving and observing, my understanding of "strength" shifted.

I realized that the shell’s purpose is not to remain impenetrable, but to yield. True strength is not rigidity; it is porosity and transformation. It is the capacity to absorb what once protected us and integrate it into a new, autonomous self.

Egg-pilogue embodies my muse because it begins with a microscopic observation of nature and expands into a meditation on the human psyche. It is a testament to the fragility that enables life, and the rupture that allows us to exist.

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

egg-pilogue

Q. Do you have any intentional activities or routines for connecting with inspiration? Conversely, when inspiration doesn't come easily, how do you handle those periods?

A. I do not subscribe to the myth of the "lightning strike." Instead, I cultivate a state of being-in-the-world. My routine is akin to the flâneur—a deliberate wandering through the human landscape, maintaining a radical curiosity towards the trivial. Travel serves as a tool for de-familiarization, stripping away the numbness of the everyday so I can see the "ordinary" as "strange" again.

When inspiration stalls, I practice what philosophers might call active passivity or Gelassenheit (releasement). I do not force the muse; I simply slow down the metabolic rate of my ambition. I trust that if I maintain a sensory porosity to my environment, the signal will eventually cut through the noise. It is not about hunting; it is about remaining a receptive vessel.

The Cigarette Book

The Cigarette Book

Q. Can you tell us about a moment when your muse led you somewhere unexpected or challenging? What did you discover about yourself or your practice through that experience?

A. Egg-pilogue is a perfect example of the unexpected.

Initially, I was simply intrigued by the biological shift of an eggshell turning from hard to fragile before hatching. However, as I delved deeper, I realized it actually mirrored my own relationship with my family. This discovery forced me to confront the emotional tension between "being protected" and "breaking out of the shell." It compelled me to be more honest in my practice—moving beyond the depiction of external behaviors to understand the underlying emotions and attachments.

The power to lead me into territories far more private and profound than I had imagined.

Q. How does your audience's response to your work affect your relationship with your muse? Have viewers ever helped you see new aspects of your inspiration that you hadn't noticed before?

A. Audience reactions don’t fundamentally alter my understanding of the work itself, as my creation usually stems from very personal observations and experiences. However, their responses bring me great joy and a sense of validation—a feeling of, "So, these tiny thoughts can actually be seen." This feedback fuels my drive to continue creating and even explore new directions.

Two comments had a particular impact on me.

One was from a tutor who described my work as: "powerful but simple, loud but quiet, subtle but obvious." For the first time, I realized that what I had been pursuing—micro, quiet, seemingly insignificant behaviors—could be interpreted as a form of strength. It revealed a facet of my work I hadn't fully grasped.

The other was from a close classmate George Harvey who encouraged me to put my name next to my work, saying he could imagine it in a major gallery. This wasn't about an expectation of fame, but a reminder: to take responsibility for my work and to believe it is worthy of being seen. This redefined the meaning of "publicizing work" for me—it is not just a display, but an act of sharing psychology, observations, and feelings.

So, while the audience doesn't dictate my direction, they help me perceive different dimensions of the work and reaffirm that what I am doing holds value.

no politics

no politics

Q. How do you balance staying true to your core inspiration while also allowing room for growth and change? Have there been times when you've had to choose between following your muse and meeting external expectations?

A. For me, the core principle remains constant: "Analysis starting from the details." This foundation does not change, though the mode of expression certainly can. As people move through different environments, they change, and consequently, the subjects of my observation shift. I allow for the evolution of form and changes in medium, but I never deviate from my method of observation.

If forced to choose between the two, I would always choose to remain faithful to my creative process. Once a work loses its authenticity, it loses the ability to resonate with anyone.

Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, Looking ahead, in what direction do you think your muse will develop or expand? Are there new territories of inspiration you're eager to explore, and what draws you to them?

A. Looking ahead, my muse will continue to extend toward the realm of "relationships"—but moving beyond private or singular emotions to broader connections: the complex interactions between the individual and the collective, body and language, material and memory, attachment and rupture.

I have always been drawn to objects that are silent and unassuming, yet harbor deep emotions. They may appear empty, but they actually record the dynamics of human relationships—documenting how we hurt, how we love, and how we say goodbye. This "quiet depth" is precisely the direction I wish to pursue.

For instance, the three projects I am currently working on all unfold along this same axis, but cut in from different angles:

The first piece involves a pufferfish. Through a "breathing" balloon suspended between needle points, I am exploring the critical state within a relationship—the desire to draw close while fearing injury. This tension drives me to understand the entanglement of defense, toxicity, attachment, and self-preservation.

The second piece deals with breakup and marriage, featuring documents embroidered with strands of hair, returning language to the body. Hair acts as both a connection and a severance. This work allows me to further consider how emotion is transmitted, recorded, and ended through materiality.

The third involves cigarette butts. I don’t smoke, yet I repeatedly molded 365 cigarette butts out of ceramic, solidifying emotions into "unburnable memories"—one for each day. This work visualizes the impulse to "extinguish" a certain emotion, leading me to rethink how emotions sediment rather than simply dissipate.

These works have made me realize that what I truly want to explore is:

How do emotions exist silently within objects?

How do relationships leave traces within materials?

How do humans reveal the greatest truths through seemingly minute actions?

The reason these questions attract me is simple—because they are real, and because they are often ignored.

I hope my future work will continue to delve into these overlooked yet weighty layers of life, unearthing those stories that are silent but have always been there.

Contact

Artist : Kavieng Cheng

Instagram : @very.kavieng