The Third Chapter : Interview with Syan Hu (English ver.)
Every artist is guided by something at the heart of their practice—something that may not always be visible, but quietly shapes the way they create.
In this conversation, Syan Hu reflects on a practice rooted in questions of change, imperfection, and the fragile relationship between loss and regeneration. Through photography and biological materials, he observes living organisms and the traces they leave behind, exploring how wounds, transformation, and vulnerability can become part of life rather than something to overcome.
In this chapter of The Core Message, we follow Syan Hu’s reflections on what it means to live with change and what cannot be undone, while considering how quiet observation can reveal beauty in imperfection, resilience, and the continuous process of becoming.
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Q. Thank you for joining us. To begin our conversation, we are curious to know how you define your identity as an artist at this moment and what central theme most occupies your thoughts.
A. At this moment, I see myself as an artist who reflects on life through processes of transformation. My work often begins with personal experiences of injury, imperfection, and healing, and gradually expands into a dialogue with other living organisms.
The question that occupies me most is how we learn to live with what cannot be fully repaired. Through photography and biological materials, I explore the quiet space between loss and regeneration, where fragility, adaptation, and resilience coexist. Rather than seeking perfection, I am interested in the beauty that emerges when we accept change as part of life itself.
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Q. This chapter is titled The Core Message. If you were to describe the “anchor” or the central idea that runs through your practice, what would it be?
A. If there is an anchor that holds my practice together, it is the question of how we live with change.
Much of my work begins with wounds, traces, and forms of transformation. Over time, I have become less interested in repair as restoration, and more interested in repair as coexistence. Through photography and biological materials, I explore how life continues after disruption, and how scars, decay, and imperfection can become sites of resilience rather than loss. At its core, my practice is an attempt to understand how we might accept what cannot be undone, and discover beauty in the process of becoming.
Q.Is there a specific piece among your works that you feel most clearly embodies this "core message"? We would love to hear the story behind that work and why it holds such a special place in your heart.
A. One work that most clearly embodies my core message is a recent photograph of a freshwater blue crayfish that I raised from a 1cm juvenile to a fully grown 10cm adult over six months.
What I am drawn to in crustaceans is their paradoxical existence: they can theoretically regenerate, remain “young,” and even recover from injury through continuous molting. Each molt is both a renewal and a risk that growth is only possible through vulnerability. During this fragile transition, they are entirely dependent on themselves; no external force can truly assist them.
This particular crayfish had already molted more than ten times successfully. I assumed this cycle would be the same. But after shedding its shell, it never regained structure. Its body remained soft, suspended in an unfinished transformation. Despite a controlled and safe environment, it could not survive this moment of becoming.
For me, this work holds my core message: life is defined not by stability, but by continuous transformation where growth and collapse often exist in the same instant, and not every transition leads to continuation.
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Q. Sometimes, the most important messages are felt rather than seen. Is there a "whisper" or a subtle atmosphere in your work that you hope the audience will sense, even if it’s hard to put into words?
A. I hope there is always a space in my work that remains unexplained. It is a feeling that is difficult to capture with clear language which something that emerges through light, the presence of materials, or a moment of time that seems to linger a little longer than usual.
For me, this “whisper” is not a specific message, but a subtle sense of presence. Rather than offering answers, it invites the viewer to stay for a moment in a space between memory and the present, certainty and ambiguity. I hope this atmosphere remains like a faint echo at the edge of an image—something that may not be fully understood, but can still be deeply felt.
Q. Artists often find themselves returning to a certain inquiry. What is the persistent question you find yourself asking through your art, regardless of how your style may change?
A. I often find myself asking why imperfection is so often mistaken for something that needs to be repaired. To me, imperfection is not the opposite of perfection, it is perfection itself.
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Q. In an era of rapidly changing trends, how do you maintain your own pace and stay focused on the voice that matters most to you?
A. I maintain my pace by staying close to what genuinely moves me. Trends change quickly, but the questions that shape my work remain the same. I trust those questions more than I trust the
moment.
Q. During the creative process, is there a specific moment or a sensation of "rightness" that tells you a piece has successfully captured your intended message?
A. I know a work is finished when the boundary between myself and the subject begins to disappear. At that moment, I am no longer photographing an animal, a shell, or a shed skin. I am photographing a part of myself reflected through them.
Q. Beyond the final result, what part of the "act of creating" itself do you find most precious or aligned with your personal values?
A. More than the final image, I value the time spent living alongside my subjects. Many of the materials I work with such as shed skins, shells, bones, and remains cannot be forced into existence. They emerge through growth, transformation, and sometimes death. The act of caring for these animals, observing them, and sharing a space with them is inseparable from the work itself.
What I cherish most is the quiet act of observation. Through it, I learn patience. I learn to slow down and pay attention to things that would otherwise go unnoticed. In many ways, the creative process is less about making images and more about learning how to coexist with other living beings, with time, and with parts of myself that cannot be changed.
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Q. Looking back, was there a specific experience that shifted your focus beyond purely aesthetic concerns and led you to think more deeply about what you wanted to convey through your work?
A. Yes. I think that shift began when I started practicing martial arts, particularly Iaido. What initially started as a way to reconnect with my body gradually became a process of self-reflection. Through years of training in Iaido, Jodo, Kendo, and Kyudo, I learned patience, discipline, and how to coexist with imperfection. Those experiences eventually shaped the deeper themes that run through my work today.
A. I hope my work encourages viewers to slow down and reflect on the parts of themselves they may have once considered flaws, scars, or imperfections. Many of the subjects in my work such as shed skins, shells, bones, and remains exist in a state of transformation. Through them, I hope viewers might reconsider their own relationship with change, loss, and growth. If there is an echo I hope remains, it is the realization that imperfection is not something to overcome. It is often what makes us who we are.
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Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, is there a final thought or a quiet sincerity you would like to share with those who will encounter your work?
A. Perhaps the only thing I would like to share is that I still choose to work through photography in an age increasingly shaped by AI. My work may not follow current trends, and my abilities may be limited, but I have never seen art as a race to keep up. What matters to me is remaining curious, paying attention, and continuing to make images that feel honest to my own experiences. More than anything, I simply enjoy the process. And I hope that sincerity can be felt through the work.
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