Cai Guo-Qiang | Exploding Cai
Capturing the ceaseless curiosity of Cai Guo-Qiang, this feature unveils a man forever stepping beyond known boundaries, epitomized by the title “Exploding Cai.” In a spirit paralleling the The Last Unicorn’s untarnished quest for purity and kinship, Cai also journeys toward more—more understanding, more connection, more self.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Exploding Cai, 2018. Gunpowder on canvas, 120 x 90 cm. Photo by Yvonne Zhao, courtesy Cai Studio. Collection of the Uffizi Gallery.
Isn’t Explosion Sexy?
Interview and translated by Murphy Guo.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Head On, 2006. 99 life-sized replicas of wolves and glass wall, dimensions variable. Photo by I-Hua Lee, courtesy Cai Studio. Collection of the Benesse Art Site Naoshima.
How do you conceptualize the idea of boundaries, whether they are cultural, interpersonal, or methodological, in your artistic practice?
In the gunpowder drawing I created in 1991, titled Bigfoot’s Footprints: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 6, I wrote, “When did we as a human race come to accept the artificiality of national borders as a grim reality? Gunpowder, once considered a cornerstone of human civilization, is now predominantly used along these artificial boundaries. This disconcerting trend shows no sign of diminishing. Each instance of gunpowder crossing these borders, rekindles the horrors of war—an act that, one imagines, would confound even extraterrestrials who presumably disregard national boundaries.”
Besides national borders, humans are also obsessed with building walls. While visible walls can be readily dismantled, invisible barriers continue to pervade our existence. Several of my works, including Rebuilding the Berlin Wall: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 7 (1989), Head On (2006), and Transparent Monument (2006), delve into this theme.
In 2020, as the Covid-19 pandemic enveloped the world, I found myself stranded in rural New Jersey. Revisiting my diaries and sketchbooks from the 1980s and ’90s allowed me to re-enter the mindset I had back then and engage in a dialogue with my past self. At that juncture, I engaged in profound reflections on the pressing human and global issues of the 20th century, including materialism, the degradation of human nature, environmental degradation, and the cosmic existential questions. I mulled over these issues through the lens of an extraterrestrial, pondering the “language” that would facilitate communication with such beings. If one can communicate with extraterrestrials, then dialogue within human race should theoretically be less complex—though reality often proves otherwise.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Peaceful Earth, 1993. Printed map and ink on paper, dimensions unknown. Photo courtesy Cai Studio.
As an artist who has realized and unrealized projects across the globe, what have been some of the most challenging factors that prevented certain ideas from coming to fruition?
During my 2020 solo exhibition Odyssey and Homecoming at the Palace Museum in Beijing, my studio put together a comprehensive “Project Footprint”: I have realized over 530 projects all over the world, and there are over 100 unrealized projects.
The realized projects can be attributed to the support of collaborators from various locations. Projects that remain unrealized encounter a myriad of obstacles, from political and regulatory hurdles to limitations in technology and budget. In particular, the use of gunpowder in my artwork introduces a unique set of challenges, as it is sensitive to a range of external factors including weather conditions, natural environment, local regulations, and socio-political conditions.
Responding to a 1993 invitation from UNESCO, I proposed a global initiative to turn off the lights to mark the arrival of the millennium. This would necessitate global participation, enabling people to witness a moment of complete darkness via a live television broadcast. Given the time-zone differences, each country would synchronize to sequentially switch off all their lights as they transitioned from one millennium to the next. This collective act would serve as a poignant reminder that no single society holds the “center stage” in our interconnected world. Regrettably, the organizational demands exceeded our capacity, and the project remained unrealized. The experience of a millennial transition is a rare event, occurring over many generations.
While people anticipated a fireworks display to herald the new millennium, my aspiration was the exact opposite—to plunge the world into darkness. At the time, I wrote, “As observed from outer space, the Earth glitters each night. At the final second of the concluding millennium and the inaugural second of the new one, the residents of Earth individually turn off their lights to be part of this creative process and ‘take away the colors’ of the world. Over the past century, humankind has expended vast resources to illuminate the globe. Hence, at this pivotal juncture as we transition into the new millennium, humanity should let the Earth rest, return it to the universe, and revert to the same darkness and peace as other planets. This collective action would allow Earth to transcend temporal and spatial boundaries, reconnecting it to its distant past or even its primordial state.”
I often assert that realized projects are like the “bright side of the moon,” whereas the unrealized projects are like the “dark side,” which still exists. To an artist, both are integral aspects of his oeuvre and life experience. The challenge lies in the fact that when invited, people are drawn to the visible accomplishments—the bright side of the moon and the fireworks—rather than the unfulfilled dreams that occupy the night’s darkness…
What influences do you think are most responsible for eroding the natural curiosity and spiritual connection people have with the universe as they age? Can you share an experience from your travels where you felt a particularly strong spiritual or cosmic connection, and how did this experience influence your artistic journey?
I believe that through the process of maturation, one’s childlike spirit, sense of spirituality, and connection with the universe gradually diminish. Some individuals may strive to maintain this channel open through intentional cultivation, yet for many, this pathway tends to close over time. In my case, art serves as this conduit, a reflection of my youthful curiosity towards the celestial expanse and an urge to engage with enigmatic forces.
With the passage of time, my contemplation of life increasingly integrates into a broader cosmic perspective. Generally speaking, the average person seldom considers the interplay between earthly existence and the cosmos; life appears too immediate, and the universe too abstract and indistinct. However, as one navigates life’s complexities, it becomes apparent that life is not as straightforward, and the universe is not as remote or nebulous as one might think.
Towards the end of 1990s, I visited Jerusalem, the esteemed capital city of Israel. This City of Seven Hills possesses an undeniable beauty. When fog envelops the city, the structures on the hills seem to float amid the mist, creating an ethereal tableau. Whenever I journey into unfamiliar landscapes, I make it a point to consult a local spiritual authority for enlightenment. I was introduced to a renowned rabbi by the director of the Israel Museum. Upon meeting me, the rabbi began, “Let me share a tale. Since ancient times, individuals from diverse backgrounds have yearned to be interred in Jerusalem’s valley. Many biblical figures, including King David, rest here.” Indeed, each evening, the tombs of the sages were individually illuminated, lighting the path in the valley. He then inquired, “Do you know why so many wish to be laid to rest here? It is because, preceding the apocalypse, God will come to redeem mankind. A ladder will then ascend from the hilltop, piercing through the clouds. Those interred here will be the first to climb up the ladder to heaven.” My memory paints him as a slender man, with a pallor on his face, donning a khaki jacket. He departed soon after imparting this narrative. Though my initial attempt to actualize Sky Ladder in Bath, UK, in 1994 failed, this story somehow renewed my resolve to bring Sky Ladder into fruition.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Sky Ladder, 2015. Explosion event realized off Huiyu Island, Quanzhou, June 15, 4:45 am (dawn), 100 seconds. Gunpowder, fuse and helium balloon, 500 x 5.5 m. Photo: Wen-you Cai. Courtesy Cai Studio.
In your creative process, how do you balance the aesthetic elements of your artwork with its underlying messages or themes? What is the relationship between form and content in your work?
I’m unsure if my response fully addresses your question. Many people engage with the Buddha through the medium of Buddhist statues, which serve as symbolic representations rather than the concept of the Buddha itself. I often find myself in a quandary; my aim is to capture the essence of the “Buddha,” yet what materializes in my work more closely resembles a “Buddha statue”. As an artist, my role inherently involves crafting these “Buddha statues,” and given my expertise in creating aesthetically pleasing forms, the beauty of the statue can sometimes overshadow the intended message or “Buddha” that I aim to convey.
How do you perceive the interaction between “internal qi” and “external qi” in shaping the essence of an artwork? Can you discuss how this concept influences not only traditional Eastern art forms but also your own creations?
Traditional Eastern ink painting was not primarily concerned with the play of light and shadow; its focus was rather on the expression of “qi” or energy force. This was a reflection of its creators’ cosmological perspectives and subjective experiences. Unlike Western art, which often captures specific moments in time and space, Eastern ink painting seldom features the sun, sunlight, shadows, or even the moon and night skies. The intent was to depict inner worlds, capturing a sense of tranquility and solemnity. Figures within these landscapes were often rendered in small scale to emphasize the grandeur of the surrounding natural elements. The objective was not merely to depict visible realities but also to capture the artists’ inner worlds and the timeless cosmos that their spirits yearned to comprehend.
The interplay of light and shadow in nature enables the Earth’s myriad forms. Without these elements, one relies on the harmony of internal and external qi to unify a work’s composition and energy. The foundational principles of ancient Eastern art can largely be encapsulated by the tenets of “feng shui” : inner qi animates life, external qi shapes form, and the reconciliation between the two produces good feng shui. Natural elements like mountain peaks, rivers, and waterfalls shaped by external qi gain their vitality from the formless, inner qi. When the internal and external qi are in balance, good feng shui is achieved and compelling art emerges! These principles also extend to disciplines like gardening, architecture, and urban design.
This approach—using visible forms to articulate the intangible—has profoundly impacted my own artistic philosophy. For instance, the swirling clouds and the thermal waves in my gunpowder paintings are less about physical manifestations and more about the essence of qi. Each of my art installations embodies feng shui principles passed down by my grandmother and mother, the spiritual influences of my hometown, and the matchboxes from my father. I endeavor to align my inner qi with the external qi influenced by diverse cultural and temporal settings, thus giving form to each subsequent piece of art.
In today’s globalized world, we have the opportunity to embrace and integrate the essence of diverse cultures. We can inherit styles and influences from our varied cultural antecedents, allowing ourselves the joy and freedom of creating unrestrainedly across the globe.
In a digital age defined by rapid changes in technology and human interaction, how does the traditional medium of painting adapt or resist? Does the digital revolution make it easier or more challenging for painters to explore their inner sensibilities and the eternal aspects of human experience?
Even though contemporary painting is often deemed less influential, it still dominates a significant portion of the art market. There is widespread skepticism about whether contemporary painting can truly bring about innovation or breakthroughs, leading to the perception that artistic concepts, mediums, and expressive potential have reached their ultimate limits. Many of painting’s traditional roles have been supplanted by a surge in new media, reducing painting to just one of numerous artistic mediums and consequently diminishing its scope and responsibilities. Yet, the most significant challenge facing contemporary painting is not an absence of innovation but rather a waning confidence in its capacity to continue evolving.
As we advance through generations, each brings individuals keen on exploring the fundamental essence of their era and fueled by groundbreaking technological leaps such as the internet, artificial intelligence, and digitization. These forces have instigated unprecedented shifts in societal structures, lifestyles, interpersonal dynamics, and even our perspectives on life and death.
Can painting effectively articulate the essence of our rapidly changing human connections and shifting perceptions of time and space in this digital age? It’s perhaps our strong responses to these monumental changes that drive us to reevaluate history and ponder the worth of its remnants. For tens of thousands of years, human lives have been imbued with a sense of eternal. Though societal norms and human connections continuously evolve, core emotions like love, fear, and loneliness remain unchanged. Our ancestors managed to capture a sense of timelessness alongside their contemporary experiences.
Faced with advancements in technology, particularly discoveries related to the cosmos and life forms, as well as breakthroughs in artificial intelligence, the question arises: what will become of all this? Currently, the public discourse on sensibilities and subjectivities extends beyond just the sphere of painting to encompass the broader domain of art.
What unexpected interactions have you experienced from participants during your public gunpowder paintings, and how do these moments influence the final artwork?
When I collaborate with my assistants to create art, it’s largely a process of research and experimentation. I imagine Cézanne must have felt similarly while painting apples. I’ve observed that people are often fascinated by the process I use to create gunpowder paintings. When I stand in front of an audience, gunpowder in hand, I experience the competitive thrill akin to an athlete in a match, especially when working on larger pieces. Oftentimes, volunteers and even bystanders step in to assist in production or fire-extinguishing efforts. The varying cultural backgrounds of these participants function much like different types of gunpowder, introducing elements of unpredictability and surprise, which I regard as integral to the artwork itself. I also give the audience an intimate view of the gunpowder painting process, fostering a deeper, almost karmic connection between them, the artist and the artwork. They share in the suspense, tension, and anxiety leading up to the moment of ignition, living through the immediate outcome of this shared destiny. The earliest instance of such a public creation was Ye Gong Hao Long (Mr. Ye Who Loves Dragons) at the Tate Modern in the UK in 2003.
However, the public creation of gunpowder painting differs from performance art. I’m not putting on a show; I’m merely making the artistic process accessible to the public. Amidst the excitement and spectacle, I maintain a laid-back approach—taking restroom breaks, stretching, and occasionally reclining for a brief respite.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Ye Gong Hao Long (Mr. Ye Who Loves Dragons), 2003. Gunpowder on paper. 400 x 600 cm. Photo courtesy Cai Studio. Collection of Tate Modern.
How does the concept of “contradiction”, informed by both Marxist dialectics and Eastern philosophy, play out in your artistic process? Have you noticed these contradictions within yourself as well?
Raised in a Socialist environment, I was educated in the tenets of Marxist dialectics: the world is rife with contradictions, with one deemed primary and others considered secondary. Tackle that, and the rest become manageable. Yet, be mindful—the “secondary” can quietly turn “primary.” This framework of contradictions isn’t just theoretical; it comes alive in my artistic process.
This concept extends into my painting methodology. My choice of various gunpowder types, control of quantity, line-drawing techniques, stencil shapes, and even the placement of stones or bricks of differing weights—all reflect my dual role as a controlling dictator and a liberator of artistic elements. While I revel in the sheer freedom that comes from the explosive bursts, I also anxiously anticipate the ensuing artistic miracle. In this oscillation between control and liberation, when I surrender to the “expansion,” unleashing the energy to roam freely, the fear of losing mastery looms large. Consequently, I feel compelled to “rein it in,” recognizing that without a core of inner strength, the work could risk frailty... Striking this elusive balance naturally engages with concepts of “tradition” and “modernity.” If the artwork delves too deeply, it risks appearing dated; if it’s straightforward, lucid, and impactful, it leans more contemporary. These tensions represent a series of contradictions. Artists of every generation find themselves balancing the urgent concerns of their era with enduring, timeless elements they can’t abandon. Do the artworks they bequeath encapsulate the outcome of such internal struggles
Eastern philosophy inherently embraces change and contradictions, while Western ideology typically aims for their resolution—yielding artists who scale impressive heights in the process. However, Eastern thought often lays bare these contradictions without necessarily seeking to reconcile them.
Even so, the fundamental essence, energy, and spirit rooted in Eastern culture—embodied by principles like “the only doctrine is the lack of doctrine” and “freedom and ease stem from being true to oneself”—remain the guiding forces of my imagination. They inspire me to soar creatively, planting seeds that eventually flourish in diverse cultural landscapes around the globe.
Do you consider your art as an effort to transcend the boundaries of time, given its transient yet impactful nature? Can you elaborate on how your works aim to engage with the concept of eternity?
The terms “past,” “present,” and “future” are all temporal concepts. When I create with gunpowder, questions often arise about the ephemeral nature of my works and the seeming tragedy of their impermanence. In response, I emphasize my quest for eternity through this transience. Eternity differs from the notion of “forever;” it exists outside the bounds of time, whereas “forever” is a concept trapped within it. Therefore, my artistic dialogue with eternity doesn’t revolve around the idea of permanence but embraces fleeting moments, capturing the awe and mystery of the eternal within the chaos of the ephemeral.
So, to circle back to the original query, my artistic endeavors may well be an attempt to transcend the conventional time axis, breaking free from the linear constraints of the past, present, and future.
Cai Guo-Qiang, City of Flowers in the Sky, 2018. Daytime explosion event realized above Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence, Italy. Photo: Wen-You Cai. Courtesy Cai Studio.
In your work, you merge traditional feng shui and modern physics to explore the “visible” and “invisible”. How do you reconcile these elements, especially when it comes to balancing what is “constantly changing” and “ever constant”?
Shaped by the feng shui traditions of my hometown Quanzhou, I became adept at manipulating invisible energy (qi) to foster a balanced environment. Feng shui also provided me with a nuanced understanding of how to adapt my projects to the unique energy fields of specific locations. These fields, in turn, have the potential to impact individuals within these spaces, be they artists or audience members engaging with my artwork.
As I’ve matured, my worldview has expanded to incorporate insights from modern cosmological physics. Interestingly, these contemporary perspectives don’t clash with the understanding of the unseen world that I had as a child. Although my perception of these invisible forces has evolved with both my environment and the passage of time, they appear to be converging on a consistent trajectory.
Which artwork best captures your exploration of the “visible” and “invisible” in relation to space, time, and humanity?
In 1992, I executed the explosion event Fetus Movement II: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 9 at a military base in Hannoversch Münden, Germany. The base’s inherent violence led me to incorporate the feng shui principle of “flowing water does not rot.” I constructed a small canal to divert water from a nearby river, thereby rebalancing the base’s natural energies. I laid out three concentric circles and eight radiating lines on a circular area alongside the canal, evoking the Earth’s longitudinal and latitudinal lines. Additionally, nine seismographs were buried in the layout.
Seated on a circular island at the center, I connected myself to both an electrocardiograph and an electroencephalograph. Lighting an incense stick, I placed it on the fuse and let it burn slowly. As it burned, I silently recited opening lines of Laozi’s Dao De Jing : “There was something nebulous yet complete, born before heaven and earth …” Suddenly, both the earth and the skies shook with great intensity! When the smoke dispersed, onlookers were relieved to see me still sitting serenely on the island. The instruments captured my physiological calm before, during, and after the event. What left some scientists particularly astounded was the mysterious seismic wave detected shortly after the explosion, as though an echo had emanated from the Earth’s core.
This project bridges life and the cosmos, inviting us to experience the “fetus movement” of cosmic origins. It quantifies the intricate connections between humans, Earth, and the universe at large.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Fetus Movement II: Project for Extraterrestrials No. 9. 1992. Explosion event realized at the German Army’s water exercise area, Hann. Münden. Photo by Masanobu Moriyama, courtesy Cai Studio.
How do the contrasting experiences of “loss” in communicating with extraterrestrials and humans influence your art in the “Projects for Extraterrestrials” and “Projects for Humankind” series?
Projects for Extraterrestrials and Projects for Humankind encapsulate the dual aspects of my artistic endeavors.
Projects for Extraterrestrials is rooted in the belief that Earthlings are not the sole intelligent beings in the universe. This series compels us to ponder our own humanity while maintaining a childlike sense of wonder, one that yearns to touch the stars and reach for the moon. It’s about the poetry of existence, about far-reaching horizons, stars, and oceans. I held subjective and imperious beliefs: I was captivated by the notions of superpowers, spirituality, and the metaphysical. Eastern philosophies, replete with concepts like feng shui, qi, and traditional Chinese medicine, felt like the bedrock for the new era of the 21st century. I found modern art limiting, whereas the expansive and deeper understanding of life and the cosmos intrigued me more.
Conversely, Projects for Humankind considers a far-off future where humanity may leave Earth, prompting us to think about our responsibilities both now and then. When confronted with issues concerning human civilization and societal structures, I feel compelled to act, albeit in my own artistic way. Although my primary motivation for creating art is self-liberation rather than societal change, I often find myself torn between this purported heroism and the Taoist principle of non-action.
Both series are not just about aesthetics; they’re about my existential concerns as an inhabitant of this planet. I’m acutely aware that human civilization has reached a stage where it possesses the capability to self-destruct.
How has the shift from black gunpowder to colored gunpowder and daytime fireworks reflected changes in your emotional or thematic priorities?
In my earlier years, my works predominantly featured natural, black gunpowder. As early as 1988, when collaborating with the Ogatsu fireworks factory, I had access to colored gunpowder. However, my artistic aims were simpler then; I was attracted to the unique aesthetic of black gunpowder, which seemed to resonate with my quest for a more elevated and cosmological sensibility.
The 9/11 attacks in 2001 fundamentally altered my perception. Daytime and nighttime fireworks produce different visual and metaphorical effects. While the latter rely on light and inevitably fade back into darkness, the former depend on smoke and interact more openly with social realities and natural elements. Now, I find that daytime fireworks bear a closer resemblance to paintings, although they are also more subject to environmental variables.
Works like Black Rainbow, executed in Valencia in 2005, and daily black clouds launched every day at 1 p.m. during my six-month solo exhibition at the MET in 2006, embody these concepts. Yet, there are also colorful daytime fireworks, like Black Ceremony (2011) in Doha, and Elegy (2014) in Shanghai.
In 2015, my ambitious Sky Ladder project came to fruition in my hometown Quanzhou. It involved a 500-meter ladder of golden fireworks ascending from the coast at dawn, as if connecting the earthly realm with the cosmic infinity. Conceived first in 1994 in Bath, UK, this project faced numerous obstacles and setbacks over 21 years before it finally materialized as a tribute to my centenarian grandmother. Around this period, I also started working with colored daytime fireworks on canvas, reflecting a broader emotional complexity as my perspectives evolved with age, the loss of loved ones, and watching my children grow. Another notable example is When the Sky Blooms with Sakura (2023) a daytime fireworks piece I realized on the beach of Iwaki. My art shifted from a deified lens to a more humanized gaze, pondering the fragility of human existence and the ephemerality of life.
Cai Guo-Qiang, Red Birds, 2022. Gunpowder on canvas, 200 x 300 cm. Photo by Mengjia Zhao, courtesy Cai Studio.
How do dreams function in your artistic process: as sources of guidance or as catalysts for further questioning?
Some of my works, like Last Carnival (2017) and the installation Heritage (2013) are born from my dreams. In my youth, dreams often served as prophetic cues, illuminating the course of future events in cryptic shades of light and darkness. When a dream shone increasingly bright, I felt it as a positive omen—indicating that forthcoming endeavors, be they related to health, travel, or other ventures, would proceed without hindrance. I found solace in these visions of ascending light.
In contrast, dreams veiled in growing darkness conveyed forebodings. If I found myself spiraling into an abyss, I would strive to regain control and pull myself back to reality. Failing to escape the darkness, or falling back into it after a momentary respite, signaled potential obstacles or setbacks in the near future. These could manifest in various forms, like impending storms during travel or complications in projects. These dreams served as a unique conduit for me to commune with an intangible realm, enabling a dialogue between my conscious and unconscious self.
Last summer, a poignant dream featured my late grandmother appearing in my backyard accompanied by a flock of red birds. Just two days later, I caught Covid. Recognizing the dream as a message sent from my grandmother, I felt compelled to create a piece inspired by this experience, which I titled Red Birds (2022).
In your body of work, is sexuality ever metaphorically represented or symbolized? If you were to draw an analogy, what would you equate with the concept of sex?
In the swinging ’90s, as started dipping my toes into the European art scene, many artworks dealt with themes of sexuality. Whenever I was asked why my art didn’t explore this topic, I would reply, “Isn’t explosion sexy to you?” And, just like that, their eyebrows would shoot up, followed by an enlightened, “Oh, yeah!” You see, to me, creating a gunpowder painting is as intimate and exhilarating as a night of romance, the similarities are too uncanny to ignore!
Cai Guo-Qiang, Bad Kid!, 2018. Gunpowder on canvas, 275 x 200 cm. Photo by Yvonne Zhao, courtesy Cai Studio.
*This story was published in noisé 03 The Last Unicorn, 2023.