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Gloria Tso

Multidisciplinary artists Michele Chu and Nicholas Wong are shaking up the Hong Kong creative scene with works that transcend time and space. Renowned for his poetry exploring themes including queer identity, Wong has been featured in projects by Hong Kong’s M+ and New York’s Guggenheim, and he has since expanded into painting and other mediums. Chu, a designer by training, has carved a niche for herself as an interdisciplinary artist, with works like inti-gym, previously on display at Hong Kong’s Tai Kwun, exploring themes around human connection. The two recently met at the PHD Group gallery to share the motivations and meanings behind their work, as well as discuss the state of art and culture in Hong Kong.
Body language

Michele Chu: We were always in spaces near each other [in Hart Haus’ studio], so sometimes we’d comment on each other’s stuff.
Nicholas Wong: The real conversations usually happen when people eat, drink or smoke. More genuine connection.
MC: The stuff that you were doing at that time looked very different from [your work] now.
NW: I had no idea what I was doing, and I still have no idea. But I’ve been trying different things, to find the right medium to talk about myself physically. Early on, you put [on] a performance where you soaked yourself in [black] paint and put up a canvas on the wall.
MC: I was in a straitjacket.
NW: And then kept the canvas on the wall for quite some time, so you have a black silhouette of Michele against a white canvas.
MC: That was the very first performance I ever did in fine arts.
NW: Really? OK, and you decided to make yourself dirty [laughs].

MC: I was feeling repressed in a way, and I had this inclination to express that in terms of what I was wearing. I had a tub of ink that I dipped my body into and I was just moving – then the canvas captured that.
NW: But it looks like you have been doing this for decades.
MC: Oh? OK. I never even knew that I would get into the fine arts because I come from a design background. Also at that time I was working as an RA [resident assistant] at this university, and being in a very academic job, I wasn’t doing anything with my hands or expressing myself in any way. I really needed to use my hands. When I don’t even know what I’m feeling, my body already knows. … Even when you watch people on a date, it’s not really about what they’re saying. You look at their hands and a lot comes across.
NW: I look at whether they [are wearing] a ring or not.
MC: I like watching hands and also the feet as well. Or just any sort of body movements. There’s a lot of nervous energy in the fingertips.
NW: I don’t [have anything on my hands]. I don’t think tattoos go well on me.
MC: How do you know when you haven’t tried?
NW: Because I don’t have a nice body. If I had muscles and a six-pack, then definitely. [At] 47, getting a tattoo is not something glamorous. It’s not sexy.
MC: I have [tattoos on] my hands, arm and back.
NW: Which one’s the newest?
MC: I got this one in Thailand in May. [It’s] about my mum. Before she passed, she mentioned she wanted her ashes to be planted with a Japanese maple tree. We tried that, but it never grew. When we tried with roses, it did. So this [tattoo] is a Japanese maple tree leaf.
NW: So it [did grow] on your body.
MC: Basically. My mum passed two years ago. Knowing that she didn’t have many months left and experiencing that, and then right after she passed as well … I don’t know how to go about describing it.
Creative processing

MC: I don’t really view myself as having a medium of choice. It always comes down to the specific concept or theme, and then the best medium for that. I don’t have a “mother tongue” in terms of making things. But in terms of words, I did do a sound installation here for my solo [show at PHD] where I wrote a poem, and then I was reading it and recorded it. There were curtains … and I had speakers hidden, so people would go into this curtain tunnel, and it’s almost like I was whispering in their ear about this poem, and following their footsteps. Other words would be instructions for how to engage with this installation. And titles.
NW: Titles are difficult.
MC: Yeah, so difficult. But I don’t have as direct a relationship with words as [you do].
NW: Before Covid, my dog passed away after 12 or 13 years, and I felt unsatisfied with the dimensions of the book [format]. I wanted to see what I could possibly still do to express myself. Gradually I found that I am returning to working most comfortably with paper. But different types. Even hair perm paper or…
MC: Transfer paper?
NW: Transfer paper, carbon paper or even the lining of a cigarette pack. I’ve been collecting those, but I gave up because I don’t want to know how many packs of cigarettes I smoke. I haven’t developed a real connection with metal or canvas. But when I have paper in front of me, I feel more secure. I need language on the paper first, and then I see what will happen. I don’t think I’m actually drawing or painting, but editing the surface of the paper. [It’s about the physicality of the paper] and what it can or cannot do. Some paper is super thin, some can be wrinkled. I wish I could do AI and computational poetry, or slogans like [neo-conceptual artist] Jenny Holzer. But I’m still very analogue.
MC: Don’t you also have a typewriter?
NW: Only because I need to have legible words on different kinds of paper. Because my handwriting is not … [laughs]. If you try doing handwriting as artwork, you always have this phantom of [abstract impressionist] Cy Twombly behind you. People will say your work looks like a Cy Twombly. I want to avoid that.
MC: But when you say your handwriting is your signature, do you have a specific style?
NW: Handwriting is actually leaving marks on the paper rather than showing the clarity of the language. The primary job of a poet is to doubt the language you’re using. I don’t see a point in writing something literal. I usually roll my eyes when I see simply positive and encouraging text art like, “Tomorrow is a better day.” I am very picky with language. But I’m drawn to artwork that has words, or maybe artists who also write and publish books. If I ever had the energy to do a PhD, that would be my direction. What can they possibly say in this artwork that cannot be said in the book they’ve written?
Say it with words

MC: I always have a difficult time with words. At times I’d have a 10-page document and then pick two words and that was my show title [laughs].
NW: That’s the right approach.
MC: I remember talking to [you] when I was having a hard time with words and asking for advice. With artwork titles, it’s very difficult for me, but if it’s writing in a diary…
NW: You were under the pressure of having to name something.
MC: That’s where the pressure comes from.
NW: And that created a block in your head.
MC: How I approach titles is usually [via] a specific memory.
NW: What’s that [work of yours] called?
MC: Peaches, in July. That was about the last time my mother peeled a fruit for me. That was a peach, and it was in –
NW: July [laughs]. That’s a good title, actually.
MC: Yeah, it’s very direct, to a specific memory that only I have. So no one would really know unless they ask me.
NW: Most poem titles are actually very boring, cognitive and intellectual, or simply flat.
MC: Like, it doesn’t add much.
NW: It does, but [unlike with an art installation, a poem title] doesn’t have an object [that also] communicates with the audience viewing your work. The lighting [for a physical installation], the spatial arrangement could actually respond to the title. [With poetry] all we have is a title and then, pew! It’s a text block on the page.
Commercial creativity

MC: In order to sustain my practice, I need to have an income. Through [galleries like PHD] I might get more exhibition opportunities, and that also expands my reach to people who can connect with my work.
NW: Let’s say you have a show coming up in March or April. You have to make 12, 15 pieces. Could you still [experience] fun in the process?
MC: [Sighs.] I don’t know if it’s stress. It’s a cliché, but…
NW: Just stress. I see that a lot [laughs].
MC: I do get stressed, but then I don’t know what else I would do. In a way, I need to do it.
NW: So it’s not an enjoyable process.
MC: My favourite part of the creative process is when I’m brainstorming. Another is when people share how their own stories relate to a specific work. That’s very rewarding. But yeah, with every installation there’s going to be a lot of problem-solving, a lot of restrictions with the environment.
NW: I’ve seen [your] super-complicated mind map whiteboard [laughs].
MC: That’s how I think. Basically an entire wall of whiteboards. Having specific frameworks to ideate, and also thinking about user journey maps and how I would design installations. For example, here, I would like the viewer to feel like this. How do I express it? By breaking it down into very, very small parts, putting a specific state of tension or specific emotion into different sections, and then trying to design.
NW: Which to me is more like problem-solving. Poetry is more about complicating things, or maybe articulating the complication. I can’t just simply write, “My mum passed away.” That’s not helping with the emotional connection. What can possibly be done to say the same thing with images, tonal shifts and sounds? Since I was very [young], in composition classes, I didn’t really enjoy making outlines. I hate maps.
MC: It’s just how my brain works. The double diamond model and design processes …
NW: Are there any setbacks?
MC: To thinking very design-y? No, not at all. I would be very overwhelmed without frameworks. Like, I would have breakdowns [laughs]. I use those frameworks more for installations, but sometimes my [breakthrough comes via] the material itself, and then I will experiment with it.
Holding space, mentally and physically

MC: When I’m travelling, it does help. I’m more relaxed.
NW: So that’s how you usually get your inspiration.
MC: When I was in Mongolia and we were in this jeep, I would mark different terrain by putting a pen [to paper] and letting the pen go wherever to mark my journey. That was also inspired by [visual artist William Anastasi] – he did these drawings on the [New York] subway. Letting the pen go wherever from the movement.
NW: So you’re actually possessed by the place. I can’t do anything when I travel. When I travel, I just eat and happily forget my work [laughs].
MC: But probably in the back of your mind, it’s always going, right? Do you think you’re able to completely shut off from creation?
NW: I’ve reached a point in life where I feel extremely exhausted. I need to live a life before I can think about how to create it. I cannot just create for the sake of creating. With my residency [at the University of Iowa in 2024], I didn’t go with the intention of creating. I felt quite guilty because I got this fellowship, and I didn’t have any projects with me when I departed, but I had the pleasure of being connected to people in similar situations and got lifted up by people I had never met.
It’s not like they keep encouraging me to write. I just liked being with them. We talked about very silly things, like where to do the laundry, sharing detergent [laughs]. That allowed us to act like kids. Most of them are in their 40s, 50s. It’s a luxury that we all lived together for 11 weeks. You saw people break down, get sick, have arguments, get drunk. It’s all very human.
MC: Recently, I wanted to make a flute out of salt, but I just couldn’t. My friend was saying, use more solid salt. Then we were just randomly talking about salt lakes and slowly brainstormed a lot, and [then we did] a performance in January on vegetables and making instruments out of vegetables. The whole idea is about a meal, family dynamics, and making sound with food. I really enjoy this type of conversation where you’re just like … [gesticulates wildly]. Like, it just goes everywhere [laughs].
Creating and connecting in Hong Kong

NW: A five-day teaching week, plus work, family, your own self to manage. How am I going to still find time to create?
MC: For me it’s more the people who would inspire me. The invisible rules. [With Hong Kong being] so densely populated, how do people behave on commutes and in the street? Even with eye contact or, for example, rules around needing to stand on the [right]. At what point do we interact with another person – only when asking for directions or warning someone of something? How people behave in this city has inspired me [when it comes to] participatory performances, installations or street experiments that I used to do around intimacy and human connection because in cities, a lot of people feel very lonely. I was thinking about how you increase emotional closeness between strangers. What are the variables to increase that connection?
We’re not really strangers

MC: I still remember the first time I saw Nick. It was at a gathering.
NW: A staged gathering.
MC: Yeah, people from our studio were like, “OK, so at this time, on this day, we will meet all the newcomers.” You were one of the newcomers, I was one of the newcomers; and then I specifically remember you drinking Vita lemon tea. Everyone was in the kitchen, and you were just in your space drinking tea, and I was just like, “Who’s this guy?” [laughs]
NW: Like, very pretentious, not joining in [laughs].
MC: I specifically remember the lemon tea for some reason.
NW: But I did join in afterwards, right?
MC: For a little bit; then you went back to your space again [laughs].
NW: That’s very me.
From friends to collaborators

NW: I haven’t thought about that.
MC: We do have some similar themes in our practice, like grief. At one point you were writing grief sonnets. Even though my natural inclination isn’t with words, I feel like we can balance each other out.
NW: I’m trying to picture the scenario and I think, “OK, Nick, what can you possibly contribute? Nothing.”
MC: So much!
NW: Like how? I don’t know.
MC: With words or sound or your body…
NW: I’ll be happy to if there’s a curator thinking about how we can complement each other, because right now your work is already very nice. You don’t need a gay, middle-aged male voice [laughs].
MC: Honestly, I love working with other people though.
NW: Wouldn’t that stress you out even more? Two Aquarians [laughs].
MC: Yeah, we were the only Aquarians in the studio.

NW: The only functional Aquarians [laughs]. I don’t have the skill sets that you’re looking for. I just talk and smoke. I remember I went to your show [the Ghost of Raspberry performance at Para Site] and told you that I wanted to write a poem [related to it], and didn’t start.
MC: Yeah, the raspberry! I had this participatory performance where I collaborated with a sound artist, Lam Yip, and a food artist, Alison Tan [of Sapphire Ketchup]. I did the installation at Para Site, and I wanted to amplify certain aspects. It was called Ghost of Raspberry – raspberry sorbet was the last thing my mother ate before she passed. The ending of that performance was that we would all drink soup together – this corn and carrot soup that we always drank as a family – and then in the background, there’s “Close to You” by The Carpenters, which I sang onto a cassette tape, and then played.
NW: I told [you] I wanted to write a poem about raspberries in connection with my mum’s nipples. We’ve all seen our mother’s nipples at some point. I have this strong memory because we lived in Aberdeen, in a very small flat. She went for a shower and put a towel outside the bathroom door; clothes on the chair next to that. She was using a towel to cover her body but for some reason the towel fell and I was – working on my homework? – just across from the chair. That nipple looked just like a raspberry.


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The Hong Kong artists fuse poetry, performance and design to explore grief, intimacy and identity – and reveal raw creative truths


The Hong Kong artists fuse poetry, performance and design to explore grief, intimacy and identity – and reveal raw creative truths.


In conversation: Michele Chu and Nicholas Wong talk artistic mediums and pressures

.css-1c6uqr6{color:inherit;font-weight:inherit;font-size:inherit;font-family:inherit;line-height:inherit;overflow-wrap:break-word;}The Hong Kong artists fuse poetry, performance and design to explore grief, intimacy and identity – and reveal raw creative truths

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The Hong Kong artists fuse poetry, performance and design to explore grief, intimacy and identity – and reveal raw creative truths