Discontinuous Continuity，2025

In this interview with Ruilin Li, Green Grammar turn our attention to the underlying narratives and conceptual origins of her practice.
Our interest in conducting this conversation stems from the recurring presence of mirrors, reflection, cycles, and notions of return that run throughout her work, as well as the personal and material histories that shape her creative process.





ABOUT THE ARTIST


Ruilin Li (Ray) is an artist and photographer originally from Guangdong, China, and currently based in London. She completed her undergraduate studies in Fine Art Photography at Camberwell College of Arts and is currently pursuing an MA in Contemporary Photography: Practices and Philosophies at Central Saint Martins.

Her practice primarily centres on photographic and sculptural installations. She specialises in silver gelatin darkroom printing and traditional photographic techniques, while integrating diverse physical processes and materials into her work. Through these methods, she investigates the relationships between image, material, and space.My practice primarily revolves around photographic installations and sculptural installations. I specialise in silver gelatin darkroom printing and traditional photographic techniques, while integrating various physical processes and materials into my work. Through this approach, I explore the relationships between image, material, and space.








How did you begin your artistic journey?

I was introduced to art at a very young age. One of my mother’s closest friends comes from a family deeply rooted in the Lingnan Style of painting, so growing up, I often spent time around artists and artworks. Over time, my mother consciously encouraged my interest in drawing. Immersed in this environment, I began painting around the age of six or seven and continued simply out of enjoyment. Gradually, this led me to consider art as a professional path.

Before studying abroad, however, my exposure was largely limited to relatively traditional and singular forms of art, such as painting. It was only after moving to London that I truly began to engage with more experimental and contemporary practices. Being placed within such a radically different artistic environment, I was deeply drawn to conceptual and avant-garde ideas that completely overturned my previous understanding of art. This became my entry point into contemporary and conceptual art.

But I still believe my early training in traditional artistic practices is invaluable. In my current work, contemporary forms continue to grow out of the foundations of traditional art, developing into more complex conceptual frameworks rather than replacing them.




How would you describe your artistic practice?

My work almost always begins with a process rather than a predetermined, perfected form. For me, making art is more like an ongoing dialogue between materials, mental states, and the specific site or context. I initiate an action, the material responds with a result, and then I continue based on that response.

The final outcome often differs significantly from what I initially envisioned, but it feels honest and authentic, because it is generated through continuous testing, negotiation, and exchange.




What are the materials or tools you use most frequently, and do they carry particular significance for you?


The darkroom and its associated materials form a crucial point of departure in my practice. Initially, I wanted to gain a comprehensive understanding of photography as a medium, which led me to begin with traditional photographic processes and darkroom practice. Through this, I discovered many physical and perceptual dimensions of photography that have been obscured by technological development.

For me, the darkroom is not just a technical space—it is a site for thinking about the essence of photography and its mechanisms of generation.




Which cultural, philosophical, or personal influences have shaped your work?

In my early stages, I was deeply influenced by Hiroshi Sugimoto’s exploration of photography’s ontology, as well as Roland Barthes’ discussion of the photographic “that-has-been” in Camera Lucida. These influences gradually led me to focus on the non-narrative qualities of photography.

At the same time, Mono-ha’s emphasis on allowing materials to generate their own narratives shaped my understanding of material agency. Additionally, the concept of the Five Elements in Chinese philosophy, its view of how the world operates through transformation and balance, has sustained my interest in understanding the world through the states and behaviours of materials.




Your work often evokes themes such as cycles of life, return to origins, and temporal loops. When did you begin thinking about these ideas?

These reflections were largely awakened in the darkroom. In the darkroom, you directly witness how variations in time and light—visible durations and intensities, which affect the formation of an image. This makes me acutely aware of time as a higher-dimensional entity manifesting itself within three-dimensional space, producing a strong sense of presence.

That experience sparked my deep interest in time. At the same time, I have always been persistent in my pursuit of essence. When I try to understand something, I want to access its core and underlying logic. I believe essence is a crucial dimension of understanding.

Was there a moment in your practice, perhaps during a material experiment, darkroom accident, or installation challenge, when you felt the work was shaping you in return? What did that moment mean to you?

The work Trace is a good example. The project initially began very simply: I encountered a piece of scrap metal on a riverbank that had been eroded by water, and I found its form strangely compelling. I photographed it using a film camera.

Later, while enlarging the image in the darkroom, I suddenly felt that printing each photograph onto the same white photographic paper was dull. The physical material of the image failed to correspond to the actual materiality of the object depicted. This led me to experiment with creating a material connection between the photographed object and its image carrier—by exposing the photograph onto aluminium foil with a metallic texture.

I did not overthink this decision at first. However, when I immersed the exposed aluminium foil into the developer, its softness and thinness caused it to be shaped by the ripples of the chemical solution, forming complex folds beyond my anticipation. This unexpected phenomenon immediately reactivated my understanding of the work and forced me to rethink its direction.

I realised that the shaping process the aluminium foil underwent in the darkroom mirrored the process through which the original metal object had been shaped by river water. At that moment, I became aware that the work was not merely about image and material, but about describing a shared experience of being shaped—using photography in a three-dimensional sense.

In such moments, it feels as though I am not simply manipulating materials, but that the experiences of these materials changed my own cognition. They function as active agents within my practice.

You gradually expanded from photography into sculpture and installation. Do you see this shift as corresponding to changes in your life or personal experience?

From the beginning, I hoped that photography could break away from the two-dimensional plane and enter more physically grounded spatial practices, which naturally led me toward sculpture and installation. This shift in medium does not represent a change in position, but rather a further extraction and deepening of questions concerning photography’s essence.

Of course, this transition is also closely connected to changes in my personal mindset, creative desires, and the environments I inhabit.


 

Zeroing, 2024，Beijing 798 Art Zone，Meilun Art Museum

Your work addresses rivers, memory, death, and intimacy-topics that seem diverse yet all relate to confronting lived experience. Do you actively choose these themes, or do they emerge naturally from life?

They emerge naturally from lived experience and the environments I inhabit at different stages. My practice relies heavily on life experiences to activate inspiration. Sometimes, I even feel that the initial phase of my work involves decisions made by non-human agents.

Rather than imposing a preconceived concept onto a work from the outset, I search for and uncover core elements through lived experiences and encounters during the process.

Your current life and creative state

Over the past few years in London, my life has gradually become calmer and more settled. I think this reflects a change in my internal state, a phase where I need to seriously consider the future.

My creative rhythm is relatively slow.  For me, making work requires time for sedimentation. All the works I am satisfied with have gone through long periods of development. I do not like forcing myself to produce a certain quantity of work within a fixed timeframe. I believe creation should emerge organically from within.




What questions are you most concerned with at the moment?

I feel that I am currently at a turning point. The questions I am thinking about now are more grounded in reality, specifically, how my practice can connect with and engage the world and society.

When I was an undergraduate one or two years ago, I never thought about this at all. I was completely immersed in a pure state of making, focused solely on my own practice. This was partly due to my personality. I did not reflect on what I was gaining or losing through this process; I simply took the production of work as a given.

Now, I find myself torn between a desire to be seen and recognised, and a vigilance toward utilitarian standards that risk eroding the essence of art. This tension between reality and idealism remains an ongoing question in my thinking.