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. Her practice primarily revolves around photographic installations and sculptural installations. She specialises in silver gelatin darkroom printing and traditional photographic techniques, while integrating various physical processes and materials into my work. Through this approach, She explores the relationships between image, material, and space.
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. Her practice primarily revolves around photographic installations and sculptural installations. She specialises in silver gelatin darkroom printing and traditional photographic techniques, while integrating various physical processes and materials into my work. Through this approach, She explores 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, most of what I worked with was quite traditional, mainly painting. It wasn’t until I moved to London that I really started engaging with more experimental and contemporary practices. Being in such a different artistic environment was quite overwhelming at first—in a good way. I was drawn to conceptual and avant-garde ideas that completely changed how I understood art, and that became my way into contemporary practice.
At the same time, I don’t see this as a break from my earlier training. I think that traditional practice is still really important to me. In my work now, contemporary forms grow out of those foundations rather than replacing them—they help me build more layered and complex ways of thinking through the work.
How would you describe your artistic practice?
I usually don’t start with a fixed idea of what the final work should look like. For me, making art feels more like a conversation with the materials, my own state of mind, and the space I’m working in. I make a move, the material reacts, and then I respond to that.
Most of the time, the final piece turns out quite different from what I first imagined. But that’s what makes it feel honest. It comes out of a process of trying things out, adjusting, and letting things develop naturally along the way.
What are the materials or tools you use most frequently, and do they carry particular significance for you?
The darkroom is really where my work begins. At first, I just wanted to properly understand photography as a medium, so I started with traditional processes and spent a lot of time working in the darkroom. Through that experience, I realised there are many physical and sensory aspects of photography that tend to get lost as technology becomes more advanced.
For me, the darkroom isn’t only about technique. It’s a space where I slow down and think about what photography actually is, how an image comes into being, and what’s really happening in that process.
Zeroing, 2024，Beijing 798 Art Zone，Meilun Art Museum
Which cultural, philosophical, or personal influences have shaped your work?
Early on, I was really influenced by Hiroshi Sugimoto’s way of thinking about what photography actually is, and by Roland Barthes’ idea of the “that-has-been” from Camera Lucida. Those references slowly pushed me away from storytelling and towards thinking about photography in a more non-narrative way.
At the same time, Mono-ha’s approach—letting materials speak and shape meaning on their own—had a big impact on how I think about material agency. Growing up with ideas like the Five Elements in Chinese philosophy also shaped how I see the world, especially the idea that things are always transforming and balancing each other. Because of that, I’ve become really interested in understanding the world through how materials behave and change.
On Life to Death
The simulated visual effect was created by Photoshop
The simulated visual effect was created by Photoshop
Your work often evokes themes such as cycles of life, return to origins, and temporal loops. When did you begin thinking about these ideas?
A lot of these thoughts were really triggered by my time in the darkroom. When you’re working there, you can actually see how changes in time and light—how long you expose something, how strong the light is—directly affect how an image comes into being. That makes time feel very real and present, almost like you can physically sense it moving through the space.
That experience made me think a lot about time, and it also connects to the way I approach understanding things in general. I’ve always been someone who wants to get to the core of things, to understand how something really works underneath the surface. For me, that sense of essence—of what something fundamentally is，this feels really important.
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?
Trace is a good example. The project actually started in a very simple way. I came across a piece of scrap metal on a riverbank that had been shaped and eroded by water, and I was immediately drawn to its form. I took a photograph of it using a film camera.
Later, when I was printing the image in the darkroom, I suddenly felt that making the print on standard white photographic paper was a bit boring. It didn’t really reflect the physical quality of the object itself. That’s when I started wondering if the image could be carried by a material that related more closely to what was being photographed. So I decided to experiment with printing the image directly onto aluminium foil.
At first, it was just an experiment—I didn’t think too much about it. But when I put the exposed aluminium foil into the developer, something unexpected happened. Because the foil is so thin and soft, the movement of the chemicals created ripples and folds in the material. That moment really shifted how I understood the work.
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 moments like this, it feels less like I’m controlling the materials and more like they’re teaching me something in return. Their behaviour and experiences actively shape the way I think and work.
A lot of these thoughts were really triggered by my time in the darkroom. When you’re working there, you can actually see how changes in time and light—how long you expose something, how strong the light is—directly affect how an image comes into being. That makes time feel very real and present, almost like you can physically sense it moving through the space.
That experience made me think a lot about time, and it also connects to the way I approach understanding things in general. I’ve always been someone who wants to get to the core of things, to understand how something really works underneath the surface. For me, that sense of essence—of what something fundamentally is，this feels really important.
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?
Trace is a good example. The project actually started in a very simple way. I came across a piece of scrap metal on a riverbank that had been shaped and eroded by water, and I was immediately drawn to its form. I took a photograph of it using a film camera.
Later, when I was printing the image in the darkroom, I suddenly felt that making the print on standard white photographic paper was a bit boring. It didn’t really reflect the physical quality of the object itself. That’s when I started wondering if the image could be carried by a material that related more closely to what was being photographed. So I decided to experiment with printing the image directly onto aluminium foil.
At first, it was just an experiment—I didn’t think too much about it. But when I put the exposed aluminium foil into the developer, something unexpected happened. Because the foil is so thin and soft, the movement of the chemicals created ripples and folds in the material. That moment really shifted how I understood the work.
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 moments like this, it feels less like I’m controlling the materials and more like they’re teaching me something in return. Their behaviour and experiences actively shape the way I think and work.
Trace, 2023
Trace, 2023
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.
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.
Discontinuous Continuity，2025
What is 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.
Oxymoron, 2024