©2025 Jingxuan Qiu
NYC, Beijing.
Scroll down for more...
Drawings and writing
Exploring Cooking, Traditional Medicine, Daoism, through Artistic Practice
When we first consider cooking, Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), Daoism, and art, they might seem like unrelated domains. Yet for me, these elements are deeply intertwined – each informing the other in a holistic creative practice. In this discussion, we’ll explore how the act of cooking becomes both inspiration and method for artistic creation, how TCM’s focus on harmony influences an artist’s use of materials and routines, and how Daoist philosophy (both explicit and subtle) shapes the artist’s perspective on spontaneity, balance, and imperfection. The goal is an analytical yet conversational journey through history, culture, and studio practice – showing that making soup, balancing qi in the body, and designing a repeated pattern may have more in common than one might think.
-
Cooking is often called culinary art, and in my case it’s literal – the kitchen doubles as a studio. The process of preparing a meal is inspirational and serve as a structural model for making art. A recipe requires balance of different flavors, provides structure (measures, techniques), but a good cook also improvises – adjusting spices, responding to how the sauce looks or tastes. This balance between order and disorder in the kitchen is a perfect metaphor for art-making. Many great artworks emerge from a dance between planning and chance – much like a dish comes out best when the chef knows when to follow the recipe and when to “season to taste.”
Importantly, cooking engages all the senses and demands presence in the moment. Artist Olafur Eliasson, for example, literally incorporated a daily cooking practice in his studio; he describes his kitchen as “a place for creativity,” where playful experiments with food double as artistic exploration . His team would sometimes conduct sensory experiments at lunch – like eating with absurdly long utensils, which forced them to feed one another – blurring the line between dining and performance art. As Eliasson notes, when you pay close attention to the taste and experience of food, it becomes “so much more intense,” and that heightened awareness is something he carries into art-making. In other words, the mindfulness learned in cooking – the careful balance of flavors, the responsiveness to heat and time – trains the same mindset used for balancing colors, forms, and textures in a composition. However, I do not agree with conflating dining with performative acts. For me, eating is one of the most introspective and personal experiences possible. The act of eating should be a mindful communion with food—a time to fully engage with the textures, flavors, aromas, and visual presentation of a meal. When an audience is involved, the experience shifts from a private, reflective ritual to a performance, and in doing so, the authenticity of eating is compromised. This performative layer distracts from the inherent intimacy of the moment, diluting the profound connection eating brings.
Beyond literal cooking, the methodology of the kitchen permeates the studio. Ellie Donnie’s ongoing PhD project Materials Research Kitchen views food as more than just subject matter, calling it “a method and metaphor to gain knowledge about an expanded sense of human-material ecology”. We all have a deep, embodied understanding of cooking processes – chopping, mixing, heating – developed from a young age, whether we realize it or not. This embodied knowledge can translate into how an artist approaches materials. For instance, dyeing fabric might be akin to steeping tea or making herbal broth; one must gauge temperature, timing, and gradual transformation of color, much like watching a stew develop flavor over hours. The studio can feel like a kitchen laboratory where pigments and textiles are the “ingredients” to be combined. And just as a chef balances sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and pungent flavors in Chinese cooking (a concept rooted in TCM’s five flavors theory), an artist balances colors, shapes, and contrasts to achieve a satisfying whole. There is a constant interplay between control and letting-go: you measure and plan, but also embrace improvisation and happy accidents, gauging through experience. This echoes a broader theme in my work – thriving in the borderland between the organized and the wild. I am not trying to let order dissolve into chaos; rather, I enjoying a process that is structured but open to the unpredictable. In the kitchen or in the studio, this balance between order and disorder can lead to creations that feel alive and authentic.
-
Traditional Chinese Medicine brings another layer of influence to my approach. TCM is fundamentally about harmony – balancing the energies in the body (yin and yang, the five elements) to maintain health. This artist extends that principle to art, treating an artwork almost like a living body that needs its elements in balance. In TCM herbal practice, a formula isn’t just one magic herb; it’s a careful combination where each herb plays a different role to help the body achieve harmony. One herb might be the “chief” ingredient addressing the main issue, supported by other herbs that assist, compensate, or harmonize the whole mixture. Similarly, I view my materials and components in a painting or textile as having distinct “roles.” A bold piece of red cloth might provide a needed spark (like a warming herb), while more subdued tones or a measured structure provide stability (like balancing herbs that prevent the mixture – or composition – from going too far in one direction). I try to compose these elements much like an herbalist crafting a tonic: with an intuitive sense of which combination creates a balanced, holistic effect. TCM says that foods and herbs have energies and “signature vibrations” that can stimulate the body’s energy when combined properly. In the context of art, one could say each material carries a certain essence or atmosphere, and part of my job is to feel how those essences interact. For example, rough, thick yarn might bring a grounding, earthy quality (akin to the Earth element), whereas a slick, shiny fabric might add a watery, flowing feel – the key is to make sure none of these overwhelms the others, achieving a kind of visual harmony of energies across the piece, unless the goal is to feel overwhelmed.
The influence of TCM on my daily practice is also significant. Traditional Chinese Medicine isn’t only about curing illness; it’s about daily maintenance of well-being (the concept of yangsheng or “nourishing life”). Not just nourishing myself physically but also mentally. This often means establishing routines – drinking herbal tea in the morning to warm the stomach, or doing qigong exercises at dawn to circulate qi. I don’t restrain myself in the formalistic aspect of nourishment, I try to adopts a similar philosophy in daily life and work. Mornings might start with a simple ritual like drinking boiled warm water, which not only primes the body but also sets a mindful tone for the day. In the studio, there is likely a routine of preparing the space and materials – almost like acupuncture for the workspace, placing tools in the right position, tidying up to create positive flow (think of it as feng shui for creativity). Such routines keep my “body” and the “body” of the artwork in tune. Just as the balance of one’s internal organs leads to health in TCM, the balance of elements in a composition leads to an artwork that feels right. I often checks in with my own body and mood too, recognizing that if they are imbalanced (tired, agitated, etc.), it will show up in my work. This holistic awareness is very much in the spirit of TCM, where mind and body are connected. We might say I practices a form of “studio medicine”: mixing pigments like herbs, adjusting each day’s method based on the “diagnosis” of how the piece feels, and treating the act of creation as a healing, harmonizing practice in itself.
-
Looming in the background of both Chinese medicine and many cooking traditions is Daoism (Taoism) – a philosophy that emphasizes living in harmony with the natural Way (Dao). Being heavily influenced by Daoism, my practice translates into an outlook that values spontaneity, balance, and the beauty of imperfection. Daoism teaches balance through the concept of yin and yang, the complementary forces of the universe. Rather than rigid dualism, it’s an “ever-present interplay between opposites, and the quest for a fluid equilibrium”. In art, this might manifest as balancing light and dark, or dense and empty spaces, in a composition. I consciously seek a dynamic equilibrium on the canvas or textile – not perfect symmetry, but a sense that every bold gesture has a quiet counterpoint, every tight, controlled section is offset by a loose, flowing one. This kind of balance gives the work a natural feel, much as a Daoist garden balances rock and water, or a good stir-fry balances crisp and tender, spicy and mild.
One of the hallmark Daoist attitudes is wu wei, often translated as “effortless action” or “non-forcing.” In practice, it means trusting the process and allowing things to unfold with minimal interference. I embraces this by letting materials behave as they will to some degree – for example, pouring dye and letting it spread in unpredictable ways, or allowing the weave of a textile to form slight uneven slubs. Rather than micromanaging every outcome, they respond to what happens naturally. This approach is beautifully illustrated by an ancient Daoist parable from the Zhuangzi text: the story of Ding. Ding is
a butcher who so masterfully butchers an ox that he never blunts his knife. His secret? He says, “What I care about is the Way (Dao), which goes beyond skill... I go along with the natural makeup [of the ox], strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and follow things as they are”. By “following things as they are”, the cook lets the knife glide through empty spaces between joints, effortlessly separating the meat without force. When he encounters a tricky spot, he slows down and moves with great subtlety until the obstruction falls apart on its own. Lord Wenhui, who watches this performance, exclaims that he has learned the art of nurturing life from Ding. This story has been a touchstone for generations of artists (and artisans) in East Asia – it’s essentially about spontaneous mastery. I want to apply the same wisdom: in a tricky part of a project, instead of forcing a solution, they pause and “listen” to the materials, feeling for where there’s an opening. Maybe the fabric got stained by dirty racks while drying, instead of trying to bleach it clean, I lean in and add more stains to my fabric. This intuitive, responsive way of working is Daoism in action. It’s not laziness or passivity; it’s a cultivated skill of sensing the natural course of things – when to act and when to step back.
Along with spontaneity comes an acceptance of imperfection. In Daoist thought (as well as related Zen aesthetics), there’s the idea that true naturalness includes irregularity. One concept that illustrates this is pu (朴), the “uncarved block.” Daoist sages like Laozi used the uncarved block as a metaphor for a state of wholeness and authenticity – things in their raw, unshaped form possess a certain pure potential. Carve the block, and you make it useful but you also impose form and limitation. For an artist, the uncarved block philosophy is a reminder not to overwork things. In practical terms, this might mean leaving some edges frayed, or allowing pigment to spread, or including an asymmetry in a repeated pattern on purpose. Such moves give the work the mark of the handmade, the personal, the real – as opposed to a sterile perfection. We can think of it as embracing the quirks that naturally arise in the process. A Daoist-influenced artist finds beauty in those quirks, much like one might find the gnarled shape of an old tree more interesting side by side with a flawlessly straight pole. The philosophy here is that imperfection is not a flaw to fix but a feature to appreciate. This sensibility resonates with the Japanese idea of wabi-sabi (beauty in imperfection and impermanence), which itself was influenced by Chan/Zen Buddhism – a tradition with roots in Daoist thought. Both Daoism and its Zen cousins teach that rigid perfection is lifeless, whereas a touch of randomness or asymmetry gives it life energy. In art, this often means the spirit or energy (qi) comes through more strongly when the artist doesn’t iron out every irregularity. (Notably, classical Chinese art criticism even has a term for this energy: qiyun, or “spirit resonance,” which one 6th-century critic said is the first and most important principle of painting – essentially the vitality that breathes life into art.) By accepting imperfection, I allow qi to flow in the work, rather than stifling it with over- polishing.
-
All these influences – the culinary sense of balance, the TCM-inspired harmony of materials, and the Daoist love of natural spontaneity – converge in my actual work. This is especially evident in my repeated patters, where I employ repetition with variation as a core methodology. Textiles often involve patterns that repeat: think of a motif woven or printed across a fabric, or rows of stitches in embroidery. Repetition provides structure and rhythm – it’s the orderly part of the equation. Yet, when done by hand, each iteration of the pattern is a little different. This is where spontaneity and imperfection slip in to enliven the design.
On a visual level, these slight variations prevent the pattern from becoming monotonous; instead, the eye discovers and is rewarded with surprises in each repeat. It might be a gentle wobble in a line of weaving, a slightly different shade where a natural dye batch shifted, or the imprint of a block print that came out a different angle than the last. Far from being mistakes, these nuances are the soul of the textile. I create what we might call rhythmic variation – like a piece of music where a theme repeats but with improvisational riffs. Culturally, this aligns with a long tradition of valuing the handmade quality in Asian crafts. For instance, in many indigenous weaving traditions (including Chinese, Japanese, and others), the weaver’s hand is present in the cloth through such irregularities, and these are appreciated as signs of life and authenticity. The artist’s approach echoes that: by ensuring each repeated element has its own character, the work avoids sterile perfection and instead feels alive and human.
Singing in choir taught me how each voice has its own timbre and role, but blends into a larger whole. Rhythm guided me in knowing when to place each motif, how to let one line lead and another support, and how to build tension and release through variation. Music also gave me a sense of balance: some notes are like main dishes, strong in flavours, while others are like rice, rich and essential to make the meal complete. Just as instruments weave together in a symphony, or flavors combine in a dish, motifs in my textiles layer and interact, creating a mixture that is complex/coherent, surprising/harmonious.
From a philosophical standpoint, we can see how this approach is a direct manifestation of Daoist and TCM principles. The repetition provides the structure, and the variation provides the yielding, organic element. Together they strike a balance. The repetition creates a meditative order – much like chanting a mantra or the repetition in ritual practice – while the variation ensures there is movement within that order, akin to the natural variability of our heartbeat or breath. In fact, daily routines in life are like this too: we do the same things each day (wake, eat, work, sleep), but never in exactly the same way. Even something as mundane as brushing our teeth is done with slight variation each time. Those small differences are what keep life (and art) interesting and evolving. In my studio practice, working on textiles becomes a form of meditation. The repeated actions – threading a loom, printing a pattern block, stitching along a line – put them in a steady rhythm, providing focus and calm. I allow each gesture to be influenced by my mood, the material’s response, even the weather (perhaps humidity affects the dye uptake, for example). This is a mindful repetition, very much in line with Daoist cultivation or even TCM regimen. It’s repetitive, but not rigid. It’s structured, but not stifling.
The result in the artwork is a pattern that feels orderly from afar, yet up close it dances with gentle irregularities. One could compare it to a field of grass: from a distance it’s a uniform green, but when you look closer, every blade is unique and swaying in its own way. In my textile designs, a viewer might sense the tranquility of the repeated motif, and simultaneously sense the vitality in the subtle changes.
Sources:
• Britannica Editors. “Traditional Chinese Medicine – Herbal Therapy.” Encyclopædia Britannica. (On the harmony of herbal combinations in TCM) .
• Zhuangzi (Chuang Tzu), “The Tale of Cook Ding.” (Daoist parable on effortless skill and following the natural way) .
• Casey Lesser, “Olafur Eliasson on How Cooking Fuels His Art Practice.” Artsy, 2018. (Artist’s use of a studio kitchen as creative catalyst) .
• Liz Nilsson, “Repetition as inspiration, meditation and practice.” Liz Inspires Blog, 2019. (On daily patterns and variation in repetition) .
• Krista Schoening, commentary on Robin Green’s exhibition This is what I meant to say, 2016. (On thriving between order and chaos, and subtle variation within repetition in art) .
• Lily Okamoto, “Taoism, Femininity, and Art: Illuminating Creative Journeys.” Artist Blog, 2023. (On Taoism’s yin-yang balance and the uncarved block concept in creativity) .
• Ellie Doney, “Materials Research Kitchen.” (Art project using food as method and metaphor for material knowledge) .
• Xie He (6th c.), Six Principles of Chinese Painting. (First principle “Spirit Resonance” – the transfer of vital energy into art) .