124. NINGDE WANG: A SPACE BETWEEN MATTER AND MEMORY.

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The Deluge, detail, 15632864Z 大洪水15632864Z, WANG Ningde 王宁德, 2024. Photographic paper, modulated printing inks applied by artist 相纸、艺术家调配打印墨水堆积, 155 × 286 cm. Image courtesy of the artist and Don Gallery.

‘As ‘Deluge’ observes, time is not an external flow but a process of constant generation, unfolding, and transformation. When plants leave their traces in water and light, they undergo a metamorphosis from matter to memory. In observing, waiting, and even listening to them as they dry, I too am shaped by time.’ N.W.

Seeing your work at Frieze in London, I was immediately amazed at the beauty of 'The Deluge'. Please can you introduce the work and how it came into being?

'The Deluge' draws its imagery from nature. Plants are collected, preserved as specimens, soaked, and dried until their forms are finally fixed onto photographic paper. The studio where the works are made is on an island in my hometown, located in northeastern China, near North Korea; looking at a map, it is also not far from Japan. I grew up there and am intimately familiar with the scents of these plants, their germination seasons, blooming periods, and the ways they wither. To me, they are not anonymous natural objects, but companions of my childhood. In the work, the plants are not “painted” by me; their forms are shaped collaboratively by flowing water, pigments, and time, as if they develop themselves, leaving traces on the photographic paper.

The context of a meadow is very evocative, the mix of foliage, forming a tonality, feels like a memory and yet the work is made using photography techniques, how does your relationship with your work change over time?

Plants transform from living branches and leaves into specimens, leaving behind only their shadows. This process often lasts for weeks, sometimes even longer. During this time, I am both observer and companion. The contours and textures left by the plants capture their natural progression—from fullness to dryness, from saturation to decay—and serve as evidence of their existence in the world, as well as slices of time. Moreover, the temperature, humidity, air currents, and even sounds during this period can leave traces within the work.

Sometimes, a leaf might curl suddenly with a change in humidity, or a specimen absorbing pigment will emit a faint “whispering” sound. In autumn, the studio is filled with the scent of daisies and oak leaves, and these aromas also become part of the work. In this process, I too inhabit the same span of time, quietly dissolving into the textures of the plants. My presence—my breathing, waiting, and sense of loss—is embedded alongside them. I share a fluid temporality with the plants: time is no longer merely an external, passing dimension, but a material state inscribed on the photographic paper by water, plants, and air. Each work becomes a manuscript of time, written collectively by water, light, and air.

The depth of tone within the work evokes time in a very particular way, the sense of fading away... of what remains... the implied space created within the work of removal feels particularly pronounced, please can you expand on the atmosphere created within The Deluge?

During the making of The Deluge, I often venture alone deep into the forest. Nature can be at once profoundly silent and softly murmuring, always narrating its own life stories. Plants engage in subtle and complex interactions with the air, light, and humidity. They capture sunlight and provide energy for all living things. Each plant perceives light and gravity in its own way; their forms appear still, yet they are continuously generating — a slow, almost imperceptible process of becoming that I aim to capture in my work.

The placement of plants may seem random, yet it carries an inherent order, a logic of its own. Amid my own breathing, they reveal the rhythms of life. The air, the scents, make me certain that early humans must have witnessed the same scenes; the breath of the forest, even as civilisation progresses, remains unchanged.

In nature, in the depths of the mountains and forests, breath becomes a language shared between humans and plants, allowing true communication. Plants are not merely objects to be observed; they absorb, transform, and release, filling the air with the vibrations of life. “Nature” is no longer an external object, but a continuously generating whole. Here, water, light, air, plants, and humans share the same material time; human existence depends on these living beings.

As ‘Deluge’ observes, time is not an external flow but a process of constant generation, unfolding, and transformation. When plants leave their traces in water and light, they undergo a metamorphosis from matter to memory. In observing, waiting, and even listening to them as they dry, I too am shaped by time.

As an image-based artist, I once took pride in creating natural images without relying on the element of “light” in photography. Yet deep in the forest, I witnessed the light I had previously excluded—it is hidden within the growth of the plants, within the energy they provide to humans. Only through humble listening and quiet attention can one truly communicate with nature.

I feel that the reference of nature within painting is becoming more and more focused upon in this time period, maybe this is a reaction to so many years of digital obsession. Why are you drawn to natural references?

The Deluge series began during the pandemic. During that time, we were forced to remain still, fixed within a confined space like plants. This made me look at the surrounding landscape anew, trying to understand it from the perspective of life itself.

Through evolution, plants have given up mobility, often remaining rooted in one place, silent for their entire lifespan. They perceive the world through roots, stomata, light, and humidity - not through consciousness, but through a “responsive” intelligence. In ways beyond our comprehension, they manifest the brilliance of life.

In Eastern art traditions, plants are not merely objects to be observed; they are embodiments of life itself. Nature is often personified and spiritualised, serving as an externalisation of the mind and a visual expression of cosmological philosophy. In Chinese painting, plants are frequently personified or symbolised: pine, bamboo, plum, orchid, and chrysanthemum convey not only the cycles of the seasons but also ideals of personal cultivation and virtue. In Korean painting, nature is viewed through the lens of “self-cultivation,” imbuing it with ethical meaning plants are both living beings and symbols of morality. Japanese painting apprehends nature through the concept of “emptiness,” expressing impermanence and tranquillity.

We often treat nature as mere background, yet plants remind me that they are not “there”; they share this moment with us. Their sense of time differs from ours, yet it is more profound. They do not seek meaning, but continuously generate it. When I work with them, I am not “depicting” them; I am attuning myself to a non-human rhythm.

During that period, paying attention to these overlooked or forgotten landscapes guided me to look back, to trace the depths of memory to my hometown, extending into mountains and forests. This is not romantic nostalgia, but a return to the smallest units of life, the earliest language, and the oldest temporal structures.

This can also be seen as a reflection on digital culture and “anthropocentric narratives.” In the silence of plants, I come to understand “existence” anew: not as conscious possession, but as continuous mutual manifestation with the world.

Your use of colour is very specific, the way the fluid layers pool into degradé shades is sensational, please can you expand upon your relationship with colour?

In my method, water serves both as a medium and as a recorder of time. I usually select a single tonal colour, allowing the water to seep, gather, and evaporate naturally within the structure of the plants and paper—the colour is not merely a decorative element of visual language, but a self-operating system. It diffuses according to humidity, gravity, and the direction of the paper fibers, emerging slowly like the gentle rhythm of breathing.

Merleau-Ponty suggested that colour is not a fixed property of objects, but a phenomenon revealed by the world itself through perception. Each time water carrying pigment flows across the body of a plant, it becomes an exchange of perception—I observe how the water “thinks” and how the pigment independently decides the boundaries where it will settle.

This state resonates with the concept of “wu wei”(non-action) in Eastern philosophy does not mean inaction, but allowing action to follow the natural rhythm, letting things determine themselves. When colour flows freely and diffuses, it reveals forms more complex and honest than expected; colour ceases to be merely a means of expression and becomes a manifestation of the material itself.

The Deluge 15632864Z 大洪水15632864Z, WANG Ningde 王宁德, 2024. Photographic paper, modulated printing inks applied by artist 相纸、艺术家调配打印墨水堆积,155 × 286 cm. Courtesy of the artist and Don Gallery. Image: M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) Frieze London, October 2025.

Ningde Wang, Don Gallery, Booth D32.

Paris Photo, 12-16, November 2025. Grand Palais, 3 avenue du Général Eisenhower, 75008, Paris.

Thank you Silvia Sun.