dawn jian is a Los Angeles–based multidisciplinary artist working across painting, generative AI, digital image-making, material fabrication, and public art. Born in Guangzhou and raised in Canada and the United States, they draw upon a cross-cultural visual language that brings Chinese ink sensibilities into conversation with Western abstraction and emerging technologies.

dawn creates custom-trained AI models using their own paintings, translating generated fragments back into physical works through gestural painting, collage, scraping, and layered surface treatments. Their practice examines how technology reshapes perception, authorship, and the natural world. Glitches, pixelation, eroded surfaces, and mineral-like textures connect the instability of digital images with the material and ecological infrastructures that support them.

Alongside their painting practice, dawn has developed site-responsive public artworks and installations for commericial, museum, festival, and educational contexts in China and the United States. Projects include Fonte de Lotus, commissioned by Sofitel Macau; Ripple Rocker, commissioned by Shimen Middle School in Nanhai, China; PādaP’goda as an Honorarium Project at Burning Man; and Rocker of Abundance, presented as a one-day public art activation at the Chinese Historical Society of America in San Francisco.

They received their BFA in Environmental Design and MA in Social Design from the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA). Their work has been presented in solo exhibitions in Hong Kong and Macau, alongside group exhibitions, public projects, and art fairs in Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, New York and San Francisco.

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

The idea of becoming an artist was initially quite foreign to me, especially growing up in a traditional Chinese household. I was born in Guangzhou, China, into a family of mechanical engineers, so I thought I would eventually become a scientist or lawyer. But there was also an artistic thread in my lineage. My grandma, who was an elementary school teacher, often came and took care of me. Her father, my great-grandfather, was a professional painter. I think she quietly nurtured my love of making things and expressing myself with art. I remember reading books and watching anime and Disney cartoons with her and then spending hours trying to draw my favorite characters. Time always seemed to disappear when I was drawing.

As my family moved from China to Canada and then to the United States, art became increasingly important to me. Moving between countries had a strong impact on my sense of identity, and I often struggled to make friends in unfamiliar environments. More so than the language barrier, there was a huge cultural barrier. I became more inward and spent more time painting and drawing. By high school, I was the only student taking AP Art, so I asked my parents if I could study painting outside of school. They were fortunately very supportive.

My mother found a Ukrainian afterschool painting teacher who had been trained in Soviet-style oil painting, and I studied with her for about three and a half years. She taught me to paint still lifes and plein air landscapes from observation and trained me to closely observe and separate the color temperatures between natural and artificial light. What began as a weekly two-hour class eventually became something I attended every few days when I was deeply immersed in a painting. That rigorous training gave me a strong technical foundation and eventually helped me build a portfolio for art school and receive merit scholarships.

Although I was also accepted to RISD and Pratt, I ultimately chose MICA because its curriculum encouraged students to work across disciplines while developing their own artistic voices. During my foundation year, I took an architectonics course that introduced me to spatial thinking, and I eventually majored in Environmental Design. At the time, I was drawn to the structure of research, problem-solving, and designing within a brief. Coming from both a STEM-oriented family and a highly structured painting education, I found comfort in design, which seemed to be working toward a solution. Painting at art school initially felt almost too open-ended; after years of observational training and being taught what was technically “right” or “wrong,” I wasn’t yet sure how to locate my own voice within that freedom.

Toward the end of college, I also became interested in digital fabrication. I learned to work with laser cutters, 3D printers, and CNC mills and became fascinated by the process of designing something on a computer and then translating it into a physical object. After graduating, I worked for a public art startup in San Francisco and designed flat-pack furniture in my free time, I also applied for and received a small grant to participate in the Market Street Prototyping Festival in downtown San Francisco. I even traded my digital fabrication skills for tickets to Burning Man, where I helped with an art car and large-scale installations over the span of several years.

I found my way back to painting somewhat unexpectedly during a family trip to China with my father in 2017. I brought a sketchbook with me and made a small watercolor almost every day. My dad noticed how happy and absorbed I became while painting and gently suggested that I find my way back to it. When I returned to the United States, I developed a few of those watercolors into oil paintings and used them to apply to a summer painting program at Columbia University in New York. I was fortunate to be admitted, and it was there, surrounded by the density and intensity of New York, that I began to understand painting more deeply. The program gave me new language for thinking and speaking critically about painting, while frequent visits to galleries and museums exposed me to work that expanded my understanding of what contemporary painting could be.

Even after the program, though, I still felt quite lost. I didn’t know how to reconcile the designer part of my identity with the part of my identity that craved for color and felt alive when painting. I had spent years thinking spatially and fabricating public art, while painting seemed to belong to a completely different world. For a while, I felt incomplete in both identities and not fully at home in either.

In 2018, I returned to China and spent roughly a year participating in artist residencies in Changzhou, Beijing, and Sanshui. Being surrounded by a cohort of young, emerging Chinese artists had a profound effect on me. There was something grounding about being immersed in an artistic community that felt culturally familiar while also being highly experimental and contemporary in my native language. I returned back to the States in 2019, but continued to go back and forth between the US and China after COVID.

Through conversations, studio visits, and simply observing how other artists built their practices, I gradually began to understand that I did not need to it neatly into one category. Instead, spatial thinking, design, technology, fabrication, installation, and material experimentation could all exist within a hybrid multidisciplinary artistic practice.

What are the main themes or concepts you explore in your work?

The main theme in my work center on translation: between digital technology and handmade processes and between Eastern and Western visual traditions. Across both my installations and paintings, I’m interested in bringing seemingly different systems into conversation without necessarily resolving the tensions between them.

In my installation and public art projects, this often takes the form of using materials and symbols significant to Asian culture. Growing up in the United States, I often felt detached from my Chinese heritage and community, so these projects became a way for me to reconnect with my cultural history while also making it visible to others. Rocker of Abundance, for example, draws from the visual language of traditional Chinese papercuts but translates it into playful public seating. PādaP’goda, a temporary pavilion created for Burning Man, was constructed from giant bamboo in the form of a two-tiered octagonal pagoda. Its geometry references Buddhist numerology, while bamboo carries connotations across many Asian cultures. I created the pagoda to create a recognizable point of cultural presence and a safe space where curiosity and conversation could emerge. Fonte de Lotus was commissioned by Sofitel Macau and takes inspiration from the lotus, the floral emblem of Macau. Its spiraling form and cascading water elements draw on principles of 风水 (Feng Shui), where the movement and sound of flowing water are associated with circulating positive energy and maintaining a sense of balance and vitality.

My paintings approach similar questions through the language of abstraction. I bring techniques and concepts from traditional Chinese brush painting into conversation with American Abstract Expressionism (AbEx), drawing on what I absorbed from painting in New York as well as artist residencies in Beijing, Changzhou, and Sanshui. Chinese approaches such as 没骨画法 (“boneless” painting), 泼彩 (splash-color), and 留白 (activated emptiness) allow washes, flowing pigment, and open space to create atmosphere and ambiguity. Alongside these, I use more physical techniques associated with Western abstraction—soak-staining, smearing, scraping, and large bodily gestures made with unconventional tools.

Digital processes have also become increasingly important to this dialogue. I collect photographs of natural phenomena—changing skies, reflected light, ripples on water—and use them as reference images alongside images generated from my custom AI LoRa. I work with preset and custom digital brushes in ProCreate and Photoshop pattern over top and incorporate the digital language of image compression and glitches. These digital elements are then translated back into physical paint, so the work moves continuously between the flatness of the screen and the tactile quality of hand-painted gestures.

I am less interested in blending these influences into a single seamless style than in allowing their differences and contrasts to remain visible. Chinese brush painting often emphasizes restraint and insinuation while American abstraction has frequently foregrounded maximalism and physicality. Digital imagery introduces yet another kind of logic—one shaped by pixels.I’m fascinated by the way my work can move between seemingly opposing conditions—delicacy and aggression, emptiness and density, and the handmade and the machine-made—and I’m still exploring how these tensions can coexist and find balance within the same image. I hope both my installations and paintings can offer spaces where different cultural and visual languages can coexist and come into conversation with one another.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

When I first returned to painting after years of not painting at all and dedicating myself to design, my painting practice was primarily instinctual. I was channeling a lot of rage and raw emotions onto the canvas, emotions that I’ve repressed after working so cleanly and precisely in digital fabrication and design. Painting initially gave me a way to release all of that pent-up energy, be messy and express it freely. Over time, this has evolved from being purely physically driven into a more hybrid practice with controlled spontaneity and plenty of preplanning.

Earlier in my practice, I was much more interested in allowing the materiality of paint to lead the way. I developed a series where I only flung thick primary colors at the canvas. Then I would cut up these canvases and patch them back together. I also experimented with found and reclaimed materials as well as natural minerals and pigments. I was drawn to operating outside of the commercial system of painting, to the extent of being determined to not source any of my art materials from art supply stores. There was something rebellious about that way of working. Over time, as I exhibited more of my paintings, I let the commercial art world influence some of my work. My work changed from big abstract paintings to more modest size pieces that could be bought by first-time collectors and hung in the home or office.

My background in spatial design thinking and digital fabrication also began to influence the way I approached painting. I began to reintegrate the logic of planning out a piece in stages similar to an architectural project, editing, and working from a digital mockup. Rather than seeing those approaches as opposites, I began to flow between them in the process of making the work.

That tension has become especially important in my recent paintings. A number of them begin with images generated through a custom AI LoRA model that I trained on an archive of my own paintings. I think of AI less as a tool for producing a finished composition and more as a collaborator. I trust that my LoRA can recombine aspects of my visual language in ways I might not arrive at on my own, but it would still be cohesive with my current body of work. Sometimes I’m happy with the output image, and sometimes I select fragments from those image generations, alter and collage them, and continue developing the composition in Phosohop.

Then I erase parts of the composition, and print it out on canvas to improvise and paint over. I look at the existing base of the composition and use a variety of techniques to conceal and augment the image. However, the colors are extremely different in the digital space than how we can perceive them with our naked eye. The texture and density of paint can also only be felt in real time, so sometimes when I scrape the surface, some gestures may become more aggressive than anticipated. Rather than trying to replicate the digital mockup exactly, I run with those accidents to create possibilities that I could not have designed on a screen. I often photograph the painting again, bring it back into the iPad to revisit the composition, and repeat that process over and over, translating the work repeatedly between digital and physical space.

My style now feels much more hybrid and integrated than it did earlier in my practice. I work less with found materials and more with images that emerge through a dialogue between my own custom AI model, digital drawing, and physical paint. What has remained consistent is my interest in creating images of with complexity, layers, and a tension expressed with the colors, but I now place those qualities against systems of rational planning and technological mediation. I’m interested in the point where the logic of the machine and the intelligence of the body come into balance—where digital precision and the unpredictability of paint synchronize, each shaping and responding to the other.

How do you approach exhibiting your work? What are your goals when showing your art in public spaces?

I approach exhibiting my work with the mindset of an interior architect. My BFA was in Environmental Design from MICA, so I’m especially attentive to the proportions of a space, its sources of light, sightlines, circulation, and the way spatial design can influence how people move through an exhibition. Whenever possible, I try to visit a venue well in advance so I can think about the work in relation to the architecture rather than treating the gallery as a neutral container. This affects which pieces I select, their scale in relation to the available wall space, and the amount of distance I want between them. I’m also interested in how individual works speak to one another across a room and how the sequence of encountering them can shape the viewer’s experience.

That sensitivity becomes even more important when I work in public space. In projects for the Market Street Prototyping Festival, Sofitel Macau, Shimen Middle School, and Burning Man, I have tried to create environments that feel both safe and kinetic. I’m drawn to movement because it asks people to participate physically rather than simply observe from a distance. There is often a sense of nostalgia in these works as well; I think about playground structures and the instinctive pleasure of rocking, swinging, spinning, and defying the laws of gravity.

Rocker of Abundance, for example, was designed to move gently when two people sat on it together. That shared motion created a playful situation in which strangers could become briefly connected through the same physical experience. PādaP’goda incorporated a revolving reciprocal tower at its center, inviting visitors to spin the structure together and, at times, simultaneously climb onto it. Because the work encouraged that kind of participation, safety became inseparable from the artistic concept. I worked closely with a structural engineer to calculate the number of bearings needed beneath the rotating platform and to ensure that it could support both the weight of the tower and the anticipated number of participants.

My goal with public art is to create situations in which people of different ages and backgrounds can come together through play. However, designing public art involves balancing self expression and responsibility. I want the work to feel inviting, playful, and slightly adventurous, but I also want people to feel secure enough to engage with it without hesitation. Whether they are rocking, swinging, or spinning, I hope my installations create small moments of connection between strangers and create memorable moments for friends.

What advice would you give to emerging artists trying to establish themselves?

I still feel like an emerging artist myself, so I hesitate to position myself as someone with definitive advice. But if I were speaking to myself a year ago—or thinking about the habits I want to continue developing now—I would say: stay open, stay visible, and keep building genuine relationships.

Try to say yes to opportunities that feel aligned, even if they fall slightly outside your comfort zone. Apply to residencies, open calls, grants, and exhibitions, and don’t be discouraged by rejection. A lot of establishing yourself as an artist is simply continuing to put your work into circulation. Go to art fairs, openings, museum exhibitions, and artist talks, but also attend events outside of the art world. Some of the most meaningful supporters and potential collectors of your work may come from entirely different fields. I think networking is most meaningful when it grows from genuine curiosity and mutual support. I try to approach relationships by asking, “How can I support this person’s goals?” rather than focusing on what I might receive in return.

At the same time, be intentional about where you place your energy. Research galleries before approaching them and understand the artists they represent rather than going to every show indiscriminately. Follow artists, curators, writers, and spaces whose work genuinely interests you. If someone’s work inspires you, share it, attend their events, and participate in the community around them.

I would also encourage emerging artists to take their studio practice seriously, even before they feel established. For me, that means being intentional not only about the time I spend in the studio, but also about the financial side of maintaining a practice. I try to track what I spend on materials, fabrication, studio rent, applications, shipping, and other professional expenses, so I have a realistic sense of what it actually costs to make my work and price my work accordingly.

Consistency is equally important. I sometimes procrastinate, but I’ve developed a routine of going to the studio for at least four hours a day. Having a daily practice gives me momentum and makes the studio feel less dependent on inspiration. Even on difficult days, showing up, experimenting, organizing materials, or simply looking at the work helps move the practice along. The work will grow gradually out of all of those small daily actions.

Investing in continuing education has also been incredibly important to me. Programs such as TAAS and Crit Club, online courses and weekend workshops have helped expand my network and meet artists who are navigating similar questions in their careers. I also recommend listening to artist-run podcasts such as Beyond the Studio, Art Problems, and the Side Woo to glean advice from the artists that have been interviewed.

Finding your peers is just as important as meeting people who are further along in their careers. Seek out artists whose work or values resonate with yours. Invite them into your studio and learn how to talk about your work while remaining open to feedback. If there is genuine chemistry, consider organizing exhibitions or forming a collective together. Band together and then approach the institutions together.

And finally, find mentors. Ideally, more than one, because different people can offer very different perspectives. Ask thoughtful questions, learn from their experiences, and allow those relationships to develop over time. A good mentor can help you recognize possibilities you might not yet see, introduce you to ways of thinking about your career, and sometimes connect you with people or resources that can help you move forward. Approach those relationships with trust, respect, and reciprocity rather than an access to someone’s network.

More than anything, I would remind myself to stay humble, to actively cultivate my network, and remain curious. Building a network is not simply about collecting contacts; it means maintaining relationships, supporting other people’s work, following up, and being genuinely present in the communities you hope to be part of.

Curiosity is what keeps a practice alive. Keep going to current exhibitions, take workshops and learn new techniques. Also, read and delve more deeply into the subjects that interest you. The more you engage with current ideas, the more grounded your work can become in the particular moment in which you are making it. I think a sustainable artistic practice grows from a balance of discipline, curiosity, and staying attuned to the world around you.

What projects are you currently working on, and what can we expect from you in the future?

I’m currently developing a series of paintings centered on haptic touch and the traces we leave behind when interacting with screens, alongside a fascination with the ephemeral quality of clouds moving across changing skies. I’m interested in imagining these gestures from the perspective of a machine that is constantly interpreting our touch. Areas of negative space and sweeping marks suggest familiar actions like tapping, dragging, and swiping, turning everyday digital gestures into ghostlike traces of human presence. At the same time, those white spaces can resemble soft clouds drifting across a pixelated, shifting backdrop, allowing the imagery to move between the language of digital interfaces and the natural world.

Text and photo courtesy of dawn jian

Website: https://dawnjian.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/okidawwwn/