Cao Shu‘s works incorporate a diverse range of media, including writing, photography, 3D digital imagery, mixed-media sculpture, and video game installations. His recent interests explore topics such as nuclear energy as a ghostly medium, socialist historical science fiction, ant colony algorithms and superindividual life forms, Lovecraftian literature and the collective unconscious, and the relationship between digital technology and memory etc. Cao Shu is the recipient of the OCAT x KADIST Emerging Media Artist Award(2022), Exposure Award of PHOTOFAIRS Shanghai (2021), and BISFF Award for Outstanding Artistic Achievement(2017). He was also a finalist for the inaugural E.A.T. PRIZE 2024. He has been a residency artist at Atelier Mondial in Basel(2017), Yokohama Koganecho Bazzaar (2019), Muffatwek Munich and Goethe Institute(2023). The Works are collected by KADIST Art Foundation, Australian White Rabbit Art Gallery, Blue Mountain Contemporary Art Foundation, HOW Art Museum, and Zhejiang Art Museum. Recently years, the works have been exhibited in art Museums around the world, such as Kunsthausbaselland, Matadero Contemporary Art and Culture Center, M+Museum Hong Kong, Power Station of Art Shanghai(PSA), UCCA Center for Contemporary Art Dune, White Rabbit Gallery Sydney, BY ART MATTERS Hangzhou, Macao Art Museum, OCAT Shanghai, Sleep Center New York, etc. In addition, the works have also been shortlisted for the main competition units of film festivals around the world, including the Leipzig Documentary and Animation Film Festival, DMZ Docs, Message to Man International Film Festival, Annecy International Animation Festival, Milano Film Festival, Ottawa International Animation Festival, Film Festival Hannover, etc.

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

My earliest studies were in new media art. During my student years, my teachers were among China’s very first generation of new media artists. From them, I learned how to look at everyday things from different angles. Later on, I started blending my own generation’s unique experiences into my work. My pieces gradually evolved to include research-based moving images made with 3D rendering, along with interactive art games and space installations. During this period, my friends and peers had a big impact on me. We all shared interests and areas of study, and we grew together. Thinking back to the very start of my artistic journey… I guess it would be when I was about three years old, drawing at my grandma’s house. That first drawing was of the train near my home and the thick smoke billowing from a chimney. Even though it was over thirty years ago, I still remember the details of that picture. My grip on the pen also dates back to then – I started with heavy fountain pens, and I never managed to fix that tight, fist-like way I hold it. I still grip my pen with my whole fist wrapped around it today.

How do you stay inspired and motivated to create new work?

My creative process draws heavily from real-life experiences. I often spend long periods mulling over a particular idea or subject, but these thoughts don’t always find quick answers. It’s often a chance encounter in a specific place that finally sparks them into life. I always keep a sketchbook by my bed to capture those half-dreamed images, strange story fragments, and indescribable moods from the edge of sleep. These irrational, fleeting moments – like the floating childhood toys or warped apartment block corridors in my earlier work Corner of the Park – defy clear logic. Yet, they carry a strong sense of metaphor and time displacement. I see them as developer fluid for my subconscious. Recording them provides blurry yet real ‘geological samples’ for later reconstructing reality in my CG worlds. Family stories told by my parents, old photographs, even a faded train ticket stub… these seemingly trivial ‘pieces of evidence’ also form layers in my ‘memory archaeology’. I’m not trying to pin down historical ‘truth’. Instead, I’m fascinated by how these narratives and objects warp, shift, and become reshaped by personal perspective over time. This fascination is rooted in probing memory itself and a healthy wariness of technology. My goal is to capture the metaphorical power of technology. I see a striking parallel between how computer images are made and how memories surface: Both start with fuzzy static (the chaos of memory). Then comes ‘denoising’ (details emerging). Finally, they crystallize into something ‘false yet believable’. This ‘rendering vs. remembering’ analogy forms the starting point for many of my projects. I approach new tools like 3D software, game engines, and AI generation with enthusiasm for experimentation. But this is far from a chase after flashy tech tricks. What truly hypnotizes me is the inner logic of the technology itself and how it reshapes human perception – especially memory and imagination. The very act of using these tools becomes a perfect model for thinking about how memory works. This drives me to constantly question: What is the nature of the ‘realism’ CG technology creates? How do virtual spaces built in game engines change how we see the physical world? Could those unexplained ‘glitches’ and ‘distortions’ in AI images reveal glimpses of collective unconscious fantasies… or even traces of historical trauma?

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

In my earlier work, I was more focused on exploring experimental ideas and concepts through art. I used a mix of text, painting, photography, video, and animation. Back then, I had this kind of obsession with ‘stripping the meaning away’ from words. In pieces like An Uncountable Noun and the Color of Concept series, I tried to peel off the cultural baggage and emotional weight stuck to certain words. I wanted to reduce them to pure visual elements – just color, lines, movement, and sound. This wasn’t about ignoring feelings, but about finding a more direct, open way to experience things right where language starts to break down. Visually, things were simpler and more restrained. I was questioning how language itself holds power, and exploring whether visuals could become a more ‘neutral’ way to communicate. This approach was probably influenced by Modernist writers like Beckett and Robbe-Grillet.

Later, my work shifted. Key ideas became CG animation, multi-screen installations, reconstructing memory, and spatial storytelling. My main medium became CG-animated videos, usually shown on multi-screen setups (double, triple, or more screens). This phase was really about building ‘memory detective stories’. A good example is my solo show, The Ocean of Solaris. Using multiple screens broke the usual single-story timeline. Viewers had to physically move around, piecing together the narrative by switching between screens showing different viewpoints, different moments in time, and different versions of memories. It was like trying to solve a puzzle you could never fully solve – mirroring how memory itself is fragmented, multi-angled, and constantly being reshaped. My drive during this time also came from being wary of technology’s dominance and consciously setting limits. Visually, I aimed for something between real and unreal. I avoided super-polished Hollywood-style CGI. Instead, I kept a digital feel – things like slight seams in models or deliberate visual ‘noise’. I even used ‘mistakes’ in the rendering process (like in Infinity and Infinity Plus One), letting the technology’s own traces become metaphors for how memory is imperfect and technology itself is often opaque.

My most recent pieces often use game engines, focusing on ghostly themes and exploring historical echoes. Works like the video game Roam Simulator invites the audience to ‘walk’ and ‘play’ inside it. Or take my new work, Diffusion. It tackles AI image generation and what I call ‘techno-spiritualism’. I studied how AI image tools work (like diffusion models), especially the process of turning random noise into a clear picture. I saw a fascinating parallel between this and 19th-century ‘Spirit Photography’ – those old photos that tried to capture ghosts. I see the ‘glitches’ and weird distortions AI creates as a kind of modern digital ‘séance’. The AI’s hidden algorithms act like a medium. The ‘ghosts’ that appear unexpectedly in these images? They might be hidden collective fears, traces of historical trauma, or the forgotten voices from the edges of society, suddenly made visible in the chaos of the image-making process.

What’s the most rewarding aspect of being creative in your experience?

Lately, a really inspiring insight for me has been figuring out how to practice a kind of ‘digital ghostology’ at the excavation site of memory. Turning personal or collective history into a workable narrative model is essentially a method that redefines memory reconstruction as ‘historical detective work’ and ‘archival fiction.’ The first step involves evidence gathering and admitting contamination: I collect memory ‘evidence’ like photos, diaries, and oral accounts, but I’m fully aware this ‘evidence’ itself is already ‘contaminated’ and altered by time, emotions, and the narrator’s perspective; I don’t aim to ‘restore the truth,’ but instead embrace these traces left by time and their inherent instability. Next is building the ‘crime scene,’ not restoring facts: Like a detective, I use these fragmented, potentially contradictory ‘clues’ to construct a highly subjective ‘memory scene’ model in digital space using tools like 3D software and game engines – examples include the tube-shaped apartment maze in Melancholy of Tristes North Temperate Zone or the blended classroom-train space in Roam Simulator. This model isn’t a copy of the past; it’s a narrative engine designed to spark associations and hold multiple interpretations. Finally, I introduce ‘literary fiction’ as a catalyst, drawing heavily on influences like Kafka-esque absurd logic and sci-fi thought experiments, such as in Solaris. For instance, the vaguely mentioned, ‘password-recorded girl’ from my diary isn’t directly depicted in Corner of the Park; instead, she transforms into a constantly replicating, morphing, and ultimately dissolving figure. This kind of fiction acts as a lever to pry open cracks in reality and touch deeper emotions or existential dilemmas. My core aim is to understand the inner workings, historical lineage, and hidden philosophical/political meanings of the technological mediums themselves, then transform this insight into the intrinsic structure and poetic expression of my work: building temporally folded spaces in game engines where walking itself triggers Proustian involuntary memories; deliberately leaving unstitched seams or tiny rendering glitches in CG models to remind viewers of the medium’s artificiality and create space for emotional cracks; treating AI not as an ‘all-powerful creator’ but as an ‘uncontrollable spirit board,’ forcing viewers to confront the mystery, loss of control, and potential power imbalances beneath technology’s rational surface. ‘Ghosts,’ as a way to give digital form to the invisible, represent unspeakable, repressed, or faded feelings and events within personal memory; collective traumas and marginalized existences obscured, forgotten, or deliberately erased by mainstream historical narratives; the unexplained ‘noise,’ ‘errors,’ and potential biases within technical systems like algorithms and databases – seen as the return of repressed content; and finally, those existential experiences that escape the grasp of language itself.

Are there new technologies or mediums you’re curious to explore?

Lately, I’ve been fascinated by the connection between MR technology (Mixed Reality) and ghosts. I think it’s a really interesting combination. Last year, I finished a project exploring historical ‘spirit mediums’, specifically the relationship between early photography and ghosts. It talked more about how when new technologies suddenly arrive, people often pin almost religious hopes on them (like expecting a savior), and how this leads to panic and ghostly fantasies. Those invisible spirits and ghosts represent the hidden fears and dreams we all share deep down – things history has pushed aside or forgotten. Facing new technology, we often feel lost and struggle to understand our place. In those moments, it can be really helpful to look back at how we got here. Looking at the path we’ve travelled often gives us surprising insights.

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

I find it hard to give advice because I still consider myself an emerging artist. But if I had to share something that feels deeply true to me, it’s this: The most important part of being an artist is paying attention to the smallest, most subtle feelings in your lived experience. Be honest with them. Don’t let yourself be pushed around by trendy international topics or whether you win big awards. An artist’s unique voice often comes from the ‘imperfections’ or ‘quirks’ in their work. When you stick with these ‘imperfections’ for years, that’s often what makes it truly special – not making something that fits everyone else’s idea of what’s ‘correct’.

Text & photo courtesy of Cao Shu

Website: www.caoshuart.com
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