My inspiration for Yíng Fish came from a quiet contradiction that I couldn’t let go of.
In many mythological systems, creatures that belong to more than one world are treated as unstable or dangerous. They are warnings. They are omens. They signal collapse. Yíng Fish certainly carries that weight—its appearance foretells great floods—but nowhere in the original myth does it express malice. It simply exists, and the world changes around it.
That distinction mattered to me.
I began thinking about how often freedom is framed as something reactive. In modern discourse—especially in North American cultural narratives—freedom is often loud, defiant, and confrontational. It rises only when something must be resisted. But what happens to freedom when resistance is no longer the point? What does freedom look like when it doesn’t need permission or opposition to exist?
Yíng Fish answered that question for me.
A fish is bound to water. A bird is defined by air. Yíng Fish belongs fully to neither limitation. Its wings do not replace the water; they transcend the condition of being submerged. When floods rise, it does not drown, and it does not flee. It adapts without panic.
The sound of mandarin ducks—soft, paired, relational—became another anchor for my interpretation. This is not a solitary cry. It is communication that assumes presence on the other side. That idea felt deeply contemporary to me: expression not as a performance, but as connection.
Visually, I wanted to honor Japanese ukiyo-e not as a stylistic costume, but as a philosophical framework. Ukiyo-e treats the world as fleeting, floating, and impermanent. Floods, waves, clouds—these are not disasters but conditions of existence. By combining that worldview with modern digital rendering, I could create an image that feels both ancient and psychologically current.
For a North American audience, I intentionally avoided dramatic heroism. There is no muscular tension, no aggressive motion. The wings are open, but not straining. The water is high, but not violent. Freedom here is quiet, internal, and resilient.
At its core, this piece was inspired by a personal question:
What if freedom didn’t have to be earned through suffering?
What if it simply existed as a capacity—to rise when needed?
Creative Thought Process
My creative process for Yíng Fish was defined by subtraction rather than addition.
Every time I felt tempted to add spectacle—larger waves, more dramatic lighting, sharper contrast—I paused and asked whether that choice served the meaning or merely the image. More often than not, restraint won.
The fish body is rendered long and steady, never twisted. I wanted its movement to feel inevitable, not reactive. The wings are bird-like but not aggressive—no sharp angles, no predatory posture. They are instruments of balance, not domination.
The decision to merge ukiyo-e wave structures with modern digital depth was intentional. Traditional ukiyo-e waves are symbolic rather than realistic; they repeat, they pattern, they flatten space. Digital techniques allowed me to reintroduce subtle depth—soft atmospheric perspective, controlled gradients, gentle noise—without breaking that symbolic clarity.
Freedom is often illustrated through chaos. I did the opposite. I illustrated it through composure.
Color choices were equally restrained. The palette leans toward mineral blues, muted reds, and off-white negative space. Nothing screams for attention. The eye is allowed to rest. In North American interior and gallery contexts, this restraint is crucial—it allows the piece to live with the viewer rather than overwhelm them.
The biggest challenge was emotional neutrality. The creature does not smile. It does not grimace. It does not dramatize its condition. This neutrality invites projection. Viewers are free to see themselves in the figure, rather than being told what to feel.
In many ways, the process mirrored the subject: staying calm while everything rises.
Suitable Display Scenarios
This poster is designed for spaces that value reflection over decoration.
In North America, it fits naturally within contemporary art galleries, university libraries, creative studios, cultural centers, and private collections where symbolism matters. It works especially well in environments that explore themes of identity, voice, transition, and resilience—places where people think, create, or quietly recalibrate.
In residential spaces, Yíng Fish functions as a visual anchor. It doesn’t dominate a room; it stabilizes it. The restrained palette and balanced composition allow it to coexist with modern interiors, minimalist spaces, and curated art walls.
It is also particularly suited for spaces that navigate change: therapy offices, meditation rooms, creative workspaces, or transitional environments where people are redefining themselves.
Rather than telling a story loudly, it listens.
The Meaning of the Poster
Yíng Fish represents freedom that does not deny circumstance.
The flood is real. The water rises. The conditions change. Freedom, in this image, is not the absence of pressure—it is the ability to remain whole within it.
The fish body symbolizes immersion: being fully inside a system, environment, or emotional state. The bird wings symbolize possibility: the capacity to rise without rejecting where one came from.
Together, they form a being that survives transformation without erasure.
In a contemporary context, this becomes a metaphor for expression that does not self-destruct. Speaking without burning bridges. Existing without apology. Rising without abandoning depth.
Creative Story
In my imagined narrative, Yíng Fish does not arrive to warn. It arrives because the water has already begun to rise.
It moves slowly, wings open, voice low and paired. Those who see it do not panic. They feel steadier. Not because danger disappears, but because fear loses its grip.
Yíng Fish does not carry people away. It reminds them that survival does not always look like escape.
Sometimes it looks like flight that begins underwater.
Blessing
May you learn when to swim and when to rise.
May the water never convince you that it owns you.
May your voice remain gentle and intact, even as the world shifts around you.
Like Yíng Fish, may you grow wings without losing your depth.
