I didn’t choose Ziyu because it was dramatic.
I chose it because it felt unresolved.
A human face attached to a fish body is not shocking to me anymore. We live surrounded by hybrid identities. Online selves and physical selves. Public voices and private silence. Ziyu felt like a quiet echo of that condition, long before we had words for it.
What stayed with me was the river.
Rivers are not oceans. They are not endless. They are intimate, directional, impatient. They pass through lives without asking permission. Ziyu belongs to that space — not the mythic vastness of the sea, but the moving boundary between here and elsewhere.
I wanted to create an artwork that didn’t scream “myth.” I wanted it to feel like something you encounter accidentally — like a reflection that lingers half a second too long.
The human face became less about identity and more about memory. I imagined it as a projection, unstable, refracted by water. A face you can almost recognize but never fully claim.
This mattered to me because lately I feel that existence itself has become projected. We appear everywhere and nowhere at once. Ziyu became a way to speak about that without commentary.
Its scales turned into water ripples — not armor, not decoration, but movement frozen mid-thought. The body dissolves into its environment. You can’t tell where Ziyu ends and the river begins.
There is freedom in that ambiguity. And restraint.
I wasn’t interested in seduction or fear. I was interested in presence that doesn’t insist. Something that watches from below the surface and lets you pass unchanged.
Perhaps that, too, is a kind of God’s gift — not intervention, but continuity.
How Do You Translate a Face Without Fixing It?
This was the hardest question.
Faces demand meaning. They trigger projection, empathy, judgment. I had to resist all of that.
I decided early that Ziyu’s face would not be fully solid. It behaves like light underwater — shifting, diffused, occasionally disappearing. It is more signal than portrait.
Technically, I thought of it as an underwater projection mapped onto moving water. Conceptually, it allowed the face to exist without being owned.
I avoided emotional extremes. No smile. No anguish. Just a neutral gaze that doesn’t follow you. That was important. This work is not about being seen. It’s about being allowed to exist without response.
The fish body was designed as rhythm. Repetition of scale-like ripples, almost architectural. Calm. Meditative. The opposite of spectacle.
I stripped away narrative details. No jewelry. No symbols. No historical costume references. Ziyu had to feel timeless but not ancient.
This wasn’t about recreating myth. It was about asking what kind of myth we still live with unconsciously.
Where Can a River-Bound Presence Live Indoors?
This artwork belongs where people pause.
In a living room, it becomes a quiet anchor. Something that absorbs noise rather than adding to it. In a bedroom, it feels protective — like a boundary that watches while you sleep.
Creative spaces benefit most. Ziyu does not push ideas forward. It allows them to surface.
The piece works because it doesn’t dominate walls. It occupies them the way water occupies a container — adjusting, reflecting, responding.
Long-term viewing matters here. Over time, the face feels less like an image and more like a memory you didn’t realize you were carrying.
This is not decor for fast rotation. It rewards patience.
What Does the Poster Hold Without Explaining?
Meaning, for me, lives in restraint.
Ziyu does not symbolize a single thing. It gestures toward boundaries — between self and environment, between memory and identity, between presence and disappearance.
In contemporary life, we are constantly asked to define ourselves. This artwork refuses definition.
It reminds me that not everything that has a face needs a voice. Not everything that exists needs to announce itself.
The poster becomes a mirror only if you ask it to be.
What If Ziyu Never Spoke?
In my imagined story, Ziyu does not guide or warn.
It drifts through rivers at dusk, face flickering like a thought you almost remember. People sense it rather than see it. Animals move around it naturally.
It never crosses onto land. It never enters the sea.
Ziyu exists in transit.
That is the story I wanted to tell — a presence that survives by staying between definitions.
What Blessing Comes From Remaining Unfixed?
I believe freedom sometimes means not being fully known.
If this work offers a blessing, it is this:
May you be allowed to remain fluid.
May your identity ripple rather than harden.
May what watches you do so gently, without claim.
And may nothing essential about you be erased by clarity.
FAQ
What does a human-faced fish represent in contemporary art?
It often reflects hybrid identity, memory, and the boundary between self and environment.
Is this artwork suitable for modern home interiors?
Yes. Its calm presence and fluid composition make it suitable for long-term display in living spaces.
Does the artwork relate to mermaid symbolism?
It references mermaid-like forms but avoids fantasy tropes, focusing instead on abstraction and presence.
Is this an original reinterpretation?
Yes. It is an original contemporary artwork with no copyrighted characters.
Does the piece feel decorative or conceptual?
It balances both, offering visual calm with layered meaning.
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