Dusty Mag

Icy Qiao is a London-based multidisciplinary artist working across animation, moving image, sculpture, and installation. Her practice is deeply autobiographical, exploring trauma, identity, and East Asian family dynamics through emotionally charged, experimental storytelling.

A graduate of the Royal College of Art’s Narrative Animation program, Icy transforms memory and psychological experience into tactile, visual forms. In 2023, her work was permanently collected by a national first-tier museum in China, cementing her growing presence in both international and domestic art scenes. Here is our interview with Icy Qiao.

How does giving shape to anxiety, like your clay tooth sculptures, change the way you carry it?

I keep a habit of journaling at night and recording dreams in the morning as a form of self-analysis. Later on, when I checked my records, I found out that during anxious periods, I repeatedly dreamt of teeth falling out, sometimes lost, sometimes swallowed. I began sculpting those teeth in clay. The tactile and slightly unruly material let me retrieve what the dream had taken. The act echoed Melanie Klein’s idea of aggression and repair. In the dream, I swallowed my aggression; in waking life, I carefully rebuilt it. Externalising it clarified the source of my anxiety, unexpressed anger and blurred boundaries, and it reduced the intensity.

Your work avoids traditional stories in favor of fragments. What does breaking narrative open up for you?

I’m drawn to nonlinear and multi-threaded storytelling. Traditional narrative structures often feel a bit dull to me—they focus so much on clarity and technical execution that I start paying more attention to form than feeling. That’s why I’m always curious about how to break those structures. In my piece Self-Inflicted Pain, for example, I wanted to explore whether emotion could be conveyed purely through image, without relying on plot or voiceover. The film consists of six actions with no specific storyline, emphasising the repeated weight of traumatic memory.

In another piece, Eleven, an immersive storytelling work, I placed multiple characters with individual storylines throughout a space. I wanted viewers to explore freely rather than be guided by a single viewpoint or traditional montage. These experiments help me rediscover other possibilities of moving image, beyond narrative, toward atmosphere and emotion.

Silence seems to echo through your pieces. How has growing up in East Asian family dynamics shaped how you express emotion?

I’ve never been someone who’s good at expressing emotions verbally. I grew up in an environment of emotional neglect, a typical East Asian household structure with an absent father and an over-controlling mother. My mother and I formed an unhealthy codependent relationship where my emotions and identity were often consumed or dismissed. Over time, I became used to silence.

This silence naturally found its way into my work. Art became the outlet for everything I couldn’t say aloud. I’m drawn to the process of creating something out of nothing. I rarely use dialogue or text in my pieces, I see the work itself as its own language. I prefer viewers to experience the emotions through their own lens.

When you return to the same themes or actions, is it for comfort, control, or something else entirely?

There’s a psychological method called trauma reprocessing therapy, and in many ways, my work reflects that. Much of what I create revolves around memory and trauma. By revisiting and reconstructing those scenes, I reframe their meaning and build a stronger sense of control over them.

This process also allows me to reconnect with the version of myself that felt helpless—someone I had once abandoned. Through empathy and care, I begin to reintegrate her. So yes, there’s comfort, and there’s control, but above all, it’s about healing. It’s a rebirth of self.

Your pieces are deeply personal, but also speak to bigger cultural issues. Where does your story end and something collective begin?

My creative process always starts from personal experience. It’s a matter of sincerity, I find it difficult to speak authentically about things I haven’t lived. But from that starting point, I often research whether my experiences reflect broader social or cultural patterns.

For instance, my 2D animated film MoM explored toxic symbiosis in intimate relationships—both familial and romantic. It stemmed from my relationship with my mother, but the film uses a symbolic character rather than a literal representation. I wanted the “object” of the relationship to be interchangeable, to reflect how in codependent dynamics, the other is often treated as a possession. This is especially common in traditional Chinese households, where emotional roles are inverted.

While I sometimes worry my work is too introspective, I believe people with similar lived experiences can still find resonance in it. That’s where the personal begins to connect with the collective.

Across sculpture, film, and installation, how do you know which medium a feeling belongs to?

Often it comes down to intuition. I keep a note on my phone where I jot down fleeting ideas, and I revisit it regularly to see if any recurring feelings or images could evolve into a full project.

I don’t like being confined by a medium. I prefer to engage all my senses when brainstorming. For example, one project I’m developing currently comes from a childhood memory. I lived next to a road, and at night, I’d stare at the ceiling as car lights flickered through the curtains, casting lights that would grow and shrink before fading away. That rhythm, the appearance and disappearance, reminds me of how relationships come and go in life. I want to express that through light and sound installation to recreate the environment.

In Eleven, I used a fabric sculpture to represent my grandmother, my ivory tower. The material was an old bedsheet, because as a child I believed beds and blankets had magical powers to protect me. Holding that sculpture gave me a strong sense of safety.
Each work is guided by emotion. The medium just follows naturally, based on which elements can best reflect that emotional core.

When it comes to future projects, what are you currently working on?

I have several ideas in development. Aside from the installation I mentioned, I’m also working on an experimental project called Restless Animus. The name comes from Carl Jung’s theory of the anima and animus—gendered soul archetypes that represent our unconscious complement.

The idea first came up during a therapy session where I was asked to visualise my current state in a meditative way. The image that came to me was a shattered glass cup held together inside a protective layer of delivery foam. That foam, for me, represented the support systems around me—friends, family, people who care. It created a sense of relative stability: not solid or permanent, but just enough to hold the fragments in place. This fragile balance felt true to my current psychological state, externally supported, yet internally fractured. Even within that cushion of care, the essence inside remained restless and unstable. That tension between appearing held together and actually being in pieces is what I want to explore further. I imagine my future work will go deeper into these inner layers.

Judie Huier Zhao is a vibrant force in the international art scene, utilizing both her cultural knowledge and creative experience from her location in New York City. Growing up in California, she spent every summer in Shanghai, which became formative and relevant to her experience with the revolutionary Tank Shanghai project – an adaptive reuse of industrial space to commission contemporary art. This early experience established a trajectory for Zhao’s career allowing her to intertwine artistry, curatorial practice, and strategic cultural development. Her combined degrees from Pratt Institute and New York University define the unique convergence of creative study and arts financial management: Zhao is equally knowledgeable about the arts practice side of the world as well as the business side of the art world.

In her years in New York, Zhao has worked at an impressive list of institutions including White Columns and Shin Gallery, where she facilitates support for artists working in emerging markets and grows new collector networks, while working in a leadership position at Sotheby’s Institute of Art to direct education programs for international students to think through the complex work of the global art market. Zhao’s programming practice sees art as an ecosystem consisting of education, curation, and community. The following interview provides insight into Zhao’s vision and explorative ways that she negotiates meaningful relationships across the contemporary art landscape. This is our interview with her.

How did your childhood experiences in Shanghai and California shape your perspective on contemporary art and cultural innovation?

Growing up in Shanghai and spending a significant amount of time in Japan and Hong Kong exposed me to a variety of modern and contemporary art. However, back in the 2000s, contemporary art in Asia was generally still considered secondary. By “secondary,” I mean it often served a complementary role—used primarily in hotels and commercial spaces for decorative purposes. People enjoyed looking at art, but they didn’t truly understand its meaning. They appreciated its appearance but didn’t quite grasp why contemporary art existed or what messages it aimed to convey.

Later, I moved to the United States and attended school in California. It was there that the true purpose of art began to unfold for me. I realized that art doesn’t always have to be pretty or decorative. A great piece of art should tell a story—one that provokes emotion and thought. It should spark conversation and challenge existing ideologies rather than reinforce outdated ones. During that time, I also discovered that art can serve a political purpose, something I later learned is central to much of European art.

What motivated you to pursue graduate degrees in both Fine Arts and Arts and Financial Management, and how do you integrate these disciplines in your work?

For my undergraduate degree, I pursued a double major in Mathematics and Studio Art. During those four years, I learned a great deal and also came to realize how much more there was to explore. This led me to pursue advanced degrees in two areas: Finance and Management—seen as an extension of mathematics—and an MFA, which builds upon my foundation in visual arts.

Currently, I work for both Sotheby’s auction house and the Sotheby’s Institute, focusing on data analytics and adult professional training programs. What I learned in school has significantly deepened my understanding of my field by equipping me with the right language and knowledge.

How do you approach expanding Sotheby’s Institute of Art’s programs to meet the needs of a diverse, global student body?

Right now, we already offer a wide range of professional and online programs, including Art Business, Art Finance, Art Writing, Luxury, Art History, Curating, and Gallery Management. Our student body is truly global—our online courses attract students from over 100 countries, and our in-person programs in New York City welcome participants from all around the world.

However, we are continuing to grow and expand in order to better serve an even broader audience. For example, Sotheby’s has deep expertise in real estate, as it is part of our broader corporate portfolio. Building on that, we are now developing training programs focused on real estate investment for our students.

We’ve also noticed increasing demand for more specialized topics—one such example is our Art Finance in a Global Market course. Some of our students come from highly technical finance backgrounds and have expressed strong interest in exploring the deeper complexities of this subject. In response, we’re considering expanding this course from its current six-week format into a more comprehensive, extended program.

Unlike our master’s program, which covers a broad range of topics within the art world, this extended version of Art Finance will focus solely on the intersection of art and finance. The goal is to provide students with more targeted, technical, and holistic training tailored to their specific interests and professional goals.

What does your “systems approach” to art mean, and how does it guide your work in curatorial planning and education?

A systems approach—also known as systems thinking—is a way of understanding and addressing complex problems by recognizing the interdependence and interconnectedness of all elements within a system. In the context of the art world, my systems approach begins with deeply understanding how the ecosystem operates—whether in gallery management, auction houses, art investment, curation, or education. To create meaningful improvement, I believe the first step is observation and immersion: working hard to understand the existing structures before pushing for change. Change must begin at the individual level and expand outward to influence communities. But above all, the most essential principle is to understand—only through deep understanding can we drive thoughtful, systemic transformation.

How do you balance the commercial aspects of the art market with your commitment to fostering authentic connections between artists and collectors?

Balancing the commercial aspects of the art market with a commitment to fostering authentic relationships between artists and collectors requires intention and integrity. I view the market not just as a transactional space, but as a platform for meaningful connection and long-term cultural impact. While I understand the importance of sales and sustainability, I prioritize storytelling, context, and alignment between artist vision and collector values. My role often involves bridging those worlds—translating the depth of an artist’s work in a way that resonates with a collector’s sensibility, beyond just investment potential. When done right, the commercial side doesn’t dilute authenticity—it supports it, enabling artists to continue their practice and collectors to feel genuinely connected to the works they acquire.

Looking ahead, how do you envision your role evolving as digital platforms and global perspectives reshape the contemporary art world?

As digital platforms and global perspectives continue to reshape the contemporary art world, I see my role evolving into that of a more agile connector, translator, and strategist. The boundaries between disciplines, geographies, and audiences are dissolving, and with that comes a responsibility to curate with cultural sensitivity, global awareness, and technological fluency. I aim to build bridges—not just between artists and collectors, but across continents, ideologies, and generations. Digital tools allow for wider access, richer storytelling, and more dynamic engagement with art, and I see myself leveraging these to amplify underrepresented voices and create immersive, educational experiences that transcend the traditional white cube.

Of course, the rise of AI brings valid concerns around authorship, authenticity, and the displacement of human labor, especially in creative fields. But I remain optimistic. I believe AI, when used ethically and critically, can expand our curatorial and educational capacities rather than replace them. The future of art will still be rooted in human experience—but enhanced by tools that help us see, understand, and connect in ways we never could before.