Hong Kong-born, Paris-tested: Wallace Woo just closed STALACTITE: Part I at Espace Temple, and he’s already thinking in geological time. His practice, built on pigment left to fracture, settle, and find its own structure, treats the canvas less like a surface and more like a cave system waiting to be read.
We talked to him about letting go of control, the myth of the “day after,” and why he’d drop everything for a collaboration with Björk.
The show at Espace Temple is now behind you. What does the day after a solo exhibition feel like?
Actually, there is no such thing as the “day after” an exhibition ends.
For an artist driven by creativity, an exhibition is merely a window for dialogue with the public. Once the works leave the studio and enter the gallery space, once they collide with viewers, that accumulated energy fulfills its social mission. I had originally thought that after an exhibition ended, there would be a stagnant vacuum, but real life is more relentless than geological movement.
I’m still being swept along by all kinds of affairs, still caught in that loop between “exhaustion” and “self-fulfillment.” This contradiction is fascinating: I often complain about the suffocation of my schedule, yet once I come to a standstill, that emptiness expands like a hollow cavity underground. I later realized that this is simply the nature of life; there is never a perfect stillness, only unceasing flow and compression.
On the day after the exhibition ended, I didn’t really rest. I went back to my computer. But when I opened the guestbook and saw that someone had written about how “the spine holds the body upright,” I suddenly understood: my work had not ended just because the exhibition was over.
Those paintings had completed their physical form on the walls, but now they were entering the geological strata of the viewers’ lives, reacting with their solitude, their inner structures. Seeing that readers could, within the “cave time” I had established, perceive the weight of their own existence, that made me feel that all those trivial follow-up tasks were, in fact, further reinforcement of that ongoing dialogue.
This is my life, both the surface layer of busyness for survival, and the “mineralization” process I must undergo in order to precipitate even a little bit of truth.
What shifted in your practice during the process of putting this exhibition together? Did the work surprise you?
If I could fully predict, at the very beginning of creation, how a work would ultimately land in the minds of viewers, then the entire experiment would have been a complete failure. Throughout the preparation for this exhibition, the biggest change I underwent was learning to “let the work determine its own structure.” In the early stages, I might have approached the canvas with the stance of a director, trying to orchestrate the direction of every layer of texture. But this time was different; I treated the creative process as a kind of “geological simulation.”
When I piled pigment onto the canvas and let it wander on its own, when those heavy materials began to fracture under the influence of gravity and time, I would step back and observe their “will.” I discovered that when I stopped over-intervening and instead submitted to those physical inevitabilities, the paintings would take on a structural quality that I could never have simulated on my own.
After the works were exhibited, they did surprise me. The audience response was positive, but few people commented on individual pieces in isolation; instead, they spoke more about the overall feeling the entire exhibition gave them: the time and space to reflect on their own inner experience. This effect was so precise that it felt as if it had been waiting there all along to be revealed, rather than something I had created.
This is the fascination of stalactite aesthetics: it strips the artist of the arrogance of being a “creator,” and even turns the audience into “excavators.” They look closely at the fault lines on the canvas, feeling within themselves that sense of fragmentation and re-assembled order, and come to realize that there are many unrepairable wounds in life, and that it is time to properly address them.
The true meaning of geological abstractionism is not the pursuit of a perfect result, but rather the act of undergoing a process of losing control through the canvas. When the unexpected happens, how do you find the courage and wisdom to mend it, and learn to coexist with that “imperfection”?
This has been the attitude I have carried throughout the preparation of this exhibition, and it has been the most important lesson of all. And I offer this “geological awakening” to every visitor; I believe they have felt that raw, untamed awakening.
Street art, fine art, digital, the boundaries keep dissolving. Where do you see your work sitting in that landscape five years from now?
Regarding the blurring of boundaries between street art, fine art, and digital art, I think this is a very interesting phenomenon of our time. As for where my work will be classified five years from now, I don’t claim to have any prophetic ability to predict that. But I am confident that in an age of such extreme void, human beings will always have a fundamental need to return to the most primal state to extract a sense of authentic existence.
And the very essence of “geological abstractionism” exists precisely to transcend these man-made labels. Whenever you need it, it remains within your reach. If my theory or manifesto can gain wider recognition within my lifetime, that would be a great joy to me.
For me, the classification of art forms is like a man-made map of the earth’s surface—but my art explores the deep subterranean pressures and sedimentations. These physical laws do not change with the shifting of labels.
Even five years from now, I will still be creating with the same geological logic. If it takes the form of street art, it becomes an outcrop of mineral veins on the surface of the city. If it appears as fine art, it is a stratigraphic cross-section sedimented over time. Even if it were digital art, it would merely be a translation of geological transformation into an algorithm of velocity. When my core creative principle, stalactite aesthetics, is solid enough, any medium becomes merely a vessel for conveying it.
The art world five years from now will be even more dematerialized, and the public will crave, more than ever, a certain weight of the real, rather than mere visual stimulation. So my work will not compete for a position within any particular domain. It will become a kind of existential reference point.
Like a mountain, whether you view it from the foot, gaze down from an airplane, or scan it with digital instruments, it remains a mountain, nothing more and nothing less. If, in the future, people speak of my work not by debating which genre it belongs to, but by saying, “This work made me feel the compression of time,” then the blurring of boundaries will no longer be an issue for me at all.
You’ve been building visibility across Europe. Is there a city, a space, a context you haven’t shown in yet that genuinely excites you?
When it comes to distant desires, I feel a strong pull toward South America, Mexico, Colombia, Argentina. Perhaps it’s because they are so far from Hong Kong, where I grew up. That vast geographical and cultural distance stirs in me a creator’s urge to conquer, to push against my own limits. I am deeply fascinated by the landscapes there, and by the raw, fierce vitality of their cultures; it feels like another geological territory waiting to be decoded.
But when it comes to places where I truly want to stay and create, my criteria become very personal, even demanding. For me, art and life cannot be separated. I cannot engage in deep creative work in a city where I cannot sink into the rhythm of daily life. Currently, my top choice for a residency would be Japan, followed by Portugal.
Why these places? Because I value everyday life enormously. I’m not just looking for exhibition spaces; I’m looking for an environment that can converse with me. I need a diet I can settle into, a lifestyle I can savor. Creation is a form of consumption; life is what replenishes it. I want my daily existence in these places to resonate with my creative process; when I live there, eat the local food, feel the local climate, that process of sedimentation becomes purer and more focused.
For me, whether it’s the conquest of South America or the choice to stay in Japan or Portugal, it all amounts to the same pursuit: authenticity. I don’t want to be a passerby. I want to thoroughly fuse the local terrain and way of life with my own geological obsession. This is not just about building visibility; it is my process, as an artist, of searching for my second geological layer on the global map.
I also have a long-term wish: if I am fortunate enough to travel across the world, I would love to leave behind a dedicated series of works for each place I visit. Perhaps Romania, for instance; its geological formations and historical depth make it an exceptional site for experimentation. I am not merely traveling; I am collecting different strata from around the world, embedding them into my creative life. This is a long-term project I want to give to myself, and to the world.
What’s the project you’re afraid to make? The one that keeps coming back but you haven’t committed to yet
To be honest, there isn’t any project that I’m “afraid” of doing. What I truly fear is not having enough time and space to complete them. I am a demanding person; once I decide to do something, I will see it through, leaving no room for compromise. As for those projects that have yet to begin, it’s really not because of fear.
It’s because some plans simply “haven’t reached their mature moment.” To be frank, with my current schedule consumed by preparing for solo exhibitions, my calendar is packed to the brim. Under these circumstances, I can only work on smaller pieces, because large-scale works are incredibly time-consuming; they demand specific climates, specific spaces, and even a particular state of mind to sediment properly. I refuse to rush through a work just to meet a deadline; that would be unfair to the work and to myself.
I’m in no hurry. I believe that creation, much like life itself, never offers a state of perfection, but there can be a “best possible state.” Some large works require a particular season, even a particular moment in time, to ferment properly. I still have a lifetime to bring them into existence, slowly and steadily; there’s no need to force it now. I hope my audience can share that same patience.
Art is not fast-moving consumer goods; it is more like a mountain, built layer by layer over time. So for those projects that haven’t yet started, I choose to wait until the right time, the right place, and the right conditions all align, and then I will bring them to life, beautifully and properly. That, to me, is the rightful attitude toward creation.
Do you work better in chaos or in routine? Has that changed over time?
I’m a typical Virgo. That means, no matter how chaotic the environment around me may be, I have an innate instinct to force myself to find a way out and establish order. I once worked backstage at fashion shows, an environment of split-second timing and near-chaos. But think about it: the moment a model steps onto the runway, she projects absolute poise and composure.
No one pays attention to the mess and urgency backstage. That is my work philosophy: chaos is the inevitable surface, while order is the underlying structure I must build behind the scenes.
As for my preference for working modes, I’m not really picky. My adaptability is almost frightening to myself; whether it’s improvisation amid chaos or a rigorously disciplined rhythm, I can quickly tune myself to the corresponding frequency. However, as I’ve grown older, my mindset has indeed shifted. In the past, I would deliberately try to master chaos to prove myself; that was a form of resistance.
But now, I lean more toward letting go. I no longer demand that my environment be orderly; what I demand is clarity within. When you release those unnecessary attachments, you realize that even amidst turbulence, you can remain like a deep subterranean rock layer, preserving that rare stillness within.
So now, I don’t insist on absolute order, but I do hope that my future self can become more at ease. When things feel lighter, it’s not because the workload has decreased—it’s because I have learned not to deplete myself in the midst of chaos. That is the state I am seeking now, even when the outside world is in turmoil, the inside remains as still and unshakable as a stalactite.
If you could collaborate with anyone – alive, dead, fictional, from any discipline – who would it be and what would you make together?
If I could transcend dimensions to choose a collaborator, I would without hesitation choose Björk.
It’s not just because I’ve loved her since I was young, but because, in my perception, Björk’s music is itself an “auditory geological phenomenon.” Her voice carries an utterly primal vitality, especially in her earlier work; her vocals effortlessly soar above the instrumentation, while simultaneously being infused with a futuristic, technological texture.
I deeply long to engage in an improvised cross-disciplinary collaboration with her: she would spin live, using music to vibrate the space and the paint, while I would stand before the canvas, waiting and observing, responding to her rhythm with my own “geological interpretation.” It would be an experiment in resonance.
I would treat her music as a physical force, guiding the accumulation and solidification of pigment—when the bass frequencies vibrate, the thick impasto on the canvas might fracture unintentionally; when the melody turns delicate, I would precisely carve into the finer, overlooked details. Those layered rhythms and sounds would be like strata constantly collapsing and reassembling in the atmosphere. Fascinating.
The work that emerged would no longer be simply my painting or her music—it would be an “energy field” co-created by both of us. A painting that sings, or a geological formation solidified by sound.
This is not merely an artistic collaboration; it is a process of transforming abstract emotion into physical form. In Björk’s musical universe, I sense a quality that feels almost extraterrestrial, which resonates deeply with my own preoccupation with deep-time geology and the sedimentation of life. If we could create together, I am certain it would be the climax of our two souls resonating in unison.
What’s something the art world gets consistently wrong, that you wish someone would just say out loud?
If there is one thing in the contemporary art world that has been persistently misread and has grown tiresome, it is that carefully capitalism-packaged “way of seeing.”
What I want to ask is this: who exactly gave capital the right to define art? And who decided how human beings should look at a work of art? For too long, we have grown accustomed to this system, an artist’s value determined by the size of their gallery booth, a work’s merit measured by its auction price, and the way we see it guided by curatorial pamphlets or the jargon of critics. It is an absurd game. When everyone is led by the nose by these labels, the true experience of art is utterly diluted.
We live in an age that chases speed and high premiums. Art has been reduced to an asset allocation; a decorative piece hung in a living room to signal status. But this is not the essence of art; it is merely capital’s “surface adornment.” I believe the lie most in need of exposure in the art world is this monopoly over the right to define.
Why must we rely on a critic’s interpretation before we dare say, “I understand this painting”? Why should a work with a soaring price tag be considered more valuable than one with depth?
As a creator, I keep returning to “stalactite aesthetics,” those structures formed in dark caves by drips accumulating over tens of thousands of years. They never seek market approval; they simply exist, and through that extreme sedimentation, they radiate a compelling force. This is what art should be, in my mind: a pure accumulation of life, unpriced and undefined by the market.
I am not standing up to fight against capital, because resistance itself is also a form of attachment. I simply want to remind the world that we need to reclaim the right to define art.
When you stand before my canvas, do not look at the market labels, and do not rush to find a curator’s statement to validate your feelings. Try using your own body to feel the compression, the fractures, the solidification of those pigments. If you see in them a scar from some moment in your life, or if you sense a resonance with something like the “weight of existence,” then this artwork is priceless to you.
The value of art should not be granted by those who define it; it should be determined by the “awakening” that occurs in the moment of collision between the viewer and the work. If there is still someone in this world who needs to point this out, then I am standing here. I hope that in the future, the art world will have fewer “ways of seeing” manipulated by capital, and more reverence for the essence of the work.
When we learn to let go of our obsession with price, when we learn to see independently and truthfully, only then will art be liberated from capital’s chains, and truly become that mountain in every person’s life that holds up their soul.
What comes next? And how much of that answer do you actually know right now?
What’s next? The answer has always been clear. I am fully devoted to a creative series titled AFTERALIVE.
This is not for personal prestige in the art world, nor for the sake of exhibitions. This series was born from an intensely private and romantic vision: I want to set a coordinate for my soul through these paintings, so that when life transcends dimensions and I am reborn in my next life, the person I love most in this life, my husband, will be able to recognize, at a single glance through the textures and resonances on these canvases, that it is a message left by me.
I have been asked whether my art is about Zen, physics, or philosophy. But when I return to the core of my creation, all those grand concepts recede. What I truly want is simply to sustain that powerful magnetic resonance between him and me. The fate we share in this life is fleeting, but geological sedimentation is eternal. I am using these pigments and structures to carve, across the river of time, a mark that only he can read.
If you ask me how much of the future I have mapped out, what I hold is not the market, but this obsession. I have “mineralized” all the awakenings and emotions of this life into these paintings. I even have a small hope: that this interview, these words, these works, might transcend our lifetime and endure into a farther future. When time fades, and the world changes, if someone at some future moment reads this and encounters these words, that would be my greatest consolation.
For me, the greatest function of art is to give the soul a way home. I don’t need to define the future. I only need to ensure that this feeling, this resonance, can cross the boundary of death and continue to vibrate. That is everything I am doing now, and that is the truest promise I, as an artist, leave for the future.
