The in-between with artist Ping Zhu
The first thing we noticed about Ping Zhu's work was how still it made us feel.
That's not a small thing. We spend a lot of time looking at art, sifting through work, following links, saving things we mean to come back to.
Ping's work stopped like the way a room goes quiet when the right song comes on.
When we were thinking through artwork for Volume 04: What's Left, we already had the theme in our heads. Both coffees for this Volume come from the same region in Honduras, processed the same washed way, and the entire story is about what you find when you strip things back. When the noise quiets and differences finally register clearly. We needed an artist who understood that instinctively. Who made work about noticing, not announcing.
Then we came across Ping's piece: two doorways framing a scene, light still getting in, life just visible beyond the glass. It was created during the early days of COVID in Brooklyn, watching the city from inside. That context could weigh the image down, but it doesn't. The mood stays calm. The in-between space, the threshold we usually rush through, becomes somewhere worth lingering.
We learned all of that afterward. The image clicked before we knew any of it, which feels exactly like the kind of thing Ping would say something interesting about. And she did. Her work is warm, a little wry, and resolutely uninterested in dressing things up, which is probably why it tends to say more than you expect.
We asked her about her process, what drives her to work by hand, and how she decides what to leave out. Turns out she thinks about editing the same way we think about coffee.
You've said that when you were young, you used imagination as a way of making more out of a situation that didn't seem like very much. Do you approach your work that way too?
In some ways accessing the imagination is harder as an adult because age can demystify so much, but I think my current version of that is feeding the unknowns of curiosity. The world is a totally different size as a child, and you're expected to not know certain things. Now I can have almost any question answered, but that information gain hasn't necessarily made me feel like a more interesting person or artist. I like being suspended in the mystery so that my mind can wander, and it has been a wonderful space for work and life alike.
You prefer to work primarily with paint, even when digital tools are faster. What does physically painting give you that a screen can't?
Randomness and mistakes. It's a very intimate experience making anything by hand, and despite my best efforts in mimicking a similar relationship digitally, I don't feel as connected. There's a lot of speed and variation that benefit from digital tools, and the most helpful it's been is when my mind is moving faster than my body. My painting process requires constant check ins with intention, and many moments of redirection. Ultimately I have more fun making a mess of things and seeing what I can get away with.
You've described illustration as communication, as giving viewers the chance to "solve" an image. What makes a visual feel satisfying to solve?
I enjoy the experience of participating in a work of art so that it isn't a one-sided conversation. If my illustration is meant to help bridge a gap, then I would prefer to meet the viewer partway as a collaboration. I can't know what people will bring to my work, but it's much more exciting to leave room for interpretation. It's similar to reading between the lines rather than taking things literally. The satisfaction comes from knowing there is no wrong way to understand art if it makes you feel something.
Early in your career, you learned that "not everything can be used to say everything." How do you decide what belongs in an image and what doesn't?
Editing overall is a challenge because of wanting to strike a balance, but also to make enough sense. Personally it's easy to advise against drawing a large arrow to point at where you want a viewer to look on an image, because that would be heavy handed and distracting. On the other hand drawing a single horizontal line across a sheet of paper might read as too many possibilities and be more confusing than communicative. It helps to know what I want to say before getting into any sketch. The question I ask is, "What's the least amount of information I can put on this image?"
A few sips
(Our not-so-lightning round. Just a few small questions to savor.)
What does a really good morning look like for you?
Waking up feeling rested, ideally without an alarm. Laying around and thinking about the day ahead. Getting out of bed slowly while ignoring my phone for as long as possible.
What's something that never fails to bring you joy? (Big or small, serious or silly.)
Absurd or cute miniature objects. Succumbing to an afternoon nap. Homemade food with loved ones. The first consistently warm days in NYC before the mosquitos take over.
Is there something small you like to have around when you're working?
I have a lot of tchotchkes all over my desk which feels like being greeted by a small family when I get to work. It's been important to have joyful reminders, and to change them around every so often. For example I have a small silver toilet that makes a flushing sound. Perfect for taking the edge off of unpleasant emails.
Explore Ping's artwork at pingszoo.com and follow along at @pingszoo.
Volume 04: What's Left is available now. Join Folk coffee club to get Ping’s untitled piece alongside two rare Honduras coffees: a volume about what you find when you clear the noise.
