Beyond the Bounds: Figuring the Nonhuman
By Shen Yu-Chang
What is figure painting? At first glance, it appears to be a genre defined by subject matter, namely works depicting the “human figure.” Yet the emergence and boundaries of this category are far from self-evident. Depictions of “objects” often pursue external likeness, but portrayals of “people” seek nothing less than the evocation of spirit. Why must humans depict themselves, and how should they do so? Such questions inevitably direct our thinking toward the very nature of the “human.”
Carl von Linné, founder of modern taxonomy, in his Systema Naturae, identified no specific feature to define humanity, other than restating the ancient maxim: nosce te ipsum— “know thyself.” Yet humanity must know itself as human precisely in order to become human. As Giorgio Agamben argues in The Open: Man and Animal, to “become human” one must recognize oneself within the nonhuman. But since humanity has neither an essence nor a special mission, the human is in its very constitution already nonhuman.
But what does it mean, in concrete terms, to “know oneself as human” and thereby “become human”? For Martin Heidegger (The Nature of Language), this may point to language and death; for Hans Jonas (Tool, Image, and Grave), it is image and death. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the nymph Liriope asks the seer Tiresias whether her handsome son Narcissus will live to old age. The seer replies: “Yes, if he never knows himself.” This prophecy seems like an extension of the Delphic oracle. Here, self-consciousness and death shadow one another, inseparable. And as the myth of Echo and Narcissus demonstrates, “language” and “image” are not merely media of self-knowledge but the very acts through which humanity comes to recognize itself as human and to become human.
Death, language, and image all operate through negation: by imagining the disappearance of the self, death makes the existence of the self perceptible; by depicting the nonhuman, language and image render the human visible. On his return from Troy, Odysseus was trapped in the cave of the man-eating Cyclops Polyphemus—whose name means “famous.” When asked his name, Odysseus answered “Outis,” meaning “Nobody.” In language, the human confronts the “famous” nonhuman, and by calling himself “Nobody” indirectly reveals this truth: humanity is precisely that being which can affirm its existence by negating it through language. Georges Bataille, in Lascaux or the Birth of Art, noted that while the animals in the cave paintings were marvelously realistic, the humans refused to depict their own faces. Even when they acknowledged their human form, they immediately concealed it— as if whenever they tried to show themselves, they had to don the mask of another. Whenever they painted humanity, they hid human features behind animal masks. In images, then, humanity encounters the vividly rendered nonhuman, and by portraying itself as “the one wearing an animal mask,” conveys the same truth: humanity is that being which can affirm its existence by negating it through image. Language, image, and death together constitute what Agamben terms the luogo della negatività—the place of negativity.
From this perspective, figure painting can no longer be regarded simply as one genre among others. Rather, it should be understood as an act through which humanity comes to know itself as human and makes itself human—yet only by first negating its own existence, and then freely reshaping that existence in order to affirm it. In the earliest images, the human had neither its own face nor its own features, and thus had to construct its likeness through the nonhuman. It is precisely by negating the human visage and freely remaking it that humanity appears as a transhuman existence, able to recognize its own face. Across Eurasia, from the masked figures of Lascaux to the animal-headed gods of Egypt, from the hybrid beings of Hongshan culture to the ox-headed body of Shennong in Chinese legend, the earliest human images were all nonhuman figures of transhuman existence. Even after the rise of Humanism, the creation of such nonhuman imagery never ceased.
The Xuanhe Catalogue of Paintings, compiled under Emperor Huizong, divided the imperial collection into ten categories, with “Daoist and Buddhist subjects” and “figures” placed at the forefront. The commentary on Daoist and Buddhist subjects makes clear that these were not mere idols, but representations of bearing and spirit—images through which viewers could look up, contemplate, and, by engaging with form, attain an understanding of the Dao. Here, art and Dao were seen to flow into one another: when art reaches the level of the marvelous, one no longer knows whether art is Dao or Dao is art. The section on figure painting likewise notes that likeness alone often falls flat; what matters is the capture of spirit and character, qualities beyond verbal argument. The eyes of Yin Zhongkan or the delicate hair on Pei Kai’s cheeks were cited as examples of details that reveal spirit and lofty grace, things that cannot be grasped through discourse alone but only through painting. Thus, both Daoist-Buddhist and secular figures aimed not at mere resemblance but at presenting spirit, vitality, and transcendence. What they depict is never simply “the human” in the ordinary sense, but humanity as it moves beyond itself into the nonhuman. In this light, it is only through the nonhuman images of different eras that we glimpse the human face of that era and discern its particular spirit of the age.
Yang Yu-Ning employs cursive brushwork, overnight ink and Sheng Xuan (Raw Xuan Paper) to render Christian saints such as the Ave Maria and St. Sebastian. The transparent yet dense black of the overnight ink, drawn with broad brushstrokes, forms winding but continuous bands of lines that depict the robes of the Virgin and the saint, creating folds that appear light and flowing, like fine gauze.
Guo Hui works on silk with color, employing precise and deliberate gongbi linework, complemented by subtle washes of ink-based tones, to reinterpret classic Buddhist subjects such as the Reclining Buddha, arhats, and monks. The robes of the arhats and monks are rendered with short, arching lines layered like mountain ridges, combined with gradual shading along the contours, creating a soft yet substantial sense of volume and fullness. They differ in subject—Christianity and Buddhism, in technique—expressive brushwork and meticulous gongbi line, and in medium—monochrome ink and color. Together, these differences create a striking dialogue within the theme of “Deities”.
Hua Ji-Lin also works with subtle color on paper, favoring relaxed and supple lines combined with washes that fade outward from the center of each form. This approach allows ink lines and color to coexist without conflict, while balancing volume and atmosphere in a deliberately ambiguous way. Her compositions incorporate symbolic objects and patterns that generate abundant detail for the viewer to read, constructing scenes with narrative implications. The figures are often “Fair Maidens”, portrayed with a contemplative presence yet caught in the entanglements of love.
Yen Yu-Ting, in her recent work, begins by copying news texts onto paper with brush and ink, creating a surface densely covered with legible words. Over this ground she paints nameless figures—bodies bound, compressed, twisted, and distorted beyond recognition, stripped of individual features. These anonymous beings represent “Wanderers” caught between the physical networks of transportation and the virtual networks of information, moving through a world shaped by rapid technological and economic forces.
Pan Hsin-Hua first creates mottled textures on paper, staining them with an antique tone. Upon this surface he paints distinctive landscapes and local species encountered during his travels across Taiwan. At the center of these compositions, a bald, clothed, barefoot—and at times partially unclothed— “Divine Child” often stands in quiet presence.
In Yu Peng’s landscapes and gardens, painted with a spontaneous brushwork reminiscent of wild cursive script or quick sketches, nude female figures and young divine children frequently appear. By contrast, the divine child in Pan Hsin-Hua’s work is younger, staring wide-eyed and expressionless at the viewer, initially with a sense of playful irreverence. Yu Peng’s divine child figures are slightly older, sometimes lowering their gaze in a trance or closing their eyes in melancholy. Although based on his own son, they evoke the Daoist ideal described in the Dao De Jing: “to be the valley of the world, to remain constant in virtue, and to return to the state of the infant.” At times, Yu Peng’s divine children accompany the fair maiden, or, like wanderers, release themselves into the open landscape.
In the chapter “The Great Master” of the Zhuangzi, those who transcend the ordinary world are described as “wanderers beyond the bounds.” It is from this idea that the exhibition takes its title, Beyond the Bounds: Figuring the Nonhuman, organized into four sub-themes: Deities, Fair Maidens, Wanderers, and Divine Children. The exhibition brings together six contemporary painters and calligraphers—Yu Peng, Hua Ji-Lin, Guo Hui, Yang Yu-Ning, Pan Hsin-Hua, and Yen Yu-Ting—across Yi Yun Art’s Jinhua and Qingtian spaces. The Qingtian space presents Deities (Yang Yu-Ning, Guo Hui) and Fair Maidens (Hua Ji-Lin, Yu Peng), while the Jinhua space features Wanderers (Yen Yu-Ting, Yu Peng) and Divine Children (Pan Hsin-Hua, Yu Peng). Visitors are invited to encounter the “nonhuman images” portrayed in these works and, together with the artists, reflect on how the face of humanity is shaped today.
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