Hsin Hwang’s work unfolds like a prayer—layered, luminous, and shaped by the unseen. Rooted in spirituality, mythology, and cultural memory, each painting becomes a vessel for personal reflection and collective resonance. Drawing from Taiwanese Indigenous beliefs, Christian rituals, Jungian archetypes, and an intuitive connection to the natural world, the practice engages with transformation, resilience, and the pursuit of meaning. Symbols are not merely painted but summoned—called forth from dreams, traditions, and inner landscapes. Through a process both contemplative and instinctual, art becomes a sacred language, bridging the mystical and the present. In these quiet yet vivid narratives, myth and memory are reimagined as tools for healing, belonging, and reconnection.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

When I was a child, my parents worked in the church, and it was during this time that I became curious about God and faith. Observing the rituals, prayers, and devotion around me, I began to wonder about the unseen forces that guide human existence. This curiosity gradually deepened, shaping my artistic exploration of belief, spirituality, and the ways in which people seek connection with the divine. At the same time, I was deeply fascinated by fairy tales and mythology. These stories, filled with symbols, transformations, and moral lessons, sparked my imagination and offered a way to understand the world beyond the tangible. As I grew older, I was also exposed to Taiwan’s Indigenous cultures, whose beliefs and way of life left a profound impact on me. Their animistic worldview—where every tree, river, and mountain is believed to have a spirit—resonated with my own sense of wonder and reinforced my belief in a world interwoven with unseen energies. These influences merged in my artistic practice, where I explore themes of myth, faith, and personal spirituality. My process of painting feels like a form of prayer—an urgent longing and a complete surrender. It is an act of devotion, where layers of color and symbols emerge instinctively, revealing an inner landscape shaped by dreams, myths, and subconscious imagery. I often find myself returning to themes of transformation, resilience, and the search for meaning, using vibrant hues and symbolic forms to create narratives that oscillate between the real and the mystical. The repetition in my work, reminiscent of ritualistic gestures, reflects my belief that art itself can be a spiritual practice—a way of reaching toward something greater than oneself.

 

Beyond personal and mythological influences, I am also drawn to Carl Jung’s ideas of the collective unconscious and archetypal symbols that transcend cultures. My engagement with Jungian psychology has helped me recognize the recurring patterns in myths, dreams, and spiritual experiences across different traditions. During my studies at the Royal College of Art, a professor once compared my paintings to The Red Book—Jung’s exploration of visionary imagery and the subconscious. This encouraged me to further explore the universal language of symbols, weaving them into my work as a way to navigate questions of identity, belief, and transformation. Ultimately, my work is a continuous dialogue between past and present, the individual and the collective, the sacred and the everyday. Through my artistic practice, I seek to honor the traditions and spiritual narratives that have shaped me while reinterpreting them through a contemporary lens. By weaving together diverse myths and belief systems, I aim to highlight both their shared resonances and cultural distinctions. At the same time, I remain committed to exploring Taiwan’s Indigenous and folk traditions, illuminating their fluidity and ongoing relevance. In doing so, I hope to create visual narratives that transcend cultural boundaries, inviting viewers to reflect on their own relationship with faith, mythology, and the unseen forces that shape our inner worlds.

How do you reignite creativity during those inevitable periods of self-doubt or stagnation?

During periods of self-doubt or creative stagnation, I turn to movement, exploration, and introspection to reignite inspiration. Traveling has always been one of the most effective ways for me to break out of creative blocks. Stepping into a new environment—whether wandering through unfamiliar cities, visiting museums, or immersing myself in nature—allows me to see things from a fresh perspective. Listening to podcasts is another essential part of my process. I often tune into Talk Art and The Great Women Artists, which offer insights into the minds of contemporary artists and art historians. Hearing about their struggles and breakthroughs reassures me that doubt is part of every creative journey. Beyond art, I also explore topics on personal growth and spirituality. Podcasts by Louise Hay and Dr. Joe Dispenza provide perspectives on mindset shifts, energy work, and the subconscious mind. Their discussions on self-healing and manifestation encourage me to approach creative blocks with patience and self-compassion rather than frustration. Writing has also become a grounding practice for me, especially when navigating uncertainty. Keeping a journal allows me to untangle my thoughts, recognize recurring patterns, and transform doubt into clarity. Putting emotions into words creates space for self-reflection, ensuring that negativity does not dictate my creative process. Through these practices—travel, listening, and writing—I find my way back to creativity, allowing inspiration to return naturally, often in the most unexpected ways.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues—social, political, or environmental?

As an artist deeply influenced by mythology, folklore, and spiritual traditions, I engage with contemporary issues through a lens that blends cultural memory, identity, and belief systems. Rather than addressing social or political issues in a direct documentary style, my work explores the symbolic and psychological dimensions of these themes, drawing parallels between historical narratives and present-day realities. One of the central concerns in my practice is the evolving role of women in mythology and belief systems. By revisiting and reinterpreting female archetypes from different cultural traditions—including Taiwanese indigenous stories, folk religion, and global mythologies—I reflect on the resilience, suppression, and transformation of female identity across time. Many of these myths depict women as healers, oracles, or divine figures, yet history often reshapes their stories, turning them into passive, tragic, or cautionary figures. I am particularly interested in how these narratives continue to influence modern perceptions of femininity and power. Through my art, I seek to restore agency to these figures, portraying them as complex, multidimensional beings.

 

My connection to these themes is deeply personal. Growing up in Taiwan, I was surrounded by the spiritual traditions of Taoism, Buddhism, and indigenous animism, where the divine was not distant but intimately woven into everyday life. At the same time, due to my family's background, I was also deeply influenced by Christianity from an early age. This exposure to multiple religious traditions gave me a unique perspective on faith and belief, allowing me to see both their differences and underlying commonalities. Experiencing these diverse spiritual practices instilled in me a fascination with the ways in which mythology, ritual, and faith continue to inform contemporary identity. Studying abroad and traveling extensively further expanded my perspective, allowing me to recognize common motifs in myths across cultures. This cross-cultural awareness has become central to my practice, as I seek to create work that resonates beyond geographic and cultural boundaries while remaining deeply rooted in my heritage. Through painting, printmaking, and mixed media, I try to reinterpret these narratives using a contemporary visual language. I incorporate symbols drawn from Taiwanese Indigenous culture, blending them with personal experiences and emotions. This process allows me to bridge the past and present, the collective and the individual, the mystical and the real. By weaving these mythological and spiritual influences into my work, I aim to offer a deeper reflection on identity and belief—one that invites viewers to question inherited narratives and imagine new possibilities for selfhood and transformation.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

My creative process is deeply intuitive, like following a thread in a labyrinth woven with dreams, memories, and fleeting visions. My mind is an ever-shifting landscape of images—some emerge in sharp clarity, while others drift like mist, waiting to take form. I always carry a sketchbook, a small sanctuary where I catch these ephemeral glimpses before they fade. Using ballpoint pens or colored pencils, I map out rough sketches with quick, instinctive lines, capturing emotions and ideas in their rawest state. Yet, when I translate these sketches onto a large canvas, my process slows down. The immediacy of my sketches gives way to a more deliberate and careful approach. Often, I complete about 70% of a painting before stepping back and letting it rest—sometimes for weeks, even months. There is a kind of hesitation, a reverence for the transformation that is taking place. My tutor at RCA once told me that my sketches carried an intensity that was immediately palpable, while my large-scale works seemed more restrained, as if I was navigating the weight of their presence with greater caution. 

How has your artistic style transformed over the years? Are there specific influences, experiments, or moments that marked a turning point?

Over the past six years, my artistic language has undergone a quiet transformation—one that I did not immediately recognize myself. It was only when friends who had followed my work for years pointed it out that I became aware of the shift. They told me that my compositions had become more distilled, more deliberate, as if I had slowly, unconsciously shed the excess to arrive at something essential. Moving to London was a transformation unlike any other, an experience so profound that I know it will always remain the most important city in my creative journey. London was not just a place of study; it was a rupture, a revelation. It cracked my artistic world open, filling it with voices, visions, and a sense of infinite expansion. There, I encountered works that challenged my perception of art’s boundaries. In its museums, I stood before paintings that seemed to breathe. In its streets, I felt the presence of countless histories intertwined with the city’s ever-evolving present. The city itself was alive with myth, with memory, with the unseen forces I longed to capture in my work. But beyond the art that hung in galleries, it was the people—the mentors who questioned me, the peers who inspired me, the late-night conversations over unfinished sketches—that truly shaped me. In London, I was experimenting to strip my work down to its rawest form, to rethink color, composition, and meaning. London didn’t just change how I painted; it changed how I saw. It made me realize that art is not only about what is placed on a canvas but also about how it exists in space, how it invites the viewer in, and how it breathes. Even now, miles away, I carry London with me.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally or seen it impact others?

For me, painting has always been a refuge, a place where pain dissolves into color, where sorrow is transformed into something luminous. In my most difficult moments, art has responded with unconditional love—an embrace that asks for nothing in return. Many artists I admire have used creation as a means of healing—Niki de Saint Phalle, whose vibrant, fierce sculptures arose from deep personal wounds; Louise Bourgeois, who wove her fears and memories into towering, intricate forms. Their works remind me that art is not just about beauty or skill, but about survival, about transmutation. I have felt this power firsthand, and I have witnessed it in others—how a single painting, a single gesture of creation, can offer solace, understanding, and sometimes even redemption.

In an increasingly globalized world, how can artists preserve authenticity and cultural integrity in their work?

Authenticity is not about resisting influence but about staying rooted. In a world where cultures blend and boundaries blur, it is easy to lose one’s voice in the noise. But I believe that authenticity comes from honoring where we come from while allowing ourselves to evolve. For me, this means remaining deeply connected to my heritage while embracing the lessons of the world. I draw from Taiwanese Indigenous culture, from the rituals and beliefs I grew up with, and from the symbols that have been passed down through generations. Yet, I also seek connections across cultures—finding echoes of my own traditions in distant mythologies, recognizing the shared human longing for meaning. To preserve cultural integrity is not to freeze it in time, but to let it breathe, grow, and find new expressions without losing its essence.

Name five questions you’d ask your favorite artist if given the chance.

Marc Chagall, 

 

✧ What's your favorite food?

 

✧ What kind of painter is a successful painter to you?

 

✧ I've been to your museum in Nice, and to the Côte d'Azur, and I'm curious to know where your secret base in Nice is?

 

✧ Your use of color is often described as poetic—how do you decide when a color is speaking the right language?

 

✧ If you could step into one of your own paintings, which world would you choose to inhabit?

If you had only 24 hours left to create, how would you spend them?

I would make a cup of cinnamon coffee and play my favorite movies on the wall of my room with a projector - “The Fabulous Destiny of Amelie Poulain”, “La La Land” “Memories of Matsuko”, every Wes Anderson movie. Then I would sketch furiously, using crayons on large sheets of paper, capturing every image that moved me in the movie, without hesitation, without guessing- just creating, just feeling. As the last hour approaches, I sit in the middle of the unfinished work, knowing that art, like life, is never really finished-it is always in motion, always forming.

Are there any upcoming projects or dreams that you’re particularly excited about?

One of the things I am most excited about this year is the opportunity to travel and create in new environments. I will be embarking on residencies in China and South Korea, immersing myself in their landscapes, traditions, and artistic communities. Each journey is an unfolding conversation—with the land, with history, and with the people whose stories shape these places. I am particularly drawn to how different cultures honor memory and mythology, how they translate the unseen into form. As I travel, I am also deeply interested in the lives of women across different cultures—how they navigate the spaces they inhabit, how history and tradition have shaped their roles, and how they carve out their own narratives in ever-changing societies. In my work, I often explore the resilience and transformation of female identity, and I look forward to seeing how these themes manifest in the places I visit. What stories do women in China and South Korea carry? How do they reconcile heritage with modernity, personal desires with collective expectations? Beyond these residencies, I dream of expanding my artistic exploration of "home." Earlier this year, my RCA graduation piece, A Red Love Letter to My Home on a Hill in Taiwan, was exhibited at Saatchi Gallery. That work was an ode to my homeland and childhood memories, reflecting on the idea that home is not just a physical space but a sanctuary of the soul. In the future, I hope to create a series of house-like installations inspired by different cultures, exploring how "home" carries the collective childhood memories and narratives of its people. Each house would embody the spirit of a place, shaped by its stories, traditions, and the unseen emotions tied to its walls. Through this, I hope to build a bridge between personal nostalgia and cultural memory, creating spaces that invite others to reflect on their own origins and the meaning of belonging. These upcoming journeys and projects are not just about making art—they are about transformation. They will shape my perspective, challenge my assumptions, and deepen my connection to the world. And that, above all, is what I find most exhilarating.

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Whether exploring femininity through myth, spirituality through ritual, or identity through memory, each work becomes a threshold—between cultures, between times, between self and symbol. The practice is one of deep listening: to stories carried across generations, to the wisdom of the body, to the language of color and archetype. And in this listening, art reveals itself not as an answer, but as an offering—an invitation to step inside, to pause, and to look closer at the invisible threads that shape us all.