Lau Yee Vanessa Fong’s paintings unfold like meditative landscapes—spaces where the visible dissolves into the spiritual, and time collapses into layered stillness. Informed by Buddhist philosophy, ancient Chinese ritual objects, and the ephemeral beauty of Tibetan sand mandalas, the work navigates between impermanence and transcendence. Through a process that blends oil and pencil, gesture and precision, Fong constructs spaces that suggest the immaterial: places where memory, mythology, and energy converge in silence.

✧✧✧

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

My upbringing and cultural heritage have played a profound role in shaping both the themes I explore and the methods I use in my art. Growing up surrounded by Buddhist and Eastern philosophies has left an indelible imprint on the way I see the world. These philosophies have instilled in me an awareness of impermanence, interconnectedness, and the existence of invisible forces that shape our lives. These ideas lie at the core of my work and guide not only what I choose to paint but also how I approach the act of painting itself. For me, painting is often a meditative process, one that allows me to step into a space between the conscious and subconscious, between the physical world and the intangible.

A significant influence on my practice comes from the ancient Sanxingdui Bronze Age culture in China. The artifacts unearthed from this civilization have always fascinated me, not only for their aesthetic beauty but also for the mystery they carry. The masks and sculptures possess a presence that feels timeless, as though they belong simultaneously to our human history and to some spiritual or cosmic plane. Their forms are bold yet refined, full of an energy that seems to ripple outward beyond the object itself. In my paintings, I strive to capture a similar sense of wonder and mystery. Through layered textures, luminous color palettes, and sweeping gestures, I aim to create images that feel suspended between the material and the ethereal, evoking a space where the ancient and the contemporary, the real and the imagined, coexist.

My paintings frequently reflect on the relationship between human creation and the natural world. This interest is deeply rooted in Buddhist teachings, which emphasize living in harmony with nature and recognizing the constant cycles of birth, growth, decay, and renewal. I am captivated by how human ingenuity and natural forces intersect, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in quiet conflict. The structures we build, whether physical, cultural, or ideological, often seem monumental and enduring, yet they remain fragile in the face of time and nature’s quiet persistence. In my work, I look for those moments of connection or tension, where human marks blend into or stand in contrast to organic forms.

At the same time, I am committed to bridging the gap between ancient cultural memory and the contemporary moment. My paintings are not direct reproductions of historical imagery but are instead reinterpretations that filter the past through a modern lens. I believe that tradition is not something fixed, but rather a living current that evolves while carrying forward echoes of earlier wisdom. Through my work, I hope to create a space where time feels layered, where the ancient can speak to the present, and where new narratives can emerge from fragments of the old.

There is also a spiritual dimension that runs through my practice. This comes from cultural rituals and philosophies I grew up with. I often think of painting in relation to the creation of Tibetan Buddhist sand mandalas, where delicate, intricate patterns are painstakingly constructed grain by grain, only to be swept away at the end, leaving behind a memory of beauty that cannot be held or possessed. This way of thinking deeply influences my approach to the canvas. I embrace accidents, drips, and spontaneous marks as part of the finished work, allowing the painting to evolve rather than trying to impose complete control. In this way, the process becomes an expression of impermanence and the acceptance that beauty and meaning often lie in moments that are fleeting. Through my paintings, I hope to offer viewers a space for quiet contemplation, a place where they can connect both with ancient cultural memory and with something larger and more mysterious than everyday life. I want my work to invite people into a space where spirituality and the tangible world overlap, even if only for an instant. Ultimately, my hope is that my paintings create a bridge between worlds, offering glimpses of transcendence that feel both timeless and deeply human.

Does spirituality or a connection to something larger than yourself influence your creative process?

Spirituality and a connection to something larger than myself are at the heart of my creative process. From the very beginning of my journey as an artist, I have felt drawn to explore what lies beyond the visible world, to reach toward realms that exist just out of sight but can be sensed in moments of stillness and reflection. My practice is rooted in Buddhist and Eastern philosophies, which speak of impermanence, fluidity, and the interconnectedness of all things. These ideas guide not only the subjects I choose to paint but also the way I approach the physical act of painting itself. One of the most significant concepts that shapes my work is the idea of impermanence in Buddhist Dharma. Everything in existence is in a state of constant change, never fixed or static. I try to embody this truth in my paintings by working in a way that embraces transformation. Layers are built up and sometimes scraped away, pigments drift and merge, and accidental marks are allowed to become part of the final image. I want my work to feel alive, as though it is shifting and breathing, never frozen in a single moment. This pursuit of fluidity is my way of expressing how substance can move between states, how matter can transcend its physical form and suggest something more spiritual or intangible.

The key phrase that often comes to mind when I think about my practice is “spiritual ascension.” There is always an upward movement in my work, both literally and metaphorically. I am fascinated by the idea of striving toward something higher, of connecting with forces that exist beyond our earthly experience. My paintings often evoke skies, celestial beings, or imagined realms that hover just out of reach. They become visual manifestations of the human desire to break free from the confines of the physical world and touch the divine. This yearning is a thread running through my work, a constant reminder that there is more to life than what we can see or measure. The influence of Tibetan Buddhist sand mandalas has been profound for me. I am captivated by the way monks devote countless hours to creating these intricate and colorful patterns, grain by grain, fully aware that the entire creation will eventually be swept away. The process speaks to both devotion and detachment, beauty and impermanence. This philosophy has deeply influenced how I approach painting. I see the canvas as a space for both precision and surrender. I work with intention and care, but I also welcome the unexpected, allowing drips, flows, and spontaneous gestures to remain visible. My paintings become records of moments, layered with traces of time, thought, and movement, yet they also remind me that nothing is permanent, and everything eventually dissolves back into the larger whole.

Through my art, I aim to create spaces where spirituality intersects with the tangible world. I want viewers to feel as though they are stepping into a realm that hovers between the seen and the unseen, where forms and colors hint at other dimensions and states of being. My hope is that my paintings offer glimpses of transcendence, moments where one might sense the presence of something vast and timeless. Ultimately, I see my practice as a way to explore our collective longing to connect with forces greater than ourselves, to touch the sublime, and to glimpse the possibility of lives unfettered by earthly limitations. In this way, spirituality is not merely an influence on my creative process but its very core. It shapes my vision, my techniques, and my belief in the transformative power of art to carry us, if only for an instant, into a place where the material and the mystical become one.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

It is not especially important to me that viewers fully understand one singular message or specific meaning in my work. In fact, I have always felt resistant to the idea of offering a clear, textbook definition of what my paintings are supposed to say. Art, for me, is not about providing fixed answers or definitive explanations. Instead, it is about opening a space where viewers can bring their own experiences, emotions, and perceptions into the encounter. I think of my paintings as places of possibility rather than as statements that demand a single interpretation. I often feel that imposing a strict explanation on my work would confine the viewer’s imagination and limit their personal connection to what they see. It can feel as though asking people to “understand” my work in only one way puts too much pressure on the experience and reduces something expansive into a narrow idea. I would rather leave room for mystery, for questions that remain unanswered, and for emotions that cannot be easily put into words.

In many ways, the sense of ambiguity in my paintings is tied to the very nature of how I work and the materials I choose. My practice is grounded in the idea of flux and impermanence, which comes from my interest in Buddhist and Eastern philosophies. My paintings are made through processes that emphasize constant change and transformation. I often work with oil paint combined with colour pencil, creating layers that are thin, transparent, and overlapping, almost like watercolour. I use solvents to keep the surfaces light and fluid, allowing the pigments to drift and blend in ways I cannot completely control. This creates a visual language where forms are in a continual state of becoming, shifting between solid, liquid, and even gaseous qualities. These fluxes of energy in my work mirror the way I think about meaning itself. Just as the shapes and colours in my paintings are never completely fixed, I believe the meaning of a piece should also remain open and mutable. My hope is that viewers can stand in front of my paintings and feel something stir within them, even if they cannot immediately name it. It might be a moment of calm, a fleeting memory, a sense of wonder, or simply an appreciation for colour and movement.

I believe that this ambiguity adds value rather than diminishes it. There is something powerful about art that leaves space for the unknown, for intuition, and for personal reflection. I see my work as offering an invitation rather than a declaration. I want viewers to feel free to find their own narratives or emotions within the shifting forms and layers, and to carry away an experience that feels intimate and unique to them.

The idea of impermanence is central to this approach. My paintings do not seek to capture a single truth or message but rather to hold a moment in time, aware that it will inevitably pass and transform. I am not trying to impose a fixed understanding on my viewers but instead wish to give them freedom to explore, to sense the energies hidden within the layers, and to experience moments of peace, joy, or whatever emotions arise for them personally.

In the end, I believe art’s greatest gift lies in its capacity to transcend explanations and to connect with people in ways that words cannot always reach. My aim is to create work that breathes, that remains open to shifting interpretations, and that allows each person to discover their own meaning, however subtle or fleeting it might be.

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

The evolution of an artwork for me is a process that feels less like building something from scratch and more like discovering something hidden beneath the surface. I have never been someone who starts a painting with a strict plan or a detailed sketch. Instead, my process begins with small sparks of inspiration that gradually weave themselves into images I feel compelled to bring into the world. A significant part of where these sparks come from is literature. Lately, I have found myself returning to Greek mythology and to the novels of Hermann Hesse, especially works like “Demian” and “Siddhartha.” These stories captivate me not only for their narratives but for the emotions and memories they stir. Literature has a way of being both precise and open, offering vivid imagery while leaving generous space for interpretation. I find that quality deeply moving, and I try to carry the same spirit into my creative process. Sometimes, after reading, I write small poems or fragments of text that capture the essence of what I have felt. These words become seeds for visual ideas, slowly solidifying into scenes or atmospheres that linger in my mind and demand to be expressed through painting.

When I move to the canvas, I begin by laying down large, gestural fields of color. I mix oil paint with a significant amount of solvent to achieve a consistency that allows it to flow almost like watercolour. This fluid stage is crucial for me because it captures an energy and spontaneity that I could never plan. I love letting the paint run, merge, and pool into shapes I could not predict. It feels like painting the aura of a celestial realm, a sky, or a boundless space where possibilities exist beyond the physical world. At this stage, I am guided purely by intuition. I do not think about where certain shapes should be placed or how the composition should resolve itself. Instead, I respond to the movement of the paint, letting the process lead me rather than trying to impose control. I welcome accidents because often it is in those unexpected moments that the true spirit of a painting begins to reveal itself. Once the surface has settled and dried, I return to it with colour pencils. This is when I begin to trace out forms from the abstract fields of paint, gently coaxing images into focus from what was once pure fluidity. I look for shapes or suggestions of figures that seem to want to emerge. It is a bit like looking at clouds and slowly recognizing animals, faces, or landscapes hidden within them.

After this comes the part of my process that is the most meticulous and time-consuming. I begin working back into the traced forms with fine brushes and oil paint, adding delicate details and subtle shifts in color and texture. This stage is deeply satisfying for me, even though it can be slow and painstaking. It feels peaceful and meditative, as though I am slowly unravelling threads of energy and meaning that have been lying dormant in my subconscious. For me, creating a painting is akin to excavating an archaeological site. It is not about inventing something out of thin air but rather about uncovering hidden treasures, pulling shapes and stories from the mist, and slowly polishing them until they shine. Each painting becomes a record of this search, carrying traces of the literature, memories, emotions, and moments of discovery that have guided me along the way.

Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?

I do have personal rituals and habits that help me enter a creative state of flow, and they are an essential part of my practice as an artist. Before I begin painting, I like to prepare both my mind and my spirit, creating a sense of inner quiet that allows me to connect more deeply with my work. One of the most significant rituals for me is the practice of Chinese ink calligraphy, specifically the copying of Buddhist sutras. Among the many texts I could choose, I am particularly drawn to the Heart Sutra. It is a concise yet profound scripture in Mahayana Buddhism, consisting of only 268 Chinese characters. Despite its brevity, it contains a vast depth of wisdom, especially in its teaching on emptiness. The Heart Sutra speaks of how all phenomena, including physical form, are ultimately empty of inherent existence. Everything we see, touch, or feel is interconnected, fluid, and without a fixed essence. This idea resonates strongly with me and underpins much of what I strive to express through my art.

When I sit down to copy the Heart Sutra, I grind the ink carefully and feel the gentle drag of the brush on the paper. Each stroke requires focus and patience, and there is a quiet beauty in the repetition of familiar characters. This ritual is not just about writing words but about embodying the teachings through physical movement. It becomes a meditation that clears my mind of noise and distraction, creating space for stillness and presence. I find that sutra copying helps me enter a state of calmness and mindfulness, dissolving the boundaries between myself and the act of creation. It slows me down and makes me more attentive to subtle shifts in feeling and thought. It is in this quiet space that I feel most ready to paint, because I have left behind the chatter of everyday life and arrived in a place where intuition and emotion can speak more clearly.

This ritual also connects to how I approach painting itself. Just as the Heart Sutra speaks of emptiness and the absence of inherent form, my paintings explore ideas of impermanence and transformation. I am drawn to processes that allow for fluidity, chance, and the constant shifting of forms. Whether it is the way pigments flow across the canvas or how images slowly emerge from layers of color, I am always searching for moments where materiality seems to transcend itself and point toward something more spiritual or intangible. I think of my entire creative process as a kind of meditation, much like the act of copying sutras. Painting becomes another form of devotion, one that is physical and mental, but also deeply emotional and spiritual. Both practices allow me to explore the space between the known and the unknown, the visible and the invisible.

Ultimately, these rituals are not only about preparing to paint but about cultivating a way of being. They remind me to approach my work, and life itself, with patience, humility, and openness. They help me remember that art, like the teachings of the sutras, is not only about the finished object but about the process, the moments of connection, and the quiet discoveries along the way.

Do you feel a personal connection to your subject matter is essential? How has this connection shaped your work? 

I feel a personal connection to my subject matter is absolutely essential, and it is impossible for me to separate my identity and inner world from the paintings I create. My art comes directly from my thoughts, emotions, and subconscious desires. In a way that might sound almost egocentric, I sometimes feel as though I am playing the role of a god within the universe of my paintings. Each canvas becomes a realm where I can build entire worlds, inventing landscapes, beings, and atmospheres that exist only because I have imagined them into being.For me, painting is more than just a practice of making images. It feels like an act of world-building. The two-dimensional surface of the canvas serves as a kind of window or portal into another space, a space where I hold complete freedom and power within its boundaries. In that contained realm, I am able to decipher my own subconscious, allowing hidden thoughts and feelings to surface without fear of judgment or misunderstanding. Painting is a space where I can be completely truthful and honest with myself, where I can explore my deepest curiosities and longings without limitation.

This sense of freedom and agency is incredibly meaningful to me. There is an immense gratification that comes from giving form and substance to something that begins as a fleeting idea or emotion in my mind. Each day, I am fortunate to have the chance to translate my inner world into tangible marks and colors on the canvas. It is a practice that brings me great happiness and gratitude because it feels like I am constantly discovering new parts of myself while also creating spaces that others might find resonant or intriguing. My personal connection to my subject matter has shaped my work in significant ways. The imagery that emerges in my paintings often stems from a very private realm of dreams, memories, literature, philosophy, and my spiritual reflections. It is deeply influenced by my cultural background and the philosophies I grew up with, such as the Buddhist notions of impermanence and emptiness, and by the literary worlds that have captured my imagination, from Greek mythology to the novels of Hermann Hesse. These diverse influences become interwoven with my own experiences, transforming into scenes that feel both personal and universal.

Because my paintings arise from such an intimate place, I see each work as a kind of self-portrait, though not in any literal sense. They are portraits of my internal landscapes, of emotional and spiritual states that I am attempting to understand or express. Even when my paintings appear abstract or otherworldly, they carry within them traces of my own life, thoughts, and questions. This personal connection also means that painting serves as a kind of mirror for me. Through the act of creating, I learn more about who I am, what I value, and how I perceive the world. It is a way of externalizing my inner dialogue and giving it a form that I can examine, reflect upon, and share with others.

In the end, I believe it is this deep personal connection that gives my paintings their energy and sincerity. It is what fuels my desire to keep creating, and what allows me to feel that each work, no matter how abstract or mystical, is rooted in something real and true. For me, painting is not just a craft or a profession but a profoundly personal journey, one that I feel incredibly grateful to undertake every day.

Do you believe the ‘mad artist’ stereotype still holds weight, or is creativity more grounded than we think? 

I do not believe the ‘mad artist’ stereotype holds much weight today, and I think it is a harmful notion that does more damage than good to artists and their creative journeys. The idea that one must suffer from mental illness or madness to create exciting or meaningful art is not only misleading but incredibly destructive to an artist’s mind and wellbeing. It creates unrealistic and unhealthy expectations, suggesting that creativity can only come from chaos, pain, or emotional extremes. From my experience and perspective, it is simply not sustainable to base one’s artistic practice on mental instability or manic episodes of creative outbursts. Sure, moments of emotional intensity can sometimes spark inspiration or lead to breakthroughs, but these highs cannot be constant. Life is made up of ups and downs, and trying to force creativity out of emotional turmoil can lead to burnout, exhaustion, and deeper mental health struggles. Creativity is far more complex and nuanced than a rollercoaster of highs and lows.

My own work is deeply connected to ideas of healing and mindfulness. I align my art-making practice closely with my Buddhist beliefs, which emphasize compassion, self-awareness, and inner peace. Rather than seeing creativity as a product of madness, I approach it as a path to becoming a more sincere, genuine, and honest person. This journey toward personal growth and balance is reflected in my paintings. I find that when I am at peace with myself and grounded in mindfulness, I produce my best work — or at least the work I am truly happy with and confident enough to share with the world. I think this approach to creativity is healthier and more sustainable over the long term. It respects the artist’s mental and emotional wellbeing, acknowledging that art-making is a process that requires patience, care, and presence. The romanticized image of the “tortured genius” can sometimes glamorize suffering in a way that makes artists feel they must endure pain to be valid or inspired. I hope that our generation of artists can challenge and dismantle this outdated stereotype and replace it with a model that values wellness, balance, and sustainable creative practices. In many ways, the “mad artist” myth does a disservice not only to artists but to the art itself. It can obscure the discipline, skill, and intention that go into creating meaningful work. Art can be exciting and profound without having to be born from chaos or madness. In fact, I believe that clarity of mind and emotional stability can open up new and deeper ways of expression. When the artist is centered and mindful, the work can come from a place of true connection and authenticity, rather than from a place of turmoil or desperation.

I am committed to nurturing this mindset in my own practice, encouraging others to do the same, and fostering a community where creativity and mental health are seen as partners rather than enemies. Art-making should be an act of self-care as much as it is a form of expression. By embracing this, we can create a healthier, more inclusive environment that supports artists in their fullest humanity.

✦ ✦ ✦

Rooted in ritual and moved by the unseen, Fong’s practice becomes a contemplative offering—one that resists fixed meaning in favor of ambiguity, intuition, and quiet transformation. Each painting invites presence without demand, allowing viewers to encounter a space between the material and the ineffable. What emerges is a visual language of devotion, one that honors impermanence while reaching toward the timeless.