Excuse me, where do I return 400 tiles of IKEA fake grass?

IKEA, My Accidental Patron

First and foremost, I want to thank IKEA’s return policy. Without it, this show wouldn’t be possible. I spent a total of $3,501.05 on items for a one-night art event—then returned most of them the next day. The priciest item of them was 432 tiles of fake grass used to transform the floor into a soft, elementary-school-style playground. A space that felt emotionally tied to the work on view.
Mission: IKEA was powered by absurdity, heavy lifting, solid customer service, and one reliable Chase credit card. That said, I carried both the weight of shame and 432 fake grass tiles (literally). Returning 48 packs (9 tiles each) was a workout I didn’t sign up for. Packing, hauling, and counting them nearly broke me (and IKEA staff). But still, shoutout to IKEA’s generous return policy. Without it, this show wouldn’t have happened.
Would I do it again? Probably not. But thank you, IKEA.

Of course, IKEA wasn't the only supporter. Huge thanks to the artists, curators, venue, performers, volunteers, friends, family, and every attendee. I love you all dearly. More appreciations to come—but first, the story.

Originated from Fear

*REWIND BACK TO THE BEGINNING*

For those unfamiliar, 666 liù liù liù Art Show is a group exhibition co-curated by me and Mengxi Xin. It explores the dual meanings embedded in cultural symbols—starting with the number 666. In the West, 666 is often associated with the Antichrist, apocalyptic beasts, and the end of the world. But in China, the same number, pronounced liù liù liù, is seen as lucky, symbolizing smoothness, skill, and good fortune.

In this exhibition, we invited six San Francisco-based artists with Chinese heritage to reclaim the number and ask:
What if we celebrate what you fear?

Ironically, the idea of 666 came from my own fear in the face of today’s political climate. As immigrants like myself face growing uncertainty, I began asking what I could do as an artist. My parents warned me repeatedly not to go near protests, afraid that speaking out could jeopardize my path to citizenship.

I understood their fear. Risking everything to speak up, especially as an unknown nobody, sounds not at all smart. But I still felt compelled to act. So I decided to contribute under the radar—but hopefully still meaningful—way: through an art show. By challenging the Western narrative with Chinese perspectives, I hoped to say:
Look at us! We too, are human made of stories, flesh, and culture.

Oh, It’s Happening

Less than two months before our planned 6/6 opening, I invited Jiayue—a talented SF-based painter/illustrator—and the first artist I knew since my move to San Francisco to the show. Minutes after, she responded:

Seconds after receiving the message, it hit me:
There’s no turning back now.
More than anything, I didn’t want to let the artists down. Whatever happened, the show must go on.

Version 1.0 of the 666 show looked very different. At the time, affordable venues were nonexistent, so I planned to host it at my own home. I cleared out all the furniture on the first floor, evaluated the space, and found it could probably fit about 40 guests. Sure, it needed some repainting, a few extra spotlights, and a clever way to hide the kitchen—but I could totally see it functioning as a cozy gallery.

Just as I had mentally committed to the homemade-gallery route, one of the artists mentioned The Nook—an art community space founded by a group of seven friends aiming to bring more art to San Francisco. Somehow, we were lucky enough to secure a prime 6/6 6pm slot (surprise!), and they generously offered it at no cost.

If Sarah, Louis, Fish, Shi, Shani, Chloe, and Aravinth hadn’t decided to rent a giant commercial space and convert it into a full-blown art venue… this show would’ve taken place in some guy’s living room. Massive thanks to The Nook Team for making this happen.

As a first-time curator, I fully expected everything to go wrong. So I did the only logical thing: ask for help.

I brought in Mengxi, a friend currently studying art curation in New York, to be my remote co-curator. I also reached out to Levi—whose modular Standing Gallery concept had inspired me. He shared invaluable resources and helped me think through how to turn a domestic space into something gallery-like.

Armed with their insights and a few dozen YouTube tutorials (this one in particular was super helpful: How To Organize A Successful Art Exhibition), I created a massive document with timelines, to-dos, and responsibilities. I’m not the most naturally organized person—but I knew this show wouldn’t survive without structure.
So I leaned into it.
As I looked over the giant checklist, my excitement to pull it all off outweighed my nerves.
Let’s do this.

Team Is Made Of…?

The first group meeting—with just me, Mengxi, Rae, and Melissa—turned out to be unexpectedly deep. Ten seconds after they walked through the door, we all loosened up and ended up talking about some of the most vulnerable parts of life—sexuality, gender, childhood, etc. Tears were shed throughout the conversation. What was originally planned as a 40 minute check-in became a 2.5 hour emotional brain dump.
A part of me would’ve felt satisfied if everything ended right there. That conversation alone felt like enough.
But the show must go on.

When Jacob and Jiayue showed up at the venue—and Connie joined in digitally during our group meeting—I knew the ship had officially left the dock. Full speed ahead toward show day, just a month and a half away.

Throughout the curation process, I had to constantly visit the space and preempt issues before they became actual problems. Some nights, I seriously considered sleeping there instead of going home. During those late hours, The Nook team was a godsend—always supportive, always helpful, no matter how absurd our ideas were (yes, even the one about covering the entire floor with grass). I must have said “just one more question” so many times it stopped meaning anything—but they never seemed to mind. Always a smile. Always a solution.
I can’t overstate how blessed I feel to have had their support. Among the crew, Sarah was my most frequent contact. She’s the kind of person you just feel better having on your team—professional, calm, and genuinely sweet. Half of my confidence came from simply knowing she was around.

As much as I believe no great project can be done alone, I’ve always struggled to ask for help. I don’t want to inconvenience others. My thinking goes: If I can do it myself, why should I burden anyone else?
So, when I asked four friends to help with door duty during the show, I told myself that was the max amount of “trouble” I should bring into anyone’s life.

But that mindset nearly broke me. In the days leading up to the opening, I was overwhelmed and still had a long to-do list. In a moment of despair (and low-key panic), I sent out a call for volunteers through the event page—just hoping someone would come through.

They did.

People showed up and offered help, and I instantly felt lighter.
Gleb made multiple trips hauling packs of fake grass from IKEA to the venue, risking his car getting towed every time.

Evan, Iris, and Emmanuel stayed late into the night moving furniture and stomping down hundreds of grass tiles.

Finneas and Adam figured out the light control system on their own, going above and beyond.

Chris, Sahil, Bansini, Daniel and Iris sacrificed their time socializing and viewing the show just to sit downstairs and guide guests in.

To all the volunteers: I am truly indebted to your generosity.
Indeed—great things cannot, and should not, be done alone.

When Jiayue’s work were installed on the red brick wall, the sense of pleasure and achievement was indescribable.

Speaking of late nights, I actually took screenshots of all the rides I called to take me home at 2, 3, or 4 a.m.— just to show off how hard I worked. The hustle was real. I felt like I was back in college during finals week for art class.

On the day of art show

Vivian, my cousin who’s close enough to be my sister, flew all the way from Boston to see the show and spend the weekend with me. Shamefully, I was a terrible host. The first thing I asked of her wasn’t a meal together, nor a Thai massage to brush off her travel fatigue. No. I met her at the venue six hours before the show and asked, “Can you call an Uber and bring my backpack from the house? I left it there by accident.” What an asshole.

Rightfully, she was pissed. But she quickly accepted that she had flown into town for a busted brother whose eyes only saw the never-ending to-do list. Without much complaint, she jumped in to help however she could. For that, I’m forever indebted.
I love you, Vivian, a lot.

The same goes for Allan. He’s been my best friend since college and is almost always the first person I thank in every newsletter. He flew in from LA just for the show—only to end up setting it up right after landing, and tearing it all down with me late into the night.
I asked a lot, and you gave even more.
I love you, Allan, a lot.

Surprisingly, with just a couple of hours before showtime, I was incredibly calm despite the chaos looming in my task list: updating the work catalog online and printing physical copies, fixing lighting (with the amazing Finneas and Adam), setting up artist work, coordinating with the photographer, directing performers, and prepping volunteers for crowd control.
From somewhere deep inside, a voice told me: Stay calm—you and your team will get it done in time.

That voice was… wrong.

At 6:00 p.m., guests had already begun gathering at the front door. Meanwhile, we were still tidying one artist’s setup, missing another’s work entirely, waiting on a late arrival, and getting the performers ready. Still, somehow, I didn’t panic.
It’s our first time curating—of course things are going to go wrong.
So, with a smile, I welcomed the audience and said “proudly”:
“As you can see, we’re performing what’s called ‘Behind the Scenes.’ Please hang tight while we wrap things up over the next 30 minutes. Enjoy some Chinese snacks and explore the works that are already up:)”

The chaos was so overwhelming that when the show finally came together by 6:30, it felt unreal. People took off their shoes to walk on the grass, exploring the works with curiosity and wonder. They sat down to play Melissa’s game, carefully read Rae’s poetry line by line, wrote the Chinese character for six (六) as part of Connie’s interactive piece, peered into Jacob’s intricate box installations, and studied Jiayue’s emotionally charged portraits.

The energy was alive in their smiles, eye contact, and endless questions.
In that moment—running around to make sure everything and everyone was taken care of—I realized: oh…it’s happening!

Works by Artists

I love surprises—the bigger, the better. And in this show, I had the pleasure of being continually surprised by a group of incredibly talented artists, each interpreting the theme of 666 liù liù liù in wildly different ways. Below are my own takes on their works (disclaimer: they might not match the artist’s original intent).

Jiayue Li (@jiayuerrr) walks the fine line between revealing and obscuring herself in her paintings. With distorted, color-shifted, and emotionally charged figures in motion, all her characters wear the same blank expression. To me, when the face no longer serves as the main source of information, everything else steps forward to tell the story of the female condition.

Jacob Li Rosenberg (@luckydrag8n) recreated a Chinese market right on Market Street. Up close, you’ll find miniature photo scenes of Chinese immigrant life in SF, lit from within by soft lamps inside old-school carrying boxes.
His installation, CHINESE HUG, is an immersive love letter to intergenerational relationships and the culture passed through produce markets, especially in the Richmond District.

Melissa Liu (@mellye.liu) transformed the logic of the viral Infinite Craft game into a storytelling machine for Chinese family dynamics. Mix “Piano Lesson” with “Kid” and expectedly: you get “Unhappy Kid.”
Their work, 水彩 Stories, is an interactive narrative about cultural liminality told through Chinese brush paintings.
It’s so Chinese it hurts—and heals.

Rae Xiang (@raexiiang) wrote poetry about silence—about being quiet and finding voice again.
Sometimes I’m Quiet is a print series created during Rae’s journey of healing from past sexual assault. While light in tone, it speaks deeply to resilience and the need for levity in a messy world.

Connie Ye (@c0n5tants) created an interactive web piece 666 Alignment Chart centered on the Chinese character 六 (“six”) as a way to explore Chinese-American routines—like handwriting practice in Chinese school. Viewers submit their handwriting and receive a Dungeons & Dragons-style alignment in return.
It’s quirky, introspective, and quietly radical: a way to celebrate how our individuality leaks through even the most structured rituals.

Then came 7 o’clock: time for my performance piece,
Adan is Eva 阿蛋也是二娃.

My work in the show: Adan is Eva 阿蛋也是二娃

I withhold many secrets. They come in different shapes and colors. Sometimes, an elongated pink secret; other times, a round, elevated blue one. After counting them, I realized many of these secrets wereborn in elementary school—a time when right and wrong were undefined, and my brain still under construction. My tiny foot often marched to the edge of the garden to test rules. One step further, and I’d be burned by the eye beams of Ms. Zhang, my class teacher.

Time and time again, secrets formed in the dark—when teachers weren’t watching. A dark place like my pocket. A dark place under my blanket. A dark place underwater in the swimming pool. I followed the orders of my own body until disapproved by a higher being.

Some behaviors remained unquestioned. Wearing a uniform was one of them. Its plain color and simple cut were designed to make our differences invisible, to minimize attention to the bodies of boys and girls whose focus, supposedly, should be solely on studying. To a degree, it worked.

But kids grow.

As a slow grower, I watched the girls grow taller and taller. Their legs swept across the playground like dragonflies. I admired their swiftness. I chased after them with my short but fast-moving legs.

Each morning, we danced the universal school routine—4 minutes and 37 seconds of synchronized movement meant to “wake up” our bodies. Two students led from a stage, the rest of us followed in rows sorted by height: boys on one side, girls on the other. Enough space was left in between to prevent collisions. But we still ran into each other—crossing invisible lines, smashing arms mid-motion.

A visible secret, dancing under the morning light.

The Work

Adan is Eva 阿蛋也是二娃 is projection-based performance piece that reimagines Chinese elementary school morning exercises through the lens of the Adam and Eve story.

Two dancers face a projected video of synchronized student routines. Their backs are bare; their fronts are layered with reflective star stickers—the same kind once handed out to reward “good behavior.” Under the projection light, their skin becomes the screen, their bodies lit like uniforms, their shadows aligned with the leading dancers.

Being nude and wearing a uniform become the same. Just as Adam and Eve were unaware of their nakedness, Adan 阿蛋 and Eva 二娃 move without questioning the uniforms they wear.

As they dance, their bodies fail to fully block the projection—revealing the impossibility of perfect alignment.

After one round of dancing, the performers pause. Then they begin exchanging star stickers, piece by piece—hinting at a liminal space between nudity and uniform, turning symbols of discipline into gestures of connection and quiet rebellion. After this exchange, they return to dancing. This time, they’re more relaxed, more playful, less obedient to the projected moves.

By the end, the routine continues, but the dancers move differently. Looser. Freer. The projection still plays, but it no longer leads. The uniform—once imposed—begins to fall apart.

This piece is the first in a series that parallels the tale of Adam and Eve with the lives of two elementary school students, Adan 阿蛋 and Eva 二娃. Where Adam and Eve were ignorant of their nudity, Adan and Eva are unaware of the implications of their uniforms. I wonder:
When will Adan and Eva feel the urge to take off their uniforms? Will it come from within when they exchange starts, or will a figure—like the snake in Eden—guide/coerce them?

The installation also includes a desk scattered with scribbles and illustrations resembling Adan and Eva’s childhood handwriting. Through a small hole in the desk, viewers can peek at a long-overdue letter from Eva to Adan, reflecting on how star stickers were once used for discipline. In response, Adan sends back a cabinet full of star stickers—freely available for viewers to stick anywhere on the artwork.

On a nearby wall, I placed four drawings styled after my own elementary school work. These ambiguous scenes invite viewers to fill in the blanks—restoring their own long-forgotten childhood memories.

The Journey

Getting to this final form was anything but straightforward. It was more emotionally and logistically demanding than I’d imagined. I cycled through many early concepts: a multi-screen setup with frozen dance frames; a three-panel “clock” where dancers’ limbs served as clock hands; an interactive “Just Dance”-style game; dance with head-mounted projectors; IKEA ready-made sculptures. All of it was in search of a way to make the audience physically engage with the dance.

It wasn’t until a conversation with Ray Xia and Peter Wei that the breakthrough came:
Let the audience see the performers’ shadows interrupt the projection.
That idea clicked—and everything began to make sense.

Execution brought its own chaos: I had to solve projection issues without a white wall, haul IKEA curtains and fake grass to simulate a school playground, test videos deep into the night, and navigate the emotional complexities of nudity in performance art. Casting the performers wasn’t easy either.

Originally, I planned to dance alongside Changchang (@change.he.0206), the female performer. But as the idea of the sticker exchange—a deeply intimate gesture—took shape, I realized we hadn’t built the level of trust needed for that moment.
Right before the day of the show, I asked her boyfriend, Yinghuo (@llllcf_), if he’d be willing to join as the second performer.
He said yes. (Thank god YESSS!!)

Together, they spent hours applying stickers and rehearsing—trusting me and each other enough to perform half-nude in front of a room full of strangers. Their chemistry was perfect: not too stiff, not too casual. They moved like kids—awkward and playful.

To Changchang and Yinghuo: you brought this piece to life.
Thank you, the best couple from east bay.

End Scene

In the blink of an eye, night fell, and the audience slowly drifted out. Before I knew it, the room was nearly empty—just the artworks and a few of us standing in their glow. I hadn’t yet spoken to everyone who came. I hadn’t properly thanked the venue, the artists, or the volunteers.
Everything ended too abruptly.
And now, it was time to dismantle something that had only existed for three hours.

At 11 p.m., in the nearly empty venue, five of us—me, Vivian, Allan, Sarah, and Louis—grabbed some food from nearby and finally took a breather. Even though my brain kept telling me to get back to work, my stomach reminded me that we hadn’t eaten dinner. That’s when I finally felt it—the collapse.
The months of preparation suddenly loosened their grip on my mind. I sat on a chair, watching lips move but not hearing the words.
A paused moment.
The lights were dimmed, and I was with my sister, my best friend, and two new friends, eating a late-night meal after a self-made art show.
It was good.

Post-666 Notes

If you thought the show ended there, it didn’t.

I still had to return hundreds of grass tiles and household items to IKEA. I had to send out this newsletter (hi!) and let everyone know I was still alive. I had to clean up the documentation and prep it for both the artists and myself. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that proper documentation is just as important as the art itself.
A strong finish sets the stage for a clean start.

Beyond logistics, I also needed to reflect. Being hypercritical by nature, I always know what worked and what didn’t. So here are my 4 Big Takeaways (because my brain refuses to handle more than that):

1. Coordination with Artists

This time, we asked each artist to create something new. While it worked, it also crunched the timeline and raised the stress levels. For the next show, I’d prefer one of two approaches:

• Work with existing pieces and spend more time curating around them

• Or give artists a longer runway, then leave at least a full month for curation and install prep

2. Sales

We made $0. That’s right: a clean zero (crying*)
After tallying up the receipts, I spent $476.15 on curating the event, and $833.57 on producing my own piece. While loss is part of early artistic practice, it’s unsustainable long-term.
For future shows, I want to:

• Partner with galleries that have collectors and buyers

• Offer lower-barrier items (prints, merch) for guests with tighter budgets

• And station someone at a clearly marked desk to guide people through the buying process. This time, the sales catalog wasn’t even visible!

3. Artist Visibility

I dropped the ball here. I had planned a Q&A session with artists, but it got buried under a pile of to-dos and vanished from the program. In future shows, I’ll create space for artist-curator conversations, so audiences can better connect with the minds behind the work. It’s crucial exposure for the artists—and a deeper layer of engagement for viewers.

4. Documentation

I should’ve double-checked everything with the photographer. While they captured some beautiful moments, they didn’t have full context for the show. Proper documentation is a collaborative effort between photographer and curator.
Especially for performance-based pieces—like mine—documentation is evidence of existence.
Unfortunately, we lost footage of the performance, which is a huge loss for both the work and the archive.

Closing

What’s a better way to end than by listing everyone who made this show possible?
If I accidentally missed you, please let me know and I’ll update this. I truly can’t express my appreciation enough.

Co-Curators: Wolf Boxuan Chen, Mengxi Xin
Artists: Wolf Boxuan Chen, Jiayue Li, Melissa Liu, Jacob Li Rosenberg, Rae Xiang, Connie Ye
Performers: Changchang, Yinghuo
Volunteers & Friends: Allan Wang, Vivian Li, Ray Xia, Peter Wei, Levi, Iris Lin, Evan, Finneas Etcher, Adam Obeng, Gleb Ossipov, Emmanuel, Chris Lee, Sahil Tapiawala, Bansini Doshi, Daniel Jensen, Dry
The Nook Crew: Sarah Morin, Louis, Fish, Aravinth, Shi, Shani, Chloe

Thank you for reading thus far! And yes—there is still grass in my shoes.

Please share with me anything that caught your attention in the comment, and I’ll see you in the next one! (Email me directly OR Scroll to the bottom of the webpage to comment 🫶)