Di Tian
Website: https://www.ditianarts.com/
Instagram: @di_rkive
Di Tian, born 1999 in Chongqing, China, is a New York-based new-media artist. He received his B.F.A degree from School of the Art Institute of Chicago and M.F.A degree from University of Pennsylvania. He is now working as an Assistant Teaching Professor in the School of Visual Arts at Penn State University.
Di embarked on his art journey at the age of five, expressing himself mainly through drawing and painting as he skillfully brought his imaginative world to life. From a very early age, his art has already been featured in a range of international exhibitions, publications, and charity events. He held his first solo exhibition “Mosquitoes Also Can Dream” at Beijing 798 Art District in 2008 when he was nine, along with his personal charity event “For Children of China” by Amity Foundation in Shanghai (2011) , solo artworks collection published by Beijing Xiron Group (2013), and so on. However, Di does not limit himself to traditional forms; his current artworks involve a variety of mediums, such as interactive installations, computer graphics, and coding. His art continues to be globally recognized, participating in various exhibitions, such as “Contrasts” at Loosen Art Gallery in Rome (2021), Chengdu Biennale in China (2023), “4C Exhibition Q2 – Dwelling” at 4C Gallery in California (2024), and "Beyond Interface and Prompt" Multimedia Art Group Exhibition in New York (2025).
Di's current art practice navigates through the human experiences in flux, examining the intricate relationship between individual identity and societal dynamics, particularly within contemporary China. His work explores themes of existential anxiety, societal pressures, and the quest for meaning in the face of modern challenges. Through fusion of different mediums, Di encourages the audience to draw connections between their own experiences and my artworks, prompting them to contemplate the resonance and critical reflections they evoke in today's rapidly evolving world.
Di Tian, your work often straddles a liminal space between machine and human, control and vulnerability, as in Mother / Father (2023), where mechanical precision simulates bodily care or absence. How do you negotiate the emotional weight of technology in your installations, and do you see these machines as metaphors for contemporary emotional labor or as extensions of human absence?
In Mother / Father, I use machines to carry both presence and absence. The telescopic devices breathe with irregular rhythms, echoing the fragile condition of a body at the edge of life. For me, the technology here is not neutral. It becomes a way to hold memory and loss, especially as the work was made after my grandparents passed away. I see the machines as standing between two roles: they reflect the repetitive, almost mechanical nature of care, but they also expose the emptiness that appears when human presence is missing. The audience’s action—walking around the bed to awaken the breathing—completes the piece, showing that technology alone cannot replace companionship. What it can do is remind us of the emotional labor and vulnerability that remain central to being human.
Growing up as a celebrated child artist in China, you were immersed early in a system of artistic recognition, institutional validation, and public performance. How has your perception of authorship and audience shifted since your childhood, especially now that you work with digital anonymity, coding, and motion capture?
As a child artist in China, I was surrounded by recognition and attention, but I never created for praise. I only focused on the act of making. Back then, authorship felt tied to visibility and the artist’s image. Now, working with coding, motion capture, and digital platforms, I think authorship feels more open and shared. The audience is no longer just looking at a finished object; their presence and interaction often shape the work itself. Digital anonymity also allows me to step back from the focus on my personal image and instead create a space where viewers and machines complete the piece together.
In The Mound (2024), the decaying bicycles, discarded mattresses, and ambient light all suggest an environment of transience, loss, and possibly sociopolitical commentary. How do you view the ethical implications of digitally reconstructing marginalized or decaying spaces, particularly in relation to memory, documentation, and digital aesthetics?
When I digitally reconstruct decaying or marginalized spaces, I think less about making them look beautiful and more about preserving a fragile memory. These places carry stories of daily life that are often overlooked. Using digital tools allows me to document and reframe them, but I’m careful not to turn them into empty spectacle. For me, the ethical part is about respect, treating the site as a trace of real lives rather than just raw material. In The Mound, the broken objects are reminders of loss, but the reconstruction gives viewers time to reflect on what is disappearing and why.
You operate at the convergence of many disciplines, including engineering, animation, sculpture, and pedagogy, while addressing existential and social issues. Do you see your role as an artist today more akin to a systems thinker or a myth maker? What responsibility do you think the new media artist holds in translating complex sociotechnical realities to a broader public?
I see myself as both a systems thinker and a storyteller. Working with coding, machines, and teaching requires me to think about how different parts connect, but at the same time, I also create images and situations that people can relate to on a more emotional level. For me, the responsibility of a new media artist is to make complex issues visible and approachable without making them too simple. The goal is not just to explain technology, but to create experiences that help people reflect on how these systems shape their daily lives.
In a work like Aurora II (2021), where silicon hands and reciprocating machines respond to human presence, there’s a haunting suggestion of programmed empathy. How do you define ‘interactivity’ in your installations, not just technically but philosophically, as a form of reciprocal recognition between viewer and machine?
For me, interactivity is less about sensors and triggers and more about creating a space where viewers are invited to stay, participate, and let their presence shape the work. In my interactive and time-based pieces, I try to challenge the idea of art as something to be seen quickly and alone. I want the audience to linger, to move, to reflect so that they shift from passive observers into active parts of the work. In Aurora II, the silicon hands respond mechanically, but the deeper meaning comes from the moment when the audience feels that response as recognition, and when the machine, in turn, seems to acknowledge their presence. That mutual awareness is where I locate interactivity, not just in code, but in experience.
Much of your work references personal, societal, and cultural fragmentation, particularly in post socialist or rapidly urbanizing China. How do you see your artistic identity operating across geopolitical and generational thresholds, especially now that you are based in the United States yet continue to engage with Chinese sociocultural themes?
My artistic identity grows out of moving between China and the United States. In China, I witnessed how rapid urban change and shifting values shaped daily life and personal memory. Those experiences continue to anchor my work, even as I create in a new environment abroad. Living in the U.S. gives me both distance and perspective—I can look back at Chinese sociocultural themes with fresh eyes while also connecting them to broader global issues. This in-between position pushes me to make works that speak to questions of belonging, memory, and change in ways that are personal yet also widely relatable.
With projects like Digital Cube · 100 placed in crowded shopping districts, you blur the lines between public spectacle and critical engagement. How do you balance artistic intention with public interpretation in these commercial or urban contexts, and do you view compromise as a necessary part of public-facing new media art?
I’m very aware that the work sits in a busy, commercial environment where people don’t come with the mindset of visiting a gallery. My intention is to bring art into that everyday flow, so I design works that can first attract attention but also leave space for deeper reflection if the viewer chooses to stay. The public may interpret it in ways I didn’t plan, and I see that as part of the work’s life rather than a loss of control. In these contexts, some compromise is unavoidable. I need to adjust the language of the piece so it can exist in that space, but I don’t see it as giving up the core idea. It’s more about finding a bridge between artistic intention and the unpredictable ways people respond in public.
In The Sighing Me (2023), a character is depicted surrounded by industrial overgrowth, absorbing knowledge in quiet seclusion. This scene echoes motifs of resilience, inner life, and disconnection. Do you think isolation is becoming a fundamental condition of artistic creation today, or is it a reaction to global saturation and informational overload?
For me, isolation is both a condition and a choice. On one hand, the constant flow of information makes it difficult to hear one’s own voice, so stepping back feels necessary. On the other hand, solitude has always been part of artistic creation—it gives space for reflection and slower forms of thinking. In The Sighing Me, the figure surrounded by industrial overgrowth reflects this tension - isolation can feel like disconnection, but it also becomes a way to build resilience.
Teaching now at Penn State, you mentor a new generation of digital artists. How does pedagogy influence your practice? Are there moments when a student’s approach radically altered your own framework, or where teaching itself became a conceptual act embedded within your studio process?
Teaching at Penn State has made me more open and flexible in my own practice. Students often approach tools like coding, 3D, or motion capture in ways I didn’t expect, and their experiments sometimes push me to rethink what I took for granted. There have been moments when a student’s fresh approach shifted how I thought about interaction or narrative, and I carried that back into my own work. In that sense, teaching is not separate from my studio—it becomes part of it, a space where ideas are tested, exchanged, and sometimes transformed.
Having created, exhibited, and taught across continents and platforms, your trajectory offers a rare view into the transformation of art from object to experience, from solitary practice to algorithmic collaboration. Looking ahead, what do you believe is the most urgent question artists should be asking, not just of their tools but of their times?
I think the most urgent question is how artists can stay human while working with systems that are increasingly nonhuman—algorithms, machines, and platforms that shape how we see and feel. It’s not only about learning new tools but about asking what values and stories we embed in them. For me, the key is to question whether art can still create spaces for reflection, care, and imagination in a time when speed and efficiency dominate.