WANRONG ZHU
Visual Artist
In "White Lily's Requiem," artist Wanrong Zhu explores the complex emotions of loss and memory through the lens of AI, transforming deeply buried dreams into a tangible visual and sensory experience. This work is not only a mourning for a lost intimate companion—a small dog—but also a deep dive into the role of dreams as carriers of memory and emotion. By combining AI-generated videos, projections, and installation art, the artist creates a world that is both illusory and real, immersing the audience in a space filled with emotional fluctuations and philosophical reflections. It showcases the potential of AI technology in modern art creation and demonstrates how AI art can touch the deepest human emotions and experiences. This is not just an exploration of the boundaries of technology and art but also a journey of the soul. It invites the audience to cross the boundaries of reality and enter a dream world built from deep memories and emotions, experiencing eternal themes of love, loss, and acceptance. In this process, the work raises a fundamental question: In this constantly changing world, how do we maintain our connection to the past through memory and art, and how do we find new meaning and hope in loss?
Background Story: A 15-year-old dog, who was my closest childhood companion, passed away while I was in college. I deeply regret not being there for its final moments. I keep having the same dream repeatedly: I am frantically searching for my deceased dog in an abandoned landfill, filled with countless black garbage bags. I search through each bag, desperately trying to find my dog, knowing it's there. Hauntingly, my grandmother's nightmarish voice echoes in my ears: "It's dead, I threw it away, stop looking for it..." Every time I am about to find it, I wake up, tears streaming down my face...
The incessant rustling of garbage bags fills my ears . Sick, dead, thrown away... my grandmother's fractured words echoing in my head. cycle through the shadows of the past over and over again.
