Lei Jingjie
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Aug 12
- 4 min read
Lei Jingjie works primarily with painting, using soft materials like pastel and tempera to build images that feel quiet and distant. His portraits often show the backs of heads, cutting off the usual cues of gaze or expression. Instead of direct emotion, the viewer is left with fragments, silences, and a sense of delay. Much of his practice revolves around memory, perception, and the small moments that slip away or are overlooked. His recent works reflect on what happens when things are left unseen and how the familiar can become subtly unsettling. Through these choices, he invites reflection on the spaces between feeling and remembering.
Q: You began with realistic portraits but shifted focus when they stopped moving you. What made you first notice this change?
A: I used to paint a large number of portraits, which gave me ample experience with materials and techniques. Over time, I gradually realized that I was relying on established methods and experience to complete portraits. While they were technically precise, they started to feel emotionally hollow to me, these works did not touch me any more. It’s a dangerous place for an artist to be—when your own work no longer moves you. The pleasure of painting had turned into a fleeting satisfaction with form, rather than a lasting emotional or spiritual resonance. That sense of crisis pushed me to search for something beyond technique in my work. It was a natural shift, and perhaps it's just the nature of being a creator, we are often the hardest people to satisfy.
Q: You write about “emotional delays” and “contradictions between reality and fantasy.” Are these themes drawn from your own experiences?
A: This was something I discovered almost by accident during my creative process. Before I began working formally on the back of head portrait series, I made many sketches. Images like these are rarely used as a central theme in painting. In the process, their expressions, gazes, and any form of interaction were hidden in the paintings. The usual visual cues for emotion were cut off. This concealment made me realize a kind of “delay”, in which the emotion cannot be conveyed immediately, but is delayed in the viewer's imagination, this experience reminds me of moments in reality when emotions are lost. As a result, “emotional delays” and “contradictions between reality and fantasy.” have become recurring themes in my practice.
Q: Your portraits of backs avoid direct representation. What do you think is revealed when something is left unseen?
A: When we look at a frontal portrait, we rarely think about what lies behind it. But when someone's back is presented to us, we instinctively begin to imagine their face. The back view should feel familiar, yet on closer inspection, we struggle to find a matching image from memory. It feels as though the truth is covered by a veil, and people become immersed in a mist of illusion. The back is not just a forgotten corner. It is an uprising against the tyranny of vision.
Q: You often use pastels, tempera, and colored pencils. What draws you to these materials for this kind of work?
A: These materials come partly from the habits and sense of intimacy I developed during my early portrait work. At the same time, they are closely connected to the image state I now pursue. The softness of pastel, the layering of tempera, and the delicate control of coloured pencil together form an uncertain boundary within the image. My works always find their place somewhere between control and loss of control.
Q: You mention “unsettling familiarity.” What does this mean to you when creating or viewing a piece?
A: The “unsettling familiarity” is a psychological paradox triggered by visual perception. You believe you are seeing something familiar, but certain details deviate from your experience, causing a subtle and persistent discomfort. This feeling does not come from the unfamiliar, but from questioning the familiar. As I gradually shifted towards alternative portraiture and searched for a change in my practice, this “unsettling familiarity” became a central theme in my work. Perhaps it is a possibility I found for my art, and I am still exploring its existence in my paintings.
Q: Looking at the ideas behind your practice, do you see painting as a way to repair memory, or more to question it?
A: For me, painting is neither simply about repairing memory nor just questioning memory itself. It is more like an action that constantly swings between repair and doubt. I believe that a complete image of memory cannot be fully restored, I just propose the possibility of recalling fragments of memory, which have never actually left, but have just been placed in an unnoticed position, and it happens to be us who place them. When we turn our faces to the world, what exactly does the back of the head carry? For me, painting is no longer about achieving perfection, but about having the courage to reveal the things we’ve learned to ignore. It is both an extension of perception and a self-repair of cognition. It is a way for us to reconnect with the “the missed.”
