At the moment, SOCIÉTÉ (a Berlin gallery) is hosting Lu Yang’s second solo exhibition, DOKU the Creator — BHAVACHAKRA, immersing visitors in a groundbreaking digital art experience.
Since 2018, Lu Yang has been developing the shape-shifting avatar DOKU in collaboration with a team of scientists, 3D animators, and digital technicians, using state-of-the-art motion capture technology. DOKU is a digital shell, a virtual human, named after the phrase “Dokusho Dokushi”—“We are born alone and we die alone.” Yang describes DOKU as a virtual avatar traversing simulated realities, embodying the dissolution of fixed identity and the recursive nature of consciousness.
The human subject, tormented by thoughts, technologies, wars, and destruction, struggles to survive and be reborn—a theme running like a red thread through the entire video. After a few transitions, I felt the artist’s acute sensitivity. Perhaps many highly perceptive people experience a similar emotional state—whether confronted with a relentless news cycle or pondering humanity’s future. Another analogy is self-destruction. In Lu Yang’s artistic universe, this inner tension manifests vividly: forces act simultaneously to inflict suffering and remain under its sway.
In Lu Yang’s work, the theme of bodily fragility resonated strongly with me. Later, reading the artist’s interview, I discovered we share a similar experience of chronic illness. Such conditions, even if not life-threatening—like asthma—often mark profound loneliness. This solitude arises not only from frequent hospital visits but also from the impossibility of others truly understanding or sharing physical pain.
How should we approach her method of presentation? As just another medium for the artist? And what about the use of AI? This is a conversation for another time.
In contemporary art, it is often said that meaning matters more than execution. Meaning is certainly crucial, yet we should not underestimate the importance of craft. In Eastern philosophical traditions, the responsibility for interpretation lies with the listener—one must actively grasp the essence. In Western culture, by contrast, clarity and comprehension fall on the speaker. Contemporary art, however, often flips this: as the joke goes (with a grain of truth), the curator bears the burden of understanding.
If an artist devoted to their practice lacks the technical endurance or patience to realize their vision alone, is it legitimate to enlist a team of specialists? This model has long existed: once artists relied on skilled craftsmen; today, they rely on IT specialists, programmers, and new-media technicians. Fundamentally, only the tools and contexts have changed—not the practice itself. So where lies the real difference?
For me, the difference lies in the bluntness of the presentation. Not only do we witness what is essentially a full-length film, but it is accompanied by an extensive explanatory monologue. I had a similar reaction at a contemporary ballet: the choreography was superb, yet the constant voiceover felt excessive. In classical ballet, the audience absorbs the narrative through body movement, facial expression, and music—and that is usually enough to feel the drama. Why not allow the same trust in the audience for contemporary ballet? Honestly, the performance’s meaning was entirely clear without verbal commentary.
At DOKU the Creator — BHAVACHAKRA, I largely ignored the accompanying text. Immersion was almost instantaneous: the gallery space, designed with a futuristic aesthetic, itself created an atmosphere of engagement. The audience, already gathered before the screen, seemed drawn into the action’s core, amplifying the sense of shared experience. The video immediately captured attention. The artist’s work impressed with its scale and meticulous detail. Yet the abundance of information was so dense that I left the exhibition feeling emotionally drained—as if overloaded by the torrent of images and meanings.