Sigg Prize Winners Wong Ping and Heidi Lau: The World Is a Giant Question Mark

Ariadne Long: Congratulations on winning the Sigg Prize 2025! Your works [in the exhibition] are newly commissioned pieces. After Pauline [co-curator of the Sigg Prize 2025] and I received your initial proposals, we had many discussions with you about the creative direction and how the exhibition would come together. Looking back now, how did your ideas evolve during the process?

Wong Ping: With Debts in the Wind (2025), I experimented with new ways of producing and presenting my work. Some elements, like the theatrical lighting effects that synced with the film’s narration, were added spontaneously to give the installation a strong theatrical feeling. I made that decision in a single day. I felt uncertain but excited at the same time.

Showing a moving image work in a gallery space is very different from screening it in a cinema. I’ve always wanted to bring in more theatrical elements to my work, like shadow puppetry, where the director isn't seen but their presence is felt. As I worked out how the installation would fit with the film, I struggled with whether I was overdoing it or holding back. Some people think the best way to present a moving image is to simply show it on a big screen. I’m not sure if I have an answer either. But I think showing it in an exhibition should be different from just displaying it on a screen, like in a cinema, on a phone, or on TV. An exhibition should give the work its own vitality and presentation format. In the end, this might be just an excuse for me to mess around, and before I was aware of it, I’d created a setting again. But receiving an award doesn’t mean this approach is the answer either. It reminds me of a lyric by He Yong^[1] : ‘Who made this difficult question? The correct answer is everywhere.’

Heidi Lau: Pavilion Procession (2025) is the first work I’ve shown in Hong Kong. It feels like a testing ground here. I was worried about finishing the ceramics on time. This is also my first attempt at including robotics in my work. Even though the exhibition is a competition, and experimenting scares me, especially with unfinished works, I really want to take this opportunity to try something different. But I ran into technical problems with the robotic spider and had to work through issues during the installation process. These challenges made me question whether I’d made the right choice.

The movement of the robotic spider imitates the way my dad and older brother walk, both of whom have mobility issues. My work always hints at Macau in some ways—its architecture, history, and family. I left home a long time ago, and my relationship with my family has changed a lot in the last few years. I went from living life on my own terms, wandering and researching, to being a carer for my family. That was how I felt when I worked on the proposal. It felt natural to include my most personal and vulnerable aspects in the work.

Long: Are there any specific ideas you want to express through these commissioned works? What was the most exciting part of the creative process for you?

Wong: My work doesn’t come with a specific message or fixed concept. It’s more like combining different sparks of inspiration into a narrative, like a writing exercise. Life is already saturated with noise, so [stories based on] a single theme or a straightforward narrative are boring. I’m more interested in figuring out how to find connections between obscure and unexpected narratives. My work proposes questions, rather than answers. It’s like a mirror that pokes fun at these things while I laugh at myself. The discussion starts when the laughter dies down.

Have you ever watched a golf tournament in person? It’s hard to take in the entire match when you’re actually there. You can follow your favourite golfer around the course and enjoy every shot they make, but you won’t see other players. Or you can wait at one hole and see how every player handles it, but then you’ll miss out on the bigger picture. So, I think watching it on TV at home gives me a more comprehensive view. In the past, people would insist on the importance of being there in person, just to witness the moment. But information is already everywhere these days, and turning up feels overrated.

Going back to the vibrator scene in my work, people often say a racket is an extension of their arm, and the vibrator works the same way. When I press a button, the other person fantasises about me. But does that mean I’m really there? And if I use the default setting, am I still part of the act? These are the types of questions I’m always curious about. They might seem trivial, but to me, they zoom in on bigger global issues. What matters is finding the links between them. So, connecting these ideas in my mind is the most exciting part of the artistic process. Every step after that, sharing [those thoughts] with the public, feels like a requirement. Why should I share them? I still don’t have an answer and I’m not sure if I even enjoy it. But the relief of finishing a work feels great.

Lau: I see things differently from Wong Ping. Making art with my hands is what excites me the most. After my mum passed away, I was caught between family stuff that seemed simple but was hard to deal with, and my own mental health issues. I couldn’t find any answers. So, I started by tracing the family history of my paternal grandparents’ generation. That’s how Shanhaijing came into my world. I want to find a vessel, or even a surreal and mythical world, to respond and give the people and things I came across a second life. I’d seen traces of Shanhaijing in pop culture since I was little. From a contemporary perspective, many of its creatures live with disabilities or impairments. Some reincarnate just to seek revenge. Others have their bodies torn in half and spend their lives hopping around with one arm and leg. And a few are obviously queer. These beings inspired me to dive into the instinctive, irrational parts of my art making process. In this mythical world, violence and beauty coexist, and form and appearance are always in flux. And the world I live in is equally chaotic and contradictory, but making art gives me rare moments to step away from it.

Wong: My work doesn’t really involve personal issues that need solving; it’s more about observing from a distance. Even my own thoughts don’t really reflect the problems I’m facing. They’re like unanchored narratives, almost unnecessary. It’s fun to share them, but it’s also fine to keep them to myself. Most of the time, I’m thinking: What am I actually doing?

I feel very separated from the art world I create. I don’t have any secrets that I can’t reveal in my animations. But don’t get me wrong—that doesn’t mean I’ve done any of the awful things I show in my animations. What’s interesting is that the more I create, the more honest I become. Animation as a medium unintentionally makes people let their guard down. Even when I’m being sincere, others see it as a whimsical farce, like a fairytale. Ten years ago, blogging was something I did for fun after work, like gaming and exercising. I didn’t have readers, but it felt amazing to work up a good sweat. My passion for writing hasn’t changed much since then. I still go about my daily life, collecting unexpected moments and nightmares [for my writing].

Lau: I make ceramics even when I’m not working on an exhibition. Not to perfect my craft, but because working with clay lets me process certain thoughts and emotions through my hands and body. I’m the filter and I want to create work about the unknowable. Sometimes I wonder if I talk too much about the background of ceramics and what inspires me. With some pieces, I only understand why I made them the way I did five years later. They’re made of things that trigger me, things I can’t describe or explain. That’s what makes them so exciting.

Long: You two mainly work with ceramics and animation respectively. It’s interesting that you’re both self-taught in these mediums, which have become your artistic languages. How do you see your medium and the way it shapes your art?

Lau: I don’t use found objects in my work, and I never use moulds to produce multiples. It’s fast, but I enjoy getting stuck in a slower, more confusing process. Things made of clay feel primitive. But once an object takes shape, you can’t deny its existence. Turning a lump of clay into something I’m fully responsible for—I haven’t found another medium that calls for that kind of transformation. For me, ceramics combines sculpture and drawing. And I don’t apply glaze in the traditional way either. That means I never know how the glaze will react, and how the kiln and gravity will affect the outcome. So, I’m always ready for surprises. It’s more challenging than oil painting, but it gives me less control. That’s why I love it.

Wong: What Heidi said about the thrill of the unknown sounds very appealing. When I work on an animation, even if I use a random command to make a scene look chaotic, I still have to tell it how to go crazy, or how crazy it can get, so that it’s still controllable. There are no accidents or surprises when I draw frame by frame. I feel like the computer’s assistant, fixing its representation issues, slowly turning into something even more boring than a robot. What you said about the wild elements you see in your work, and the worry and fear you feel in the firing process—I think those moments are scary, but they’re also precious. Sometimes, making art just doesn’t feel satisfying. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any moments that stayed with me. If a ceramic piece explodes in the kiln, you have to refire it right away. That accident became a memory because it actually happened. I don’t get that when I make animations. Everything’s done on a screen. There’s no interaction, no sense of humanity—it feels cold. I don’t remember what I’ve done or where I did it. That’s why I like having nightmares. At least I can talk about what happened in my dreams when I wake up. They’re also proof that I’ve slept.

But filming the live action short video for [my work] anus whisper (2024) was unforgettable. I remember everything: what happened to an actor, how we found a skirt for filming, the humanity, the passion, the sweat—they’re all memorable. Even simple moments like chatting with the crew over lunch are unforgettable to me. I think those memories are very touching, because they make me feel like I really existed. It sounds cheesy, but it’s rewarding. When I look back on it, I realised that ten years of making animations hasn’t given me memories that make me feel connected to reality. So please, stop asking me what my work is about. Ask me about the stories I encounter in real life instead. That’s what really matters [laughs].

Long: Beyond the excitement of winning the Sigg Prize 2025, what’s going through your mind, and what’s next for you?

Lau: I’m grateful that my work resonates with so many people: my peers, the [Sigg Prize] jury, and even kids who left adorable drawings in the guest book. It still feels surreal to be recognised for a piece that’s mostly ceramic. I’ve been told that ceramics is irrelevant to contemporary art, that its production process is too slow, too difficult, too delicate. But this award reinforces my early decision to focus on this medium, because I believe it has the power to create form and meaning out of the unknowable. Right now, I’m still at the starting point of this exploration. It’s also my first time combining robotics with ceramics, and the possibilities are endless. The prize has inspired me to keep moving forward.

Wong: Sometimes, making art is about confronting that sense of unease. Receiving the Sigg Prize feels like a kind of remedy. It calmed my mind down just enough to let me step into the next unknown with boldness. I really appreciate the jury for their perspective and for creating a new memory in my relationship with this work.

As for the future, I don’t have any concrete plans yet, and I like to improvise. I’ve recently realised that travelling makes me feel alive because I know what I’m going to do when I wake up—I’ll be out exploring. Writing is an output, but for the input, I have to wait for that specific moment to arrive. I have to throw myself into the unknown and take on the unexpected! A few days ago, I heard someone mention that ‘hitting the bottleneck’ is just another way of saying they’re afraid of failure. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I can tell you that the waiting is what makes us feel calm and scared at the same time.

Lau: Actually, I’ve been thinking about leaving New York and only started considering it seriously earlier this year. I’ve lived there for many years. People often complain about the unpleasant environment, the dirty subway, and the expensive rent, but those things don’t matter that much to me. I’ve had this drive to relocate for the past two years, not because of any specific problem. I just can’t seem to fit in anymore. I feel out of place, like I don’t belong, and I don’t know why.

Wong: What a coincidence. I feel the same, but in a less definite way. I just want to find the next place to go to, or even the next phase of myself.