Lee Mingwei’s Transformative Art of Care

by Sophia Carmen Salganicoff

Lee Mingwei’s artistic practice is not about creation in the traditional sense, but about invitation—an invitation to ideas, to communion, to shared histories, and to the rituals of care that connect us all.

His participatory works open space for experiences shaped by trust and intimacy. In The Mending Project (2009–present), visitors bring garments in need of repair, which Lee and volunteers carefully mend and embellish with vivid threads while sitting together in quiet conversation.

Whether offering a song, sharing a letter, or engaging in a simple daily act, Lee transforms ordinary moments into opportunities for profound connection. In his world, art becomes a way of giving and receiving care—a space where the boundaries between artist and audience, self and other, blur and gently evolve.

Lee is the 2025–2026 Bill and Stephanie Sick Distinguished Visiting Professor at School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC). Come to SAIC's Visiting Artists Program to hear Lee speak on October 21.

Could you tell us about your background and how you arrived at your artistic practice?

I’m originally from Taiwan and spent most of my teenage years and early adulthood in Berkeley, California. I began studying biology at the University of Washington—my family had expected me to become a doctor. But I soon realized that path wasn’t for me. I told my parents, “It’s not because I’m doing poorly in school—I just can’t bear to see animals killed in experiments. And when I see blood, I faint.”

So I transferred to California College of the Arts (CCA), where I studied textiles and architecture. Those two disciplines—along with courses I had taken in psychology and sociology—became foundational to my artistic practice, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I later earned my MFA from Yale and graduated in 1997.

I was fortunate to begin exhibiting in museums early on. My first solo museum show was at the Whitney in 1998. That kind of institutional support allowed me to develop a body of work that wasn’t shaped by the demands of the commercial art world.

Your work is often called “participatory” and “ritual-based.” How would you describe your practice?

My work centers on care, connection, and vulnerability. In Sonic Blossom, for example, trained singers approach strangers and gently ask, “May I give you a gift of song?” You might expect most people to accept, but in reality, about two-thirds decline. Receiving care from a stranger can be disarming. It requires trust—from both the giver and the receiver. If someone isn’t ready for that vulnerability, they say no. Care demands tenderness and humility on both sides. That dynamic—that tension—is something I explore in many of my works.

The Letter Writing Project emerged from the loss of my maternal grandmother. I invited participants to write unsent letters to loved ones. What began as a personal act of mourning became something communal—a space for others to share memories, grief, and longing. That’s a recurring thread in my practice: personal experiences becoming bridges to collective ones.

How has your studio practice evolved over time?

When I was at CCA, I needed a studio to weave and draft—my practice was rooted in materiality and space. At Yale, I had a studio in the sculpture department that had previously belonged to Roni Horn and Ann Hamilton, which felt like a kind of lineage. After graduate school, I never had a traditional studio again. My work shifted—becoming more about collaboration and being present in the world. Ideas don’t come because I chase them; they descend from a mystical mountain where language hasn’t yet arrived. When they’re ready, they find me. These days, my studio is simply my laptop.  

Do you see this mountain as a way of understanding a universal consciousness or a shared source of inspiration?

Yes, I believe these ideas have existed for millennia. They arrive when the time is right—and leave when they’re ready, often without even saying goodbye. I see them as gifts. I’m grateful to be in a position where collaborators, institutions, and curators help me bring them into the world.

You’ve talked about the tension between personal and communal rituals. How does that dynamic play out in your work?

I’m drawn to personal rituals—the things we repeat every day: brushing our teeth, preparing food, making coffee just the way we like it. These acts are instinctive and intimate, shaped by memory and mood. Folding clothes with care, tidying a space to feel settled, or simply moving through the quiet rhythm of morning—they may seem ordinary, but they hold meaning. Communal rituals, especially those rooted in religious practice, often come with institutional frameworks and power dynamics—that’s not where my interest lies. I’m more compelled by the rituals we invent for ourselves, or quietly share with those closest to us.

What advice do you have for young, emerging artists?

Being an artist is a great privilege. I see myself as a kind of magician—not one who simply takes things, but who works with gestures and rituals that may seem to serve no grand function, and somehow transforms them into something meaningful. My advice is to be brave, but also fragile. Bravery isn’t about force; it’s about vulnerability, openness, and grace. Whatever you encounter—challenges, failures, doubts—welcome them as gifts. They will shape you into a better artist. ■