An exhibition of Zhang Jin Wei, a resident of the gallery, opens in the a—c—t—r—a gallery. "Glass Dome" will be the artist's first solo project to be presented in Moscow.

About the project 
Zhang Jin Wei was born in 1989 in China, studied in Singapore, and graduated fr om the Repin St. Petersburg Academy of Arts in the graphics department under the supervision of A. A. Pakhomov. There is more behind this than just a line of education. Since the mid‑20th century, there has been a direct link between the Russian academic school and Chinese painting: the Moscow master Konstantin Maksimov, while teaching in Beijing, nurtured a generation that shaped the face of Chinese art for decades. Wei inherits this lineage — but traverses it in the opposite direction: not a Soviet‑era training exported to China for the sake of a grand style, but a Chinese artist who has returned to the source of the Russian school, in order to turn its impeccable craft not towards ideology, but towards the metaphysics of disappearance. He has already been shown at Simulacra Gallery in Beijing and Zimmer 48 in Berlin; he enters Russia not as a debutant, but as an artist whose language is equally readable on both ends of Eurasia.

It all begins with a call. Not voices, not visions — the artist insists that this is not a sensory phenomenon, but a pure orientation, an internal imperative that flares up in the moment of existential insight. This is Heidegger’s Ruf, the call of conscience that no one issues and that cannot be disobeyed; it leads the one who hears it to a place wh ere the rite of transmutation will be performed upon him. That place is the forest. But the forest in Vey’s work is not a landscape: it is a transpsychic space, a portal, and upon entering it, the wanderer discovers that he has not ended up in a thicket, but in an operating room. The blooming branches form the vault of a surgical theatre. Each of his forests holds its own unique procedure, suitable for no one else.

The dissolving of the figure is his main technique, and here he comes closest to the Russian tradition he was trained in. The shimmering, crumbling, sprouting through the white lace of the body — Six moments — are the ghostly gardens of Borisov‑Musatov, where people have already become half a memory. And the mercury‑like, crystalline sheen, in which the figure and the background blend into each other, shattering into luminous facets — that is Vrubel, his shattered matter, where the spirit shines through the cracked shell of the world.