In her exhibition “Comment il s’appelle” in 2016, the artist Shuang Li presented a series of untitled wood pieces: two large dice, a set of utensils, and a pair of life-size wings. The works, however, were not by her hands. They were created by six “art workers” from Jingxian, Anhui, who worked for the Shanghai Chengliu Exhibition Service and completed the pieces over three weeks during their spare time. Through this collaboration, the artist teased out meditations on such topics as “who is making art?”, “how is art made?”, and “art and art worlds as capital systems.” 

Lishuang Xu, frame capture of Make a Cube, 2021

Single-channel video, 6 min 50 sec

Courtesy the artist, Ma Chang, and Yusang Shi

Like these six workers, many people are engaged in the construction, installation, and transportation of artworks in their daily work. Commonly referred to as “installation technicians”[1] or simply “workers” by artists and institutional personnel, they[2] often come from rural regions, having left their hometowns for work before finishing middle or high school. Prior to taking on these tasks, their lives had practically no intersection with art, yet they have become indispensable to the art ecosystem. Despite this, they remain nearly invisible within the contemporary art circle and are rarely acknowledged as part of it. As the exhibition text for “Comment il s’appelle” notes: “She [Shuang Li] wants to show that beyond the territory of the ‘art circle,’ which consists of artists, galleries, museums, institutions, collectors, curators, critics, and the media, there still exist enclaves where art workers exercise their raison d’être.”

ZMART, Untitled 3, 2016

Wood, size variable

Courtesy the creator, Shuang Li, and LAB47

In Zhang Jincheng’s (hereinafter “Dacheng”) master’s degree thesis in anthropology from Sun Yat-sen University, however, these workers are anything but peripheral. In 2021, he performed field studies in two exhibition service companies, Chengliu and Lanying[3], observing the daily work of 26 art workers and interviewing 18 artists, curators, and gallery personnel. With “‘Contemporary Art’ through the Eyes of the Art Workers” as the theme, he shared stories of people working in Shanghai’s exhibition service industry and meditated on contemporary art with their perspectives. 

Dacheng’s fascination with “art workers” is closely intertwined with his lived experience over the past decade. He is a Shanghai local whose undergraduate major was polymer materials. After working as a volunteer for an art exhibition in his junior year, he’s fostered a keen curiosity for art: “My previous education and the people I’ve met were quite narrow, and my worldview was also limited. Contemporary art exhibitions made me realize that I could perceive things around me in a different light. For someone who’s been in the sciences all his life, contemporary art opened the gate to a new world for me.” Since then, he has been taking the initiative to work as a volunteer for institutions such as the Power Station of Art and Minsheng Art Museum in Shanghai. After graduating from college in 2015, he worked for the Shanghai Museum of Contemporary Art’s public education department and Antenna Space for three years. 

It was during this time that Dacheng encountered many artists who identified as “creators” and art workers who performed the role of “laborers.” His job was to mediate between the two parties: “The workers required very precise instructions on how large the wooden crate should be or whether it be hung at 1.5 meters or 1.6 meters, whereas the artists were chasing after feelings: I ‘feel like’ it should be higher, or I ‘feel like’ it should be larger. I needed to translate the artists’ abstract intentions into practical terms for the workers.” His exchanges with the workers made him acutely aware of the many details involved in an artwork’s costs, installation, and creation, but these interactions also raised many questions: Who actually creates the artwork? What does the “artist” identity entail? And how should one assess the differences in the value of labor?  

Howard S. Becker, a member of the Chicago School of Sociology, pointed out in the 1980s that artworks are produced through the cooperative relationship between various participants who engage in the process of art production. Reevaluating art from a sociological perspective, he coined the now-classic term “art worlds,” emphasizing that artworks are products of collective activities rather than creations by particularly talented individuals[4]. Danielle Child, who studies the relationship between art and labor within the contemporary capitalist system, also wrote in her book Working Aesthetics (2019) that, in the neoliberal era, art production typically consists of three phases: the artist conceptualizing works, the art producer designing proposals, and skilled workers executing on the proposals. In such a process, the workers have supplanted the artists as the hands-on creators, while artists, in turn, have voluntarily embraced deskilling.[5]

Over in China, Pauline Yao studied the production mode of artworks before 2008: at that time, when contemporary art spaces boomed at an unprecedented pace, art fabrication studios that provided services such as mass production, the manufacturing of large installations, and worker contracting also proliferated.[6] Yao pointed out that the artist was no longer seen as the sole creator of an artwork but rather the initiator and manager of its fabrication. Art historian Wu Hung similarly mentioned during his 2007 visit to Zhang Huan’s studio that the “independent artist” is a contemporary myth, while large-scale production operations and collective participation are essential aspects of contemporary art—a reality that has been grossly neglected or even intentionally obscured in the research and criticism of art.[7] Dacheng observed that, with the development of the contemporary art industry, the production model has pivoted from the technical division of labor within artist studios to the labor division in the larger society. Shanghai has seen the emergence of specialized workers employed by the art world, including carpenters, welders, painters, and bricklayers, who provide customized services for art or commercial exhibitions via contracts with institutions. 

Those who stayed have made many comparisons

Ma Jinyun (hereinafter “Ma”) is an important subject of Dacheng’s field studies. He spent 5 years working for the ShanghART Gallery, after which he founded Chengliu in 2015. Before that, Ma learned carpentry and CNC lathes and worked at a clothing factory in Hangzhou for six years. He recalled that although the pay at the factory was decent, the work itself was demanding and monotonous. Every day, he had to rise at 6am, bike an hour to get to the factory, and clock out at 10pm, with only one day off every month. It was a co-worker there who introduced him to ShanghART: “He drew me in by telling me that the paintings were very pricey, reaching hundreds of thousands or millions in price. I found that unbelievable at the time, not to mention it meant I could go out to deliver paintings. Back then, I just wanted something to bail me out. It would improve my moods drastically. I wouldn’t even mind a lower pay as I was stuck every day at the assembly line, which was extremely tedious.” 

Another subject of Dacheng’s research is Chen Pan (hereinafter “Chen”), the founder of Lanying, who also chanced upon this occupation. Chen hailed from Xuzhou, Jiangsu. In 2011, not long after he started working at a cable tray factory in Shanghai, he was looking for a part-time job on 58.com and accidentally entered ART ZHOU, which later became an art exhibition company with a significant scale. “Cable traying is what we call a ‘screw-driving’ job. It is monotonous and repetitive. In contrast, working here, the content of work varies a lot as we interact with different galleries, artists, and works. Sometimes, we come across a particularly challenging installation or video work, and we’d get a real sense of accomplishment as we complete it.” Chen worked for a decade at ART ZHOU before he founded his own Lanying in 2020, which focuses on rental services of projectors and various display equipment. 

There are also various specializations among art workers. People like Ma or Chen, who started their own businesses after many years in the industry, are a minority. Most grassroots art workers’ daily work consists of physical or technical labor. However, people who’ve chosen to stay did so after making extensive comparisons to alternatives. “Most of them have worked on construction sites and in factories or delivered food. Those staying believe that working here is better. Whether you’re delivering works or installing at the exhibition venue, you’d have more freedom and control over your time.” Dacheng also observed that those who stay are typically quite patient and calm as they regularly deal with complicated installation adjustments and the artists’ propensity to be late, among other things. “Basically, their tasks change from day to day—new artworks, exhibitions, and setups. They rarely get to do the same thing twice, and the job requires constant problem-solving. That’s why only a handful of workers are truly up to the task long-term.” 

Flowing like transparent water

Before entering the industry, most art workers were strangers to the concept of “contemporary art.” They might have some notions of traditional paintings, but contemporary art, often known for its abstraction, was entirely an enigma to them. “What is this? How is it worth so much?” is a recurring line from Dacheng’s exchanges with art workers. Ma still remembers his first time delivering work to collectors: “It was a different feeling for me. I felt like they were superior, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to them when I saw them. You know, we are just too lowly.” Many workers consider artists, who are their clients, to be knowledgeable and sophisticated, and even if they couldn’t understand the works, they still see them as priceless treasures, and this attitude towards art often stays with them, just like the operating sign at Chengliu that reads: “Every work of art has a soul, so please handle it gently.” 

As their relationship to art becomes something symbolic, workers would internalize and self-impose certain manners as indicators of a good disposition. Dacheng observes that when compared to workers in other industries, art workers are quite conscious of their different circumstances. Although they may be laid-back in private, they all recognize that they shouldn’t smoke, munch on snacks, or talk too loudly at work. “This is especially pronounced when comparing them to interns. For the art workers, this is noble and dignified work, nothing like their previous ‘migrant worker’-type jobs.” Chen also said: “From my perspective, workers generally don’t have a high level of education and reside at the lower strata of society, so this is quite the high-end job.” 

Within the art world, these workers have always remained relatively marginal. “They are like transparent water, carrying the artworks while flowing between artists, galleries, art museums, and collectors.” Dacheng said that for them, being shown respect at work is something to be happy about. “This is especially true at exhibition venues, where the only indicator of your identity is your uniform. Almost no one knows you by name, and they’d simply ask you to ‘come here’; they wouldn’t use the bathroom at the galleries, and they would also eat outside. Even when they order takeout at museums, they’d still squat somewhere outside to eat.” 

We’re here to service art, not make art

Ryan Gander, True, It Would Sing for You, 2017

Metal sphere, metal trough, conveyor belt, and timed-release mechanism

Courtesy the artist and Cc Foundation

In 2017, Ma was responsible for realizing one of Ryan Gander’s installations at his solo exhibition in China, “True, It Would Sing for You”: in the upper-right corner of a wall, a protruding small square opening periodically releases steel balls. After the exhibition closes to the public every day, the steel balls are collected and dropped the next day. Gander calls this cycle a “meaningless movement.” Ironically, installing this work, which carries Sisyphean implications, is one of the most memorable and fulfilling experiences for Ma. 

Back then, the gallery communicated the work’s expected effects to Ma but did not specify the installation method. Therefore, Ma took it upon himself to design a mechanical structure and enlisted a programmer to write codes for controlling the balls’ falling speed. The resulting uneven falling effect is unexpectedly received well by the artist, which led to the final iteration having variable falling speed. Ma also contacted his relatives at home to provide custom-made bearings to ensure proper torque. Up until the day before the opening, he was still debugging the setup. On the day of the opening, he even asked two colleagues to station behind the wall as a contingency plan—if the installation malfunctioned, they would manually trigger the falling mechanism. Ma did everything to ensure that nothing went wrong at the opening, and in the end, the installation worked flawlessly, even throughout the exhibition. Reflecting on this experience, Ma said, “He was a renowned artist, so I did my best to not ruin his show. Artworks are one of a kind. If you don’t strive for perfection, who would place trust in you? What we do is a service industry.”

Wang Jianwei, Going to the Thirteenth Floor Conference Room for a Free Movie, 2011

4-channel video, 17 min 30 sec

Courtesy the artist’s studio

During a video exhibition, Chen had to learn to adjust the resolution and format of a video file to remove black borders from the playback. He learned from experiences like this that artists often respond slowly or are unsure how to make such adjustments themselves. For the 2021 exhibition, Time is Money?, Chen installed Wang Jianwei’s Go to the Meeting Room on the 13th Floor to Watch a Free Movie – Image 2, which required blending two projections for the wide-screen effect. The effect was initially unsatisfactory, so Chen sought help from peers and consulted projector technicians, ultimately spending two days tweaking and testing equipment parameters before resolving the issue. Chen reflected that when he first started, due to the lack of equipment and skills, he had to borrow equipment and technicians from commercial projection rental companies. However, they couldn’t meet the artists’ expectations. To address this, he taught himself technical skills such as projection blending, projection mapping, and interactive projection. Now, colleagues and even projector companies turn to him for advice. For instance, when Panasonic developed a new projector model specifically for art exhibitions this year, their product manager visited Chen during R&D to seek his advice, and he provided suggestions on lumens, dynamic contrast ratio, size, and weight, many of which were ultimately adopted into the final product.

Dacheng noticed that as their skills expand and experience accumulates, more and more workers are becoming involved in the production of art, through which they may suddenly recognize their value from the artists’ reliance on them, and this holds great significance to many of them. Yet, they remain a minority. In Dacheng’s field studies, he’s heard the sentiment that “we’re here to service the artists, not to make art” more than once. Workers would slowly but surely adapt to the game rules of the contemporary art system and realize that they belong to a different world from the creators. Ma once said: “Those installations may not have been made by the artists, but they did come up with the proposal, without which nothing we do is possible. Their concepts are the most important thing.” 

Although some workers believe that they’re absolutely professional at fabrication and could sometimes make better judgments than artists, this offering is often devalued by clients. Some workers have complained to Dacheng that galleries treat them “just like tools… It is as if whoever pays is the big honcho.” Others told him bluntly that “artists are also divided into different grades. Good artists respect the workers, while bad ones know nothing, do not care for the production process, and rarely communicate.” 

Moreover, it is common for galleries and museums to defer payments. One of Dacheng’s research subjects complained after settling accounts in August 2021 that a total of 31 institutions had yet to pay him, and the accrual amounted to more than 3.5 million yuan. The oldest unpaid invoice from an artist dated back to 2018. In response, Ma chose to be more understanding: “You can tell whether a gallery is staying afloat as you transport works to collectors. If their business isn’t doing well in that period, I won’t rush them for payment.” After the pandemic, many galleries closed, and the number of exhibitions also dwindled. Chen used to serve five or six projects a year, but now, they only have two or three. “Their demand for equipment remains the same, but their budget has shrunk. For us, it meant a lower profit.” 

They’ve tried to understand and get closer to contemporary art but were left outside the door

Dacheng said that what he wants to convey the most through his research is that art workers are not indifferent to contemporary art: “they’ve tried to get closer to it but were left outside the door.” During Ma’s tenure at ShanghART, he and his colleague Xiaozhu sometimes dabbled in painting in their spare time. One time, Shi Yong, the art director of the gallery, took a liking to Xiaozhu’s painting and hung it in the exhibition hall. Many visitors also liked the work and asked which artist made it, but the gallery security would keep that a secret. As to whether this painting qualifies as an “artwork,” Ma offered a thought-provoking answer: “If I didn’t know who made it, I’d also think it is an artwork; but its maker is not an artist, and therefore it is not an artwork.” He emphasized the significance of professional training, viewing credentials as proof of legitimacy: “You need to have a degree to show that you graduated from the Central Academy of Fine Arts or the China Academy of Art, right? You become an artist as soon as you graduate from these schools. If you didn’t attend them, then you’re nobody.”   

Chen also shared the opinion, but he added: “I think the process of learning is still crucial. Even if your education level is low, if you’re keen to learn and improve yourself, you can still live a good life.” Back in 2015, he noticed that the concepts behind some emerging artists’ works weren’t exactly complex, and he considered becoming an artist himself. “But later, I discovered that being an artist is also quite tough. It’s very difficult to monetize your work in the early stage, and you also need to manage your own studio and have unique ideas.” 

Dacheng’s intention behind his writing is to underline the importance of art workers so as to help them assimilate into this ecosystem, but he later discarded this idea. “Let them, and the artists as well, live their own lives. Art workers know the materials of things and how to fabricate them, but it’s hard for them to appreciate contemporary art on the ‘conceptual’ level. I think most workers have tried to enjoy it, but they eventually come to see it for what it is: just a job.” 

If an artist respects the workers that participated in their project, then the artist is truly remarkable

Still, things don’t always go according to plan. Beyond contractual relationships, some workers formed genuine friendships with people in the art circle. As his company serves the DonGallery, Chen often visits the artists Zhang Ruyi and Liu Ren’s studio. “I would go there to package their works, and they would tell me about their latest ideas and ask for advice on how to pack certain works. They trust me quite a bit, and in daily life, we’re basically friends.” 

Ma, on the other hand, is grateful to ShanghART’s founder, Lorenz Helbling: “ShanghART gave me my start. To be honest, the best resource I have is that I came out of ShanghART.” He vividly remembers when he first came to Shanghai with his child: “I couldn’t enroll my kid in local schools as I was a migrant worker. At the time, two out of the six of us had children who needed to attend school. One time, the boss asked about this, and I told him about the situation. Upon hearing it, he immediately made a call to the office and asked them to help get our kids into kindergartens. It was truly extraordinary.” Ma’s kid eventually returned to Jingxian in third grade. “My kid still needed to participate in the college entrance exam in his hometown. That can’t be helped—too many restrictions for us migrants.” 

In 2022, Ma’s team was responsible for installing “Xu Bing: Gravitational Arena” at the Shanghai Pudong Art Museum. After finishing the job, they were invited to the opening. “We rarely attend openings. That day, I was pacing at the exhibition hall, constantly worried that there might be some issue (with the installation).” During the opening, Ma saw many people he interacted with at work. When they asked him about how the work was realized and presented, he felt immensely proud. 

They were also invited to dine at the restaurant on the museum’s top floor. “You know how expensive that place is. 800 to 1000 yuan for a person. But Mr. Xu Bing didn’t care about the cost.” Some workers bailed as they weren’t familiar with this kind of social setting, but two team members[8] worked extremely diligently during the pandemic, so they were “forced” to go. Ma joked, “People sitting beside us all had impressive titles—this director and that director. I felt like my own status was immediately elevated.” He then reflected, “You know, we’ve helped create so many exhibitions but were rarely invited to them. It feels like we’re permanently behind the scenes, and once the job is done, we’re gone. Some artists had many ideas, and we had to painstakingly execute them. But in the end, it’s like we’re nothing, and it’s a real downer. Therefore, if an artist respects the workers that participated in their project, then the artist is truly remarkable.” 

With one foot into the art world

In 2020, Chengliu established “Ma Chang (lit. Horse Ranch),” an artist residency located on the third floor of its building on the outskirts of Jiading District. It provides accommodations, exhibition space, and some technical and financial support to the artists. The residency project was primarily organized by Huang Le, Ma’s former colleague at ShanghART, and it has hosted nine artists so far, including Wang Yuyu, Xu Lishuang, Duyi Han, and Dai Shengjie. On the initial idea behind its creation, Ma recalled: “Every time we deinstall an exhibition, it feels wasteful to have the dismantled pieces thrown away. Once, we were all chatting together, and I realized that the artists also needed these ‘scraps’ and similar materials for their works. Many young artists wish for this kind of support, so gradually, the idea took shape.” Based on the proposals submitted by the artists, Ma Chang provides subsidies that typically range from 5,000 to 15,000 yuan. The largest subsidy given so far was to INCAL Production’s Laser System, which received something between 30k to 40k yuan. 

Cosmo Wong began her residency at Ma Chang in the fall of 2022, but due to disruptions from the pandemic, she was only able to advance her project in early 2023, completing her residency exhibition, “Vertical Tracking, Horizontal Looroad,” in March of that year. Chengliu also handled the transportation and installation of her exhibition. The description for one of the featured works, Imposter Depot, reads: “During the residency, many unexpected circumstances arose and led to a continuous questioning of my creative process as well as the roles and effects of myriad participants within the art system—survival, placement, exhibition, circulation, and so on.” 

Dai Shengjie arrived at Ma Chang in the summer of 2023. Long focused on issues of material circulation and regeneration, she had previously conducted field research in Guiyu, Chaozhou, a hub for electronic waste recycling, and Chentian in Guangzhou, a center for automobile parts distribution. At Ma Chang, she continued her research and completed the installation Lunch on Treasure Island. “After being uniquely drawn to various types of waste at Ma Chang, I decided to use only waste materials for this work, rewriting their significance and bringing them into the visible realm,” Dai explained. As an intermediary for artistic production, Ma Chang also offered her a vastly different way of working as an artist. “During the residency at Ma Chang, the process felt organic and free. Encountering materials always involved serendipity, uncertainty, and unexpected surprises.”

Dai Shengjie participated in an artist residency at Ma Chang in the summer of 2023. With a long-term focus on the circulation and regeneration of materials, she had previously conducted field research in Guiyu, a hub for e-waste recycling, and Chentian Auto Parts Marketplace in Guangzhou. At Ma Chang, she continued her research interests and created the installation Lunch on Treasure Island: “After being uniquely drawn to the various waste materials at Ma Chang, I decided to use only these materials for this piece, rewriting their significance and bringing them into the visible realm.” Ma Chang, as a transit station for artistic production, also introduced her to a completely different way of working as an artist. “During my residency at Ma Chang, the whole experience felt organic and free. Encountering materials always came with contingency, uncertainty, and surprises.”

Dacheng believes that the realization of Ma Chang holds great significance as it marks the first attempt for art workers to act as organizers rather than service providers. “If art workers were previously operating outside the art world, then Ma Chang signifies that they now have one foot planted within them.” 

Translated by Kevin Wu

[1] As Zhang Jincheng, one of the interviewees for this article, observed: in the art world, people often call workers “installation technicians” as they only see them during installation and deinstallation. However, these workers take on a lot more than just installing.  

[2] According to interviewee Ma Jinyun, almost all art workers are men. The distinct lack of women is due to the fact that “our job is too physically demanding with tasks like transporting.”

[3] The companies’ full names are Shanghai Chengliu Exhibition Services Co., Ltd. and Shanghai Lanying Exhibition Services Co., Ltd. 

[4] Howard S. Becker, Art Worlds. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982

[5] Danielle Child. Working Aesthetics: Labour, Art and Capitalism, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019.

[6] Pauline J. Yao. In Production Mode: Contemporary Art in China, Timezone8, 2008, p. 106.

[7] Wu Hung, Zhang Huan’s Studio: Art and Labor, Guangxi Normal University Press, 2009, p. 9.

[8] Their names are Zhen Maofei and Dong Yunfei.