Though shrouded in darkness, the deep sea teems with life, information, and energy. This realization led Tan Mu to explore the hidden structures beneath the ocean’s surface, particularly submarine cables. Perhaps it was the diving line—her sole reference point in the vastness—or the shock of the 2022 Tonga volcanic eruption severing the nation’s communications that sparked her interest. In response, she created Eruption (2022) to document the moment these cables were repaired, reconnecting Tonga with the rest of the world. This work marked the beginning of her ongoing Signal series. Whether examining cable cross-sections or mapping their global distribution through satellite imagery, Tan Mu interweaves personal memory with microstructures—her connection to the deep sea, the cellular-like cross-sections of fiber optics, and the sprawling cable networks that resemble body meridians—into a collective and macro reality. It is exactly these submerged, often overlooked systems that facilitate global information exchange.

In Technology and Social Agency, archaeologist Marcia-Anne Dobres writes: “Technologies are fundamentally about people, mindful communities of practice, and social relations of production.” Take, for example, the hand-woven string bags (bilum) of the Telefol people. Although the craft is simple enough to learn with a little training, these bags serve as markers of identity and status. Their making and use carry social significance: subtle distinctions that reinforce hierarchy or, conversely, challenge convention when crafted in unapproved ways as a political statement. Beyond this dynamic network, technologies are more than just “meaningful acts of social engagement with the material world that serves as a medium through which world views, values, and social judgements are expressed tangibly and reaffirmed or contested in practice.” Material culture also embodies spiritual life, tacit knowledge, and emotions. Similarly, submarine cables are more than conduits for transmitting information; they are deeply intertwined with politics, power, and social structures. According to TeleGeography, submarine cable construction has surged in recent years. Between 2023 and 2025 alone, approximately 300,000 kilometers of cables, worth tens of billions of dollars, are being laid and activated. Tech giants like Meta and Google, driven by their immense data demands, have taken a central role in this infrastructure, together weaving the social network that underpins today’s world.

In Hyperculture, Byung-Chul Han references Nelson's concepts of "intertwingularity" and "structured entanglement" to describe contemporary cultural dynamics. Accelerated by new technologies, globalization propels cultures to flow across borders, overlapping, infiltrating, and intertwining with one another. Unlike "trans-", "inter-", or "multi-" cultural frameworks, "hyperculture" emphasizes aggregation, networking, and condensation—where heterogeneous content is reorganized through juxtaposition. Tan Mu's work is a perceptive response to this hypercultural phenomenon. From her explorations of the deep sea and submarine cables to her fusion of personal memory with global information networks, her art constructs intricate, tension-filled connections between the visible and invisible, material and informational, individual experience and macro systems. Just as ripples on water reveal shifting relationships within the universe, her practice reflects how technology shapes human connections to the world, bringing to the surface signals, stories, and histories submerged beneath the ocean and in contemporary culture.

Yiren Shen: You grew up by the sea and have deepened your connection with the ocean in recent years through freediving. How has this experience impacted your life?

Tan Mu: The film The Big Blue captures my current state of mind. After immersing myself in the ocean, being on land now feels like a temporary interlude. When I dive in different locations, the language and food onshore vary, but underwater, my experience remains consistent—it always feels like coming home.

A freediving session typically lasts about two minutes. Though brief, it encompasses a profound transformation of both body and mind—like a journey from birth to death. The deep sea can evoke fear, triggering a primal need for air. At depths beyond 30 meters, my body enters a state of hypoxia, yet I must summon the strength to ascend. Every movement consumes oxygen, so I have to focus on breath control and mental discipline. This process forces me to confront fear, remain curious, explore, and connect with my surroundings and myself.

Freediving has also taught me about trust—trust in my dive partner, my body, and the ocean. Only when I resurface and take that first breath do I truly grasp that life, at its core, is breathing. Underwater, sound cannot travel as it does on land, reducing us to a primal state. Without the ease of breathing or verbal communication, our habitual ways of engaging with the world dissolve. Yet, we must trust everything around us. How do we navigate existence in such conditions?

Another reason I freedive is to interact with marine life. In Hawaii, we once spent hours searching for whales. Suddenly, the captain spotted a mother sperm whale and her calf. When you dive without equipment and without exhaling bubbles, marine creatures perceive you as just another fish. The baby whale curiously swam toward us while its mother watched over it, moving gracefully. I also encountered a manta ray over two meters wide. It flipped its body as it swam near me, as if playing. Its tiny eyes, set close together, observed me intently. In that moment, I thought, humans should dance more. Our daily lives are so rigid, spent sitting, typing, or scrolling through our phones. Meanwhile, animals express themselves through endless forms of movement.

YS: You mentioned that freediving gives you a completely new perspective. How does this connect to your art?

TM: In December, I dived near Curaçao, a Caribbean island north of South America. The dive site was an entry point for a submarine fiber-optic cable, located right beside a massive oil rig. I even swam beneath one of its pillars. When I surfaced, the oil rig was just meters behind me. We often think of these structures as artificial monstrosities, yet below the surface, they become marine habitats, like giant castles for sea life.

I'm fascinated by the relationship between artificial structures and nature. Every island has its own cable landing point, including the one connecting my hometown, Yantai, to Dalian. While their existence is public knowledge, their exact locations remain classified. Whenever I visit these areas, I document the ocean’s surface, record the sounds of waves, and collect other data.

S: So, exploring the ocean is also helping you rediscover the world?

TM: Yes, but more than that, the ocean has reshaped my relationship with my inner self. Freediving is no longer just a hobby—it’s a way of understanding what truly matters to me. When you're surrounded by the vast expanse of the sea, stripped of everything external, you realize that, like fish, we too can become one with the ocean.

YS: Beyond the ocean, you’re also interested in astronomy, meteorology, mechanics, and neuroscience. Why did you choose to become an artist? Have you ever considered another path?

TM: I enjoy pushing my limits and finding ways to interact with my surroundings—whether through rock climbing, diving, caving, or trail running. What excites me most are the stories these experiences bring. If I don’t try, I’ll never know what they hold.

If I weren’t an artist, I’d still want to be someone who collects stories—exploring the world across both space and time. I’d probably be an adventurer! Challenges bring me a sense of calm. I need stories—lots of them.

For now, being an artist grants me the greatest freedom—to do anything, meet anyone, and travel anywhere, all of which ultimately translate onto the canvas. It feels like a vessel, holding everything I experience.

YS: You’ve been painting since childhood. After graduating from the high school affiliated with the Central Academy of Fine Arts, you studied Expanded Media in the U.S., experimenting with various mediums. Yet, why do you still choose painting as your primary medium?

TM: At university, I explored a range of mediums—coding, interactive installations, mechanical structures, sound. I used technology to understand the logic behind things. My approach is almost robotic—receiving and transmitting signals, aided by sensors and systems. In a sense, I’ve always been pursuing dimensions beyond the canvas.

Traditional painters rely on their eyes to observe, but so much of the world operates beyond the visible. The universe itself functions like a precision instrument, and I’m fascinated by the hidden structures and unseen forces at play.

With my multimedia works, viewers often focus on the mechanics—why something moves, how sound is generated—getting drawn into the technology. But what I care about most is conveying my emotions. That’s why I’ve chosen to distill everything into the controlled space of a painting. It’s a purer state, like being in the ocean, free from excessive sensory distractions such as flashing lights and sound.

In high school, I thought painting was something anyone could do, so I wanted to pursue something different. Now, I’ve come full circle, returning to the act of mark-making. Essentially, I extract external data, process it through my body, and translate it into color.

YS: Why do you choose to document technology rather than use it as a medium for creation?

TM: Rather than focusing on ever-changing technological tools, I’m more interested in their progress, their intended purposes, the problems they aim to solve, and the underlying principles that drive them. "Technology" is an expansive concept—it often takes decades after an invention for us to fully grasp its impact.

For example, when messaging apps first appeared, we simply used them as communication tools. Only years later did we begin analyzing their role in transmitting emotions and values.

YS: According to Actor-Network Theory, humans are not just creators of innovation but are simultaneously reshaped by technology. It’s a symbiotic and ever-evolving relationship.

TM: I’ve always believed that humans, as carriers of knowledge, are themselves part of technology. Every individual contributes their stories and knowledge to a larger technological network. A single life may seem insignificant, but when countless individuals intersect, they form a collective portrait.

This leads me back to a fundamental question: What is my relationship with the world? At 15, I left home for school in Beijing, then moved to the U.S. There was no WeChat back then, and I had to rely on transoceanic Skype calls to stay connected with my family. I’ve always been curious about how we transmit emotions, how we learn, and how we preserve memories. A decade ago, forming deep bonds with someone you met online was unthinkable. Today, online channels have become one of the most common ways to build relationships. These massive shifts make it even more important for me to pause and reflect on these questions.

S: In your Signals series, how do you choose which oceanic regions to depict?

TM: My goal is to map out the entire global submarine cable network. The first painting in the series focuses on the Northwest Pacific, beginning with my hometown, Yantai. It traces the cable connecting Yantai and Dalian, moves through China’s East Sea, and extends toward South Korea.

This piece took me almost a year to complete. On one hand, it was an experiment in technique—how to depict connection points, how to render different shades of blue. On the other, it helped me clarify my thoughts.

Just like the questions my work raises, it asks how to see information as a vessel for individual narratives. Every story adds to a growing conceptual archive, into which we continuously deposit experiences and extract meaning.

From a distance, the paintings resemble a starry sky, reminiscent of explorers during the Age of Discovery who used the stars for navigation. Up close, layers of blue and countless tiny dots shift in color depending on the angle of view. The underpainting is created spontaneously, but when painting specific areas, I overlay another layer to reflect the underwater terrain before mapping the cable routes.

The access points are built up with thick, wax-heavy oil paint, resembling the soldered connections of electronic circuits. Each connection point has a raised texture.

If Earth is our motherboard, then submarine cables are the logic circuits linking global supercities. Through them, human knowledge and emotions flow, driving innovation.

As a civilization, we have yet to break free from our home planet, but even in space exploration, we still rely on constellations and celestial bodies for guidance. In this way, visual art exists to capture and document this ineffable sense of collective connection.

YS: Speaking of the starry sky, your Gaze series depicts the universe as an iris—when we gaze at the cosmos, it gazes back at us, linking the personal with the vast, the known with the unknown. Although the Hubble Telescope has captured images of the universe, we should still distinguish "science" from "truth." Even when experiments repeatedly produce similar results, they cannot be equated with truth. Science, at its core, is a constructed system of theories.

TM: I agree. Science is essentially a form of inference, built upon existing perspectives to derive and construct hypotheses. Our current understanding of the universe is confined to what we call the "observable universe," limited by the speed of light—meaning we can only see objects whose light has had enough time to reach us. But how accurate is this perception? We have no way of knowing.

YS: Much like The Classic of Mountains and Seas reflected the cosmology of ancient China—it was an attempt to reconstruct the world based on the information available at the time.

TM: Exactly. This brings us back to the fundamental question—how do we, as individuals or as a collective, perceive and shape the world? What intrigues me most are these individual stories—because it is through them that human diversity takes form.