Qianfan: Is making work on-site important to you? I imagine in some of your ongoing series, like Synecdoche, a lot of the pieces come out of being physically present with your subject, right?

Byron: Yeah, I really love working on-site. I’ve made work that way in all kinds of situations. For Synecdoche, every single piece has been made through direct observation of someone’s skin color. Lately—over the past decade or so—it’s mostly been either through commissions or with an institution’s permission to ask their attendees if I can do that. I really like making things inside the museum, because you get to see the behind-the-scenes, meet the staff, and work with them. But in the beginning, I used to just go out—literally go to the park in Brooklyn, in Williamsburg—and ask random strangers. I’d simply tell them, “I'm doing an art project. Can I try to copy your skin color?” And for some reason, everyone always said yes. I don’t know why! I’d usually finish the piece after about an hour and just leave. That was it. But I’d always have an interesting conversation with the person, and I really enjoyed that part.

Qianfan: I imagine you’d mix the color on-site, comparing directly with your sitter’s skin?

Byron: Yeah, that’s how I used to do it. I’d hold a piece of paper like a disposable palette, with a typical palette knife, and compare it near their skin. I did that for many years. I’d usually get the hue right—that’s the color family, like red, yellow, blue—but often I’d get the value wrong, which is the grayscale, how light or dark the color should be. Eventually I figured out a pretty simple solution. I started placing a piece of white tape directly on their arm—with their permission, of course—and I’d mix the color until the tape visually disappeared into their skin. That really improved the results. And the more I did it, the better it got. Sometimes when I’m out of practice, it takes a few subjects to get back in the rhythm. And you know, some days I’m just a little off—or someone’s color is just really difficult to match because there’s so much variation, or there’s a lot of body hair.

Qianfan: How about your Sunday Paintings? Do you paint the sky on-site?

Byron: Yeah, it’s always wherever I am on that Sunday. And the whole story behind it is… honestly, I don’t know exactly why I started when I did. I can’t tell you what made me do it that particular day. But I had the idea.

Qianfan: You mean the first piece you made for the series?

Byron: Yes—January 7, 2001. I don’t know why it happened that day, as opposed to the week before or after. But I know I’d been thinking about it for a while. I’d already made some works about the sky. And it’s hard to explain, because I honestly don’t know the order of cause and effect. But the series is very much influenced by my reading of Zhuangzi (also spelled Chuang Tzu, or Zhuangzhou). It’s a small text, but it talks so much about the relationship between something tiny happening here and the vastness of the universe—between the infinitesimal and the infinite.

I don’t really consciously try to make work about that idea. It’s more like—I made the work, and then it turns out that it’s often about that. Sunday Paintings really comes out of that thinking. The analogy I often use—or maybe it’s not even an analogy—but it’s like: I’m looking at the sky from wherever I am, and at the same time, my mom might be washing dishes in San Diego. And I wonder—are we seeing the same sky? I don’t even know if two people can see the sky in the same way. So the series is really about wanting to compare the big and the small.

Qianfan: Do you remember when you first read Zhuangzi? What were your thoughts?

Byron: Yeah, I remember exactly. I don’t know the date, but I remember the circumstances. Our youngest kid, Addee, was born in 1998, and when they were about two or three—around the time I started the Sunday Paintings—they were going to daycare in the neighborhood. One day, on our way there, we passed a pile of books on the sidewalk. And in that pile was this book called Chuang-Tzu: The Inner Chapters, translated by David Hinton. I had no idea who Zhuangzi was. But the book had a really beautiful cover, so I picked it up and read it soon after. It turned out to be a really great translation—very poetic.

I was so taken by it that I actually reached out to the translator. We’ve even lectured together a couple of times since. Anyway, that’s how I first discovered Zhuangzi, and it had a big impact on me at the time.

Qianfan: But even before that, your Synecdoche series—which started in the early 1990s—already carried this way of seeing, of working from a small slice of something…

Byron: That’s right. So when I discovered Zhuangzi, it all felt incredibly familiar—like, “Oh, this is what my work has been about all along.” It was really lucky and useful to stumble upon this framework that gave context to what I’d already been doing. I mean, of course, it’s not literally about art—the text doesn’t talk about art—but it’s about how the world works, how the universe operates or moves.

Qianfan: When you look at Synecdoche now, do you feel it’s changed over the past three decades?

Byron: My answer to that question has changed over the years. You know, a lot of people have drawn political meaning from the work—but that wasn’t really what I was focused on at the start. It was political, but in a different way. I wanted to infuse what looked like very modernist painting with something highly specific. I wasn’t trying to make a pointed statement about what most people typically associate with skin color—those kinds of political realities. I was more interested in choosing an idiosyncratic subject for a modernist abstraction.

But once the work was out in the world, I had no interest—and no real ability—to stop those interpretations from happening. And over time, it became something else. I came to really appreciate that. I went along with it—happily and willingly.

Now, after all these years, when I look at it again, it feels, in some ways, like it did at the beginning: it’s so abstract.

Qianfan: Synecdoche is now on view at Asia Society, alongside several ancient artifacts you selected from their collection—including a Japanese Buddha figurine from the Kamakura period, about 700 years ago. Would it be fair to read the juxtaposition as a kind of Zen lesson about looking beyond appearances or skin? Was that part of your thinking?

Byron: I definitely wasn’t coming from that kind of philosophical place—not from that particular tradition of Eastern thought—when I was making Synecdoche. I don’t really know that much about it, and while I practice aspects of Buddhism myself, it’s mostly through meditation. For me, Synecdoche has always been about connecting with people.
What I appreciated in the Kamakura sculpture was the realism. Not in the sense of matching skin tones or mimicking appearances, but in the way that the Buddha figure feels like a real being. It’s not about realism as accuracy—it’s about presence. That sculpture really depicts a deity in a way that feels alive.

And when you asked about how this long-term project has changed: I think the main thing is that over the years, I’ve tried to make it more accurate—not in a photographic or literal way, but by trying not to default to stereotypes. I aim to be as neutral as possible, and often work with colors I’m not familiar with. I try to get the right tone within about an hour, so I’m not taking up too much of someone’s time. So at first, it might seem odd to connect this work with the idea of realism, but in another sense, it really fits.

Another way to put it is: if you look at a color swatch on its own, it’s just a meaningless color. Abstract. But the moment someone tells you, “Oh, that color represents a person,” all this meaning rushes in. It becomes alive. In a way, it’s like semiotics—once a color is attached to a referent, it gathers meaning. And that’s where it transforms.

Qianfan: It’s interesting to hear you say that color is meaningless—especially since, in some ways, color has always been your subject matter, right?

Byron: I mean, there’s something about color that points to something bigger than itself—that makes it more than just color. On its own, seen neutrally, it’s not that interesting. People often talk about how beautiful the variety of human skin tones is, but I don’t necessarily see it that way, at least not objectively. I like color especially when it seems plain or unremarkable, but then carries all this meaning we’ve attached to it.

Take, for example, the grayish-green color of celadon. There’s so much history behind why that color looks the way it does. It originated in China, using a specific technique and mineral composition, and then, as you know, Koreans, Japanese, and Vietnamese all developed their own versions of it—with different preferences. In Japan, for instance, the way celadon is used is deeply tied to the history of Korea under Japanese colonial rule.

I’m not sure how much of that difference is due to the physical circumstances—like firing conditions or the availability of minerals—and how much is aesthetic. But that kind of color is so bound up with historical associations: the skills it requires, the difficulty of sourcing specific materials from the Korean peninsula, the values embedded in the making. That color carries a particular history.

Qianfan: What have been, for you personally, some of the most memorable impressions of color?

Byron: Well… this is a complicated question right now. Because I’ve always made a big deal about color memory—how one remembers color. But I recently discovered that I’m actually not able to remember color.

This is a bit of a long story, but… I found out not long ago that I have this condition called aphantasia. It means I have no ability to visualize—no visual imagination at all. Apparently about 3% of the population has it.

Maybe the best way to explain it is this: if you close your eyes and imagine, say, two red apples… most people don’t even have to close their eyes. They can just see them, almost like a picture. But I don’t see anything.

Qianfan: So what happens in your mind instead? Words?

Byron: It’s not exactly words—more like thoughts. Or ideas of the concept. I only found out about this less than a year ago.

Qianfan: What happened?

Byron: I was texting with a friend who meditates a lot. We’d send each other guided meditations. And one of them was exactly that kind of example—imagining a blue light. He texted, “It was so intense when I did it.” And I said, “You don’t mean… really?” And he goes, “Wait—you mean you don’t see it?” I said, “No. I don’t see anything. I’ve never seen anything.” And he goes, “Do you have aphantasia?” I was like, “What is that?”

So I started Googling it and reading the descriptions, and it all just hit me. I thought, “Oh my god—other people actually see something.”

Qianfan: Is it only limited to imagination?

Byron: It’s memory too. What I’ve discovered is that my descriptions can be incredibly detailed—but it’s just description. There’s no visual component. When I’ve told people this in the last six months, they ask, “What about your dreams?” Well, I do have images in my dreams, but they’re usually not very vivid. Sometimes they emphasize smell more than sight. So yes, I have visuals, but they aren’t strong.

Maybe because of this condition, my ability to describe things to myself when I’m observing them is heightened. I think my brain tries to observe in a different way. I don’t feel like it’s a huge deficit—it’s just an odd thing to realize. It also makes me feel like everyone perceives things differently.

Back to your question—one of my biggest color memories is from very early in my work, about a shirt I wore in kindergarten. It had two colors. This was an early clue to the condition, though I didn’t know that at the time. About 25 years ago, I made two versions of a painting of this striped shirt, with either black or navy blue and olive green stripes. But I actually just remember those color terms.

I made the two paintings slightly different. The interesting part was during color correction for a catalogue reproduction—they asked me, “Is this right?” and I said, “Yeah, that looks really good.” But when the book was published, I held the page up against the painting, and they looked nothing alike. They were so different. Yet both were acceptable to me, because it was more about the idea of the stripes, matching my description, not a visual image.

Qianfan: Oh wow. In a way, having aphantasia seems almost like a special talent for a visual artist, since your vision works so differently from others’.

Byron: I guess so. My guess is that very few people with aphantasia become visual artists. There hasn’t been much research on it yet—maybe because people with the condition don’t usually face major challenges in society, so there’s less reason to study it.

But my personality is stubborn. I like doing things people say I shouldn’t, or that I’m not good at. That’s exactly what motivates me. That’s also why I’ve stuck with playing Go, even though I know I’ll never be great at it. The game is so challenging, and that’s what I love about it.

Qianfan: I wanted to ask about your obsession with Go (Baduk in Korean, Weiqi in Chinese), especially thinking about it in terms of color. It’s such a colorless board game, just black and white stones competing on a grid.

Byron: That’s a really good question. Philosophically, I guess I’d say black and white aren’t even considered colors in some Western color theories. Like we talked about before with color value—black and white relate to the grayscale, but they themselves aren’t classified as colors.

But in another way, you can think of them as dark and light—they represent contrast. On the Go board, it’s all about infinity and possibilities. To me, it almost feels like the game encompasses everything. Even though color isn’t involved, it engages all your emotions and thoughts.

Qianfan: I’m curious—why did you decide to become an artist in the first place?

Byron: When I was in school, the thing I was best at was natural sciences like biology and chemistry. That was actually the easiest for me. But I never wanted to do what was easy. So I studied English literature in college, because that was harder, and I wanted to be a poet. I didn’t think I could be a good poet though, since I went to such a competitive school.

Then, when I discovered contemporary art, I naively thought, “Maybe I can do this. Like, I can be a poet this way.” I graduated college in 1983. One of the very few art history courses I took—only two total—was called Art of the 70s during my senior year. It was early 80s then, so that course covered contemporary art I had no idea about. It talked about artists like Eva Hesse, Lynda Benglis, Sol LeWitt—artists I’d never heard of before. Before that, I only knew Monet or maybe Rothko, so it was eye-opening and really challenging.

That’s when I knew what I wanted to do. I started painting in a basic way—trying realism, but poorly. Pretty quickly I realized I shouldn’t pursue art that way. I knew I had to be an artist through my ideas. Then when I moved to New York, that’s when I just sat in my studio all day trying to figure something out. It was essentially a different way of trying to be a poet.

Qianfan: You really seem to enjoy challenges.

Byron: Yeah. Most people follow the path of least resistance, but I always choose the path of most resistance—the hardest way.

Qianfan: That takes a lot of courage.

Byron: I think I got that from my mom. She’s a very stubborn person, and I really admire her curiosity. She’s always curious about everything, and I wish I could keep that kind of curiosity in almost everything I do. Even in Go, I sometimes get bored or frustrated because it’s so hard to improve. But my approach is to memorize classic Go kifu—game records—played by the masters. Recently, I’ve been studying a kifu from the 1960s by Takeo Kajiwara, along with his book The Direction of Play.

Because of how my memory works, it’s often difficult to rely on imagery, so I focus on understanding the relationships between stones. Each move has to make sense to me, and I keep a kind of running narrative in my mind describing these moves and placements.

Qianfan: How often do you play Go nowadays?

Byron: Almost every morning, I play a quick game. Usually, that’s the routine. Not every single day, but most days.

Qianfan: Wow, that’s a lot of practice. I’m curious about how you approach routines. How about your Sunday Paintings? Do you still paint one every Sunday?

Byron: Well, I haven’t missed a week in a long time. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I skipped a week. Sometimes it’s not literally on Sunday—if I forget or get really busy, I’ll do it on Monday or Tuesday. It’s called Sunday Paintings for a reason: in English-speaking art culture, a “Sunday painter” is traditionally an amateur artist. I liked that idea—doing something for love, not money. I really love these paintings because they helped me get through difficult periods. Often, when it’s really hard to make work, the Sunday Paintings never feel hard to do. So the series just keeps going. Even if I don’t make any other work for a whole year, I’d still have made 52 paintings, which, if a painter says, “I made 52 paintings last year,” that’s truly a lot. So, I’m really grateful for this project.

Qianfan: Do you feel it’s become like a ritual, or maybe a form of record-keeping—like a visual journal?

Byron: It’s definitely more like a journal, a way of keeping time, especially since my memory for dates and time is so poor. Sometimes I look back at my Sunday Paintings to remind myself what was happening in my life at that moment.

Qianfan: Would you say painting serves as a kind of therapeutic process for you?

Byron: Not really. It’s not hard for me to admit, but maybe hard to understand that…for me, painting is difficult, and making paintings is actually the hardest thing I do. That’s why I’m so grateful to have this weekly painting practice; otherwise, painting feels quite daunting. Much of the process is stressful.

Qianfan: Since you’ve said you tend to seek out difficult challenges, maybe painting is where some of your anxiety comes from?

Byron: Maybe. It’s not the main source of my anxiety, but it’s definitely not a comfortable place. I think it needs to feel at least a little uncomfortable—it pushes me to make the work interesting all the time. Otherwise, it becomes automatic or, worst of all, boring. So if it’s stressful, at least it’s not boring.