Bea Yu. Sanctuary Reimagined. Organic pigments on Mulberry paper, thread, wrapped plinth, and incense holder. Dimensions variable. Installation view, 2024, Melbourne. Photo taken by Allan Luna.

Beatriz Airah Dy Yu translates her bicultural Filipino-Chinese spiritual inheritance into a room-sized installation of layered, hand-torn Mulberry paper and thread that functions as a meditative space for reconciling the seen and unseen worlds.

The first thing I remember is the smell of burnt incense, the faint sweetness that lingered on my hands after lighting three sticks and bowing to the family altar. The smoke would twist and dissolve into the air like a spirit returning home. That quiet ritual, repeated day after day, became my earliest conversation with the unseen. It was also the first sanctuary I ever knew.

Years later, I find myself recreating that space—not as a child kneeling before a shrine, but as an artist constructing one from paper, thread, and ink. Sanctuary Reimagined began as a sketch in my notebook: an imagined altar drawn in layers, an attempt to translate memory into form. That sketch marked the beginning of a series of studies in which I experimented with turning drawings into three-dimensional tunnel books—miniature sanctuaries that invited the viewer to peer inward, as though looking through time itself. Over time, those intimate paper experiments grew in scale and depth, evolving into a room-sized installation. What once existed as pages bound by thread has since transformed into something suspended and breathing—a sanctuary where each fragment of paper, each thread, carries the residue of a memory, held gently in the air.

When I started this project, I wanted to understand what it means to live between worlds. I was raised in the Philippines, where Catholic hymns filled the air each Sunday, yet my family’s prayers at home were whispered in front of a Chinese altar, candles flickering beside bowls of fruit and porcelain gods. Between those spaces, I often felt suspended, uncertain where belief began or ended. Making art became the only place where both worlds could coexist without conflict; art became my sanctuary.

In Sanctuary Reimagined, I explore that coexistence through the act of making. The work is built from eight layers of translucent Mulberry paper—each painted with calligraphic ink drawings of creatures that move like shadows. These creatures, recurring forms from my earlier works, are caught mid-transformation: part spirit, part memory. As the layers shift in the light, their movement recalls constellations in slow motion—creatures suspended in their own quiet dance through time. The colors transition from pale red to deep blood red, a gradient that feels almost like breathing: from life to death, body to spirit, matter to air.

The Mulberry paper itself holds a story. Mulberry trees feed silkworms, and from their labor, silk is born. To work with this paper is to work with the remnants of that process, fibers transformed through care. I tore and stamped the sheets by hand, wrapping them around a small plinth that sits at the center of the installation. Its surface bears circular cutouts from the layers above, each one marked, folded, and pressed into place. This plinth is not just a pedestal; it is a body carrying the memory of transformation, much like mine.

Every layer is suspended by a cotton thread. These threads are fragile, almost invisible, yet they hold the weight of the whole installation. When air moves through the room, the sheets sway gently, their motion reminiscent of breathing or prayer flags fluttering in the wind. Each thread represents a connection—a line between past, present, and future. When I hang them, I think of the invisible strings that tie one life to another, the unseen threads that bind my Chinese and Filipino inheritances.

Sound is essential in this work. The tearing of paper, the repetitive stamping of my ancestral seal, and the faint murmurs of the studio are all heard in the space. These sounds are not meant to dominate but to whisper, reminding us of the quiet rhythm of daily rituals. In the background, subtle echoes of ordinary life—footsteps, the hum of air—blend with the ceremonial recorded sound of stamping. The result is an atmosphere that feels both domestic and sacred, an invitation to listen closely to what is often overlooked.

To activate the installation, I perform a simple ritual from my Filipino-Chinese heritage, called Popi. I light three incense sticks—one for the living, one for the dead, and one for the unseen. As I move through the space, the scent seeps into the paper, leaving faint traces of smoke that cling to the fibers. The act completes the work, reminding me that creation is also a ceremony. Art and ritual, in this moment, become indistinguishable.

I remember a moment during installation when a faint breeze entered the room. The layers swayed gently, and the shadows rippled across the floor like water. Someone in the gallery said it looked like a pendulum—time moving back and forth. That observation stayed with me. It reminded me that perspective, like faith, is always in motion. Depending on where one stands, the work appears differently. To see clearly, you must move—just as I have moved through different worlds to find myself.

I have come to realize that renewal does not mean erasing what came before but transforming it into something that can live again.

This project has taught me that art, like ritual, is an act of becoming. Every tear, stitch, and stamp is a conversation between the physical and the spiritual, between inheritance and self-definition. I have come to realize that renewal does not mean erasing what came before but transforming it into something that can live again. The sanctuary is not only a space I created but also a state of being—an inner landscape of reconciliation.

In the dim light of the installation, the layers glow softly. They appear to breathe. Standing before them, I often feel suspended between worlds, much like the work itself. The threads shimmer faintly, connecting one form to another, tracing invisible lines through time. I see in them the invisible strings that bind all things—the same ones that tie me to my ancestors, my peers, and to those who will one day inherit what I leave behind.

Through Sanctuary Reimagined, I have reached a quiet liberation. The work embodies my bicultural renewal and spiritual rebirth, a reconciliation of the seen and unseen, the inherited and the self-made. The sanctuary, in the end, is not a destination but a continual unfolding—a reminder that we are all in conversation with time, each moment shaping the next.

Beatriz Airah Dy Yu 楊愛壬

“Bea Yu” lives and works in Naarm, Melbourne, Australia. Bea acknowledges the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation, the Traditional Custodians of the land where she currently resides, and where her artistic practice takes place. She is a Chinese-Filipino multidisciplinary artist whose practice intricately weaves spirituality, animism, and her bicultural identity.  Bea explores interconnectedness and inheritances through repetition and layers in ink drawings, animation, and installations, fusing the tangible with the spiritual to captivate the unseen while inviting viewers into her inner world of contemplative meditations on life. Born in Manila, Bea has recently completed her Master of Fine Arts at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (2024). She has participated in numerous group shows across the Philippines, Japan, China, Indonesia, and Australia. She has completed residencies at Studio Kura and Arts Itoya in Japan. Bea’s practice continually evolves, deeply reflecting her ongoing spiritual exploration and the renewal of her bicultural identity. Visit bea-yu.com.

Tags

G41 | Philippines | ritual | RMIT | smell