Xu likes to cast his series as an act of reclamation, even rebellion—an attempt, as he writes, to “queer the heteronormativity” of his parents’ household and, in so doing, to disrupt the domesticity that smothers him during his visits home. And yet his images transmit a stubborn love for the parents with whom he shares so little of his new life in America, where he goes by Gary. Hidden among his own photographs are a few taken by his mother, including one of her son approaching the Pacific Ocean during a road trip that they took after his graduation. In the sombre shot, Xu walks toward the shore, his face concealed from the frame. Recently, I asked him whether sharing his work online induces the same thrill as altering his parents’ home behind their backs. “It’s a conflicted mental process,” he said. He hopes that his parents won’t discover his work, but he accepts that one day they may. “I’m just taking the risk, I guess.” He described the satisfaction of mounting the last print in each setup, pressing the corners of the photographs so that they don’t peel from the wall. One of his shots, “Space of Mutation,” includes two superimposed images of the artist’s dismembered arm. The first reaches toward a door jamb, as though to steady itself. The second juts into the frame from the next room, limp and listless, as if from straining to load a life into a space that won’t hold it.