The artist's hands weave constantly like Arachne.
The panorama of the surroundings is blurred, not line drawn but made up of smudged brush strokes, an image created by sensitive finger ends fumbling.
Through my work I console myself by revealing my fear of the ambiguous.
I am going deeper inside, reminding us that what we see is not everything.
I believe people share with the other and search for the unseen, although they being human and standing on the ground, are attracted by the visible, the concrete.
Unless the conflict between the real and the ideal ceases, a wound is left in reality.
The wound will never disappear, even if it is hidden between the layers of life.
I re-realize that I am amazed that things are created by spots added and lines drawn, points and lines are weaved into each other, and create layers and folds.
The shapes contoured by the constellation of lines and points become the trace, and represent lived experience.
Being neither representational nor abstract, the shapes represent the disclosing of reality. Though simple or concrete, a series of events is weaved into a complexity while other facets become invisible, submerged.
As there is no boundary between the real and unreal, the gaze constantly crosses over inside and outside, and configures each moment.
I create images using simple techniques and everyday materials.
I admire the writer in the sense that they create with minimal materials, or the dancer who requires only her own body.
The glance of "Songes, Mensonges." stare at the present, not reaching anywhere.
Without forgetting anything of the past, the unknown fear is accepted as it exists here and in between here and there.
Once transparent, the existence exposes its shape as if it drew an endlessly long thread.
When I was working at school in Paris, Alex asked me, “What are you painting?”
“I don’t know”, I said.
“You don’t know, even though it’s your own painting?” he replied.
Nan Goldin says that she presses the shutter of her camera before she knows what it is she’s trying to capture.
The realization of the reason always comes after the photographs expose their images.
Maybe I don’t know where it stops either, and leave it somewhere in the middle.
The skin sags, the growing fingernails are trimmed, and the hands restlessly create and disperse.
“Never lose sight of the star”, a boy told me.
I keep the star in my arms, it becomes an image.
The fear never ends, and I move my hands again.
Translated by Hyo-min Park, J.P.Zukauskas