My work begins with the encounter of an object whose name and use have been erased. Things and nature carry no meaning to us. They simply exist, each in its own way, independent of human understanding. The moment an object, rather than being reduced to information or function, stands before me as pure matter, I face its weight. This encounter is more than a visual experience: it is my way of approaching the world, and the starting point of my painting.
When rational judgment comes first in carrying the object onto the canvas, painting settles for describing the object and loses its material force. To keep the essence of a thing from being replaced by information, I push the speed of the brushstroke as far as it will go, so that the body acts before thought. Rather than planning what to paint and how, I let the hand cross the canvas and move ahead of my will.
In this process, the thick viscosity and heavy mass particular to oil paint physically collide on the surface. As the brushwork continues, my body and gaze become closely entangled with the surface, and the rational thinking that tried to control and define the object slowly comes to a halt within the path of the brush. On the canvas, the background is not a secondary device meant to explain the object. The background, too, is an independent space that holds a material weight of its own.
The accidental blending and bleeding that arise from the collision between paint and body are not things to be removed: they become another material element that makes up the work. On my canvas, the object is finally no longer a subject of representation. At the crossing of paint, gesture, and gravity, it stands again as a material presence. The object exists independently, yet only through contact with the body does it come into being as painting. I cannot decide how the viewer interprets; but I hope that, before reading any meaning, those standing before the canvas first feel the pressure and density of the matter reach their body.