I always find myself chasing seasons that have hurried too far ahead of me. By the time I get to work on a piece, I am already late. With each passing year, I have slowly gathered the feelings and experiences needed to paint. Lately, I have come to understand that my art requires a certain nostalgia for what has already slipped away, thinking of winter in spring, of summer in autumn.

In my paintings, motifs such as dusk, butterflies, and unspoken words appear again and again, and even scenes that seem as though nothing is happening are attempts to capture things already passed and emotions quietly fading. Memories do not return in neat, complete forms once they have departed. They come back blurred, wayward, and incomplete. They wander into landscapes from elsewhere, mingling with unrelated light and wind. And thus, time that should have long since ended suddenly alters one’s sense of the present. One realises that feelings believed to belong to the past have never truly gone anywhere.

I often paint through the night, working until the edge of my studio wall begins to glow with the blue light of dawn. In those hours, what had lain submerged inside me surfaces, and I come to understand what it is that still holds me fast. Works that emerge from those hours tend to depict not the moment when something happens, but what comes before and after. It may be the foretelling of an unforeseen meeting, or a parting that can be seen approaching from far away.