Artist statement:
“Between the Hands: What Happens Between the First and Last Hand”
Ground forms from gathering particles - soil, asphalt, and stones. As time passes and surfaces contract, cracks appear. On the ground, people walk and run, leaves fall. Cracks become boundaries, creating lines not by splitting but as if surfaces press against each other. Without cracks, lines would not appear. Rather than cutting out or excluding something in a rectangle like paintings or photographs, I explore the ground to capture traces before and after, including what cannot be seen. I paint with my hands. Canvas, paper, or wood - what we call "supports" are for me "hands that receive," present at the front of my eyes. Hands move. Rather than either myself or the support moving unilaterally, an exchange begins as we touch and confirm each other. I stretch cotton fabric on a wooden frame. I dissolve size (animal glue) that has swollen overnight in hot water and seal the entire fabric. The wet fabric becomes heavy, expands and contracts with moisture, and naturally becomes taut. The weave becomes clearly visible. There, I place sand. Or I place paper so thin it might tear at a touch. Sometimes I embed wire. After drying overnight, by morning the fabric becomes like a light Japanese wafer shell, leaning against the wall. The dried paper and sand look different from yesterday. Painting has already begun. The fabric makes me pick up a large brush full of oil, showing me the movement of particles. I load coarse pigments on the brush and create the fabric's bones. These bones might later dissolve. The first stroke begins as bones but by the end makes us forget the beginning. The brush moves as if being pressed into the weave. Particles and stones of different coarseness run across the fabric, remaining slightly without becoming color. I slide charcoal over sand on the fabric. Grainy charcoal particles are placed in a state neither line nor surface. It's like touching water. It's also like searching for alphabet cookies among soil and sand of different sizes. I add color with masking tape, draw lines with long-handled brushes. I see four meters of space in two meters of fabric. I hold the stick far from the bristles, searching for something beyond my arm's strength. Yet I cannot escape it being my arm, and my arm moves as if resisting the movement of particles there. I wipe away particles with rags and turpentine. This isn't erasing but making lines stand out, and it is also painting. There are fabric weave, pigment particles, absorbed paint, colors becoming surfaces, and distance emerges there. I attach charcoal to the end of a long stick and write letters. These are letters without meaning as words. letters stand, lie down, dance. Sometimes they're wiped away with rags or blended with large brushes. When facing paintings larger than my body, rather than trying to do something with this painting, I think about making the painting not a painting. Instead of putting the painting in a pocket (inside the eyes), I aim for something like touching pointed places of shoulders. When painting with a brush, rather than looking at where I'm painting, I watch how the surroundings change. From the skin inside my head, I look at the painting's four corners. I let the center of the painting float. I'm not aiming for completion. By finding the painting's resting place and creating insufficiency, I move away from the painting.