My art is my complete disappearance from this Earth. Nothing more than an erasure of myself. 

It is an attempt to transcend my personal and mundane experience in the grand flow of history. In the mesh of intricate details and patterns, there is nothing more but a void of meaning. No signifier of a specific political, social, or historical being. All are a fabricated illusionism of an absolute universality—a lucid somnambulism which is a collapse of reverie, imagination, and real-life—manifested through successions of phantasmagorical imagery.

A thousand waves overflow through the flesh and bones. Waves of the ocean, air, flame, stardust—all elements in this sublime cosmos. Flesh and bones of the dead and the living, the visible and the invisible. With a symbolistic depiction, the human, animal, and vegetal corporeality are morphed, transformed, and interconnected into a ceaseless flow.

Chaos of violence, chaos of tenderness.

Renaissance art is my greatest inspiration: the naturalistic depiction of a divine world that has no trace of human hands. I adore the perfectionistic finalization of the so-called historical ‘artisan art’ like Christian iconography, Japanese lacquerware, and Vietnamese traditional printmaking. The “death of the author,” as Barthes famously calls it, or the absence of the artmakers, gives the artworks their own life that persists over the life of the artmakers. Perhaps it’s the final resolution for us in the fight against the fleetingness of our beings.

My art is an anti-memoir, but it’s a fight against the forgettingness of what I’m in love with or anguish over. It’s an eternity I make to make up for everything that I’m devoid of. Forget about me. Zoom in the lines and the shapes only. You might not see me in my art, but I hope you can see a fragment of “us.”