​​3. Is there a question you're trying to answer through your art—but still don’t have an answer to?

I’ve always tried to make sense of things, but one mystery remains: why I seem to reject pastel and soft colours. They don’t convey the intensity or groundedness I’m seeking. I feel most at home when using deep, earthy tones to draw out and enhance the light. Maybe I’m still learning how to reconcile softness with strength and tenderness with power.

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4. Do you believe the artist chooses the subject — or the subject chooses the artist?

There is no doubt in my mind that the subject chooses the artist. When I paint, there is no sense of willful choice—only a current that pulls me in a certain direction. The experience is more of surrender than selection. Something wants to come through, and I simply follow.

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5. What’s one “rule” of art you love to break, over and over again?

I guess I break all of them, constantly. I’ve never formally studied art—no training in form, perspective, or composition. I’m allergic to instructions and recipes. My guide is the body—its subtle shifts, its visceral responses. That’s where the real communication happens.

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6. What do you think your work remembers that you sometimes forget?

That symmetry depicts a kind of stillness—beauty, yin, death, peace, in a sense—while asymmetry is life in motion, aliveness. Or put another way; when you zoom out, symmetry emerges from asymmetry. My work often reminds me that a spontaneous careless brush stroke feels more alive than a carefully drafted and intended brush stroke.

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7. What’s the most surprising thing your art has ever taught you about yourself?

That the inner and outer are intimately connected, yet never fully synchronized. There is a silence between them — a time lag — where understanding ripens. When a painting feels off, I need to step away and allow the body to reveal what the eye cannot yet see. I’ve learned to follow resonance rather than appearance. When the inner and outer finally meet on the canvas, there is a deep sense of release — as if a hidden current within me has found its voice.

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8. What’s a recurring image, symbol, or idea in your work that you haven’t fully decoded yet?

The tension between contrast and softness. I’m drawn to strong, bold contrasts—light and dark in vivid opposition. It excites me. Yet once that intensity appears, I feel compelled to soften it, to blur the edges. It’s as though I’m always trying to both reveal and conceal the same truth. 

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9. Is there a moment in your process that always feels like magic, no matter how many times it happens?

Yes—when colours and mediums blend in unexpected ways, forming new tones and transitions. It resembles my inner alchemical process. As a chemical engineer by education, I used to feel the same awe in the lab, watching reactions unfold—elements combining, creating new forms, colours, even smoke. Those moments of transformation never cease to amaze me.

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10. If someone said your work changed their life, what would you quietly hope it helped them see?

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That living moves like the breath — an endless rise and fall, in and out. When we resist that movement, it creates tension; when we allow it, there's peace. The same is true of thought: let it pass, and it softens — hold on, and it takes hold of you. If the quiet shift from dark to light in my work can echo this natural rhythm, and offer even a moment of stillness or recognition, I would be deeply grateful.