I don't know why I always wear black.
People say that clothes are the second face of a person. What kind of clothes people wear is to shape their persona with the volume and colour of the clothes. Just like a mask.
Clothing is an image that outlines the social contour of people.
So what kind of outline do I want to build through black?
Maybe black is a colour without identity, not unIike a uniform.
Or, my existence is too light so I need this stable colour to hold me down and not let me float to the periphery of the world
At other times I feel that the whole world is being petrified and heavy
I paint and in painting respond to the play of lightness and heaviness.
Painting is to open a net, I want to use it to capture the time that is penetrating me in space.
I am light
Light enough to make my net that cannot really bear my weight
I am alive though
In the net of painting. Painting is like a mesh or net that draws you in
Only painting can make me realise that I am here, here at this moment
Drawn in by painting in order to fight against the oppression of nothingness.
I never thought that my painting will one day become a painting, an image of itself
They are just traces of something departed
They are my other bodies, my containers but anyway remote.
How do they turn into images? What surprise do they hold?
If they become fixed as images, aren't they the same as the corpse? That is a thought, being like corpses.
My body, the painting as my body, will one day become a corpse, and this idea makes me afraid - afraid of them to be finished enough anyway to tremble.
I just want to paint all the time because I am alive in time when I paint so I can't face them being taken away from me. To have to produce a context, as if to frame in language is like a minor death, as if time is being squeezed out.
Sometimes I feel that painting is not an object but is rather an event. The event announces something but announces as if for the first time. Painting as a first-time event.
Painting always exist on their own edge somewhere between the before and after of the image. This edge is not subject to control, it either tips towards loss or alternatively towards excess.
Painting is a verb at the time of the work. I spent my time in painting.
By painting, fill the void that I can't face. Does painting itself have a face?
When I went to Paris, I saw a picture of Hammershoi in Orsay. I stood there for a long, long time. I think there is something in his painting that made me tremble but I do not know what it was. Recently I went to the National Gallery and saw two Vermeer paintings. I suddenly realised that there was something very similar between Hammershoi and Vermeer. The time in their paintings is not a pause, but a time that is floating as if in circulation. It is something that cannot be seen but can only be sensed. Painting is an art of sense.
Perhaps, they are also fighting against the void in the form of painting.
It is true that their paintings have also become images.
I want to deal with it in a light way, but I always fail, maybe I am not light enough, or I can't be satisfied with it.
Painting is alive, breathing, I will be affected by their breathing.
They will talk to me, and we won't lie to each other.
The intimacy that I have established with my paintings, is an absolutely transparent relationship that I have never had with any human being.
I paint, as if I am talking to the reflection in the water. The reflection in the water does not lie. But it is a lie in itself.
Pompeii is an image.
A collective portrait.
It is over.
Now, living people go to the image and look at the dead life in frozen time.
Between this in and out, the world of the living and the world of the dead communicated.
The image begins with funeral. The earliest images were shown to the deceased, but today's images are for the living.
It seems that people have an image of the consciousness of death. Because I realise the time, I realise that things around me and myself will change and disappear in time, and I hope to leave some traces.
I rarely make images, and if they become images, I sometimes think they are no longer painting. Or they are not at the beginning to be a painting.
I have created such a set of images, yes, I don't think they are painting.
A painting must be flowing, it must not be stable.
Moreover, they are not drawn, but are printed.
I am using a movable type seal.
Is an image or a set of text? Is it a carrier is also the carrier of cultural symbols? Whether it is readable - I mean, like the readability of many works of art in the era of mechanical reproduction.
For me, it's just a thing, the relationship between it and me is alienated, I don't intervene in these objects to a large extent, I just print out the machines they come from.
They are just filters that have been added with the name of the ‘Kaijia’.
So they are not painting, they are just some images, they are already dead bodies. They have been sentenced to death by me at the beginning.
I hope that such things don't happen often in my life. Unless I am willing to be a machine myself.
On Kawara is such a machine. It takes too much courage to decide to be a machine. It is the courage that I don't have this capacity
I am alive but in a very unstable way, minute, after minute, after minute, mutable by the minute, I am completely different from the last minute. Maybe that is the reason for wearing black because the image of it repeats.
I sometimes want to stabilise myself and make up my mind to create a set of sustainable images. But I can't do it neither can I control myself.
All I can do is continually destroy the generated image and paint again on that basis.
I am wearing black, maybe because I am every trace I made on my paintings, every stroke drawn on the surface, every tense.
