Color, shape, line — these fundamental visual languages through which we read the outer world are also our silent dialogue with the self and the beyond, transcending speech and all other senses.

Some are born with an affinity for certain forms and hues; and when we commit them to creation, every brushstroke — in its hesitation and immersion — answers the twin questions: “What am I? What do I yearn to become?”

Each stroke is a choice among countless possible selves.

Perhaps the “I” is ever-refracting light, a spill of color and energy, or an orphan from some forgotten cosmos.

The worlds within our hearts may be vastly different — yet all stir with the falling brush, all rest in the hush of a quiet mind.

When people create a character they truly love, they always, unconsciously, project parts of themselves into it. And the process of refining that character becomes a journey of reconstructing the self—an exploration of what makes me who I am.

In this exhibition, the two characters on display are, one might say, the self and the other. They seem like opposites, yet they share the same set of colors and attributes. And in my sci‑fi story, they cross time, each advancing toward the same ideal in their own way.

I’ve come to think that pure “self” and pure “other” are, in essence, just definitions we give ourselves in order to become more fully who we are.

I’ve loved sci‑fi movies since I was very young. Those armored spaceships and those unreachable visions of entire worlds filled every daydream I had. That’s why I believe creating a profound story and a complex world is something truly cool—something worth pouring all my passion into.

I’ve always wanted to “distill” myself—to peel away everything external and leave only the truest me inside. And for me, creation is the most honest form of distillation. I don’t have to pretend, I don’t have to worry. I just paint—cold or warm, beautiful or ugly—whatever the self really is.

To be honest, I’ve long been troubled by the dual label of “designer” and “artist.” It feels as if I have to choose one. But I don’t believe I belong entirely to either.

The process of creating makes me more aware of the “gray” in this world—and in that gray, I find a place where I might finally feel at ease.

The self is often multifaceted and chaotic. From the very beginning, even before I started thinking about holding this salon, my works had already quietly been approaching the theme of self-exploration.

My feelings toward art have always been vague. I've never had a blazing passion for it, nor do I possess extraordinary skill. I didn't use to regard painting as a pursuit, and even now, I still don't. Perhaps the greatest meaning painting holds for me is simply this: the process of groping my way toward myself.

I am an emotional person. I've imagined my thoughts as a tangible mass, wildly radiating from my mind. That is the side others cannot see—the hidden, truer self. The self tangled with anxiety, sorrow, hatred, and greed.

But painting allows me to reach those deep emotions, to embrace the unpolished version of myself.

I also want people to know that I am multifaceted. I'm not some "artist" or someone whose mind is filled with nothing but art junk. I see myself more as an ordinary individual who longs for happiness and freedom. Singing brings me spiritual joy, and so does laughing with friends.

My works aren't something lofty or pretentious. They are more like a set of mirrors—reflecting different yet equally pure versions of myself.

After painting so many "me"s, I think I can call myself self-absorbed. But I believe self-absorption isn't just blindly admiring oneself—for me, it's also a form of self-acceptance.