My work begins from what is about to disappear.

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Gently, it arrives.

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Leaves brush against one another in the wind, releasing a faint, crystalline sound. Beneath each step, a brief whisper—soft, dry, and passing—like time moving close to the body. Vines curl toward the light, while moss slowly claims rooftops, gravel, and old trees. Touched by wind, rain, heat, and cold, these traces become the quiet form of days.

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We are taught to think of strength as something like a diamond—formed under immense pressure, rare and unbreakable. Yet even glass, fragile at a glance, has endured fire before becoming transparent. Strength and softness are never simple.

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At night in the hospital, small bodies sit quietly in wheelchairs, almost disappearing from view. Only the IV drip sways above them, carrying the unspoken weight of hope. Before they have learned to live freely, they have already learned how to endure loss.

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And yet, these fragile lives do not vanish. Even without health, life continues—lightly, almost imperceptibly—like condensation on a bottle held in small hands. Fleeting, but undeniably real.

I try to hold onto these moments that are nearly gone. Scenes that dissolve as quickly as wind through leaves—delicate, unstable, yet impossible to ignore.

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My work begins from these traces.