Solitude is not a lack, but a clarity

When I was young, I feared solitude. I felt that if I wasn't connected to someone, I would become insubstantial. But as I continued creating, I realized: solitude isn't a state of lacking something; rather, it's a state where the superfluous has been stripped away.

For example, when listening to classical music. Playing the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra softly while layering colors, the sound and color quietly resonate. There is no one else's judgment there. Only something resonating within me and the sound flowing in from outside gently overlap. In that moment, solitude becomes transparent.

I paint abstract art. Without concrete motifs, I spend more time confronting my inner self. I cannot escape into form. I cannot rely on narrative. I build solely with color, texture, and rhythm. This work cannot be done amidst lively discussion with others. Rather, being alone allows subtle sensations to emerge that are otherwise inaudible.

Solitude might be like clear water. When water is murky, you cannot see the stones at the bottom. But if you remain still, the water eventually becomes transparent, revealing what lies within. I feel that solitude in creation is the time to regain that transparency.

Beyond solitude, others exist

That said, I don't wish to glorify solitude. Conversing with others, being stirred by someone's words, is also vital for creation. Each time I engage with literature or philosophy, I feel my perspective expand slightly. But to truly make these things my own, I must first carry them back into solitude.

For instance, when reading a novel and my heart trembles. That tremor, in the act of reading, is still a state of encountering another's words. I bring it to the canvas, ruminate on it alone. Translate it into color, convert it into the speed of the brush. This process is profoundly quiet, profoundly personal. Yet, the image born there will eventually meet someone's gaze.

I sometimes wonder: might a painting created in solitude, after taking a roundabout path, meet someone else's solitude? When I see someone standing quietly before a painting in an exhibition space, I feel that person, too, is alone for just a moment. No words are exchanged there, but an invisible bridge spans between the colors.

Abstract art offers no clear answers. Precisely because of this, viewers project their own emotions onto it. The lines and blurs painted during solitary hours may resonate with another's memories, pain, or quiet joy. In that instant, solitude transforms from a closed space into an open field.

For me, painting is an act of moving between embracing solitude and letting it go. Alone in the studio, I layer colors. It is precisely because of this quiet time that the possibility of connecting silently with someone else arises. Today
, once again, I stand before the canvas. Without fearing solitude, yet without drowning in it. To gently scoop up the nameless emotions lying at the bottom of clear water.