Flowing time and sinking time

We've always been taught that "time flows." Morning comes, then day, then night. Seasons cycle, years pass. Within that flow, we work, meet people, part ways, and move toward the next day.

But when I'm painting, time doesn't necessarily feel like it's flowing. It feels more like it's sinking.

I hold the brush and draw the first line. In that instant, the canvas's white ceases to be merely a "surface." There, the hesitations of the past, the lingering echoes of the music I heard just now, fragments of yesterday's conversations—all settle faintly. Sometimes I feel that time doesn't move forward; it layers and accumulates.

For instance, when creating while listening to classical music, a certain melody recurs repeatedly. The same theme reappears, transformed in form and hue. Engaging with this structure, the word "deepening" feels closer than "advancing."

Perhaps my abstract paintings are similar in some way. Each time I layer color, it's not new time that's born, but rather time that already existed reveals itself. That's the sensation.

Things that cannot be measured by a clock

Concentration is essential for creation. Yet even the word "concentration" feels somewhat superficial. What comes closest isn't "absorption" but perhaps "synchronization."

The rhythm within me and the stillness before the canvas slowly overlap. At that moment, external time recedes. Phone calls and the sound of cars outside the window feel like they exist on some other layer.

The strange thing is, after spending time like this, I find it a little easier to return to reality. When caught up in the busyness of daily life, time becomes fragmented, managed, and rushed. But after a period of creation, time feels whole again.

This isn't about efficiency. Rather, it's inefficient, circuitous time with no guaranteed outcome. Still, I believe that by immersing myself in this "time beyond the clock," I am confirming my own contours.

Abstract paintings do not tell specific stories. Precisely because of this, there is space for each viewer's own time to seep in. Past memories and emotions not yet put into words slip between the colors and shapes.

If someone pauses before my painting, I hope their time gently melts into the canvas. Perhaps I am simply creating a vessel for that.

Time is neither something to be reclaimed nor overtaken; only by pausing and listening intently does it finally take on a tangible feel.

Today, once again, in my quiet studio, touching the layers of time, I face a single canvas.