The Outline of the Invisible

You cannot touch the wind. Even if you reach out, the moment you think you've grasped it, it slips through your fingers. Yet, we feel it through the chill on our cheeks or the force that ruffles our hair. When I stand before the canvas, I cherish this state of "feeling it, yet not seeing it." Rather than painting a specific motif, I search for something like the traces left behind by the wind passing through, using color and line.

I often work while listening to classical music. For instance, when the gentle melodies of string instruments overlap, I sense a faint flow of air between the notes. More than the notes themselves, it's the presence dwelling in the spaces between them. Wind, too, is an entity that passes through the gaps between things. That's why I deliberately leave areas unpainted, not just layering color. I create pathways for the wind in the spaces between the colors.

When attempting to depict wind, one tends to focus on its intensity—the fury of a storm, the ferocity of a gust. Yet what draws me is rather the nameless breeze. The soft air of early spring lingering in the corner of someone's memory. The quiet flow caressing cheeks at dusk. I wish to place that ambiguity upon the canvas. Precisely because it is indistinct, I feel it creates space for each person's own memories to enter.

Abstract art is sometimes criticized as "you can't tell what it's supposed to be." But think about the wind. We've never seen the wind itself, yet we never doubt its existence. The power to believe in the unseen resides within everyone. I wish to quietly entrust myself to that power. When someone stands before my work, if they can feel the wind within themselves, that is enough for me.

Placing myself within the flow

For me, the time spent creating is like standing in the wind. I don't see the finished form from the start. Rather, I place myself within a current whose direction is unknown, listening intently to the movement of color. The moment I place the paint, the canvas shifts its breath ever so slightly. I decide the next stroke in response to that change. It feels less like I'm painting and more like I'm being guided by the wind.

Reading philosophy and literature, I often encounter the question, "What is existence?" Is the wind an existence, or merely a phenomenon? Such debates exist, but I try not to overthink it. When the wind blows, my heart feels a little lighter. That fact alone seems sufficient. Painting, too, arises as a sensation before it becomes a matter of reason.

Listening to jazz, there are moments when improvisation flows unexpectedly. It betrays preconceived harmony, yet somehow maintains a strange overall harmony. That freedom resembles the movement of the wind. In my work, I sometimes let go of a predetermined composition. I accept accidental smudges or blurring as they are. I think the wind is beautiful precisely because it cannot be controlled.

To paint the wind is also to question fixed forms. We tend to seek easily recognizable outlines. Yet much of the world is in constant flux—relationships, emotions, time. Can I capture that flow on the canvas without stopping it? That is my challenge.

If you sense even the slightest movement of air before my work, it is surely the wind within yourself. I merely offer the spark. Today, once again, I quietly pick up my brush, searching for the presence of the unseen. Where does the wind come from, and where does it go? I still don't know the answer, but the time spent with that question is my very act of creation.