Translating "Silence" — Beyond the Abstract
A pure white canvas hangs on the studio wall. When I gaze at it, I don't think about "what to paint." Rather, I consider how to translate the "silence" that should be there yet remains invisible into the resonance of color.
People often say, "I don't understand what's depicted in abstract paintings." In a sense, that's true. Because I myself am not painting to explain that something "is there." It's the task of scooping up those nameless emotions and accumulations of time—the things that slip through our fingers the moment we try to put them into words, or even before we can verbalize them in daily life. That is painting for me.
Where words end, painting begins
I love books. The time I spend immersed in philosophy or literature is as important to me as the time I hold a brush. Yet I know that no matter how brilliant the words of writers or philosophers, there are realms they simply cannot reach.
For instance, when the amber hue of whisky poured into a glass late at night shimmers with the sound of melting ice. There exists a complex gradient there, neither "solitude" nor "fulfillment." In that moment, words are utterly powerless. The instant you put it into words, that delicate nuance gets locked away in the narrow box of "verbal definitions."
Wittgenstein said, "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." Yet artists are a deeply flawed breed who yearn to somehow express that very silence. I begin moving paint from that place where words falter.
When blue overlaps and irregular lines run across my work, it is neither depicting the sea nor the sky. I am merely attempting to fix there the trembling waveform of the heart, just one step away from becoming words.
The improvisational nature of jazz and the dialogue on the canvas
While creating, I often play music. I especially love jazz, particularly pieces with strong improvisational elements.
Jazz improvisation isn't about creating something from nothing; it's an act of "responding" to the atmosphere in the moment and the sounds of fellow performers. My abstract paintings share a similar sensibility. When I place the first stroke, the canvas is no longer just a piece of cloth; it questions me like a sentient other. "If you put this blue here, what will you do next?"
I don't prepare a finished image beforehand. If I were to paint strictly according to a blueprint, it would become mere "work" for me. Instead, it's about how I accept and engage with the "accidents" – the unintended drips of paint, the murkiness of overlapping colors. It is precisely in this process that I believe the point of contact between myself as a human being and the world is born.
This resembles life itself. We cannot live according to plan. Unexpected events, sorrow, and joy appear suddenly. How do we interpret them and integrate them as part of ourselves? The "abstraction" in my paintings is the process of sublimating such chaotic reality into a single harmony.
What the "White Space" Speaks
When I encounter the gardens of ancient Japanese temples or minimalist contemporary music, I am overwhelmed by the power of "white space."
In my paintings, areas that appear unpainted or where the ground layer shows through are never "shortcuts." Rather, they are "gaps" for the viewer's consciousness to enter.
A space filled to perfection creates a sense of suffocation. Conversely, when there is appropriate empty space, wind passes through it, and light shines in. What one feels in that empty space is entrusted to the viewer's mood that day and their life experiences up to that point. My work is not something I alone complete; it only becomes a complete story when someone gazes upon it.
When facing an abstract painting, please don't search for a "correct answer." What exists there is merely one "interpretation"—a fragment of the world captured by me, a single individual. If, within the overlapping colors, you happen to find a memory of your own, or an emotion you were beginning to forget... That is the only reward I seek when I face the canvas.
As tonight draws to a close
The night has grown late. I'll finish tonight's writing by drinking the last of the whiskey.
Tomorrow, a different light will shine into the studio. Under that light, I will surely begin to search for a new "silence" and start staining the canvas once more. However uncertain the path may be, I cannot stop this journey in pursuit of the "formless."
If you find interest in my work, let us meet someday at a solo exhibition. There, a space will unfold where not words, but only color and form resonate together.
Until then, have a peaceful night.