The 'Flowing Forest' collection was the result of a pure excitement; the thrill of watching the dance of construction workers' hands. People who, without artistic pretense, would draw the trowel across earthen walls and create immense, passionate paintings right before my eyes. But this was a tragic performance: they were creators who could not see their own art. Just as the texture of the plaster reached its peak beauty, with the next movement to 'smooth' the wall, they would destroy all those accidental patterns.

I always wished with regret that the master builder would hold his hand; I wished he wouldn't bury those wild, vibrant patterns under the final layer. But he would finish his work, leaving me alone with a white, polished wall. That absolute whiteness was like an 'erasure' for me. I would get lost in that whitened, unaddressed space; as if a part of my identity had been buried between those layers of plaster. That smooth wall was no longer a wall; it was an imposed oblivion.

These paintings are my answer to that 'non-existence.' This collection was an attempt to reclaim the lost forms from the heart of that whiteness. Every night I returned to the studio, I tried to conjure back those lost stains and that flowing forest beneath the plaster. I would pick up the brush not to paint something, but to pull those buried-alive forms out of the canvas's white memory.