One day, my son learned about constellations in his school. Only the night before, the stars had been simple, twinkling beauties for him. Now they connected to a world of ancient myths and gods. He became a big fan of observing stars. When he looked up at the night sky, his eyes looked like projectors. Onto that big sky, he cast out from his small body and mind such spectacular stories. I thought to myself: he is gazing upon a reflection of his own mind, and nobody sees the same vision as him.

 

The last 20+ years, I have thought about why a painting shows an imaginative space inside it, even though the painting is just physical matter like other objects in the world. I started to think about this when I was an art student in Japan. After that, I took some jobs that sometimes didn't have any connection to my art. I lived in Europe as an art resident, experienced a death in my family, experienced marriage, childbirth, and challenges of addressing a child's disability in the US. I met with challenges living as a foreigner, as an Asian woman and with coronavirus around. Nevertheless, even as countless events have occurred, I've continued thinking about and working on painting and space. The idea stays with me.

 

I noticed that when I stretch canvas on a frame as daily preparation for my work, the act reminds me of putting on my shirt every morning. I became attracted to that idea. I decided to draw my shirt. Looking at the image, I noticed the shirt had my shape on the inside. I could see my daily life giving the shirt shape.

 

For the last few years, I've released a part of the canvas from my frame in my works. One of the reasons is to express the softness of the shirt, and the other is to gently diffuse myself beyond my frame and connect with the world outside.