I make paintings about the weather. Not specific places, but the feeling of being in it: light changing, wind drifting, something passing through. I do not start from an image. I stain and layer color on unstretched fabric until an image starts to hold, then keep going until it almost lets go again. I am drawn to moments when a landscape dissolves into atmosphere, or something familiar becomes difficult to locate.

As a Taiwanese artist who has moved between cultures, places, and languages, my work comes from not feeling fully grounded. I rely on abstraction to stay present, using color as anchor points within everything shifting around me. My work does not try to resolve ambiguity, but to revel in its vitality.

I work across painting, text, light, and moving image, using gauze, distemper, natural inks, and unstretched fabric. Keeping surfaces unstretched allows gravity, architecture, light, and circumstance to participate in how a painting is made and encountered. They hang, fold, or lean, shifting between image, object, and environment. I think of them as landscapes of nowhere.

Growing up in Taiwan made me conscious of how layered histories settle into taste, education, and even what feels instinctive in the hand. I think about Bernice Bing’s synthesis of calligraphy and abstraction, and Ho Te-Lai’s use of stars, cosmology, and written language to hold distance and homesickness. Their work makes me wonder what travels with us through migration, and how inherited ways of seeing can remain active without becoming fixed. I am interested in commonality not in seeing the same thing in the same way, but in looking together.