2026
Exhibition
2025
Exhibition
Residency
2024
Exhibition
ODDY
I often wonder about the things we take for granted, the things we no longer notice, the things to which we’ve grown numb.
The closer I look, the less certain I become—just as we are with people.
The more I look at things in detail, the less I seem to understand.
Some beauty sits quietly, hoping to be found.
Others yell, Look at me!
Everything that comes into view carries a resonance of its own. To hold these in drawing or collage is, for me, to clothe the formless in form. And in time, they return to the viewer as impressions, thoughts, and quiet sentiments—becoming formless again. You may not have witnessed the small things I once saw, yet here, in this moment, we’ve shared the resonances I have carried with me.
What does it mean to truly see?
Is what is visible all there is to be seen?
Or perhaps we should learn to look beyond what meets the eye?
I didn’t realise we had a tree in our apartment complex that could grow leaves this beautiful. I picked one up from the cold, rough asphalt and put it on the smooth wooden table in the living room, and it finally felt as though it had found its place.
Just as love spills over and asks to be shown, beauty does something similar. When something reaches not only your eyes but your heart as well, you just can’t keep quiet about it. Wanting to hold onto that feeling, I started drawing the leaf with a blank sheet and some pastels, not knowing what I was getting myself into but feeling strangely brave about it.
This little leaf—barely the size of my hand—was covered in markings that looked random but had their own steady sense of order. I suppose that’s why I bothered bringing home a leaf that anyone might have stepped on; something about that hidden pattern pulled me in. The trouble started when I tried to transfer it onto paper. If I drew the lines too neatly, the leaf in the drawing lost its life and stopped looking “natural”. But if I went too loose, it turned into something that looked like a clumsy attempt at abstraction. The leaf lived somewhere between order and chance, and I just couldn’t catch it.
It turns out that standing humble before nature isn’t really about scale. You don’t need mountains or waterfalls; even a small leaf can hold enough mystery to feel overwhelming.
We don’t call something “natural” when it’s perfectly designed with no gaps at all. But that doesn’t mean nature is pure chaos either. What feels natural is that faint, odd kind of order you can find in everything—lush flowers, weeds racing each other upwards, clouds scattered about, trees growing with no clear pattern, branches shooting off wherever they like.
There’s an enormous difference between what people design and what nature shapes. Nature’s design is more intricate and subtle, almost like a secret that only shows itself to someone who’s willing to pay attention.
Plato saw art as nothing more than imitation. Even a masterpiece that changed art history can’t quite compete with the unexplainable beauty of a leaf fallen on a road, simply following the rhythm of the seasons.
If an artist spends their whole life reaching out towards the real they can never fully grasp, then the best they can achieve is still imitation, never reality itself. And maybe that’s the clearest sign of the gap between a creator who makes something from nothing and humans who can only rearrange what already exists.
How free is the person who recognises the light!
To yearn for the unreachable is despair, yet to unravel the secrets hidden within the light—that is joy. A big joy born from something small.
I don’t know when—or if—I’ll manage to express even a trace of all the secrets the light is keeping, but being able to grow small alongside a single leaf still leaves my heart at peace.