I gave this work the subtitle “Homage to Paul Gauguin and Mark Rothko.”

I have long believed that a painter must possess a clear methodology of color. Color is not merely a tool for describing objects; it is a presence capable of structuring the order and space of a painting.

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Sixteen layers of dripping. At no moment was there an intention to draw. For several days after beginning the work, I remained only with the act of dropping paint and water, the traces that followed, and the waiting in between. After throwing paint and water onto the surface, I waited for it to dry completely before repeating the same process again. Each layer required at least a day, and more than sixteen days of time accumulated on the surface of the painting.

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What appeared on the surface was not my image but the colors emitted by tangled masses of paint, along with patches of unfilled ground breathing in places. There was no composition, no sketch, and no plan — only the light of the paint, the sensation at the fingertips, and the chance of dripping.

The nonlinearity of an action that pursues nothing creates a scene in which those traces seem to detach themselves from time.

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Seen up close, the painting is rough: splashes of paint and water collide and cling together, and lumps of pigment adhere unevenly to the surface. Yet when viewed from a slight distance, the complementary contrast of vermilion red and green reveals a surprisingly decorative brilliance across the field. This was not painted decoratively; it is simply the inherent nature of color itself.