Remembered landscapes already carry meaning. From the moment of seeing, they come with names.
I borrow forms from concrete objects and place them on the surface. From there, I shift the colors. I shift the lines. With each shift, the motif moves further from its original name. As readability decreases, what rises in its place is a clearer sense of what I was seeing it as.
Behind what disappears, there is an outline of the one who was looking.
The gesture of erasure, the layering of one brushstroke over another—these themselves reflect the nature of the gaze I had turned toward the motif. The degree of displacement is a record of distance. Speed might be intimacy, or fear. Through the way each operation appears, the eye that looks outward at the world gradually begins to take form.
What I enclose within the rectangle of a painting is not the landscape. It is the gaze I had turned toward it.
