When I was a young boy, I found a photo in a magazine that I don't remember exactly what it was. It was a photo of a walking farmer carrying a frame on his back and tall trees pointing to the deep blue sky, white cloud from an angle that looking up against the light. For some reason, it gave me so young very deep impression. Even I drew it in watercolor(only landscape, no farmer, anyway I lost it) I was too young to understand the feeling, I think I was fascinated by the feeling, probably it might be the sublimity to the nature(now it is a meaningful background for value of existence in my painting). Many years later, I found myself drawing the emotions.
In my work, photography proves the place as a reality, and painting leads it to the place where is in my consciousness. I always draw the place where is in between my consciousness and unconsciousness. The scene of the place is neither looking special nor something new but only coldly realistic. So it might be the reason that can call it surrealistic.
A fresh and soft breeze blows my hair and passes me quietly, bright lights are calmly ruffled by the wind. The old emotions that are not remembered quietly well spread on the layers of life. They are turned into lights and have gone up to the sky with trembling by the breeze. Maybe ‘it is the soundless shouting’ ‘it is eternal handkerchief of nostalgia waving for the deep blue sea.’ The first phrase of this poem that I read when I was a boy has kept staying in my mind with no specific reason. For all this paying due regard to my poor knowledge for poem, it seems to have a good understanding with something in my work.
The Unknown photographer, Roland Barthes, Sally Mann, Marcel Proust, Simone de Beauvoire, these are my great source of inspiration.