Notes on My Artworkt
Last Part of Portland Journal
Excerpt from Mirror Images


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Not dusk yet, impatient winter day light falls into its gray coziness. A slim vertical beam of sunlight comes through window, snaking out of nowhere, and brushes its linear stroke along a hemp-rope suspended from the middle of the ceiling in the studio. Tangled hairs growing on the braided surface of the rope extend their delicate feelers dancing around invisible vibrations and try to catch up to the tip of light, while the surrounding smoky darkness into a mysterious damp with millennia of tiny opaque substances. The light and contrast transfer the dark fog into the atmosphere of warmth and vividness.

Time is frozen at the point of perplexity; while the light is slipping away in front of the day dream of wonder. The space becomes gray again; it is a piece of passing clouds; it is a fading dream that impossible to trace; nothing ever happened. It still is the neurotic sleepy, late winter afternoon. It comes back to the grayness of void, the grayness of various possibilities, the grayness of new miracle.


The noise of crickets are chirping down sliced orange moon in dark between the contour of straight redwood tree printing the edge of crimson horizon where ocean ends.