There are two sides to my work. The drawings resemble a diary of mundane life, the record of routine and floating, unstable emotions. Creating them is like bleeding from wounds. They naturally ooze from the act, forcing me to be restrained. To trap myself in a state of repression and frustration, I paint realistically. Making these elaborate, detailed works is like cutting myself, which makes me bleed. But I bleed drawings. In these monochromatic drawings on paper, I work with splashed stains that I create unconsciously, embracing the accidental. Figures emerge from smudges; they have no clear semblance, like a ghost. Some of them become the basis for oil paintings. I wander around the things that intrigue me: the beginning of maturation, the remains of life, such as ashes and bones, the objects that link our lives with our deaths. I walk on, like a column of ants. I feel that something draws me, but I do not know what and where it is. I just follow the crumbs of ideas: life, death, and love.