Layered forms in nature often remind me of living with others—whether I want to or not. Home becomes the structure where our private worlds exist side by side. This painting imagines my own ideal space, while quietly acknowledging the presence of neighbors—living similarly, yet differently, just beyond the walls

At the end of the hike, everything felt new again—the flowers brighter, the grass fresher. Even the sky and the distant gate looked like another world waiting for us to step into.

The pineapple has always been one of my favorite forms. Its neatly layered leaves reminded me of how we, too, live intertwined with one another. The body—wrapped in patterns that are slightly different yet perfectly consistent—has always fascinated me. I still remember the moment I sliced the skin to eat it, thinking to myself that if I ever painted something one day, it would have to be a pineapple.

From a garden suspended 1,820 feet above the ground, the world below shimmered — the amusement park we had just left, still echoing with laughter. Standing there with dear friends, capturing the moment in photos, it felt almost dreamlike — as if simply being together in that place was a small miracle.

I collect fragments of beautiful nature during my travels — plants, rocks, seashells — and bring them together into one imagined scene where kids can play, climb, hide, slide, and of course, run. You can almost hear their giggles echoing through the space. Watching them from the side, there’s a quiet peace — a reminder of the joy and goodness found in life’s simple moments with family and friends.

Sometimes, the stones scattered along the roadside look beautiful. You pick one up, decorate the garden, make little ornaments, paint on them... and the children absolutely love it. As an adult, I linger at the edge. It’s not quite my world—yet I’m drawn to it. It looks delightful, but not something I’d do myself. Like trampolines. I never say no. I watch them soar, weightless with joy, and my heart lifts with theirs. But me? I wouldn’t climb on— Not unless I lose a round of rock, paper, scissors.

The countless leaves layered together to form a single tree inspire a deep sense of beauty in me. Their togetherness reminds me of life within society and family—where we gather, live, and grow as one. In that shared space, I imagine moments of play, joy, quarrels, and love woven together—just like the life within my painting.

A fleeting travel landscape—capturing the moment children run apart, moving from light into shadow, embodying the playful contrast between brightness and darkness.

Kids are always drawn to sliding down—even I feel the urge to try. Despite the risk of getting hurt, it always ends in laughter and fun.

A passing moment after the rain—playing with an umbrella, chasing shadows as if they could hide within them. The damp ground becomes a seat without worry, as though the earth itself has forgotten it is still wet

A dreamlike backyard, suspended between memory and imagination. During the time of Covid, it was the only world they had—limited in objects, yet opening into endless space. A place floating yet reachable, where blue could be sky, water, or even earth, and play stretched beyond its boundaries.