II. Constructing and Limiting Visibility

I’m not someone who avoids expression—I just resist the demand for clarity. Dream logic, fragmentation, ambiguity—these aren’t defensive strategies. They’re how I speak with the world. I’ve learned to use blur to sharpen, to reach intuition through misalignment.

​

Visuality is my native language. Form is not decoration—it’s the message itself. If something real can’t be seen, it ceases to matter. And form is the only way I know how to make it visible. I don’t use aesthetic beauty to cover up my vulnerability—I use it to make it presentable, in a way that is delicate, complete, and not overly exposed.

​

I’m not someone who expresses emotion in a raw, naked way. Not because I’m being dishonest—but because I don’t like being too direct. My problem has never been a lack of expression—it’s that I express too much, too carefully, too brokenly. Like someone who can’t laugh freely, always adjusting angles and shadows, making sure every facial muscle is within acceptable range.

​

I build spaces, but not to welcome everyone. Some spaces are meant to be entered. Others are designed so I can decide how you're allowed to enter. Immersion, distortion, spatial rhythm, bodily posture—these are not just atmospheric choices. They’re forms of tempo control. I don’t need viewers to understand me—I just want them to slow down before they enter.

​

In Who’s There?, I extended that “tempo control” from image to installation. I built a low, coffin-like structure where the viewer had to crouch down and crawl under a table to see the projection. That posture wasn’t conceptual play—it was a reversal of viewing dynamics. You couldn’t stand and look. You had to come closer, but not in the way you’re used to coming closer.

​

I dislike being understood too quickly. If I haven’t figured something out yet, why should anyone else? When I can’t go deep, I won’t pretend to be deep. All I can do is build a quiet structure—and let silence arrive before language does.

​

That realization was shaped, in part, by looking at the work of Tracey Emin and Shana Moulton. Both deal with selfhood—Emin with a kind of emotional rawness, Moulton through awkward absurdity. But neither slips into self-absorption or theatricality. They made me realize: style can be camouflage, but it can also be exposure. The key is whether I know what I’m using it for.

​

My fragility needs to be wrapped in something carefully shaped. I want it to be visible, but not grabbed. Beauty is the membrane. You can get close, but you don’t get to touch the core.

​

Maybe one day I’ll be ready to be more transparent. But honestly, I’m not there yet. So for now, every image I put out is like an outfit I’ve thought carefully about—well-fitted, styled, covering what I’m not ready to show, but clearly saying: I came out prepared today.