When I moved to Detroit in 2014, I was just learning about the seasons.  I grew up in Santa Monica, a place where the weather rarely fluctuates more than 10 degrees from 70.  All the people are carefully put together, the buildings meticulously maintained and pastel.

The first time I saw a Crocus blooming out of the snow, it felt like a religious experience.  People warned me about Michigan winters, but I love a challenge and I was prepared.  Above all, my love for the city was stronger than my fear of the cold, even though I was living in an abandoned house with no heat, proper plumbing, or insulation.  During this period I was making paintings that were supposed to speak about spirituality.  Experiencing seasons for the first time felt like discovering a higher power for me. I didn’t grow up with religion.  I was looking for something to make art about, and a deep connection that felt like being in love. I found this at the time in flowers. Eastern religions place a lot of spiritual symbolism in flowers.   Perhaps this notion was ingrained in me from an early age, having grown up in a Chinese household.

Back then I was more interested in painting On Things rather than paintings Of Things.  My canvases were discarded table tops, scrap wood, vintage paper; and antique fabric and lace.  I didn’t have disposable income for art supplies, but I didn’t care.  I was content to get by on either the collective resources or the refuse of society.  Every day felt like an adventure, and I was manifesting moments of clarity and synchronicity in almost anything.  Perhaps that’s an artifact of youthful magical thinking, a universal season of life.  Back then, everything felt so romantic, but I am much more interested now in unravelling from where those feelings originate.  The heart goes through seasons too.  After 8 years in Detroit, I only recently discovered that Water lilies bloomed in the canals behind my house.  Often, it takes a long time to see the things that are right in front of us, rather than what we wish to perceive.

Making paintings feels like honoring that which often is overlooked - reassessing one’s first perspective, and making small, fleeting moments immortalized.