For a long time, my work has lived within the symbol of the flower. Small and delicate, yet endlessly blooming and reborn—sometimes even pushing through cracks in stone—flowers embody both vitality and resilience. That quiet strength is what draws me in.
My sculptural journey began with paper, the lightest and most fragile of materials. From there, I started shaping emotions—traces that soak into flat surfaces, creases that form and unfold, eventually becoming flower-like beings with lives of their own. This is where the Paper Garden series took root.
What matters most in this series is form. Rather than precision or polish, I embrace clumsy, childlike cuts—forms that feel imperfect, even awkward, but speak with raw honesty and purity. I believe in the truth found within that imperfection. A flower doesn't need to be flawless to be beautiful. In fact, I believe that very imperfection is what makes it human, and real.
Some flowers resemble fear; others bloom so quietly, they seem to whisper. Each one is tied to a memory, a word unspoken, or a fragile moment that once lived within me. What I could not say in words became shape. Became flower.
To me, an exhibition is always a space for sharing these moments—moments when something begins to bloom. A flower pinned to the wall, a tiny sculpture cradled in the palm, a single sentence beneath a bloom—all these things speak gently.
“This flower bloomed on the day I decided to live again.”That message, I hope, will quietly echo in the hearts of those who see it.
And so today, I return to my studio.I fold paper. I choose color. I begin again.
To remember how strong fragility can be,and how something small can hold immense comfort.