Tremor emerges from my long-term inquiry into the essence of painting and the fluidity of identity. As painting continues to be redefined throughout art history—confronting photography, digital media, and conceptual practice—I seek a language that can hold the multiplicity of the body, perception, and selfhood. Framing painting as a living body—with canvas as skin, frame as bone, and pigment as blood—I explore the conditions of a form that is bound, yet constantly yearning to expand, one that trembles in the process of becoming rather than arriving.
This work is composed of non-rectangular canvas modules, constructed with acrylic paint and curved wooden frames. Each segment is misaligned, fragmented, and drawn toward the others, forming a dynamic system of near-connections. These parts do not seek to restore a complete image, but instead retain space, rupture, and tension. This constellation reflects the queer condition—shifting between selfhood and social expectation—not as a lack, but as a way of existing out of sync.
I refuse to treat a non-rectilinear canvas as an anomaly; instead, I use it as a provocation: When painting loses its traditional boundary, is it still painting? When identity no longer conforms to social presets, can it still be whole? This is not merely a formal reconfiguration, but a dialogue between body and language—about belonging, rupture, and the unspoken contours we carry.
Tremor is not a static piece, but a state of becoming—hovering between image and object, surface and space, the familiar and the dissonant. The viewer’s gaze is invited to drift among gaps and overlaps, as if piecing together an unfinished confession. It is a rhythm of unrest, a soft resistance, and a proposition on what it means to become.
Each sculptural frame in Tremor is entirely hand-carved by the artist using traditional woodcraft techniques, emphasizing the bodily labor, devotion, and intimacy embedded in the process of form-making.
I believe painting still holds the power to speak—not when it seeks to conform to definitions, but when it embraces its fractures, its curvature, its own voice. Like our bodies, identities, and desires, painting may never fully align—yet it never loses its weight, its presence, or its worth.
