I began painting through calligraphy, guided by my grandfather’s hand. From an early age, I understood that each stroke carried more than beauty: it carried breath, discipline, and the authority of language. Calligraphy has long been at the heart of Chinese culture, uniting writing and painting as the arts of the brush. To write is to order meaning, to join history, philosophy, and governance. To paint beyond the character is to expand its limitations, to seek freedom in the movement of line itself.
My practice moves between legibility and abstraction. Some marks echo the urgency of cao shu, the cursive script that rushes toward the edge of language, while others dissolve into rhythm, gesture, and silence. This tension is where my work lives: honoring tradition while refusing to be bound by it.
I see painting as both political and healing. Every composition carries the weight of cultural inheritance, yet also the possibility of release. The traces of ink on paper respond to traditions of writing while continually moving beyond fixed systems of meaning and form. These abstractions are not escapes, but acts of transformation, spaces where viewers may pause, breathe, and encounter another form of language, one that invites contemplation.
For me, A Line Forgets Its Name is a way of making visible the unseen, of finding freedom within constraint, and of transforming one of the most historically charged mediums into an offering of harmony and renewal.