I owe my talent and passion as a painter to those miserable long childhood days in the infusion center. There I (almost was forced to) learnt a specific, obsessive way of observing: I closely, obsessively examined each spot of stain on the ceiling, ring of light reflected on the glass… Nothing could escape being collapsed into fragments of lines, shapes, colors, and patterns after being exposed to such intensive gazing. Having spent all my childhood and a significant proportion of adolescence in the hospital like that, it became my default– I can see things as their recognizable whole, but only the specific fragments of details interest me. After years I have cumulated a sea of visual fragments in my mental storage space which are too trivial to comprehend individually. Until, later I discovered in painting the ultimate comprehension and comforter: On the one hand, the process of making a painting grants the body the joy of messing up with something constructive and intricate – the simple happiness missed in childhood due to illness. On the other hand, each painting, as a tactile object, incarnates a sample of the sea of visual fragments, thus each makes a tiny part of the chaotic whole comprehensible – the same mechanism as people performing self-harm to transfer mental suffering into visible, tactile physical wounds which are more approachable.