New York is now working hard to clear the snow left behind by a powerful snowstorm. This time, the snowfall was especially heavy. When I tried to open the front door, it barely moved. That was the moment I realized just how much snow had piled up overnight. The mailbox had completely disappeared under the white blanket, and even the snowblower seemed to struggle against the weight of it.

With a shovel in hand, I began clearing the snow off the car. It was surprisingly difficult to tell which part was the vehicle and which part was simply snow. The shapes had dissolved into one continuous mound of white. After persistent effort, the outline of the driveway slowly emerged, followed by the familiar shape of the car. Only then did I let out a quiet sigh of relief. Back inside, I warmed myself with a cup of hot tea, grateful for the simple comfort.

Every winter, we repeat this ritual—lifting shovels, pushing snow machines, and enduring brief periods of isolation. We prepare by stocking up on food and spending time by the fireplace, yet the feeling of not being able to leave the house brings an unexpected sense of confinement. Roads fall silent except for snowplows. Neighborhoods become temporarily still, almost suspended in time.

And yet, even in these conditions, people find ways to share a little humor. I recently came across a playful sign that read: “FREE Snow Shoveling Class — at my driveway. Real-world training provided. Bring your own shovel.” It captures something essential about winter here. The labor is heavy, the inconvenience real, but a bit of wit lightens the burden.

Snowstorms may isolate us physically, but they also remind us of community. Neighbors help one another dig out. Short greetings are exchanged over piles of snow. Jokes circulate online. Together, we move through the season.
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Winter returns each year, and each year it leaves behind a slightly different story. Today, as I look at the driveway and car finally uncovered from the snow, I am reminded that this season, too, will pass—making way for another landscape, another rhythm of life.

I am delighted to share that my watercolor painting “A Brilliant Afternoon” has been selected for the Conversations with Nature exhibition at Mills Pond Gallery.
This exhibition, subtitled Art Exploring the Landscape, runs from March 28 through April 24, 2026. It brings together artists whose work reflects on the beauty, complexity, and quiet power of the natural world. Both traditional and contemporary approaches to landscape are represented, making it a thoughtful and diverse presentation of nature-inspired art.

“A Brilliant Afternoon” captures a luminous moment within a birch forest. Vertical tree trunks create a rhythmic structure across the composition, while soft washes of layered watercolor suggest filtered light and shifting air. In the distance, a deer stands quietly, partially veiled by the trees. Rather than placing it at the center, I allowed it to emerge gently from the landscape, as if discovered through stillness.

While working on this piece, I was less interested in depicting a literal forest and more focused on conveying the experience of being present in it. Watercolor, with its transparency and fluid movement, allows light to breathe through the paper. The layered pigments mirror the way light moves through trees—never static, always changing. The deer becomes a quiet witness, a reminder of the delicate balance and subtle life that exists within the natural world.

The title A Brilliant Afternoon refers not only to light, but to clarity—a moment when nature feels both expansive and intimate. The exhibition’s theme, Conversations with Nature, resonates deeply with my practice. I believe that landscape painting can be a form of listening. When we slow down and truly observe, the landscape speaks—not loudly, but persistently.

I am grateful to be included in this exhibition at Mills Pond Gallery and look forward to seeing the work installed within the gallery space. If you are able to visit during the exhibition period, I hope you will take a moment to stand before the piece and experience its subtle layers of color, texture, and quiet atmosphere in person.
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Thank you, as always, for your continued support.

School Nova Art 1A, 1B, 1C

– My E-Cards Project

​This semester in School Nova Art, our students worked on a special interdisciplinary project called “My E-Cards Project.”

This was not just a drawing activity. It was an exploration of how art and science can meet on a single sheet of paper.
Students designed their own illustrated cards and embedded real LED lights inside them using simple paper circuits. What began as pencil lines on paper eventually became pathways for electricity — and finally, light.

Drawing the Invisible

We began with a simple question:

Where does electricity travel?

Can we draw an invisible path?

Students learned the basic structure of a closed circuit — positive and negative sides, continuous pathways, and the importance of connection. Using copper tape, coin batteries, and LEDs, they constructed working circuits directly on paper.
At first, the lines looked ordinary.

Then suddenly — the light turned on.
That moment of discovery filled the classroom with excitement. A quiet sketch had transformed into something alive.

When Art Meets Engineering

The project unfolded in three stages:

1. Understanding the CircuitStudents explored how electricity flows and why a path must remain unbroken. If the circuit were incomplete, the light would not turn on. Through trial and error, they began to understand cause and effect.

2. Designing the Artwork
Each student created a personal design that incorporated light intentionally.
Some made glowing moons in night skies.

Others created illuminated windows, stars, or abstract compositions.
The LED was not decoration. It became a central element of the artwork.

3. Building and Problem-SolvingStudents carefully applied copper tape, placed LEDs in the correct direction, and engineered foldable card structures without breaking the circuit.

Not every attempt worked immediately.
When the light failed to turn on, students adjusted connections, reversed components, and tried again.
This process of testing and refining was an essential part of the learning experience.

Why This Project Matters

In art education, I want students to move beyond surface decoration. I want them to experience the power of making something that truly works.
When a student presses the card, and the light turns on, they see a direct result of their thinking, planning, and persistence.
It is not simply a craft.
It is a moment of realization:
“I made this function.”
That experience builds confidence.

Creativity Through Structure

This project also reinforces an important idea:
Creativity does not mean randomness.
It requires structure, logic, and thoughtful design. Students had to plan their circuit layout before committing to their final drawing. They learned that artistic freedom and technical precision can coexist.
Art, in this sense, becomes both expressive and analytical.

A Small Light, A Lasting Impact

​One student said, “I can’t wait to show this to my family.”
That simple statement captures the purpose of the project.
Through “My E-Cards Project,” students did more than create a card.
They built a connection between imagination and reality.
A small light turned on --
and with it, a deeper understanding of how ideas can become tangible.

Nature does not speak in words, yet it is never silent.
In my watercolor landscapes, I attempt to listen.
The forest of pale birch trunks, the quiet deer standing within filtered light, the rolling hills dissolving into mist, and the ordinary afternoon illuminated by slanting sun — these are not dramatic scenes. They are moments of pause. I am drawn to landscapes where stillness carries presence.
Working primarily in watercolor, I allow water, pigment, and transparency to collaborate with me. The fluidity of the medium reflects the way light shifts across land and living beings. Rather than sharply defining every form, I let edges soften and dissolve, suggesting that nature is not an object separate from us but an atmosphere we inhabit.
In the birch forest piece, vertical rhythms echo breath and silence, while the deer appear almost as quiet witnesses. In the pastoral hills, mist blurs boundaries between sky and earth, emphasizing continuity rather than separation. In “Sunlight on an Ordinary Afternoon,” filtered light transforms common birds and leaves into something contemplative and sacred.
My intention is not to dramatize the landscape, but to create space for reflection — an invitation for viewers to slow down and rediscover their own dialogue with the natural world.
Through these works, I explore how light, air, and quiet presence can become forms of conversation.

Sunlight on an Ordinary Afternoon

​Filtered sunlight streams diagonally across a dense canopy of leaves, transforming an ordinary scene into a luminous moment. The composition balances structure and spontaneity: strong wooden posts and branches anchor the painting, while translucent leaves and splattered highlights suggest movement and air.
Three pigeons perch quietly on the wooden fence, their forms rendered with careful detail yet softened by surrounding washes of green and gold. They are familiar, everyday birds — but under shifting light, they appear contemplative and dignified.
The diagonal rays of light act as both compositional and emotional focus. Through watercolor’s natural fluidity, the painting captures how light can elevate a common afternoon into something reflective and intimate. The work emphasizes observation — the beauty found not in spectacle, but in attention.

On the Hills

Rolling hills stretch across the composition, softened by atmospheric perspective and delicate transitions of green, blue, and ochre. The landscape unfolds gradually, leading the eye from foreground textures toward distant mist-covered mountains.
Fences trace subtle lines through the fields, guiding the viewer across space and suggesting quiet human presence without intrusion. Small grazing cattle dot the middle ground, integrated naturally into the terrain. They function less as focal points and more as part of the landscape’s rhythm.
Watercolor transparency allows light to permeate the hills, creating a sense of openness and breath. The layering of washes builds depth while maintaining softness. The painting reflects a contemplative rural calm — not dramatic, but expansive and serene.

A Brilliant Afternoon

​A vertical forest of pale birch trees fills the composition, their slender trunks rising like quiet columns of light. The soft washes of watercolor create layers of atmosphere, where mist and filtered sunlight dissolve the boundaries between foreground and distance. Subtle blues, muted greens, and warm earth tones intermingle, evoking both cool shade and late afternoon warmth.
Nestled within the forest, a small group of deer stands almost silently, partially veiled by light and shadow. They do not dominate the scene; instead, they belong to it. Their quiet presence enhances the stillness of the moment, suggesting a fragile harmony between wildlife and landscape.
The vertical rhythm of the trees creates a meditative cadence, inviting the viewer to slow down and enter the space gently. The work captures not movement, but suspended time — an afternoon where light becomes the true subject of the painting.
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Walking a Little More SlowlyThese days, I am walking a little more slowly.
The snail has always been my motif, and sometimes I wonder what it means to move even slower than that.
When someone leaves this world, many thoughts follow.
There is a natural period of mourning.
While we are alive, we create many scenes together.
We love, misunderstand, resent, forgive, help, and hurt one another.
But when the physical presence is gone, those scenes no longer continue.
What remains is a story.
It is difficult to say whether that story is tragic or beautiful.
Human life is rarely entirely one or the other.
It feels more like a record, or a documentary of events that unfolded as they did.
Certain things happened.
Within them, we felt sorrow and misunderstanding.
And despite everything, there was also love.
Someone leaves.
Someone remains.
Those who remain continue their days.
That seems to be the structure of life.
During this time, I have been thinking about what my blog means to me.
My mother did not particularly value my writing.
She believed that artistic work lacked practical meaning.
To her, creating and sharing stories seemed close to daydreaming.
Until I became independent, I could not freely pursue writing or painting.
Supporting my family came first.
I have never fully shared this part of my life with my family back home.
It was simply how that period unfolded.
In time, I became independent and, somewhat later than expected, began pursuing my own path again.
I opened a blog and started recording my daily thoughts about art.
There was a period when I focused almost entirely on painting.
I did not follow a specific philosophy.
I simply repeated the work and stayed with it.
Over time, that practice gave me direction.
It helped me form a steadier sense of where I am going.
These days I am moving more slowly.
But I have not stopped.
This slower pace is also part of the path.