Before I started blogging—or even before I decided to make art my profession—I think I was someone who struggled to express myself.
Expressing something has always felt difficult and, at times, even burdensome to me. But I have always loved imagining things and creating them. Even now, that creative energy remains one of the central forces in my life and a great source of joy.
And I am grateful that I am able to make a living doing this.
Of course, in order to continue, I have to keep working, searching, and finding new ways forward. Still, I rarely wonder, “What if I had chosen a different kind of work?” I have already experienced working simply to make a living, doing something unrelated to what I loved. And I know very well that such a life did not make me happy.
So what is really the difference between these two ways of living?
Of course, I am happy because I am doing what I love. But I also believe that if I had chosen another kind of work, I could have made a sufficient living. Perhaps my life would even have been more stable and less exhausting.
Now, however, I have to be the one who thinks, creates, researches, and finds a way forward. That comes with its own kind of exhaustion. If I want to continue doing this work for a long time, I have to build structures and systems around it—and I have to build them myself.
It would certainly be easier to enter a system that someone else has already created and work within a platform that someone else has already built.
So perhaps one could ask:
Am I taking too great a risk simply to do what I love?
Maybe.
But when I chose the path of stability and comfort, there was one thing missing for me: vision.
It wasn't mine.
And I could not change the structure I was working within.
That was always a source of frustration for me.
Of course, when the path I am creating for myself becomes difficult, I sometimes realize just how comfortable my previous life was. But that comfort was not something I had created. I was benefiting from systems and structures that someone else had worked incredibly hard to build.
Perhaps many of us work within such systems without ever fully understanding the effort it took to create them—and complain without realizing even half of what went into making them possible.
Now that I am trying to build my own path, I have learned that creating structures and systems is much harder than it looks.
Still, little by little, step by step, I feel that I am beginning to see a path.
It wasn't created overnight.
So I simply keep doing something every day.
And when those efforts finally produce something meaningful, I feel deeply proud of myself and experience a kind of fulfillment that is difficult to describe.
Someone might say,
“It's only a piece of paper. Why does it matter so much?”
But if we think that way, couldn't everything in this world eventually be reduced to something insignificant?
Someone once said that our lives themselves are extraordinarily precious. We live because of countless sacrifices made by nature and by the living world around us. Perhaps, then, there is nothing in this world that is truly insignificant.
From time to time, I hear from people I have never met who tell me about something they felt when they saw one of my paintings.
And I realize that an image I created has somehow reached another person—that it resonated with them, moved them, or stirred something inside them.
When that happens, I am grateful.
If my paintings are doing something somewhere in the world, I am deeply grateful for that.
Interestingly, the paintings that seem to affect people the most were often created during the most difficult periods of my life.
Times when the future felt completely blocked.
When I felt frustrated, anxious, and unable to see even a single ray of light.
Out of that darkness, out of those periods of creative stagnation, came a piece of paper, an image.
Perhaps if I asked AI to create those images today, it could produce something technically more impressive.
And yet, strangely, those are the paintings people tell me have moved them the most.
Some have responded through music. Others through stories or speeches. They tell me what they felt when they saw the paintings.
And what surprises me most is that when I listen to them, the heart of what they describe is often exactly what I was feeling when I created the work.
That still amazes me.
And experiences like these are one of the reasons I cannot let go of painting.
I didn't talk about what I was going through.
I didn't write about it.
I didn't tell anyone about my loneliness, my difficulties, my sadness, or my anxiety.
I simply wanted to overcome those feelings, so I painted.
And when the painting was finished, I looked at it and found comfort in it myself.
That comfort helped me stand up again.
I was so grateful for that experience that I decided to put the painting out into the world and share it.
I thought that if someone somewhere was struggling with feelings similar to mine, perhaps this painting could offer that person some small comfort.
Because I knew that it had genuinely comforted me.
And somehow, I think that kind of energy travels between people.
Painting is not mathematics.
It is not science.
There is no single correct answer. There is no data. There is no sound.
There is simply an image.
If someone looked at my paintings and said, “It's just a piece of paper,” or, “My elementary-school daughter can draw better than you,” I think I would simply smile.
Because what I am talking about cannot really be explained in words.
If someone does not believe that there is a spiritual dimension to life—if they believe that only what can be seen and measured is real—then perhaps there is little meaning in debating this with them.
I wouldn't even know where to begin.
I don't think of painting as simply something beautiful.
Some of the most beautiful things in this world seem to bloom out of the deepest darkness.
So when I encounter something truly beautiful, I sometimes wonder:
How much did it struggle?
How much did it have to overcome?
How much pain did it endure?
And how did it finally manage to bloom?
When I think this way, the beauty before me becomes even more precious.
And that is why I can wholeheartedly applaud the beauty that another person has struggled to bring into the world.
I am still building my own path.
Nothing meaningful is completed overnight. So today, as always, I simply continue little by little—to create, to paint, to record, and to think.
And if one painting I created can offer even a small amount of comfort to someone, somewhere,
I think that alone is something to be deeply grateful for.

A Small Watercolor Painting: Learning to Enjoy the FlowIn this art class, students had the opportunity to explore watercolor painting on small, postcard-sized watercolor paper.

Watercolor is one of the materials I especially enjoy introducing to children. Depending on the amount of water, colors can spread naturally, blend together, and create unexpected shapes and beautiful effects. Rather than trying to control everything, students can learn to observe and enjoy the movement of water and color.
​
Small Paper, A Comfortable BeginningA large sheet of paper can sometimes feel overwhelming to young artists. They may worry about what to draw or feel that they need to fill the entire page.
For this project, I prepared small pieces of watercolor paper, about the size of a postcard. Working on a smaller surface helps students feel less pressure and allows them to focus more easily on the movement of the brush, water, and color.
I also prepared several small watercolor paintings as examples. Students could choose one for inspiration or simply use the examples as a starting point for their own ideas.
No Sketching, No Pencils!This project came with one special challenge:
No pencil sketching. Students had to begin directly with watercolor.
There was an important reason for this rule.
The goal of this lesson was not to create perfectly accurate shapes. I wanted the children to experience and enjoy the natural spreading and blending of watercolor.
When children draw an outline with pencil first, they often try to keep the paint carefully inside those lines. If the watercolor flows outside the outline, they may think they have made a mistake.
But in watercolor, those unexpected blooms, flows, soft edges, and mixtures of color can become some of the most beautiful parts of the painting.
So for this project, we put the pencils aside and started directly with the brush. If the paint traveled farther than expected, that was okay. If two colors accidentally met and created a new color, that was okay too.
Instead of immediately trying to fix those moments, students could observe what happened and decide what their next brushstroke should be.
The idea was not simply to control watercolor, but to learn how to work together with it.
Mistakes Can Become Part of the PaintingWhen I teach watercolor, I believe that learning how to respond to unexpected results can be just as valuable as creating a beautiful finished painting.
A spreading patch of color might become a cloud. An unexpected mixture might create a beautiful sky or ocean. A shape that did not turn out as planned might lead to an entirely new idea.
Instead of asking,
“How can I fix this?”
students can begin to ask,
“How can I use this?”
That small change in thinking can become an important part of creative problem-solving.
A Small Opportunity to Experience WatercolorOne class cannot teach every watercolor technique, but a small piece of paper can provide a wonderful opportunity for children to experience the medium without feeling overwhelmed.
They can discover what happens when they use more water, how colors move across wet paper, what happens when two colors meet, and how different brushstrokes create different effects.
Most importantly, instead of simply coloring inside pencil lines, they experience what it feels like to create shapes directly with water, color, and a brush.
The finished paintings may be small, but each one has its own personality. Even when students use the same materials, their choices of color, water, brushstrokes, and composition make every painting different.
This simple postcard-sized art mission gave the children a chance to enjoy the beautiful flow of watercolor, experiment without fear of mistakes, and discover their own way of painting.
No sketching. No pencils. Let the watercolor flow—and trust the process.

Art Class Idea: Creating Art with Gold Embossing FoilFor this art class, I wanted to introduce students to a material that feels very different from ordinary drawing paper: gold metal embossing foil.

The lesson begins with students looking at several sample drawings and briefly exploring the idea of positive and negative space. Instead of concentrating only on the object they are drawing, students are encouraged to notice the shapes and spaces surrounding it as well.

Drawing on MetalStudents place a sheet of gold foil on a soft surface and use a metal embossing stylus to draw their design. As they press and move the tool across the foil, their flat drawing gradually becomes a textured, slightly three-dimensional image.

One important lesson is learning to control pressure. Pressing harder does not necessarily create a better drawing. In fact, pressing too hard can make a hole in the foil. Students need to slow down and experiment with lines, dots, patterns, and textures.

For the first piece, students can use one of the provided drawing samples as inspiration. For their second piece, they can create anything they want, giving them more freedom to experiment with the technique.

Turning the Metal Artwork into a PrintThe project then moves into another art-making process: printmaking.

Students choose one color of acrylic paint and apply a thin layer over their embossed metal design. Next, they carefully place a sheet of Xuan paper over the painted foil.

Using a sponge roller, they gently press and roll over the paper so that it makes even contact with the textured surface underneath.

Then comes my favorite moment—the reveal.

Students slowly lift the paper and discover how the lines and textures they created on the metal have been transferred into a completely new image.
Because the amount of paint, pressure, and contact can vary, every print is slightly different. That unpredictability is part of what makes printmaking so interesting.

One Idea, Different FormsThe goal of this Mission Impossible Art Class is not simply to create one beautiful finished piece. I want students to experience how a single idea can travel through several different artistic processes:
Draw → Emboss → Paint → Press → Print

A simple drawing becomes a metal relief, and the metal relief becomes a print on paper.

At the end, students can place the original gold foil artwork next to their printed image and compare them. It is a wonderful way to explore positive and negative space, line, texture, pressure, and printmaking while experimenting with an unusual material.

Most importantly, it gives students another opportunity to discover that art does not always have to begin—or end—with a pencil and a piece of paper.
​
Make Art · Take Risks · Be Amazing!

Free Printable Drawing Templates

I’m also sharing free printable drawing templates that can be used with this project. Simply print the page, cut the designs into small individual cards, and let students choose one they like. They can place the sample next to their foil and use it as a guide while drawing and embossing.
​
These small reference cards are especially helpful for younger students who may need a little inspiration to get started. Feel free to print and use them in your art class!

When an Outdoor Art Show Is Canceled by the WeatherThe outdoor art show I was planning to participate in this weekend has been canceled.

Rain had been in the forecast for several days, but honestly, I wasn’t too worried about the rain itself. I have participated in outdoor art shows before in rainy, windy weather. When you exhibit outdoors, weather is simply one of the things you learn to prepare for. You waterproof your tent, protect your artwork, bring weights to secure everything, and hope for the best.

But this time was different.
After closely monitoring the forecast, the organizers decided to cancel the event. Strong winds and heavy rain were expected, and it seems the conditions had reached a point where safety became a serious concern—not only for the artists, but also for the staff, volunteers, musicians, and visitors.

Of course, I was disappointed.
Preparing for an outdoor art show involves much more than simply bringing paintings. I choose which pieces to show, prepare prices and displays, think about how to arrange the tent, pack tables and equipment, and rearrange my personal schedule around the event.

And then, suddenly, all of that preparation stops because of the weather.
A few years ago, I might have felt much more frustrated by something like this. But after participating in several outdoor art shows, I have slowly learned something:
Showing art outdoors also means accepting the things I cannot control.

I can prepare for rain.
I can dress for cold weather.
I can add more weights when the wind begins to blow.
But at some point, it is no longer about being well prepared. It becomes a matter of safety.

This time, it seems we reached that point.
So although I am disappointed, I understand the decision.
Recently, I have been thinking about this phrase:
I cannot change the wind, but I can adjust my sails.

This weekend, my tent will stay folded. The paintings I prepared will return to their places. But the time I spent preparing was not wasted. When another opportunity comes, I can take them out again.

Perhaps being an artist is a little like this.
We make plans and prepare carefully, but we cannot expect everything to happen exactly as we imagined. Sometimes an unexpected wind arrives, and all we can do is adjust our sails and continue.
​
This time, perhaps not having the show is simply the direction my sails need to turn.

At a previous outdoor art show, we had weather like this, with heavy rain. Fortunately, at that time, I was sharing a booth. The tent was very sturdy and securely anchored to the ground, so it protected us well from the heavy rain and strong winds.

As I remember, the wind became so strong that some artists decided to take down their tents and leave early. Thankfully, however, all of the outdoor art shows I participated in after that had good weather.

This year, my booth was going to be located out on the street. It would probably have been more exposed to the wind and rain, and I might have had to take it down early anyway.

Setting up and managing a booth in rainy and windy conditions can be difficult in many ways. In particular, watercolor paintings cannot get wet, so protecting and storing the artwork can sometimes become stressful.

I have decided to use this unexpected time to prepare for an important exhibition that is coming up.
​
That is the direction my sails have taken this time.

Three weeks ago, we started renovating our kitchen.
Our old kitchen had reached the point where it needed to be replaced, so we chose a contractor, met with a consultant who designed the new kitchen around our needs, and selected the cabinets we wanted.

At that point, I had no idea how long it would actually take before I could use my new kitchen.
​
Of course, I had heard stories from other people. Friends had told me that they had lived without a functioning kitchen for more than two weeks during renovations.
Now that I think about it, that sounds very familiar.
We are entering our third week.

Fortunately, we have a small outdoor sink in our backyard. After every meal, I carry the dishes outside and wash them there. Thankfully, our gas stove is connected, so I can still cook.
When it rains, I wash the dishes in the rain.
At this point, all I can do is hope for good weather.
​
And strangely enough, I consider myself lucky. Without that little outdoor sink, I would probably be washing dishes in the bathroom. I have heard plenty of stories from people who had to do exactly that—for weeks.

Why Does Everything Take So Long?

Kitchen renovation in America has taught me that almost every part of the process belongs to someone different.

First, you order the cabinets.
They take time to manufacture.
Before they arrive, the old kitchen has to be demolished and the space prepared.
The cabinets may actually arrive on time.
But then you discover another problem: the installers.
Their schedules are already full.
“We can come in two weeks.”
So you wait.
Finally, two weeks later, the cabinets are installed.
Wonderful. Now we can use the kitchen, right?
No.
The countertop is an entirely different story.
The countertop comes from another company.
Only after the cabinets are installed can you contact the countertop company. Then you wait for someone from that company to come to your house.
Eventually, a very nice person arrives, carefully measures everything, and says something like:
“We'll let you know when it's ready.”
How long?
Another two weeks.
So does that mean everything will finally be finished after those two weeks?
Not exactly.
I am currently at this stage, and I have learned that plumbing belongs to yet another world.

Once the countertop and sink are installed, a plumber still has to come and connect everything before the kitchen is truly functional.
And I haven't even mentioned the backsplash.
At this point, a backsplash feels like a luxury.
I would simply like to cook a meal and wash the dishes inside my house.

Now I Understand My Neighbors

Over the years, I have occasionally walked past houses undergoing major renovations and noticed small temporary containers or trailers outside.
Sometimes the homeowners seemed to live in them for months.
I never completely understood why.
Now I do.
I remember seeing those neighbors come out of their temporary little homes in the morning. They would smile brightly and say hello to us as we walked by.
Looking back, I have a new respect for them.
How were they smiling?
How were they still cheerfully saying, “Good morning”?
I understand now that living in America often requires an enormous amount of patience.
And kitchen renovation is only one very small example.

Maybe I'm Camping

I have decided that the easiest way to survive situations like this is to empty my mind as much as possible and think positively.
Otherwise, every delay becomes frustrating.
Every unexpected problem becomes another reason to be angry.
So when I carry my dishes outside, I try to notice something else.
Sometimes the breeze feels wonderful.
Sometimes I hear birds singing while I wash the dishes.
Nature has a strange way of giving me back a little patience.
I have decided to think of this month as a camping trip.
Apparently, I have been camping in my own house for almost a month.
And living this way has taught me something else.
We need surprisingly little.
Three plates.
Three bowls.
A few utensils.
That's enough.
When most of the kitchen disappears, you suddenly realize how few things you actually need in order to live.

And Then Comes the Outdoor Art Show

​This Saturday, I am also beginning an outdoor art show.
A few days ago, I received an email from the organizers warning the artists about the weather.
Rain.
Strong wind.
Please prepare your tents carefully.
Of course.
After weeks of washing dishes outside, why wouldn't I also have an outdoor art show in the wind and rain?
But perhaps these experiences are connected.

If every unexpected variable makes me angry, and if I cannot learn how to adjust my mind when things do not go according to plan, it would be very difficult to survive as an artist.

There will always be something.
Weather changes.
Plans change.
People are late.
Materials do not arrive.
Something breaks.
Something takes two weeks longer than expected.
The world does not move according to my schedule.
So perhaps the better image is a sailboat.
I cannot control the wind.
But I can adjust the sail.

Sometimes the wind may even help the boat move faster.
That is how I want to prepare for this weekend's art show.
Not by expecting everything to go perfectly, but by being ready to change direction when necessary.

The Art of Waiting

Living in America has taught me many things, but patience may be one of the biggest lessons.
Everything seems to require waiting.
Appointments.
Repairs.
Construction.
Deliveries.
Contractors.
Another contractor who needs to finish what the previous contractor started.
You can spend your life being frustrated by it.
Or, little by little, you can learn to live inside the waiting.
Maybe that is what I am practicing now.
I wash three plates in my backyard.
The wind blows.
The birds sing.
My unfinished kitchen waits quietly inside the house.
And I remind myself:
​
I cannot control the wind, but I can adjust my sail.