This recently completed watercolor captures a spring day on the Stony Brook campus. It began with a simple but strong desire I’ve held this year—to paint works that feel brighter, more luminous, and full of gentle radiance.

When winter fades and spring arrives, nature unfolds its colors with quiet confidence. What moved me most was the way the trees seemed to hold light within them. The central tree in this painting is not just a tree—it feels like a living presence embracing the season. Its blossoms burst into soft pinks, scattering into the air like light itself, blending with the sky.

In this piece, I focused less on precise details and more on atmosphere and emotion. Rather than capturing an exact scene, I wanted to express how spring feels—the way light spreads, how colors dissolve and flow into one another. Watercolor, with its natural softness and fluidity, allowed me to follow that intention.

Beneath the tree, a small figure sits quietly on a bench. Perhaps it is a reflection of ourselves—pausing, even briefly, to take in a moment of beauty. In the midst of busy days, these quiet pauses become something lasting.

This year, I hope to continue painting scenes like this—brighter, warmer, and filled with light. Paintings that allow us to set aside the weight of reality for a moment and simply rest within color and light.
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I hope this piece brings a small sense of spring to you as well.

The most radiant moment in painting emerges from a powerful contrast with darkness. Simply placing bright colors on a canvas does not make them truly shine; they remain merely bright, nothing more. To truly captivate the viewer’s heart, a painting must glow like sunlight, sometimes like a jewel—no, even more brilliantly than that. This is an incredibly difficult pursuit.

Conveying this sense of brilliance and temperature—this inner warmth or coolness—always feels like an ongoing challenge. At some point, I stopped painting directly from photographs. Instead, I began to explore the images that arise in my mind, along with the emotional temperature they carry. Those paintings, without exception, found their way to others—they were sold. It felt as though there were people, somewhere, who understood this same temperature that I feel.

That is why the act of painting remains mysterious, careful, and deeply truthful. Each day, as I stand before the canvas, I feel like someone praying quietly in front of a chapel. I study the light, and I listen for its temperature. This process brings me a profound sense of fulfillment and joy.
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And this work does not stop.
I may walk slowly, but I will keep moving forward.

This year, I continue a project I began last year: creating postcard-sized watercolor paintings. For me, this work is more than simply making small pictures; it is about capturing the beauty of the world within the intimate frame of a tiny surface.
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I paint these works spontaneously, often in a very short amount of time. I enjoy this immediacy—how the brush moves quickly across the paper, leaving marks that feel honest and alive. In those fleeting moments, the light, the air, and even my own emotions are recorded in watercolor. Unlike larger works that require long planning and refinement, these small paintings hold a freshness that only spontaneity can offer.

When we try too hard to perfect every detail in a painting, we often lose the very joy that led us to paint in the first place. Overthinking, controlling every brushstroke, and obsessing over precision can drain the creative energy that makes art come alive. Once joy is lost, the painting becomes heavy, and the freshness that watercolor naturally carries begins to fade.

Painting never lies. It reveals the artist’s heart directly. A forced or overly calculated painting feels stiff and cold, while a work created in joy radiates warmth and truth. This is why, as artists, we must treasure our inner state as much as our technical skills. A happy and relaxed heart produces art that breathes, art that speaks honestly to others.

When I paint with happiness, I feel that the viewers also sense that same lightness and delight. The brushstrokes carry energy that cannot be faked, a kind of silent communication between artist and audience. Art, after all, is not only about the image we see but about the feeling it conveys.

For this reason, in the second half of this year, I have chosen to simplify my painting style even further. By letting go of excessive detail, I create space for freedom and spontaneity. My goal is not to impress with technical perfection but to preserve the pure joy of painting. Each stroke becomes a reminder that art is meant to be experienced, not controlled.
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In this journey, I am learning that simplicity does not mean emptiness—it means clarity. It means making room for joy, for honesty, and for beauty to shine without resistance. And as long as I paint with this spirit, I believe my work will continue to grow—not only in skill, but in the ability to connect heart to heart.

Every summer, I return to one of my favorite creative rituals--daily postcard watercolor painting. Each day, I take a small piece of paper and quickly paint something I’ve been wanting to capture. Sometimes it’s a quiet memory, other times it’s just a flash of color or light that lingers in my mind. No matter what, I follow my instinct—and my brush—wherever it leads.
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There’s something freeing about working small. There’s no pressure, just movement. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s presence. And through this process, I find myself dreaming a little bigger: What if I could paint the whole world this way? One moment, one glimpse, one postcard at a time.

Last year, this simple practice led to a beautiful surprise. My work was featured in an article by Rent.com, where I was included among creatives exploring hobbies at home. (You can see the full article here.)

The recognition was wonderful—but more than that, it reminded me that sometimes the smallest acts of daily creation lead to the most meaningful connections.
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As I begin again this summer, I feel renewed. And grateful.
For the paint, the paper, the quiet minutes—and the hope that in these small cards, the world might quietly unfold.

I love the small routines of my everyday life. What may seem trivial to others is more precious than gold to me. That’s why I’m very cautious about wasting time. I treasure the moments when I can concentrate and create something with my own hands. There is nothing more fulfilling than quietly making something, step by step, with intention and care.

Each day, I return to my small watercolor postcard practice. It excites me every summer—just the thought of doing this fills me with energy. I quickly paint whatever has been lingering in my mind: scenes I've wanted to capture, colors I’ve longed to play with, memories I wish to preserve. With each card, I feel like I’m slowly painting the entire world. That, perhaps, is my secret hope—to one day hold a collection that reflects all I’ve seen, felt, and imagined.

This simple act brings me deep joy. It helps me step away from the noise of the world and return to myself. It is in these quiet, uninterrupted moments that I feel most alive. At first, I only created. I didn’t document anything. I simply made one painting and moved on to the next. But eventually, I began writing down little notes—short reflections, fragments of a story, the emotion behind the image—and something changed. The joy doubled. The act of creating became more meaningful when I began recording and weaving my paintings into a narrative.

I believe that when someone purchases one of my paintings, they are not just buying an image—they are buying a story, a feeling, a piece of time. These stories make the artwork more alive, more personal. That’s why I continue to paint, write, and share.

All of this happens quietly, in a small space. At first, I thought no one would ever see it except me, my family, and a few friends who received my cards on special occasions. But as time went on, I realized that even if this creative journey is mostly invisible to the world, it holds immense value. Just the thought that someone out there might resonate with what I’m doing is enough to keep me going.
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This is my way of living with purpose—cherishing my time, honoring small moments, and building something meaningful from them. And so, I will keep painting, one card at a time, creating tiny worlds filled with stories and light.