When Art Blooms Like a Flower in the Desert: Our Treehouse in the Emma Clark Library.

When Art Blooms Like a Flower in the Desert: Our Treehouse in the Emma Clark Library.

Today, I hung the artwork “Our Treehouse”, the first project from the Moms’ Playground Book Club, for our November exhibition at the Emma Clark Library. The new curator, Ms. Rebecca, kindly guided me through the installation process to make sure everything went smoothly. “You’ve done this before, right?” she asked with a warm smile.

Indeed, this is my third display at the Emma Clark Library. The first time, I exhibited my paintings soon after moving to Stony Brook, as a way to introduce my work to the local community. At that time, the library didn’t yet have a café or the stylish spaces it has now. I hung my paintings among the bookshelves, which felt humble but meaningful—I’ve always loved libraries, so it was a wonderful experience.

Later, my son and his friend also had the chance to exhibit their work in the Teens Display Corner. I’ve always felt that people who frequent libraries are thoughtful, imaginative, and value education—so it brings me great joy to share my art with such an audience.
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My second exhibition at the library was to introduce the illustrations from my first independently published book on Amazon, Hello, My Robin.

​Before the paintings are hung, the space feels like a barren desert; afterward, it blossoms with life. In this reflective essay, the artist shares how art reveals invisible energy, heals wounds from betrayal and loss, and restores the warmth needed to live gently in a harsh world.

I received a good response from the curator for this first exhibition.

And the second project, Our Tree House, was finally unveiled to the world. The curator showed me a poster she had created. It was placed at the entrance to the café.

I placed the book—already published on Amazon—at the center of the display. My hope is that anyone visiting the library, perhaps stopping by the café for a cup of coffee, might pause for a moment to open the book, turn its pages, and compare the printed illustrations with the original paintings on the wall.

There is something deeply satisfying about seeing a story travel from a sketchbook to a finished book, and finally to a public space where people can experience it freely. I imagine a quiet afternoon scene: someone sipping coffee, glancing up at the artwork, then leaning closer to read a few lines from the book. Maybe they notice a subtle difference in color between print and paint—the texture of watercolor that can’t quite be replicated in ink—or maybe they simply feel the warmth of a handmade story.
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That kind of small, intimate encounter is what I dream of. I want viewers to feel that art and storytelling are not distant or exclusive things, but part of everyday life—something you can discover between shelves of books, over coffee, or in a moment of quiet curiosity. To me, that is the real beauty of exhibiting at a library like Emma Clark: it allows art to breathe in the same space where ideas, imagination, and community naturally meet.

The moment I finish hanging all the paintings and step back to take a photograph is, for me, the happiest moment of all. After weeks or even months of planning, sketching, and painting, seeing everything finally come together on the wall feels like watching my thoughts and emotions take on a visible, breathing form. The paintings seem to speak to one another softly, as if they have finally found their place.

Each time I hang an exhibition, I remember the journey behind every piece—the excitement of the first sketch, the quiet patience of waiting for watercolor to dry, the trembling satisfaction of the final brushstroke. All those moments, filled with care and uncertainty, now live together in one shared space of light and silence.
When I pick up my camera and begin to photograph, I’m not just documenting the artwork—I’m capturing a part of my own life. The way the light falls, the texture of the wall, the air of the room, even the feeling of that particular day—they all become part of the image. In those photos, my paintings seem to whisper, “You did well.”
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An exhibition, to me, is more than just showing art. It’s a way of offering the story of my effort and devotion to the world. And when I finally press the shutter for the last photo, I feel a deep sense of peace. The paintings are no longer just mine—they now belong to everyone who will stand before them. That’s why, at the end of every setup, I quietly say to myself, “It’s okay now. Go and meet the world.”

Before the paintings are hung, the space feels like a barren desert; afterward, it’s as if flowers have bloomed there. Art brings life where there was emptiness. Every painting carries energy—something invisible yet undeniably present. And to me, the role of art is precisely this: to make the invisible visible. I believe deeply in the power of art.

There are times when life feels unbearably hard. A few years ago, and even more recently, I experienced betrayal from people I trusted. I also faced the pain of my mother’s illness and the quiet weight that came with it. No matter how kindly or sincerely I approached some people, there were those who only sought to use that kindness for their own gain. And when conflict arose, instead of trying to understand, some reacted with fear or cruelty, as if being exposed for who they truly were.

Living with warmth and gentleness in such a world often feels like an impossible task. I sometimes ask myself, Will I become like them?—someone who measures everything with a mental calculator, who judges, competes, and steps on others just to move ahead? But deep down, I know I cannot. No matter how wounded I become, that’s not who I am.
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Art has always taken the wounded child within me by the hand and led her to a safe place. It heals me in ways that words cannot. And through that healing, it fills me again with warmth, urging me to paint once more. The paintings born from that process—those painted after the storms—carry a different kind of light. They are not just images, but traces of survival, hope, and quiet strength.