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I have always envied those homes with bright, open entrances. Yet my own living space, my studio doorway, even the stairwell—none of them run straight through. Potted plants, a folding screen, a chair placed deliberately at the foot of the stairs—they shape the path into an L-turn. Even if a door is wide to begin with, I instinctively adjust it into something narrower. I often wonder why.

Perhaps my creative work has always been drawn toward what cannot be stated outright—those intimate zones of being. Like the entrance to my home, gently shielded by plants and objects—it is not rejection, but a deeper form of invitation. They are not literal divisions of physical space, but three dimensions of an inner world—truths that can only be approached through detour and subtle concealment.

The small events of each day carry their own weight. The hollow feeling after finishing a book, the pressure of bills waiting to be paid, the relentless construction noise outside—all of these find a place here. They don’t appear directly in the work, but become its background tone, like ambient sound. The seemingly casual conversations are in the gaps between words that truer emotions quietly surface. These works are not illustrations of texts, but continuations of thought beyond the page—a quiet grafting of word and image within consciousness.

Amid the clutter, there must also be moments of pause. The shifting shadow in the window as I gaze out, the arc of a cat’s tail as I play with it, the cooling of a pot of pu-erh tea—these seemingly useless stretches of time become the most vital preparation for creation. Here, the work grows slowly, naturally, like a plant seeking light—not rushing to express anything, simply waiting for its own form to clarify.

When the accumulation is sufficient, the work emerges on its own. I’ve grown accustomed to stepping back, letting the piece decide its final shape. It’s like wandering in a forest without insisting on a particular path—and in doing so, seeing more clearly the veins of each leaf, hearing more distinctly the texture of each sound.

The three entrances, in truth, exist simultaneously—reading may be tinged with anxiety, playing with the cat might overlap with conceiving a new piece. They are not separate rooms, but varying densities of the same stretch of time. What I hope to accomplish is a dialogue that transcends language and touches perception directly—a conversation with my own past, present, and all that remains possible.

Text by Ao Jing