In a bookstore in Paris, I found an old book-apparently an erotic novel about the French aristocracy, harboring desire and secrets.

I was not particularly interested in its content, nor could I fully understand it.

What drew me instead were the typography, the layout, the slightly yellowed pages,

and the subtle matte texture of the paper-a tactile resistance felt beneath the fingertips.

I draw directly on the pages, without a predetermined theme or style.

Sometimes it is simply because I am drawn to a certain color that I continue to use it repeatedly, rubbing it aimlessly across the surface.

Holding the book and turning its pages is a pleasure— you never know what will appear next.

When the book is dismantled and laid out on the floor, another way of seeing emerges, where reality and illusion intertwine.

With time and distance, returning to the pages,

the state of mind and condition in which I drew become clear again.

The images are fixed,

yet certain emotions seem to continue flowing.