Trapped in body space, I dream of a changed world and a different me every minute. It is also a reason for creativity because it cannot be realized in reality or is unlikely to be feasible. Also, creation becomes a battle with reality because it is impossible.

I grew up in a city full of squalid darkness, depression and freak. Thousands of nameless workers leaving the city lined with tall shiny buildings against a huge lump of iron floating on the black sea, and an old house at the end of a narrow, long alley where they turn. They go back to the shabby home of end of cramped and long alley. My images have been a record of people struggling to escape reality ever since I noticed the unwashed smell of oil from my father and mother returning home. My utopia, dreaming of infinite possibility, was blood colored and filled with people and me wandering around in vain and hopelessness.

Human is confined in the space of the body and in the world that defines them. Depending on social standards and economic reality, individual physical, gender, and mental situations, various constraints even works and ideas created by the artist myself, catch up with the soul. The human life I observed was marred by the physical suffering of reality. The images I produce and its artistic value lie in an attempt to be free from this anguish.