Space

My four-legged creature and I are blessed to live in Santa Monica, just a short walk from the Pacific Ocean.

This patch of Palisades Park has become our front yard. It's only a block from the apartment, but getting there is rarely as simple as it sounds because Pudge has a mind of his own.

He doesn’t love walking.

He loves attention. People, dogs, anyone willing to give him attention. He’ll lay down or roll around at a busy section of sidewalk to lure in those passing by.

I hate it.

I want to move quickly to potty point A to potty point B, get our business done, and go back to the apartment. I do not want to make small talk or figure out how to talk to dog people. I’ve learned quickly I’m not dog people. I’m an introvert with the world’s most social dog. Fml.

We left the apt building at 5:45am and I expected a quiet and quick potty which is how mornings typically go. No distractions, just pee, poo and go home. We often don’t even turn the corner at the end of the block. It's magical.

But this morning outside the front door was one of my neighbors who loves Pudge but is a cigarette smoker. I find the smell as unpleasant as small talk can be. I try to remember what times she’s out there, and modify when I take Pudge out in an effort to avoid her.

When she sees him she pets him in a way that makes me uncomfortable. She really gets in there, massaging his neck and body for what seems like an eternity. Pudge won’t leave if I call him to go, and I can’t just drag him away from her, so I have to wait until she's done.

When we get home, I always wipe Pudge down. Face, feets, butts, and all of his sausage-like body. But it’s never good enough. After a session with that lady, he's got the afterglow of a cigarette sauna, and the smell lingers for days.

I don’t have the heart to tell her not to pet him cause they both enjoy it so much, but it’s near the top of my list of disliked things.

Today we successfully dodged her, and I feel bad because after we made eye contact and before he could approach her I dragged him away telling him audibly that we have to go potty.

But after we got past her, we encountered two homeless people sleeping on separate sidewalks, and another two separately screaming at the top of their lungs in every profane way.

Santa Monica somehow feels like paradise and the zombie apocalypse at the same time.

Venturing out into the world is a lot like making art. I need to do it, and I enjoy it, but it's challenging because of how deeply I process the world around me. The world exhausts me, but I also need it. I want to be in the world. I wish it didn’t pain me. 

My work is fundamentally about connection yet I’m one of the few humans who doesn’t get invited to birthdays, or weddings, or a coffee. It’s not that I don’t have friends, it’s just I don’t really want to do those things. And so over these years I’ve learned how to stay just far enough out of people’s lives that they don’t seek to include me in them. 

And I like it that way. 

But I’m also lonely because of it.

When I run into people I know, I genuinely enjoy the interaction. I just need to recharge afterward.

Dodging the smoker, the screaming, and the people sleeping on the sidewalk is draining. Spending time with people I love is also draining.

Those two sentences probably shouldn't belong together, but they both happen to be true.

Making a painting feels a lot like building a relationship. It's difficult for me to engage but holds the potential for emotional reward. When it’s over, I need space to recover.

I admire people who've built deep, lasting relationships. I admire extroverts. I admire people who simply don't give a fuck what anyone thinks about them.

I wish those parts of being human belonged more naturally to me.

I think making art would be a lot easier if they did.

Maybe there is something special about longing.

Longing for connection.

Longing for touch.

Longing for understanding.

Longing to have your heart held by another. 

Deep, lasting relationships have eluded me. Maybe that's why so many of my paintings flirt with space. Each piece reaches for the other. 

They connect. 

But they'll never touch. 

Never bind. 

Never be seamlessly one.

A Work of Art

I’ve been staring at this painting on the wall in front of me for months now, and today I realized something new about myself.

I am this painting. 

In an abstract way, my paintings have always been self portraits. It's why I don't sign originals (and gallerists hate me for it), because signing one would feel like tattooing my signature on myself. 

It would be absurd.

This work is about relationships. Not between colors or shapes, but between moments. Each piece is unique and independent, yet when gathered together and viewed it represents a whole that is complex yet cohesive.It was painted with the knife from my former life as a sushi chef, creating work that speaks to my past, present, and future. It’s the most complete version of me I’ve been able to express to date.

This distillation of complexity is what I obsess over. 

How can we be one thing, and many things at the same time? I've always loved the idea that a whole can be composed of individual parts without those parts losing their identity. Looking back, I think I've been exploring that idea long before I knew how to articulate it.

This is why I'm returning to The House of Han. Not as a business or a lifestyle brand, but as a container for a body of work that doesn't fit neatly inside an object, experience, or discipline.

Paintings are a way to experience my work, but they're only one component of what I've been making all along. For years I tried to shape my life around painting because it was tangible. It was something people could understand and how I made a living. But the more I focused on one medium, the more I realized my work was yearning to spill beyond its edges.

This will be a special place that I'll return to each week to unfold what may be the closest representation of my artwork. Some ideas can't be contained by an object. They need space and time to breathe.

Here I'll explore the ideas, observations, and philosophies that seem to connect everything I make. Some weeks it may take the shape of stories from my past life in hospitality as a sushi chef. Others will involve my hands in the mud learning to throw pottery, or getting upside down through yoga. Some may begin exactly like this week—with a painting on the wall.

But all of it. 

All. Of. It.

Is my art.

This wonderfully complex thing that's made of different parts won't be for sale. For whom it may resonate, I’ll offer it as a gift.

This practice will be more relational, and success will be measured by connecting people with objects, experiences, essays, and conversations that help them experience the joy of life. This artwork only becomes complete when it's lived with, shared, and held.

Going forward means returning to where my heart used to be.

As a child, generosity came naturally. I gave when no one was watching. I never gave because I expected anything in return, I gave because I simply had an abundance of love to give.

In the effort to become a full-time artist and be a grown ass man, I measured my work against its ability to make money. It was the responsible thing to do. In that process I lost sight of what the work actually was.

I want to become that version of myself again. To trust that generosity isn't separate from the work.

It is the work.