This series, a touch of, started from 2012 and ended in 2017. During these years, due to the lacking of practice in relationships or in art, it’s getting harder and harder for me to decide if I’ve achieved the closure of a course of efforts.

It’s about my obsession towards the passing of time, somehow time passing has become the only idea left for romantic life. It’s about the desire of being, aging and dying. As a presentation of my obsession, this series turned into a brand new book with snow white pages and ivory cover. Then it awaits. After a few years or so, it could be lost or it could become something to look at. When the book is wearing all the flaws or stains caused by time, it’s like an old man looking into the mirror. Though the body is no longer young and firm, it’s still the same one belongs to oneself. It feels strange yet deja-vu. It’s like the handwritten letter you found at home the other day, which has missed out the timing for delivery, a dead history. Strange yet deja-vu.