PHYSICALLY EMBODIED STORIES: AGED BOOKS

Every book tells two stories. One is printed on its pages; the other is etched into its physical form. It’s the weathered cover, a stranger’s penciled note in the margin, the stains on yellowing paper. You won't find this second story in any other copy from the publisher’s run—it is entirely unique to that single volume.

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Comparing a person to a book is no accident. The metaphor is ingrained in our language: we try to 'read' each other, we call people 'open' or 'closed' books, we look 'between the lines,' or see what’s 'written all over their faces.' Yet, in both art and life, the marks of time are often seen as flaws. Paintings are meticulously preserved to freeze them in time, and we frequently expect the same of people—that lived experience shouldn't leave a visible trace.

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This series argues otherwise. The marks left by time are not only beautiful, but dignified. They don't represent damage, but experience—both the scars and the laugh lines. And not all of them reveal themselves at first glance.

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In my paintings, the book is reduced to an abstract rectangle: a mere spine, a block on a shelf, a single page. Throughout the series, this motif constantly shifts in meaning. Sometimes it acts as a foundation where knowledge unevenly gathers. Other times, it’s a slipping framework exposing the illusion of order, a wall of foreign narratives with faces peering from the depths, or a personal archive where stories are still being written. In every case, to read the true, hidden story, you must step close.