72.38 grows from an imagined high‑angle floor plan of my school’s printmaking studio. I use this familiar space as the base of the work. The etchings build dense fields of small marks: dots that accumulate like worries and stress; checkered grids that suggest a space tightly packed with tools, tasks, and thoughts. Across the pages, positive and negative space toggle presenceand absence, mirroring how attention flickers under pressure. 

A single path threads the studio, recalling the nights I wandered in circles in four turns, losing bearings and starting again. The book invites viewers who have never entered a print studio to sense that round‑and‑round disorientation – the repetition, the staying late, the powerlessness and confusion about the way forward. The video extends this experience as a temporal loop, compressing long hours into minutes and returning to the same route, again and again. 72.38 is a measured fragment – a private index that sits between time and distance – marking the passage from maze to home, and the ongoing cycle of getting lost and finding one's way. 

Genesis is an artist book that follows a species of fragile, bubble‑bodied monsters born in a city of hard edges. Too weak for sudden change, they spend long periods of time adapting and finally drift toward the architecture, settling along cornices and window frames – the places that feel familiar and safe. 

But reality is cruel. Like us, they live under a constant rain of the new: ideas, technologies, and events that crash into our conscious world. Each arrival – imagined as fallen meteorites – shatters old perceptions and forces both monsters and humans to rebuild understanding and start again. The book's structure mirrors this continual reset: its last page loops back to its first, and the page‑turning mimics a calendar, flipping downward through time toward impact, destruction, and renewal. 

Genesis is not a single origin but a perpetual cycle – a small myth about adaptation and loss, and the stubborn practice of making a home within a city that never stops reshaping us. 

Metal Fog grows from a long‑standing habit: looking down while walking. In Hong Kong, the ground is a patchwork of concrete types and repairs, a field of patterns that opens an unexpected imaginative space. This painting translates that downward gaze – how sunlight skims the surface, how scuffs, aggregates, and seams knit into shifting images – into oil on panel, a medium that holds subtle changes of tone and sheen. 

Presented on floor, the work asks viewers to adopt the same perspective: to look down, as if standing over a slice of pavement. The scale reads like a section of sidewalk, where dots, scratches, and grids suggest both the everyday and the dreamlike.