After Being Gently Brushed by Time
May 21, 2026
Kevin Liang
"Trace of Times 2" Mix medium on metal 32x40 inches 2026
Lately, I’ve grown increasingly fond of a painting approach I call "ruining it, then trying to save it."
In the past, I always felt that a painting should become clearer and more complete as it progressed—the more finished, the better. But gradually, I discovered that what truly captivates me are, in fact, those things that are on the verge of vanishing yet still retain a faint trace of life. Things like old photographs, weathered walls, or the last lingering shadows of blossoms as spring draws to a close. They are no longer vibrant, yet they possess a quality that makes them all the more enduring to behold.
This painting, too, was slowly "rubbed" into existence in just this way.
At the start, the flowers were clearly defined. I even approached them with a mindset—however slight—of simply wanting to "paint them beautifully." But as I continued working, something felt off. It was too complete, too comfortable—too much like a painting where the "outcome was already known." So, I began a ceaseless cycle of layering over, scraping away, reapplying color, and covering it up once more.
At times, it felt like I was mending something; at others, it felt as though I were deliberately destroying it.
Those horizontal brushstrokes aren't there to showcase technical skill; rather, they resemble the repetitive motion of wiping something away. It is akin to a person recalling a memory: they don't truly wish to forget it, yet they no longer know how to preserve it. And so, they are compelled to layer over it again and again—though the traces lying beneath inevitably find a way to secretly surface once more.
I’ve come to realize that a painting is often at its most compelling not when it is "finished," but when it hovers in that liminal space between vanishing and still existing.
This is also why I find myself increasingly drawn to those hazy, blurred passages—those areas imbued with a sense of "amnesia." I used to fear leaving blank spaces, worried that viewers would perceive the work as unfinished. Now, however, I feel that leaving a bit of ambiguous, undefined space might be far more intriguing than spelling everything out explicitly. For it invites the viewer to step inside and explore it for themselves.
That said, this process can be quite perilous.
This method of painting runs the risk of inadvertently becoming nothing more than "atmosphere"—soft, aged, and dreamlike; appearing deeply emotive on the surface, yet ultimately leaving nothing substantial behind. Consequently, I often deliberately introduce discordant elements into my work—perhaps a sudden splash of intense color, a rough, violent layer of paint, or certain marks that seem on the verge of shattering the entire composition.
For time, after all, is never truly gentle. What truly interests me is not "how beautiful the flowers are," but rather what remains once their splendor has slowly been veiled by the passage of time. Those colors, textures, and lingering edges sometimes feel more like memories than the flowers themselves.
As I continued painting, I eventually felt less like I was "creating" and more like I was wrestling with the canvas. Just as the image was nearing completion, I would find myself unable to resist—and would ruin it once again. It was as if I couldn't bear to let things come to an end too soon.
Perhaps this is the state I have been pursuing all along:
Not completion, but residue.
Not an answer, but an atmosphere.
Like the faint trace of floral fragrance that still lingers in the air long after spring has passed.