Turnstiles

Waking up each morning to paint. Wai Ming Lung steps out of the parenthesis of the night to face, day after day, the world that dictates our actions, our duties, its own pace.

Still, the artist is in awe with the purity of a flower, the drape of a fabric, the texture of a skin; even  as the despair of the city is voracious.

He finds poetry in concrete and embraces cosmopolitanism.

In exile, nowhere and everywhere. Language can be a betrayal; facial features, a stigma. Wai Ming Lung has resigned himself to an inner exile.
Writing Archifictions with words, ink and colour. Exile is geographical, converted in colour and word. It is also a resistance to melancholy.
Words have come to accompany his images, to speak the oaths of dawn, to tame the spleen that is never far away.
Do not trust the colours of the skies, they only deceive melancholy and announce the promises of a light. And that’s already quite something.

Edith Simonnet