The days repeat themselves. People go to work and leave work; buses reach and depart from the terminals; the Light Rail trains trail along the streets. Life passes in a static, regular rhythm from one day to the next. Even those who call themselves artists cannot escape from this fate.
For a few years I searched for a way to illuminate the place I live in, an expression that I would be contented with. The search stopped when I found the paintbrushes of my late father which stirred my interest. My father was a graphic designer in advertising; he painted to sustain the livelihood of our family of four. If he was still alive, he would have reached retirement age. He might have been wandering around town with me, standing behind me to watch my camera and I at work.
I pick up the paintbrushes. I paint in watercolours, in rudimentary techniques and strokes, filling the photographs with colour blocks. I paint to destroy the mundane and regular scenery of Tin Shui Wai in the photographs, one after another, until even the skies are filled.
In this repetitive act, my father and I recreate a new scenery.