Why I Paint Ink Trees

I began painting trees because I was drawn to their lines.

At first, I was interested in flowers, birds, and other recognizable subjects. But over time, my attention gradually shifted toward something quieter: the structure and movement of old trees.

An ancient tree can contain an entire history in a few lines.

The trunk may lean unexpectedly. A branch may rise, disappear, and reappear. The bark may be rough, broken, or almost empty. There is no need to describe every detail. A few lines can suggest decades, perhaps centuries, of growth.

This is one reason ink is so suitable for the subject.

Ink can be dense or transparent, heavy or light, wet or dry. A single brush can create both a powerful trunk and a nearly disappearing branch. As the ink becomes lighter, the painting can begin to breathe.

I particularly enjoy the process of using the ink from dark to light, allowing the brush to gradually exhaust the ink it carries. I do not always reload the brush immediately. The changing density becomes part of the movement.

In this way, the painting is not simply an image of a tree.

It becomes an experience of looking at a tree.

The tree does not need to be botanically complete. I am more interested in its spirit: its endurance, its quiet strength, its asymmetry, and the way it occupies empty space.

Perhaps this is also connected to my calligraphy.

In both, I am searching for lines that are alive.

A good line should feel as though it had to be made exactly that way. It should not look manufactured.

When I paint an ink tree, I am therefore not trying to reproduce nature.

I am trying to discover, through brush and ink, something of the law that makes the tree alive.

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