The image of the orchid appears repeatedly in my work, carrying a particular memory from my childhood at my grandfather’s home. Since his passing, my memories of him remain suspended before the age of sixteen—fragmented, distant, yet vividly tied to certain images. Among them, the most striking is the sight of large magenta orchids blooming with an almost overwhelming presence.

At the time, I disliked that intense magenta hue. To me, it felt intense, rebellious, and full of desire—too rich, too assertive, almost invasive. In Chinese culture, orchids are often associated with blessing, status, wealth, and prosperity, and these purple-red orchids were displayed in the home like precious gifts. They seemed to demand attention, asking to be admired, worshipped, and never possessed.

Yet I was drawn to their tension: their elegance, pride, and refusal to submit. Their butterfly-like centers are surrounded and protected by petals, openly revealed despite the fragility of their stems and the difficulty of their growth. In this work, the orchid becomes both a memory and a self-reflection—a form that is delicate yet forceful, vulnerable yet unwilling to disappear.