These works span a year of my life in painting: the first year I started to think of myself as a (bad) painter, instead of a (good) art student. I started the year imagining that I would complete my academic career by putting together a clever and cohesive BFA thesis. You and I would walk around the gallery and contemplate what a Brilliant Concluding Statement I had assembled.

But it’s been a goddamn year. A year that’s felt like a series of sometimes absurd, always sobering tests. I haven’t been keeping exact score, but it’s a safe bet that I’m failing. If I were still a student, I’d take this very badly. School is kind of stupid and they teach you that failure is to be strenuously avoided. But now I’ve decided to be a painter and I play by more honest rules. These works that make up the last year of my life are scattered and divided and, as far as I can tell, totally fail to fit together into any kind of overarching magnum opus. I’m newly grateful for that.

I made these paintings while I was learning to vibrate with optimism, to hold my liquor, to live with grief and regret. I made these paintings while I was learning to look in a mirror, to tell secrets, to hurt thoughtlessly. I made these paintings while I was learning to kiss my own feet. Most recently, I’ve realized I made these paintings while I was learning to take exquisite pleasure in how little I understand painting, or you, or anything, really.

kathryn-liu.com /// @kateliiu