This is a book rather than a painting — a personal volume written in a private visual language. The marks inside are text, not illustration. They were never meant to be translated, only transcribed as they appeared.
The alphabet is internal. The language comes before meaning. What’s recorded here isn’t a message shaped for an audience, but a system that exists on its own terms.
The front cover holds a single symbol. It functions as a threshold rather than a title — a sign that something begins here. The back cover is blank. Not unfinished, just unmarked, allowing the text to close without explanation.
The book was made decades ago, carried through different places and periods of life, then reopened and worked on again years later. New paint sits alongside the original marks, not correcting them, not clarifying them — simply continuing the transcription.
Even after all this time, the work refuses interpretation.
This is the Book of Kim — not a narrative to be decoded, but a record of seeing, thinking, and marking across time. A book you live with rather than read.
