Adrian Kay Wong
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Apr 29
- 5 min read
Adrian Kay Wong paints quiet moments. His scenes have tension, careful shapes, and thoughtful use of light. He works from memory and mood, creating compositions that feel personal but precise. Recently, he's brought figures back into his paintings, changing the rhythm without losing balance. His work is about small shifts, slow observations, and the space between feeling and showing.
Q: Your compositions often feel still, but emotionally charged. What keeps you working in that tension?
A: I think it's because our world feels like it's in constant motion, and often conceptualized in terms of action and change, that stillness feels strangely more compelling and like less explored ground. It's important to distinguish that I'm drawn to subjects that are "still", ones that may lack motion, but not to subjects that are "static", things that are unchanging or in a fixed state. I strive in my paintings to embody a sense that we have momentarily caught a breath of stillness, and that this moment will soon pass if not for its state as a painted picture.
At its core, what makes stillness so compelling to me is more about its potential for movement, and less so that there is a lack of it. The paintings hold a curious ambiguity of "What's about to happen?" Like we're waiting for a pin to drop before the image swings back into motion. They suspend us in something like an extended bated breath, allowing for us the luxury of a slow read. The paintings are able to preserve tension and afford us the time to process, digest, interpret, and introspect.
Q: Light plays a big role in your paintings—not just in what it shows, but what it hides. How do you decide what stays in the shadows?
A: It's often as simple as what the primary subject is in the painting. Sometimes, I start a painting with specific focal points in mind and then build the image around them. Other times, I have a sort of meandering approach where the painting is "populated" intuitively as I slowly branch out from one point on the canvas to an adjacent one until an overall setting is established.
In both cases, it comes down to an abstract push and pull of different elements in the painting. Certain characteristics like a higher density of detail or more saturated color typically draws attention. Figural elements like faces and hands do the same. Working with these types of considerations in mind, I'll adjust the image to either preserve that attention or subdue it in order to facilitate a kind of visual hierarchy — a loose order of what may be noticed first to last.
Q: In "Same Time, Same Place," the repetition of location feels personal. What brings you back to a familiar space?
A: Many of the paintings are drawn from personal memories, represent places important to me, or are reminiscent of an emotive setting I want to explore. I guess in a sense, the opportunity to connect with these familiar places is always present because my paintings are a way for me to dwell on unresolved feelings.
Going back to these familiar places usually happens over the course of making the painting. As I insert motifs and objects of particular meaning to me or paint figures that have an intimate connection with me, it contributes to the development of the overall "tone" in which I wish to achieve in the painting. The fact that similar objects and scenes seem to permeate through many paintings is only natural; I like the idea of recurring characters because it feels intimate, friendly, and, well, familiar. Or that we as human beings often return to things of comfort or self-preservation.
Q: The human figure has started to reappear in your work. What shifted for you there?
A: My work used to be much more geometric and abstract. But as the years passed and my practice developed, I found myself leaning towards a more representational and figural sensibility. At the time of my more geometric work, I felt that the gestural nature of the human body felt out of place in the context of how I was approaching image-making. So, I focused on still lifes because objects are just easier to simplify. I still was very adamant of approaching image-making with a figural sensibility, though. In other words, I was painting said objects so that it could provide insight into "us". A half-filled glass could show that someone interacted with it. Or like glasses on a nightstand or a snubbed out cigarette. Or a wilted plant to show neglect or passed time.
Over the past few years, I've gradually added more detail and more visual information into my paintings. At first it felt counter intuitive, that adding more personal anecdotes would only alienate viewers. But I've found that that specificity ultimately communicated authenticity. So while many people may not have the same belongings like the objects I put in my paintings, they feel familiar because they feel the truth of intent from me. And they can then make the leap themselves to connect with their own personal place.
In the end, it was a gradual change of perspective and understanding in what paintings meant to people and to myself that shifted me to figuration.
Q: You balance strict geometry with soft detail. How do you know when a piece has found its rhythm?
A: What I often consider in my paintings is how the viewer's eye will settle on and engage with the image. As certain moments in the painting draw more attention than others, I observe how different linear components and shapes assist in leading the eye to other areas. A strong cast of light, the stem of a flower, or the angle of a cigarette all hold directional qualities that help point to other details or sections of the painting.
I don't think I ever really know when a painting finds its rhythm, but I do tend to spend a lot of time with an image even after it's "done". I think it's important in my practice to live with the work and see how it feels with both fresh eyes and an extended viewing. It's always a pleasant surprise how the same image can elicit subtly different responses over time.
Q: Your work doesn’t shout about identity, but it’s present. How does that quiet presence take shape in your practice?
A: I see it in the same way as how I believe that there can be a lesson in everything.
In my mind, there is always an undercurrent of dialogue connecting any "small" thing to larger conversations and ideas. Something as simple as a porcelain teacup can speak on a multitude of things: history, cultural objects, notions of ceremony. Now if that teacup was one that I have held onto since childhood, that discussion can expand to family, heritage, legacy, tradition. Is the cup empty? That could insinuate a cup just brought out, or maybe, a cup already used and forgotten to put away. Memory, perception of time, the presence of others. These are the quiet "presences" of identity.
Navigating all of that and embedding it into a painting doesn't come quickly, of course. To find that quiet presence in my practice, it can be best summarized as a parallel to being present. It involves both a passiveness like noticing thoughts or recognizing feelings, as well as active work like seeking understanding and exploring ideas. As with many other artists, my practice to a certain degree is self-therapeutic. It helps ground my anxiety, focus my mind on things I care about, and aids in resolving complex thoughts and feelings — all of which is helpful in contributing to personal expression.
