Years ago, an eye trauma left my gaze misaligned. My eyes do not agree on where to look. One wanders where the other holds. For a long time, I carried this as a wound — a quiet embarrassment, a thing to explain away in crowded rooms.
But the canvas asked nothing of my eyes' alignment. It only asked what I felt.
It was painting that first told me: seeing is not about symmetry — it is about depth. And perhaps because my vision was never quite singular, I learned early to look beyond the obvious surface of things — into the space between, into the silence behind form, into the life that color carries when it is painted with the whole of one's being.
My strabismus did not stop me from seeing beauty. It taught me that beauty does not require a perfect gaze — only an honest one.
So I paint. And I built Huynh's Gallery not as a monument to technical perfection, but as a home for every soul who has ever felt slightly out of alignment with the world — and created something extraordinary because of it.
We do not all see the same. That is not our weakness. That is our art.
