Yuan Ge

For many years, I moved through life feeling that my worth depended on how much I could give—my labor, my care, my silence. I learned early to contain emotion, to make myself useful, agreeable, and resilient. What I didn’t know then was how much of myself I was leaving behind in the process.

In this painting, the space is enclosed and protective, shaped by drapery that feels both architectural and bodily. It reflects an interior I longed for—a place where growth could happen without being watched or judged.

Autumn is not about loss for me, but about discernment—the moment I stopped confusing depletion with generosity, and began choosing what to keep.

Autumn
Oil on Wood Panel
36”x48”
2025

✨✨✨All three paintings were SOLD 15 days after the opening reception.

When a painting leaves my studio, it’s not an ending.
It’s a transition—from a private space of making into a shared life elsewhere.
Letting go is part of how the work completes itself. The moment of release is an essential part of my practice.

Thank you for connecting us and make this possible

The exhibition is running through Jan 24th.
761-D Miami circle North East, Atlanta, GA 30324

art WorkInTransition

✨My selected eight pieces of works (small to medium sized) are currently on view at Mason Fine Art.
Thanks to everyone who comes out for the opening and to for the opportunity and the support💜💫💜 In front of my paintings sit Heather Hilton’s brilliant modern sculptures✨

💫New piece on View at SCAD Atlanta! 🐝

Spring
Oil on Wood Panel
36”x 48”
2025

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Some of my paintings will be on view at Mason Fine Art from December 5th through January 15th, 2026
Opening reception this Friday 6-9PM, I’d love to see you there!

761-D Miami Circle, Atlanta, 30324

Lightheaded
Oil on canvas
24”x24”
2025

Some of my paintings will be on view at Mason Fine Art from December 5th through January 15th, 2026
Opening reception this Friday 6-9PM, I’d love to see you there!

Address:761-D Miami Circle, Atlanta, 30324

Lightheaded
Oil on canvas
24”x24”
2025

When I was a child, I often hid behind the heavy velvet curtains in my grandmother’s house. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and perfume, and when I pulled the folds around me, the world outside softened into a blur of green and gold. From that secret space, I could watch the room without being seen. There was always a pale celadon vase on the table—too tall, too elegant—and I believed it held the spirit of spring inside it. Granny would place a fresh plum blossom branch into it every year, and I waited for the tiny buds to open like whispering mouths.

On the floor beside me sat a little bowl with two golden fish. I’d crouch close and speak my secrets to them, imagining they understood the things I couldn’t say out loud. The draped fabrics, the vase, the fish—all of it felt like a small theater built just for me, where objects breathed softly and time slowed down. That was my time of idleness! In that hidden corner, I learned how quiet things could glow, how stillness could hold an entire story, and how imagination could bloom even in the smallest room.

Blossom’s Passage
Oil on Wood
2025

When I was a child, I often hid behind the heavy velvet curtains in my grandmother’s house. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and perfume, and when I pulled the folds around me, the world outside softened into a blur of green and gold. From that secret space, I could watch the room without being seen. There was always a pale celadon vase on the table—too tall, too elegant—and I believed it held the spirit of spring inside it. Granny would place a fresh plum blossom branch into it every year, and I waited for the tiny buds to open like whispering mouths.

On the floor beside me sat a little bowl with two golden fish. I’d crouch close and speak my secrets to them, imagining they understood the things I couldn’t say out loud. The draped fabrics, the vase, the fish—all of it felt like a small theater built just for me, where objects breathed softly and time slowed down. That was my time of idleness! In that hidden corner, I learned how quiet things could glow, how stillness could hold an entire story, and how imagination could bloom even in the smallest room.

Blossom’s Passage
Oil on Wood Panel
2025

.tagged ❤

When I was a child, I often hid behind the heavy velvet curtains in my grandmother’s house. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and perfume, and when I pulled the folds around me, the world outside softened into a blur of green and gold. From that secret space, I could watch the room without being seen. There was always a pale celadon vase on the table—too tall, too elegant—and I believed it held the spirit of spring inside it. Granny would place a fresh plum blossom branch into it every year, and I waited for the tiny buds to open like whispering mouths.

On the coffee table beside me sat a little bowl with two golden fish. I’d crouch close and speak my secrets to them, imagining they understood the things I couldn’t say out loud. The draped fabrics, the vase, the fish—all of it felt like a small theater built just for me, where objects breathed softly and time slowed down. That my time of idleness. In that hidden corner, I learned how quiet things could glow, how stillness could hold an entire story, and how imagination could bloom even in the smallest room.

Blossom’s Passage
Oil on Wood Panel
18”x 24”
2025

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