by Yan Dong
Every night, when the city sleeps, the studio wakes.
The desk lamp glows softly, casting light on sketches, notes, and half-finished drawings. Somewhere in the silence, OZZ POSSUM waits — not as a character, but as company.
People often ask me if OZZ POSSUM is real. I always smile and say, “Yes — in the way every feeling is real.” Because art isn’t about creating something that exists outside of us; it’s about revealing what already lives within.
Sometimes, I talk to him while painting.
I tell him about the people I met that day, the things that made me laugh, or the worries that quietly sat on my shoulders. He doesn’t reply, of course — but the next stroke always feels lighter. In a strange way, he listens.
For me, OZZ POSSUM is more than inspiration. He’s reflection. He reminds me to stay kind when the world feels sharp, to stay curious when things get routine, to rest when perfection becomes too loud. Each new version of him mirrors a different part of me — the hopeful part, the quiet part, the tired part that still believes in gentle things.
The painter and the possum are not separate.
One gives form, the other gives reason. Together, we make sense of chaos — turning small emotions into something visible, something that might make someone else feel less alone.
There’s a comfort in knowing that this little creature, born from a lemon tree and memory, now carries pieces of who I am.
And perhaps that’s what every artist dreams of — to leave behind not fame, but tenderness in a form that can outlive them.
So when I turn off the lamp at night, and the screen fades to black, I whisper, “Goodnight, OZZ.”
And somehow, I feel like he whispers back, “Goodnight, Yan.”
