Artist Statement

It’s Okay to Be Sad, and It’s Okay to Be Glad

If you ask where my work’s influence comes from, it began with one sentence from my husband.
“It’s okay to be sad, and it’s okay to be happy when you’re happy.”

For a long time, I had been trained by words like “don’t cry” and “don’t be sad.” So even when tears came, I couldn’t cry out loud, and I carefully hid even my joy. Showing emotion never seemed to be allowed, and in living by other people’s standards, I was losing myself.

But my husband’s words loosened a hard shackle inside me. For the first time, I realized I could be sad as sadness, and glad as gladness. When I accepted my feelings instead of suppressing them, I could finally fully acknowledge myself, step out of other people’s frames, and return to me.

That is why every emotion is engraved in my work: joy, sorrow, fear, waiting. They are no longer things to hide, but the grain and traces that make up a life. As layer upon layer of bark makes a tree sturdy, the grain of my emotions accumulates and overlaps to make me, and that has become the root of my work.

A Private Hue

We are all born as a white texture. As time passes, countless emotions seep into it layer by layer. Some emotions quickly pass by, while some memories leave long-lasting traces. That is how I came to have my own unique color. Although it may not be easily visible on the outside, the times I have lived through are clearly engraved upon that texture. <A Private Hue> is a story about the depth of time, emotion, and existence of each individual, which can never be the exact same for anyone.

Collage

This process visually represents the accumulating layers of emotions and experiences.

After dyeing Hanji (traditional Korean paper) with acrylic paints, I repeat the act of burning, tearing, and layering the paper. Through this process, I engrave upon the canvas the traces that life leaves behind, capturing the deeply accumulated textures of memories and emotions.

The irregular textures, torn marks, burnt edges, and the subtle variations in depth created by overlapping the paper become unique traces that cannot be mechanically replicated or reproduced.

Through these repetitive actions, I seek to create a painting of living emotions that no one can duplicate. The artwork is not merely an image, but a trace of experience—an unrepeatable trajectory of existence.

Working process

My work is inspired by nature, particularly by the way tree bark cracks, hardens, and grows over time. I use Hanji, a traditional Korean paper, to embody this history of resilience and growth recorded within the bark. My original technique of dyeing, tearing, burning, and attaching the Hanji to the canvas creates a three-dimensional sculptural quality that transcends a simple flat surface. These rough textures and deep variations in depth symbolize the inner strength that has endured the test of time.

This process is also a narrative of my inner self. I used to hide beneath the shell of others' perceptions, but I am now in the process of shedding that old exterior. Much like the tree bark in my artwork, the cracked and burnt marks represent the accumulation of all the emotions experienced in life—sorrow, fear, and happiness. I have discovered the truth that these experiences do not need to be forcibly hidden; they are whole and beautiful exactly as they are.

I no longer judge my emotions as good or bad, and I will continue this journey of discovering "my own colors" until the very end of my life. The diverse and subtle hues revealed in my work represent my own unique light, while also symbolizing the essential colors inherent in all living beings. Ultimately, I hope my work serves as a mirror to share this inner growth with the audience, encouraging them to embrace all of their emotional experiences and faithfully fill their lives with their own unique colors.

Bark of Experience

Time is unseen, yet we live our lives engraving it into our very beings.
As we live, countless thoughts and emotions brush past us; some fade away, but certain traces linger long after.

These remaining traces build up layer by layer, shaping the "I" of today.

One day, while looking at the bark of a tree, a thought suddenly came to me.
That surface—quietly cracking, growing rough, and hardening—closely resembles the way we navigate through time.

Countless emotions also wash over me as I continue my work.
On some days, my hands come to a halt in the face of uncertainty, while on others, I stay awake all night, deeply immersed.

These passing emotions and everyday experiences do not simply vanish; they leave their marks behind.
They become colors, they become textures, and they seep into the artwork, shaping its grain.

My work is created through a repetitive process of applying color to Hanji, burning it, and layering it once more.
The textures, scorch marks, and layered traces revealed through this process are not mere material transformations, but the physical traces of experiences that have weathered time.

Therefore, a finished piece is not so much the result of a process aimed at creating an image; rather, it is a single surface upon which the emotions and experiences gathered over time have deeply accumulated.

The Weight of Invisible Things

Rather than what is efficient and visible, it is the things invisible in form or result — the inefficient things — that make life richer and more valuable.

My journey as an artist is no different. The time I've put in, the reading, the materials, the way I work, the worldview I try to express — none of it may show up as a visible result, and it may not do anything immediately useful for my life.

And yet these invisible things accumulate — within me, within my work. My worldview steadily grows more solid. Change takes hold, enough to reshape the way I live and even how I feel about life itself. Life becomes richer, more worth living. And I find joy in wanting to carry that shifted heart, and the worldview it shapes, into my work — to reach an audience, to reach others, as a work of art — and to give them, even in some small way, the experience of seeing life through a new perspective.

I hope each person steps away from efficiency and the visible, and builds at least one romance of their own. To keep going, without easily bending your resolve, even when it takes long and is hard — to keep walking the path you first set out on. Loving something is what makes you begin it, but what finally sees it through is never romantic. I think it's worth looking back, too, at the quiet, persistent will that lives beneath that love.