Wrap Around, 2024
I used to feel lost, as though I belonged neither here nor there. This sense of uncertainty led me to create a cartography of my being afloat—a map to navigate the in-between spaces I inhabited, both physically and emotionally. Through this meditative process, I uncovered a quiet grounding I hadn’t known I was searching for. By piecing together memories and fragmented impressions, I found solace in the act of mapping.
Returning to the neighborhood in Korea where I once lived felt like stepping into a dreamscape distorted by time. The relentless renovations of this fast-growing country had erased almost everything familiar. The only remnant of my past was a faded advertisement panel. The red-brick buildings I remembered had been replaced or painted in soft hues of pastel pinks and blues, while newer constructions from just a decade ago appeared weathered and dusty. The streets, once teeming with personal history, now carried an uncanny emptiness. Shades of grey, white, and red blended with textures both smooth and jagged—modernity layered over the fragile remnants of the old. It was a strange dissonance, this place that should have been mine but felt entirely foreign.
Seeking something unchanged, I visited my grandfather’s shrine at a Buddhist temple nestled in the mountains. There, amidst the quiet, I stumbled upon a Taenghwa—a Korean Buddhist painting I hadn’t seen in years. Unlike the shifting cityscape, this painting had remained untouched. The mountain’s steadfast presence, the unyielding blood ties of family, and the spiritual essence of this sacred space stood in stark contrast to the transient world outside. The spirituality that had once overwhelmed me now offered a profound sense of grounding. Even as I drifted through memories and landscapes, I found an anchor in this enduring connection.
This journey inspired an artistic practice I call “Wrap Around,” a cartography of my state of being afloat. To begin, I reassembled images into three variations that helped me compartmentalize the visual fragments of Seoul. These photos captured fleeting, isolated moments—the quiet objects and scenes that stood apart from the city’s relentless pace. I also drew from Chris Burden’s “Metropolis” exhibition at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Burden’s installations, monumental yet intricate, echoed my feelings of belonging and alienation. By integrating elements from his work and overlaying them with the mountain god Taenghwa, I transformed this practice into a ritual for protection and calm, infusing my process with both reverence and personal meaning.
Each collage took on its own distinct character, shaped by the colors and textures of the original photos. One adhered to realism, capturing the raw truth of my surroundings. Another shifted into dreamlike territory, embodying the ethereal qualities of memory. The third adopted texture, layering tactile elements that mirrored my sensory experiences in Seoul. I manipulated digital images by layering, cutting, and blending—distorting halftones, separating chromas, and burning shadows into light. Blurred images of bushes, for instance, became an integral part of the Taenghwa, adding depth and vitality to the composition. Each manipulation felt like a meditation, a way to reconcile the fragmented emotions tied to these memories.
The painting process became an extension of this meditative exploration. I began by crushing pastels into loose fabrics, letting their pigments seep into the muslin’s fibers. Charcoal, ink, watercolor, and pen followed, layered with a mixture of glue and water to meld the materials together. On the base layer, I used oil paint to anchor the composition, ensuring it could break through the surface layers. Gold and silver foils added luminous accents, evoking both fragility and permanence. Each layer built upon the last, mirroring the way memories overlap and evolve over time.
Through this practice, I sought to articulate the complexities of memory, belonging, and intimacy. What began with the manipulation of digital images transitioned into direct observation and culminated in three distinct iterations, layered like a digital file. The process reflected my experience of being afloat—fragmented yet whole—and led me to a place of quiet clarity. In the ritual of creation, I found stability. This cartography of being afloat became a map of intimacy and peace, a way to ground myself in the enduring amidst the transient.
