Memory is the mystery and special gift that human beings get.
And all gifts come from the concept of “Absence.”

The world is under the rule of time.
As time goes by, memory is fragmented and distorted.

Therefore, there is no perfect “true” memory.
We often unearth “false” memory.

It is not clear when I started to be obsessed with remembering the moment.

 Since I know that the past cannot come back,
I keep remembering it to preserve and recall someone,
some moment, and some knowledge.

The world is vain, empty, and transient.
Everything is ruled by time.


Memory disappears.
I forget
I believe the fragments of memory stay somewhere
and stacked somewhere I don’t know
It must be surreal




The past and our memory exist because of the moment’s “absence.” Time flows, and every single moment becomes past. Due to the absence of moment that was co-existed with me, I keep recalling the past moment.  This very moment will be gone and the coming future will be gone too. They all will be the past. We cannot deny this truth.


The sense of smell is the most powerful sense to recall the memories. Marcel Proust said that the human memory is intertwined with the smell. It can convey us to the strong emotional past memory, because each memory has a given smell that makes flash across the certain memory our mind.
My daily mood relies on the first smell of temperature that I deeply breathe in. Every temperature has its smell that recalls my past memory. The temperature, which I felt it before from the past, determines my present feeling.


The opening of the day was beautiful, but the ending was melancholy.

The beginning of the day was miserable, but there was a beautiful conclusion.

Smell recalls the memory and the memory control my day-by-day moments.


Every single moment is gone, and only the memory - the medium - is connecting myself and the past, and it is distorted so easily by time. The more I recall the certain memories, the more they get distorted. I finalized. There is no true memory in this real world. Distorted memory is a delusional creature that I make unconsciously. How empty and vain the time-passing is. Though I create the moments myself, there is no doubt that I’ll lose those precious instances, no matter how hard I try to keep them. How vulnerable I am. I have a false wish that the warmth, the wind, the incense, and song remain forever and coexist with me for the rest of my life. 
I am tangled up, uncertain, unclear, and vague. It is no longer valid for me to escape from the memory. I cannot easily erase and rearrange the traces.


I express the point of unknown emotion, having a hard time wording it, through abstract expressionism paintings. I can indicate that the way I paint- holding the emotion and then painting- is defined as doing a performance or acting. I recollect the certain memory before I paint and draw the emotion.  When I muse on how I feel what the definition of memory is, I see the form and the color in an instant, like pressing the camera shutter and capturing the moment. There is no planned form and color. I paint given things from the moments.


Multiple dots gathered and form a line

Multiple lines gathered and form an aspect

Multiple aspects gathered and form a space

Multiple spaces gathered and form a dimension


The lines from Cy Twombly, the vibrations from Clyfford Still, the determined brushstrokes from Franz Kline, the untouched empty spaces from 18th century Korean paintings. They all make me pleased. I like how Cy Twombly merged drawings and paintings together and make harmonized surfaces. When I observe his lines closely, I can find his own clean calculated rules from what seems like more scribbles. I like how 18th century Korean traditional paintings have flatness and untouched empty space. There is beauty in empty space. Never fill the whole surfaces with paint. Elements will make illusion and fill the empty spaces.


I release some physical energy from my body before I go into the zone where I can only focus on abstract painting. I produce the layers of dots, lines, and spaces on the white canvas. I draw the thin lines with charcoal or pencil. I use fluid paint and wait for the painting to drip and dry. Paint has to be run down and dripped. It needs the movement. I just feel like expressing my sentiment. I face different drips every day. It flows smoothly; on the other hand, it cracks.  I make different aesthetic lines revealing out of the drip. Some lines come out of the drip, but some lines sit on the drip. Half of the paint drips down and washes off.  I draw dots and lines again. I leave an untouched empty space. I add another layer. I smudge them. I paint them over until I see the thickness and depth, creating the surface and space I want.


The dots, lines, and spaces may not be harmonized with each other. When they radiate awkwardness, they put me in the center of the zone where I feel the calm and luminousness and they let me go into ecstasy. They all look harmonized to me. I patiently wait for that moment when the painting talks back to me.


I paint what I used to feel in certain moments. All the memory is created by time flows. I recall the memories unconsciously, and I expect to hold true memory, but they get distorted easily just by me touching it. There is no true memory so we unearth false memory. How vain, empty, transient, and vulnerable the past moments are.