I have chosen to express my art through hanji—Korean traditional paper—through painting and flat forms.

I find myself confronted with the challenge of expressing on a two-dimensional surface the things that exist within us, unchanging and persistent. I studied Western painting and spent all four years of university immersed in oil painting. I wrestled with the dazzling play of color, was consumed by it, and lived dizzyingly within the canvas. Eventually, I began to reflect deeply on my materials and started questioning my own sense of beauty, and the flow of art through history. I looked inward, asking why I began making art in the first place, and why I now feel faint from the very scent of oil paint.

As I searched for what I truly seek in art, I discovered a world within my consciousness that I could not escape—and I found its origin. I identified the place I loved and longed for. Because I loved those disappearing things from that fading twilight era, I knew I had to reveal them. I could not forget the images of my parents and grandparents, who had to survive in a nation left in ruins by 36 years of occupation and the Korean War. They had passed down their peaceful, persistent way of life to me, never losing their beautiful traditions.

In other words, I came to understand that within silence and love, new things can be known—and that these unseen inner elements flow into and dwell within us. I wanted to proclaim: “This is why I exist.” Like an echo, I wished to make known that truth.

Just like ancient treasures buried beneath a crumbling earthen wall during wartime, I wanted to show how deeply sincere even the briefest thoughts of those who lived through that time were. Even if others dismiss them as insignificant remnants, to me, they are the origin of everything. They are the dawn of our time. The black ink tones, the edges of a cotton blanket, the folded bed covers in hues of earth and white, the trees of burnt sienna, and the plaster-colored walls—these were all present throughout my home. The discovery of hanji, which does not reflect light but absorbs it, seeping in slowly, layering naturally as it folds, brought me to realize that even ordinary daily objects can transform themselves. They surrender and conform to conditions, while simultaneously returning to their original essence with grace.

This act of folding and layering is not only a current action, but also a reenactment of the past. This is the nature of hanji. Paper is an indispensable material in Korean traditional architecture and daily life. It permeates every moment, steeped in seasonal customs, and adorns the walls of homes through mounted scrolls of ink paintings and folk art. These were once seen as a form of refined luxury. I remember my parents inviting a professional framer from the capital to decorate our home with these works—those were our happiest days. The sight of them taking a rickshaw to go out together remains a faint, dreamlike memory.

Raised in a culture so deeply embedded in paper, I could not help but feel a kind of ecological resistance to the properties of oil. I eventually found peace in the nature of paper and water.

Losing myself in this search, I would often forget the passing of time. It was as if I were longing for my mother and maternal grandmother. Even amid hardship, they continuously prepared bedding, food for holidays, and three meals a day without rest—seizing every spare moment to sew clothes late into the night. That same spirit of labor lives within me. I believe my work should follow their example.

If I were to define my art as the process of rendering the intangible into the tangible, then I would say it is a fundamental act driven by human instinct. It is a life that cannot be denied. It is the sacred value of life itself.

I simply hope that I may continue creating art, as a Korean woman, with my life and dignity on the line.