I lived in a large traditional Korean tile-roofed house, a “giwajip.” Within the atmosphere of an extended family, I grew up surrounded by our seasonal customs—women maintaining beautiful formalities in accordance with the rhythms of the calendar. The tender impressions of those childhood memories have now faded, but their purity still lingers deep in my heart as a lasting remnant. These were traditions uniquely ours. As Western civilization swept in like a tidal wave, I found myself longing for the beautiful aspects of our heritage that were being pushed aside. I felt a duty to protect and preserve the beauty of the lives of our ancestors, who lived through the dawning of a new era. This sense of purpose is what led me to create.

As I began my journey as an artist, I found myself reflecting on how, indiscriminately, people were discarding parts of themselves. It made me think of our traditional customs—how vital they were, how they endured within us, and how they should never be cast away. In the ruins after the Korean War, there was no time for discernment. Resistance to the forces offering the “new” was deemed unnecessary. Western culture—its materialism and capitalism—was adopted wholesale without examination. Yet, even as people moved on, our homes still contained sacred traces of our traditions: our folk objects, our religion, our rituals.

As an artist, I came to believe that the path forward had to begin with observing my own inner world. If we are to find the true meaning of life, then even the smallest, most humble things we love must be expressed. I resolved to give form to what I long for—even if it is hidden or suppressed by society—by breathing life into those lost or aching parts of my soul.

When life in modern society becomes difficult, I look up and see stars in the sky. When we look down, there are many flowers blooming before us. And among all things, only humans possess the ability to create. I express myself to find my own uniqueness, to reveal the one and only expression that is mine alone. Through the folding and coloring of hanji paper, I convey the emotional resonance I share with my homeland and its sensibility. I have lived seventy years this way—and now, I leave to face the art world of Manhattan, in this globalized era.

August 10, 2022

The days have already accumulated, becoming a collection of stories. Because of unspoken matters with my children, a certain unease unexpectedly takes root, and I cannot tell whether it is pain or suffocation—so I try to shift my thoughts quickly. What could I possibly say now? And yet, we have safely settled in New Jersey, staking out our space according to our abilities. Now, content in this stable position, we are prepared to focus on a single color, a single plane, a single stroke.

The materials coming from Korea offer us rest. Like a still lake with not even a breeze, it is as if we are startled deer in a silent garden. In that moment, I allow myself to utter the word “happiness.” The word “tomorrow” holds no uncertainty here. We have gained permanent residency with full legal standing under the contracts and agreements between nations, and now, as long as we do not break any laws, no one can interfere with us. The unfamiliarities we now embrace feel new and invigorating. The horizontal line of the land, the splendor of the sunset in residential neighborhoods—all these remind me of the works of David Hockney, whose images of the American landscape I now see all around me. He seems, without a doubt, a true American. I even saw George Segal’s sculptures at the Manhattan bus terminal. Though it felt more like his presence than an artwork, I sensed a shared existence here—a sense of the American spirit.

When I was young, New York was the center of the art world. I longed to walk the path of an artist, to seize the opportunity, but the life I lived could not even afford a plane ticket. I was too busy surviving to even visit. Now, at this age, the 60th anniversary of my life in art and the 50th anniversary of our marriage was honored through the “Jiwol Imagination Exhibition” held at the YoungEun Museum of Contemporary Art. Thanks to the consideration of one of my husband’s former elementary school classmates, our dream could finally come true. With a gift greater than the cost of plane tickets, we were given the courage to act.

What remains of my life is of little importance. If I can be remembered as an artist even once in New York, then I can say we have not lived in vain. And so, with no one we know here, we threw ourselves into settling in New Jersey.

In the 1990s, I poured everything I had into building a studio in Seoul because I could no longer sustain an artistic life within the confines of a cramped apartment. It was the same kind of decision we are making now—based on the belief that creating a proper environment for the artist must come first. In Gwangju, Gyeonggi-do, we were outsiders; in central Seoul, invisible, because we were not marketable artists. Our accumulated works overflowed, becoming too difficult to store. As a marginalized older artist, I now gesture once more toward hope. What results may come, I cannot say. But with irrepressible curiosity, I continue on, led by the creative instinct that still flows through me.

In March 2018, we held the “Jiwol Imagination Exhibition,” which extended through the end of June. Many significant events unfolded during this major exhibition, and we felt the brightest sun of our lives shining down. After the show ended, we traveled to the United States and explored New York. On February 21, 2019, we obtained six-month visas and held a joint exhibition at the Sylvia Wald and Po Kim Art Gallery with another couple—Kim Bohyun and his wife Sylvia Wald. Our exhibition extended over the course of a year, with several changes of location and duration.

Even as the global pandemic began to unfold, we decided to continue regardless of the circumstances. With the support of the U.S. government, we received 10-year permanent residency and were able to settle here. All we ask is for the blessing of the divine. What remains is simply the fulfillment of a childlike artistic dream. We were children raised in the dark days of the Korean War, and we have lived with the proposition of art ever since. As Korean artists walking the path of contemporary art, devoted to expressing our form and spirit, we have lived a life not wasted. If I may dare say so—it has been a life of happiness. Whether others knew of our work or not, we simply followed the path we believed was ours.