In this era of artificial intelligence, I am asked a different kind of question—by my students, my clients, and sometimes even by friends and family. In the past, people mainly wondered whether one could really make a living through art. Even now, my paintings sell well, my classes fill up, and my work continues to grow, but compared to other professions, the income can feel woefully insufficient. Of course, in the art world too, the top one percent—the famous names everyone recognizes—earn more than the combined income of countless working artists. But that structure is no different in the tech world. All the money inevitably flows toward a small handful of people. Sometimes there’s a reason, but often there isn’t.

When I used to work in an IT company, the phrase “dot-com bubble” was everywhere. If a company created something and simply added “.com” to its name, it could receive reckless, uninformed investment. I actually witnessed companies like that. I also remember a scholar who once visited our research lab—a man who had spent decades developing a stem-cell-based diagnostic technology. He looked exactly like the kind of person you’d expect to be doing serious scientific work. Yet he confessed, almost bitterly, that investors wanted results that were more sensational, more glamorous. Even if his technology could spark a revolution, no one was interested. I still think about him sometimes. His words were discouraging, but perhaps having a world of research that belongs entirely to you is its own form of blessing.

Now, however, when the entire world seems to be sprinting toward AI, I find myself being asked how artists will survive—and I feel that I, too, need some kind of answer. Recently, I binge-watched the Korean drama Mr. Sunshine on Netflix. It follows a boy born into slavery who escapes to the United States, becomes a U.S. Marine officer, and later returns to Joseon, where he becomes entangled with a noblewoman secretly involved in the Righteous Army. As the country faces collapse under foreign pressure, political conflict, and shifting alliances force each character to choose what to protect—love, loyalty, or the nation itself—and many give everything they have.

One line from the drama has stayed with me. During the fierce battle of the 1871 U.S. expedition to Korea, when nearly everyone is about to die, a son begs his father to flee. But the father refuses, shouting, “If I run, who will protect this country?” He dies moments later. Something about that moment lodged itself in me.

Because sometimes I feel the same way.

If artificial intelligence swallows art—if it mocks, replaces, or erases it—then who will keep drawing? Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t someone remain, painting more analog, more classical, more traditional work, like a fish swimming against the current? Even if every artist shakes their head and says this path has no future, I still want to be the one who survives, who holds onto the brush until the very end.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to work in a field that the world praises—one that is rewarded simply for existing. But none of us are guaranteed something like that. Even AI, now celebrated as the pinnacle of innovation, is threatening the jobs of the very people who built the tech industry. It feels a bit like watching Frankenstein come to life.

Yet I choose art because I believe in what cannot be seen. I believe in energy, in worlds that exist beyond the visible. These values matter more to me than practicality or financial security. That is why I chose art, and why I continue down this uncertain path. And to be honest, I don’t really know the answer to any of these questions. That’s why I opened this blog—to search for answers. To write, and rewrite, and keep writing until something reveals itself.
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In that sense, I often think of Cézanne, the artist I admire most. He devoted thirty-five years to uncovering the essence of painting, and in the end, he found it. Maybe, someday, I too will come close to that essence. And perhaps that essence is something AI will never understand.

​And so, I pick up my brush again, write again, and steady my heart once more. No matter where the world moves or how fast technology races ahead, I believe there is a realm that only human hands and human hearts can create. As long as that belief stays alive, I will keep walking toward it. Perhaps these questions and uncertainties will eventually lead me somewhere, and at the end of that path, I may finally encounter the essence of art I’ve been searching for. I don’t know when that moment will come, but I am certain of one thing: that essence is born from depths that artificial intelligence can never replace.

Next year is the Year of the Horse, and perhaps that is why I’ve been painting horses in so many different styles lately. I joke that if I keep experimenting like this, a horse might start appearing in my dreams at any moment.

I’m still on antibiotics, my inflammation levels show little sign of dropping, and the fatigue and pain continue without much relief. I try to lie down and rest, but the horses in my mind seem unwilling to let me. Their quiet, persistent energy keeps pulling me back to the brush.

I need to complete twelve horses to create my calendar, and through this process, I’ve come to realize something: there is a calm strength in the way horses run. Their energy never feels frantic. It is steady, grounded, and endlessly forward-moving—something I deeply admire.

Nature, too, lives by its own inherent rhythm. It doesn’t force itself to move or stop. It simply holds its own energy, moment by moment. This is the quality I want to capture in my paintings. Even on the days when my body feels heavy with illness, nature’s current continues, and the silhouette of a horse keeps moving toward something beyond the horizon.
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Perhaps I am leaning on that energy now, painting one day at a time. The horses on my canvas seem to whisper that it isn’t over yet—that there are still more landscapes to run through and more wind to follow.

I send a monthly calendar to my VIP clients and close friends. This is my personal greeting to them, and I cherish this time more than sending any card. Among them, there is one person who truly shaped who I am today as an artist. I want to express my deepest gratitude here once again to Prof.Rachev. He has always supported and encouraged me, helping me stand and grow as an artist.

Whenever it is time to create each month’s calendar, I become busy with the desire to show my clients—and all my supporters—how much I have improved. I never want to disappoint them; their belief in me gives me strength. For an artist, a patron like this is an invaluable presence. In truth, an artist’s work is created together with those who support them. Art is never made by the artist alone. Without such encouragement and support, I could not have spent so many years devoted solely to painting.

To everyone who respects art, understands the life of an artist, and offers support so that the work can be completed—I offer my heartfelt thanks. Once I finish this calendar project, I will share an update again.

As I framed my first exhibition piece for next year, I couldn’t help but feel that it arrived at the perfect moment. 2026 will be the Year of the Horse, and perhaps that’s why this painting--Brilliant Blue Horse in Moonlight—pulls at my attention more deeply than any other recent work. Even after finishing it, I keep finding myself returning to it, staring at it a little longer each time. There is something alive in it, something that feels as if it might step quietly out of the frame and stand before me. It reminds me of a unicorn—soft, luminous, and full of quiet power.

I have already painted three horses, and nine more remain. Once all twelve are complete, I plan to create a calendar featuring each one. It feels like a meaningful project, something that will mark not only the coming year but also the transformation I’m personally moving through. Each horse feels like a chapter, and together they will form a story that I want to share.

Lately, my body has been tired. My inflammation hasn’t fully healed, and my energy dips more easily than it used to. There are days when even holding a brush feels heavier than it should. But whenever I look at this blue horse, something inside me steadies. It reminds me why I paint, and why this series matters to me. There is a quiet encouragement in this piece—an invitation to keep going, even slowly.

Framing this painting felt like opening the first door of the coming year.

A beginning.

A step forward.

A moment to trust that the work ahead will carry me where I need to go.

I hope to gather enough strength to paint the remaining nine horses, one by one—guided by this luminous blue figure who arrived first, almost as if to lead the way.

The Thanksgiving holiday arrived with an unexpected force this year. Cold, restless winds swept across the region, making even short walks feel like a challenge. Still, despite the weather, I felt an urge to step briefly into the city, to experience Manhattan’s particular rhythm during the holiday season. Even in the midst of strong winds, the city seemed impossibly alive, lit with early winter decorations and filled with people moving with purpose.

Our first stop was Hudson Yards. As soon as we stepped out, the wind tunneled between the glass towers, scattering the faint sounds of music and conversation. The mirrored exterior of the buildings captured every ripple of light—holiday strings of gold, reflections of passing figures, and the shape of a large illuminated hot-air balloon displayed inside the mall. The glass façade turned these elements into layers, multiplying them until the entire scene felt like a living kaleidoscope.

Just a few steps away, the Vessel rose above us, its copper-toned structure glowing against the bright November sky. Although the upper levels are no longer accessible, simply standing at its base creates a sense of scale that is hard to replicate elsewhere. The combination of the wind, rustling trees, and the towering metal lattice gave the moment an almost cinematic quality. I took a photo with my daughter beneath the structure, the autumn colors wrapping softly around us, reminding me that even brief outings can become lasting memories.

Right in front of the Vessel, the shopping center was overflowing with people escaping the freezing wind—as if everyone had the exact same idea at the exact same time. The building had four impressive floors, but the biggest surprise wasn’t the architecture or the holiday displays. It was the restrooms. This enormous complex had exactly one public restroom, and the women’s room offered a grand total of four stalls. I waited almost thirty minutes, long enough to wonder whether I should start charging admission to the line behind me. At one point, the restroom line was so long it could have passed for the old ticket line to the Vessel itself.
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I couldn't believe that not a single store had its own restroom. With that setup, the place clearly wasn’t designed for lingering or leisurely shopping. After a quick glance at the Vessel, we made our exit—partly because we were cold, but mostly because I wasn’t prepared to stand in another restroom queue that deserved its own ZIP code.

It reminded me of the years when I lived in Korea and occasionally visited Gangnam. No matter how glamorous the streets were, it was surprisingly hard to find a simple bench to sit on. Manhattan, too, is undeniably a dazzling and magnetic city, but there is a similar kind of quiet inconvenience woven into its corners—something hard to articulate yet unmistakably present.

As I look back on this year, I’m reminded once again that gratitude is not found in extraordinary moments, but in the quiet, steady rhythm of everyday life. This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for all the small and unseen things that slowly shaped me—moments that didn’t ask for attention but left traces of warmth and meaning in my days. I’m thankful for the simple routines that held me together, the people who stayed close, and the unexpected challenges that forced me to grow in ways I didn’t plan but needed.

I’m grateful for my family, who walk beside me with patience and love; for the chance to create art that connects me to others; for the gentle progress in my work, my home, and my inner life. I’m thankful for the days I struggled, because they taught me to take care of myself, and for the days I succeeded, because they reminded me that quiet effort eventually finds its place.

Most of all, I’m grateful for the space to live authentically—slowly, intentionally, and in alignment with my own values. May this season bring you warmth, peace, and countless small blessings that make life beautiful in ways only you can recognize.
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Happy Thanksgiving to all.