It's Christmas in Korea. I'm sorting through my mother's belongings. They hold so many memories, so I can't just throw them away. I spend a lot of time thinking about them. As I sorted through them, my sister and I talked endlessly about our childhoods. Life is like this, once we sort through them and move on to another chapter. This sorting felt like a ritual, a way to sort through my childhood, my twenties in Korea, and let go of all the thoughts and emotions within. The stories I heard from my mother through those belongings, the times we laughed together, the pain... everything just passes.

I came to Korea in great haste. Before the year came to an end, I received the news that my mother was critically ill. She had endured a long battle with illness, but hearing that her condition had worsened—while I was living far away—was something no amount of preparation could soften. My chest felt as though it were being torn apart.

Living abroad often means carrying a quiet sense of guilt. When something happens, you cannot immediately run to the person you love. Even in the midst of grief, I found myself searching for plane tickets, folding my life into a small carry-on bag. I pressed in every piece of clothing I owned that held even a trace of black. I was fortunate to find a flight. I had always feared the stories of those who could not attend a parent’s funeral because no ticket was available. That fear had lived with me for years.

Throughout the flight, my tears would not stop. Memories of my mother—moments, conversations, emotions—passed through me without sound. I still do not know what to call that feeling. While I had been running endlessly to survive in a foreign land, time had continued on its quiet path. My mother had aged without ceremony, becoming a white-haired old woman before I fully realized it. And suddenly, impossibly, I was on a plane returning to a country where my mother no longer existed.

When people live together, they entrust years of their lives to one another through emotion. It feels like traveling across the sea in a small boat, rocked constantly by waves. Inside that boat, we argue and worry, cling and hesitate, become each other’s reason for living, and sometimes inflict unbearable pain. All of it dissolves into shared time.

As I traveled toward my mother, these emotions surged through me like a rapid panorama. “Grief” alone could not contain them. There were memories of the truths I tried to convey, the sincerity I offered, and the ways it failed to reach her because she understood the world differently. There were wounds exchanged, and yet, despite everything, love endured. These thoughts, too, left me unable to stop crying.

When I think of my mother, the image that comes to me is a campfire. On a cold, dark night, a campfire offers comfort simply by existing—through its warmth and the sound of burning wood. I survived many difficult seasons by holding onto that warmth. Yet if one stepped too close, it could burn. We expressed love differently. Still, I know how deeply we loved and worried about one another. That shared lifetime now feels unbearably short.

I sometimes wonder whether, without our wounds, we might have looked at one another longer, more gently, without pain. While living overseas, my mother and I were given the rare gift of nine full months together. During that time, we were almost inseparable, talking nearly twenty-four hours a day. Through those conversations, I came to know her more deeply.

She, too, was simply human—fragile like a child, wounded, unsure of how to live, longing for healing. Yet the burdens she carried were far too heavy. When I think of that, the tears return.

When I arrived at the airport and walked toward the exit, it did not feel real that this was my first visit in seven years. Faces that resembled my own passed by, and only then did I feel that I was truly in Korea. Yet at the security gate, I was reminded that I was now an American. This was my first return to Korea as a citizen of another country.

Time had continued to move forward. I struggled to survive within it, became someone else in the process, gathered countless experiences and memories, and returned carrying all of them. Upon arrival, my siblings and I moved quickly, almost mechanically, to prepare my mother’s funeral. We were grieving, but we had to send her off well. Soon, my mother was placed into a small box and returned to the earth. These impossible events passed with terrifying speed.

Living takes so much time. Leaving takes almost none. I pray that my mother, now free from pain, has found eternal rest in heaven. I am grateful that I was able to see her one last time. Living far away, I had often feared I would not make it in time. Though she has passed, I feel a quiet sense that she is still watching over me.

For fifty years, I was allowed to call her “Mom.” For that alone, I am endlessly grateful. She often apologized for not giving her children more, but truly, it was enough. In a harsh and difficult world, having someone I could call “Mom” gave me a strength beyond measure.

So I spoke my final truth to her as she rested in silence. I thanked her for letting me call her “Mom.” I told her how lonely, anxious, and heavy her years must have been. They could not have been easy. Yet she endured. She lived loudly, boldly, and without shrinking.
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She was human, but I will remember her vitality, her moments of hope and joy, the sparks of life she showed along the way. I am slowly gathering myself now. During the fifteen years of her illness, I prepared my heart countless times. I still cannot believe that it happened before the year ended, but I believe I can now let her go.
Please rest peacefully. May your body and heart no longer suffer. In that place without worry or burden, may you smile freely every day.

It feels as though 2025 began only yesterday, and yet here I am, already preparing to bring this year to a close. Time moves quietly but steadily forward. When I look back, I realize how much this year has held. There were many good moments, countless things to be grateful for, and beautiful memories that will stay with me for a long time.

Above all, I want to express my deepest gratitude to those who have loved me, supported me, and believed in me. Despite my many mistakes and shortcomings, there were people who chose to understand me, help me, and give me courage when I needed it most. Because of them, I am still walking this path. That alone makes this year meaningful.

Of course, not everything was joyful. There were painful moments as well. There were experiences that reminded me, once again, that the world does not always unfold the way we hope it will. In those moments, I learned humility. I was reminded of how small I am in the face of life, and how much lies beyond my control.

There were times when I truly did my best, yet the results were disappointing. In those moments, discouragement naturally followed, and my energy faded. That is a very human response. And yet, even so, I continue to live each day with gratitude. As long as I have time to write and to paint, I feel that everything will be all right. The simple fact that I am given the time and space to do these things feels like a gift in itself.

Along the way, there were also tangible outcomes. Sometimes I received awards, sometimes I did not. Sometimes my paintings sold, sometimes they did not. But more than any of that, I have come to cherish the people who take interest in my work and my journey, those who come to this space, those who visit my exhibitions. Each of them matters deeply to me. Their presence gives meaning to what I do.
I promise myself that I will always do my best. That, at least, will not change.

This year, the central theme of my work was “joy.” As the year comes to an end, I find myself asking an honest question:
Did I truly feel joy while painting?
There is no doubt that I am happiest when I paint. And yet, there are moments when my work begins to feel heavy, almost like a burden. When daily life overwhelms me and I fail to secure time to paint, a quiet anxiety settles in. In those moments, I start thinking about physical conditions and external environments. If only I had a better space, more support, fewer constraints. But I know very well how futile these thoughts are.

Perhaps works born out of difficulty carry greater depth. Comfort and ease do not necessarily lead to meaningful art. Often, it is limitation and struggle that breathe life into a piece.

So I will continue, quietly and steadily, taking small steps forward. And I will continue to record this process. I believe this is my work, my responsibility.
I do not know how the world will respond. From my perspective, the world seems to prefer things that are more glamorous, more polished, more stimulating. But that is no longer my concern. The path of an artist resembles, in some ways, the life of a monk. When one is swept away by trends and external validation, it becomes difficult to create work that is truly honest.

Among the artists I admire most is Paul Cézanne. I respect him deeply because he understood this reality so well. For thirty-five years, he withdrew to Mont Sainte-Victoire and devoted himself entirely to painting, cutting off ties with much of the secular world. I understand his heart.

Fame, for an artist, can be compared to building the most magnificent cathedral in the world. It is dazzling, but it can easily obscure the essence of art. Those who truly wish to practice art often hesitate to step into the spotlight for that very reason.

There is a pure joy that art offers. That is the joy I want to share. But there are challenges. In a world increasingly driven by technology and artificial intelligence, creative and analog practices can sometimes feel as though they are being pushed aside. In moments like these, I remind myself that painting and writing must come first.

I find deep happiness in continuously creating something. I am grateful that creation itself is my profession. I hope that everyone, in their own way, can experience the joy of creating. Perhaps this is why artificial intelligence exists—to take care of simple tasks, so that humans can focus on creative work.
As I close this year, I look toward 2026 with a desire to approach you with deeper reflection. For me, this means not adding more, but emptying myself. Letting go of excess, quieting the noise, and moving closer to what truly matters.
Quietly, but faithfully.
That is how I intend to continue my journey.

The Google Doodle Art Contest has finally come to a close for this year.

After the submission deadline passed, I found myself returning to the students’ works one by one. Every year, this moment brings a quiet sense of fulfillment. There is relief, of course, but more than that, there is reflection.

The artworks shown above are some of the pieces that left a lasting impression on me this year. From a small boat floating across rippling water shaped into the word “Google,” to imaginative scenes rooted in nature, playful reinterpretations of each letter as an object, and deeply thoughtful compositions that weave together history, memory, and reflection, each piece speaks in its own visual language. Looking at them again, I am reminded of how many different ways children see and understand the world.

Each year, watching my students prepare for this contest brings me a great sense of purpose. Not because of the results, but because this competition does not ask for a single correct answer. Instead, it invites students to imagine freely, to think independently, and to communicate their ideas in their own voices. That, to me, is the true value of the Google Doodle Art Contest.

Students spend a surprising amount of time thinking about the phrase, “My Superpower is…”. Some choose imagination, others choose kindness, nature, memory, or writing. That choice alone becomes a personal statement. The artwork comes afterward. As they translate their thoughts into images, they revise, erase, redraw, and rethink. Through that process, they grow more confident in their ideas and more intentional in their expression.

Perhaps because of this, my students participate in this contest with genuine enjoyment, regardless of the outcome. Rather than focusing on winning, they focus on whether their ideas were communicated clearly and honestly. I believe that mindset is incredibly important. Opportunities that value expression over competition, and reflection over comparison, are rare.

One of the most remarkable things I notice each year is how much my students’ work evolves. With every new submission, their level of thought, composition, and storytelling deepens. This growth does not happen overnight. It is the result of consistent practice, curiosity, and the courage to keep expressing oneself.

I choose to document these works here because, for some students, this contest may be their first experience sharing their ideas with a wider audience. One day, when they look back at these drawings, I hope they will remember the questions they asked, the effort they put in, and the confidence they gained through the process.

To all of my students who participated this year: you did more than enough.
Regardless of the results, you should be proud of what you created.

Today, I paused in front of a candle painting I created some time ago.
As I read the news and saw yet another tragic event unfold, I found myself drawn into a moment of silence rather than words.
The loss of innocent lives due to acts of hatred continues to occur in different parts of the world, and it never becomes easier to comprehend. The recent tragedy near Bondi Beach in Sydney weighs heavily on the heart. It is devastating to see how misguided hatred and violence can abruptly end lives and leave deep wounds in their wake.
A candle is small and fragile, yet it shines clearly in the darkness.
Looking at that quiet light, I offered a moment of remembrance for the victims. Though I do not know their names or stories, their lives mattered, and they should never have been taken in such a way.
Hatred only breeds more hatred; it heals nothing.
I sincerely hope for a world where crimes driven by hatred no longer occur, where differences are met with understanding rather than violence. Even in moments of silence, remembrance and refusal to accept hatred carry meaning.
Today, the candle was not merely a painted image.
It felt like a quiet call to return to our shared humanity.