The way we view the world is always shaped through a frame--
sometimes physical, like a window,
and often invisible, like our beliefs, experiences, and assumptions.
Two people can look at the same scene and walk away with completely different interpretations.
This isn't because reality changed--
but because their frames are different.

The same applies to art.
A flat, one-dimensional painting can seem lifeless,
but when it reflects multiple perspectives, it gains depth and narrative.
In the same way, our understanding of the world becomes deeper
when we allow for different points of view.

Today, we live amid constant flows of information--
news of war, economic challenges, political debate.
It's easy to ask:
What is true? What is right?
But perhaps the more important question is:
What am I not seeing because of my own frame?

We all have internal frames through which we interpret the world.
These filters are shaped by our education, upbringing, and personal values.
They help us make sense of things,
but they can also limit our view and silence unfamiliar perspectives.
That’s why now, more than ever,
we need to practice stepping outside our own frame.

A shift in perspective doesn’t require grand gestures.
Sometimes it’s as simple as
taking a step back,
listening to someone else's story,
or loosening our grip on what we think we know.
These small shifts can completely transform how we see a situation--
just like changing the angle of light can reveal new dimensions in a painting.

Art reminds us of this constantly.
It invites us to see through different eyes,
to reconsider, to reflect, and to expand.
The act of breaking, bending, and reimagining the frame--
that’s not only the work of the artist,
but also a valuable way to engage with the world.

In a time when certainty is often louder than empathy,
what we may need most
is not sharper opinions,
but a broader frame--
one that allows us to see the landscapes others are living in.

Recently, something has changed in my paintings. The light. There’s a certain glow now—an atmosphere that wasn’t quite there before. The light in my paintings is a reflection of an inner transformation. Looking back, I realize that until I fully embraced the path of being an artist, I was like a salmon swimming upstream.

To live that way, against the current, required relentless effort. There was nothing effortless or natural about it. My life was built entirely on labor, perseverance, and control. And at times, those efforts were rewarded. When I received recognition, when I was invited to teach at a university, when I landed multi-million dollar projects or attended international conferences—those moments validated the work. And they always left me wanting more.

But every time I succeeded, another voice inside would speak up:
“Is this truly the life you want?”
“If no one recognized you, if there was no reward—would you still want this path?”
Again and again, I turned away from the part of me that wanted to paint, telling myself survival came first. But when I was in Germany, alone with my thoughts and routines stripped away, I couldn’t defer the answer anymore.
Eventually, I said: “Yes. I choose the artist’s path.”
And I have continued on that path ever since.
From a practical standpoint, the art world is not an easy path. The statistics are harsh. Only the top few percent of artists can confidently say, “Follow me.” I’ve met countless creatives—some with secure careers—who quietly admit that they would never give up teaching or design work to pursue pure art.

So why have I stayed this course?
Because I answered that voice inside me.
Because walking this road with a full yes, even when it's hard, brings peace and quiet to my inner world.
I know now that there is something within me that moves me, that drives me. That’s why I walk this path as an artist with a deepening sense of certainty. I also know that every painting I make holds energy, spirit, and something unseen. That’s why I don’t push. That’s why I stay quiet. In truth, it’s not so different from the life of a shaman. When one can no longer turn away from their calling, and chooses to walk that uncertain road, what they long for is not fame—but light.
That longing is what fills my paintings now.
And that light isn’t something you add with paint. It comes from inside. The softer and clearer your mind becomes, the more naturally the light enters your work. Perhaps I am just beginning to learn that.

What comes next? I don’t know.
I just keep walking. I try to paint as much as possible. That is my truest answer.
This year, the call within me is to paint as much as I can. And for that, I am preparing to clear everything else from my schedule. After this summer, my work will change. It must. Not because I want it to—but because painting so much, day after day, cannot help but change the painter. The act will do the work.
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Painting follows life. Life informs painting. I am learning to follow the flow.

Today, I went to a local coffee shop with my son. As we sat down with our drinks, I noticed a folded newspaper left behind on the table. Almost instinctively, I opened it—and suddenly, I felt something stir deep inside me. There they were: photographs of uniformed men, rows of tanks, scenes that brought back memories I thought I had long left behind.

I came to America in search of freedom. My childhood was defined by darkness and confusion. My father was once tortured under a military dictatorship. He would often warn me, “Never go near protests.” His voice always carried the weight of pain and fear—wounds that never quite healed. As a child, I lived with deep empathy for my father and a quiet grief for the time we lived in. And I vowed to myself that one day, I would leave. That I would find a place where I could speak, think, and feel freely. Where my thoughts and beliefs would not make me a target—but be respected.

So I worked, fought, endured. Life as an immigrant was hard, uncertain, and lonely, but it was nothing compared to the fear I had grown up with. I was thankful every day for the chance to raise my children in a society that felt safe and open—a place where I didn’t have to fear secret police banging on my door in the middle of the night.

But perhaps this is the strange irony of fate. Today, looking at that newspaper, I saw a scene eerily familiar to those from my childhood. Only this time, the language was English. Tanks, soldiers, political unrest—different place, same shadow.

I’m not on the left or the right. I’m an artist. I just want to live freely, to express freely. That’s all. And yet lately, there’s been this nameless anxiety in me. Will I be punished for writing this post? Is it truly unthinkable to imagine myself being taken away for simply expressing my thoughts?

Why should we feel this way in a country that stands for freedom?

As an artist, I feel that the age of darkness has returned—where creative expression is tinged with fear, and saying the wrong thing can cost you everything. And yet, I hold no hatred for those I see in the news, even the ones who stir controversy. In fact, I admire their energy, their passion. I only hope they will lead with compassion—not with division. I hope they don’t make the mistake my country once did: turning against its own people.

Still, I am thankful for today—for the moment I had with my son, for the conversation we shared about freedom, history, and the future. I only wish he didn’t have to inherit this burden of fear. I wish I didn’t have to say, “I’m sorry,” without knowing exactly why.
​
But maybe, just maybe, even in these uncertain times, I can still choose hope.

It’s been six years since I last visited Korea. Sometimes, this physical distance feels like a quiet ache—a longing that words can’t quite hold. But last week, that ache softened, thanks to my dear friend Sophie.

Sophie hosted a Korean-style pocha (street tent pub) in her backyard, and it wasn’t just for fun—it was a heartfelt, detailed tribute to the Korea I miss so dearly. She brought in authentic pojangmacha chairs, a charcoal firepit, wooden signboards with Korean dish names, and even recreated the casual yet comforting atmosphere of a true Korean street stall. This wasn’t just decoration—it was love, memory, and artistry in action.

I often think of her as an artist of emotion and experience. Her food—especially the kimchi jeon and fishcake soup—tasted better than anything I’ve had in Korea recently. It was the atmosphere, the intention, and perhaps the soft rain that began to fall as we sat around the fire, sipping makgeolli, that made the flavors come alive. That moment healed something in me.
Living in the U.S. as a Korean is not always easy. We navigate layers of cultural disconnection, subtle and overt racism, and the emotional labor of constantly adapting. Artists like myself often find that we exist in spaces where there are few who look or feel like us. The world of art here isn’t always built for Asian souls—and yet we persist. We create. We give.

There are angels here too—people who extend warmth without needing a reason. I’ve been lucky to meet many of them. Sophie is one of those angels.

This experience reminded me of the Korean concept of “jeong” (정)—an unconditional, everyday kindness. Growing up in Korea, I remember walking into a neighbor’s house and being offered freshly made jeon without question. The corner store owner would hand out free shikhye(Sweet Korean Rice Punch) to anyone passing by. Doors were open. Plates were shared. There was no purpose, just warmth.
Sometimes, in the hustle of survival in a foreign country, we Koreans forget to live by jeong. But when I share it with my Western friends, they often ask, “Why are you being so kind?” Because for us, kindness doesn’t need a reason. It is simply who we are.

I couldn’t participate in my child’s multicultural day at school this year due to my schedule. But this backyard pocha has lit a new fire in me. Next year, I will create a Korean booth again. I will share our flavors, our colors, and our spirit. Because sharing Korea—through food, art, or simple warmth—is how I stay connected to home, and how I create home, wherever I go.
Thank you, Sophie. For your heart, your spirit, and your unforgettable pocha.

The painting I completed during the recent Wet Paint Festival has now been beautifully framed—and seeing it within the golden frame feels like watching the forest breathe, now gently enclosed in quiet light and time.
This piece was painted during a moment of personal shift.
Rather than pushing, I let go.
I allowed the colors to wander, the roots to flow, and the branches to speak on their own.

I painted with a looseness I had been afraid to trust before--
and yet, that very looseness brought me closer to truth.
The central tree in this painting represents, for me, a presence that holds its ground.

Its tangled roots and winding limbs echo a lifetime of standing firm, growing, enduring, and reaching.
​
Painting it felt like tracing my own resilience.
The Wet Paint Festival became more than an outdoor event--
it marked a quiet turning point in my creative journey.
I began to realize that letting go doesn’t mean losing control,
but gaining something deeper: clarity, breath, and strength.
Now that the work is framed, I can see it with new eyes.
It reminds me that being gentle is powerful,
that imperfect can be complete,
and that sometimes, the forest inside us just needs a little room to grow.