New York is now working hard to clear the snow left behind by a powerful snowstorm. This time, the snowfall was especially heavy. When I tried to open the front door, it barely moved. That was the moment I realized just how much snow had piled up overnight. The mailbox had completely disappeared under the white blanket, and even the snowblower seemed to struggle against the weight of it.

With a shovel in hand, I began clearing the snow off the car. It was surprisingly difficult to tell which part was the vehicle and which part was simply snow. The shapes had dissolved into one continuous mound of white. After persistent effort, the outline of the driveway slowly emerged, followed by the familiar shape of the car. Only then did I let out a quiet sigh of relief. Back inside, I warmed myself with a cup of hot tea, grateful for the simple comfort.

Every winter, we repeat this ritual—lifting shovels, pushing snow machines, and enduring brief periods of isolation. We prepare by stocking up on food and spending time by the fireplace, yet the feeling of not being able to leave the house brings an unexpected sense of confinement. Roads fall silent except for snowplows. Neighborhoods become temporarily still, almost suspended in time.

And yet, even in these conditions, people find ways to share a little humor. I recently came across a playful sign that read: “FREE Snow Shoveling Class — at my driveway. Real-world training provided. Bring your own shovel.” It captures something essential about winter here. The labor is heavy, the inconvenience real, but a bit of wit lightens the burden.

Snowstorms may isolate us physically, but they also remind us of community. Neighbors help one another dig out. Short greetings are exchanged over piles of snow. Jokes circulate online. Together, we move through the season.
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Winter returns each year, and each year it leaves behind a slightly different story. Today, as I look at the driveway and car finally uncovered from the snow, I am reminded that this season, too, will pass—making way for another landscape, another rhythm of life.

Nature does not speak in words, yet it is never silent.
In my watercolor landscapes, I attempt to listen.
The forest of pale birch trunks, the quiet deer standing within filtered light, the rolling hills dissolving into mist, and the ordinary afternoon illuminated by slanting sun — these are not dramatic scenes. They are moments of pause. I am drawn to landscapes where stillness carries presence.
Working primarily in watercolor, I allow water, pigment, and transparency to collaborate with me. The fluidity of the medium reflects the way light shifts across land and living beings. Rather than sharply defining every form, I let edges soften and dissolve, suggesting that nature is not an object separate from us but an atmosphere we inhabit.
In the birch forest piece, vertical rhythms echo breath and silence, while the deer appear almost as quiet witnesses. In the pastoral hills, mist blurs boundaries between sky and earth, emphasizing continuity rather than separation. In “Sunlight on an Ordinary Afternoon,” filtered light transforms common birds and leaves into something contemplative and sacred.
My intention is not to dramatize the landscape, but to create space for reflection — an invitation for viewers to slow down and rediscover their own dialogue with the natural world.
Through these works, I explore how light, air, and quiet presence can become forms of conversation.

Sunlight on an Ordinary Afternoon

​Filtered sunlight streams diagonally across a dense canopy of leaves, transforming an ordinary scene into a luminous moment. The composition balances structure and spontaneity: strong wooden posts and branches anchor the painting, while translucent leaves and splattered highlights suggest movement and air.
Three pigeons perch quietly on the wooden fence, their forms rendered with careful detail yet softened by surrounding washes of green and gold. They are familiar, everyday birds — but under shifting light, they appear contemplative and dignified.
The diagonal rays of light act as both compositional and emotional focus. Through watercolor’s natural fluidity, the painting captures how light can elevate a common afternoon into something reflective and intimate. The work emphasizes observation — the beauty found not in spectacle, but in attention.

On the Hills

Rolling hills stretch across the composition, softened by atmospheric perspective and delicate transitions of green, blue, and ochre. The landscape unfolds gradually, leading the eye from foreground textures toward distant mist-covered mountains.
Fences trace subtle lines through the fields, guiding the viewer across space and suggesting quiet human presence without intrusion. Small grazing cattle dot the middle ground, integrated naturally into the terrain. They function less as focal points and more as part of the landscape’s rhythm.
Watercolor transparency allows light to permeate the hills, creating a sense of openness and breath. The layering of washes builds depth while maintaining softness. The painting reflects a contemplative rural calm — not dramatic, but expansive and serene.

A Brilliant Afternoon

​A vertical forest of pale birch trees fills the composition, their slender trunks rising like quiet columns of light. The soft washes of watercolor create layers of atmosphere, where mist and filtered sunlight dissolve the boundaries between foreground and distance. Subtle blues, muted greens, and warm earth tones intermingle, evoking both cool shade and late afternoon warmth.
Nestled within the forest, a small group of deer stands almost silently, partially veiled by light and shadow. They do not dominate the scene; instead, they belong to it. Their quiet presence enhances the stillness of the moment, suggesting a fragile harmony between wildlife and landscape.
The vertical rhythm of the trees creates a meditative cadence, inviting the viewer to slow down and enter the space gently. The work captures not movement, but suspended time — an afternoon where light becomes the true subject of the painting.
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Walking a Little More SlowlyThese days, I am walking a little more slowly.
The snail has always been my motif, and sometimes I wonder what it means to move even slower than that.
When someone leaves this world, many thoughts follow.
There is a natural period of mourning.
While we are alive, we create many scenes together.
We love, misunderstand, resent, forgive, help, and hurt one another.
But when the physical presence is gone, those scenes no longer continue.
What remains is a story.
It is difficult to say whether that story is tragic or beautiful.
Human life is rarely entirely one or the other.
It feels more like a record, or a documentary of events that unfolded as they did.
Certain things happened.
Within them, we felt sorrow and misunderstanding.
And despite everything, there was also love.
Someone leaves.
Someone remains.
Those who remain continue their days.
That seems to be the structure of life.
During this time, I have been thinking about what my blog means to me.
My mother did not particularly value my writing.
She believed that artistic work lacked practical meaning.
To her, creating and sharing stories seemed close to daydreaming.
Until I became independent, I could not freely pursue writing or painting.
Supporting my family came first.
I have never fully shared this part of my life with my family back home.
It was simply how that period unfolded.
In time, I became independent and, somewhat later than expected, began pursuing my own path again.
I opened a blog and started recording my daily thoughts about art.
There was a period when I focused almost entirely on painting.
I did not follow a specific philosophy.
I simply repeated the work and stayed with it.
Over time, that practice gave me direction.
It helped me form a steadier sense of where I am going.
These days I am moving more slowly.
But I have not stopped.
This slower pace is also part of the path.

On snowy days, life here comes to a complete stop.
Schools close, and the roads are occupied only by snowplows moving steadily back and forth. Once the snow eases, we step outside with shovels to clear our driveways and sidewalks.

When I first came to the United States, I often wondered why houses were so large.
I thought smaller, more compact homes—like apartment living in Korea—might be more efficient.

After several winters, however, I understood the reason.
When it snows, we are confined indoors. We stock up on emergency food and prepare for what feels like a small survival game. Homes need space—enough room to walk around and stay active, and enough people inside to help each other endure long hours of isolation without boredom.

After years of these semi-forced winters indoors, you begin to develop your own strategies.
The question becomes: how can we endure this quiet, restricted time in a way that is enjoyable and meaningful?
This winter, my classes transitioned online, and I have been spending my days teaching students from home and preparing lessons. Even now, snow still blankets the outdoors, and the air remains bitterly cold—but as I focus on building effective lessons, time seems to disappear.

One unexpected advantage of online teaching is the ability to communicate details that are often difficult to show in an in-person classroom. For this reason, I intentionally simplified my materials. I wanted students to be able to follow along easily, using only what they already had at home.

Pencil drawing turned out to be the perfect medium.
With just an A4 sheet of paper, a pencil, an eraser, and a paper towel for blending, anyone can create a compelling drawing. The simplicity of these tools allows students to focus not on materials, but on observation and technique.
Another discovery emerged through these online lessons: they provide an excellent opportunity to teach proportion—the foundation of beauty in visual art. Portrait drawing, in particular, makes this concept clear.

Most people have experienced the frustration of trying to draw a portrait—especially of a famous person—only to find that something feels off. Even when the drawing looks accurate, it somehow lacks the intended likeness. Facial proportion, angles, and the placement of shadows vary subtly from person to person, and those small differences define individuality.

Portrait drawing trains the eye to observe carefully. It is not about copying a face, but about understanding it.
As I prepared my next lesson, I decided to introduce a more challenging concept: proportion. While it is not an easy topic, mastering it dramatically improves the quality of one’s drawings.

For this lesson, I chose Audrey Hepburn as my subject.
I have always enjoyed drawing her face—not because it is conventionally perfect, but because its imperfections create remarkable harmony. Her beauty cannot be reduced to symmetry or ideal ratios. Even modern cosmetic surgery would struggle to replicate the elegance and charm she possessed naturally.
This led me to a new question: how can beginners learn to draw such a face accurately and with confidence?

That question became the foundation of this new lesson.
Rather than simply copying an image, students learn how to analyze proportion and observe relationships within the face—learning how a portrait becomes convincing, not just recognizable.
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I hope this online class becomes a meaningful experience for my students.
Even as snow freezes the world outside, we continue to learn, to draw, and to explore what beauty truly means—quietly, from inside our homes.

Today, a blizzard swept through our area, leaving nearly 14 inches of snow behind. The conditions were so severe that clearing the snow felt nearly impossible without heavy equipment. Considering the roads and overall safety, we decided to move today’s class online.

What stood out to me was how effective the online format turned out to be. Teaching from a calm, controlled environment made it easier to stay focused and to clearly deliver what needed to be communicated. Without the distractions and uncertainties that often come with in-person logistics during extreme weather, the class flowed more steadily and intentionally.

This experience sparked a new idea for me: during the upcoming break, I want to develop multiple formats of online classes. Rather than seeing online instruction merely as a backup plan, I’m beginning to view it as a meaningful and flexible educational option—one that can be especially valuable in times like these.
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As climate change continues to bring more frequent and unpredictable weather events, there will be more days when stepping outside is difficult or unsafe. Education, like many aspects of life, needs to adapt with greater flexibility and care.
To everyone who is struggling with extreme weather or unable to leave their homes today, I sincerely hope you remain safe and well. May we all get through these challenging moments with patience, resilience, and consideration for one another.