Member Artist Showcase 2026 at Mills Pond Gallery marks the beginning of the new year with a thoughtful and compelling exhibition that brings together a diverse group of member artists working across different media and perspectives. The exhibition runs from January 31 through February 28, 2026, with an Opening Reception on Saturday, January 31, from 1:00 to 4:00 pm. All are welcome to attend, meet the artists, and experience this unique and engaging showcase.

Brilliant Blue Horse in Moonlight, a piece that reflects on the emotional, psychological, and creative transformations that unfolded over the past year. Rather than offering a literal narrative, the painting invites viewers into a quiet, reflective space shaped by change, uncertainty, and renewal.

The blue horse stands calmly beneath moonlight, its silver-highlighted mane flowing softly through the darkness. The figure is neither in motion nor fully at rest, but poised in a moment of balance. This stillness is intentional. It represents a pause between chapters—a space where reflection gives way to clarity, and where strength is found not in force, but in quiet resolve.
Koh’s work emerged during a period marked by transition. Over time, moments of uncertainty gradually gave way to understanding; some connections drifted apart while others deepened. Throughout these shifts, the creative process continued to evolve, absorbing cycles of letting go and rebuilding. These experiences are woven subtly and visibly into the surface of the painting, creating layers that reward close, contemplative viewing.
The final brushstrokes—most notably the silver accents moving through the horse’s mane—signaled both completion and beginning. While they mark the end of the painting process, they also suggest the opening of something new. Standing in moonlight, the horse becomes a symbol of quiet strength and forward momentum, embodying the sense of entering a fresh chapter that is steady, luminous, and grounded.

Member Artist Showcase 2026 offers viewers the opportunity to encounter a wide range of artistic voices, each responding to personal and collective experiences through their work. Though varied in medium and subject, the pieces come together in conversation, creating a rich and cohesive exhibition that reflects the complexity of contemporary creative life.

The Opening Reception provides a welcoming space for the community to gather, engage directly with the artists, and gain insight into their creative processes. It is an invitation not only to view art, but to connect—through dialogue, reflection, and shared experience.
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This exhibition is an opportunity to pause at the start of a new year and consider what has been carried forward, what has been released, and what lies ahead. Like the blue horse under moonlight, the works in this show encourage viewers to stand with intention, grounded yet open to movement, ready to step into what comes next.

I have begun the quiet process of returning to my everyday life and preparing once again for my classes. The place where I have settled is not merely where I work; it is where my purpose and sense of calling reside. My days are busy and full, yet I find myself deeply grateful for this rhythm of life. There is meaning in the routines, and comfort in knowing that this is where I am meant to be.

Preparing lessons, organizing materials, and welcoming students back into the classroom reminds me why I chose this path. Watching students grow, struggle, experiment, and ultimately achieve their own small and large victories brings me profound fulfillment. Their progress is a living reminder that creation is an act of hope. In these moments, the weight of grief softens, and for a while, I am able to step away from the sorrow of having said goodbye to my mother.
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At the same time, this year marks a period of deeper reflection for me as an artist. After allowing myself space to pause and look inward, I am beginning to envision new work with greater clarity and intention. I plan to approach my creative practice more thoughtfully, developing ideas that are rooted in contemplation, memory, and growth. With this renewed focus, I will steadily prepare for the many exhibitions ahead this year, carrying both gratitude and remembrance with me as I move forward.
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This balance—between teaching and creating, between loss and purpose—is how I return to myself, one day at a time.

​After my mother’s funeral, I walked through the streets of Manhattan that hold so many memories. If we had been given more days together, there would have been so many more places I would have wanted to show her. But life is full of such lingering regrets. I stopped by a nearby cathedral and offered a quiet prayer for my mother.
Perhaps because this year is the Year of the Horse, a horse on the streets of Manhattan caught my eye. Slowly, my heart is beginning to accept reality. Having become independent at a young age and lived far from my mother in a foreign country for so many years, I do not have the luxury of remaining submerged in grief. I must keep moving forward.
My mother, too, left Korea when she was young and lived in Japan for many years. The stories she told me about survival in a foreign land stayed with me, and they helped me greatly when I later lived abroad myself. She always urged me to live intelligently and with strength. She told me to accept that life overseas is filled with challenges—things you cannot obtain, moments when words fail you, and the frustration of not being understood. Rather than resisting these realities, she encouraged me to accept them, to find interest and even joy in solving problems and achieving something within those constraints.
Perhaps because of that, I was able to navigate life in both Germany and the United States with resilience, facing each challenge one by one. In the end, I fulfilled a long-held dream of mine.
In truth, my mother did not want me to become an artist. She strongly opposed it, and eventually I gave up that path. But when I went to Germany, I finally found my own way. I became independent, held exhibitions, and invited my mother to see my paintings. That was one of the happiest moments of my life. After that, every time I painted, she would tell me how beautiful my work was.
Now, when I paint, the mother who once looked at my work with childlike delight is no longer by my side. Yet I believe that each time I paint, she is watching with that same quiet pride. When I look back on the past, everything feels like a dream. And within my now-calm heart, a quiet sense of gratitude gently settles.
We all pass through this finite journey of life, knowing that one day we must leave this world. In moments like this, I find myself thinking more seriously about what kind of life one should live. When I look around, I see that lives filled with love and sacrifice always leave traces behind.
In this limited time we are given, I want to live in a way that no moment passes in vain. I want to live with gratitude, and with love.

The year 2026 has begun.
It is the first year I greet after completing my mother’s funeral, after returning to New York from Korea, after closing a chapter that defined much of my emotional life.
Life continues for those who remain.
That is one of the quiet truths of loss: the world does not pause, even when something fundamental has ended.
Somewhere, I believe my mother continues to exist—in a place beyond geography, beyond illness, beyond explanation. In my heart, she feels less like someone who has vanished and more like someone who has gone on a long journey. She is no longer present in the way she once was, but she has not disappeared. She remains, gently, at a distance.
Her final appearance was peaceful. That image has become a source of comfort for me. For a long time, my days were filled with worry—about her illness, her recovery, the uncertainty of outcomes. From far away, I lived in constant tension, watching helplessly as time passed. And then, suddenly, that long period of anxious waiting came to an end. The fear dissolved, not because everything was resolved, but because there was nothing left to anticipate.
From where I lived, the only tangible role I could play was sending hospital bills and covering necessary expenses. It may seem small, but even that felt meaningful. I am grateful that I was able to carry that responsibility. In moments of helplessness, even limited acts of care can anchor us, giving form to love when presence is impossible.
As I returned to New York, a thought stayed with me: the lives of those who leave their homelands and make homes elsewhere. Immigrants, expatriates, wanderers—people who build lives far from where they were born. I realized that many of us live similar emotional lives, even if our stories differ.
When the people who gave birth to us and raised us leave this world, the place we once called “home” changes irrevocably. It becomes no longer a destination, but a memory. A place filled with echoes rather than futures. What was once home becomes a landscape of recollection.
And so, quietly, something shifts.
My home is here now.
Here—where my family lives, where my work continues, where my dreams take shape, where my paintings are created. Home is no longer tied to origin, but to presence. Not to the past, but to the life that continues.
For now, I will rest.
I will allow myself a season of stillness. I will think about my next body of work, return to my responsibilities, and immerse myself again in the rhythms of daily life. Grief does not require constant attention; sometimes it asks only for honesty and space.
For some, 2026 will be a year overflowing with hope—new plans, bold challenges, ambitious beginnings. For others, like me, it will be a year of quiet recovery, of gathering oneself after loss. Neither path is more meaningful than the other.
Whatever shape this year takes, I hope that 2026 moves forward like a running horse—strong, determined, and unafraid of distance. A year that does not stop at sorrow, does not surrender to despair, but continues onward, standing up again even after falling.
May this year carry us forward.
Not untouched, but resilient.

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.