I was born in Seoul, Korea but I’ve lived longer in New York.
I came to New York for graduate school and got married. I’ve been trying to be an artist ever since I landed at JFK for the first time.
As an immigrant, creating a new life in a new country is difficult. As an immigrant artist, is it very difficult. As an immigrant artist married to another immigrant artist, it is near-impossible. However, I have memories of my homeland to help express myself through my art.
I remember I’m wearing fresh clothes dried after being washed on the rocks in a small brook near my house. I’m lying on a straw mat at sunset, having a conversation with friends and listening to the crying cicadas. I’m warm and safe and the day never ends.
I remember Mom is in our Buddhist temple and I play with the other children in the courtyard. I guard her favorite white rubber shoes with the thin soles as she prayed and prayed for something I never could know.
After getting married, my husband and I had no money and no place to live together. I drew on our kitchen table with materials my husband left over after while he slept. We didn’t have much back then but I was just happy to live in New York and continue making my art.
More than thirty years have passed since I first landed at JFK. Now I can finally afford a studio with time to spare. In my paintings you can find the woman alone, the woman in thought, the woman worn out, and the woman enjoying the moment. Sometimes I feel they all say the same thing: Do Not Disturb. If they have a husband and he disturbs them, she will file for divorce.
The Buddha taught his students two kinds of human pains. You want what you cannot have and even if you do get it, it’s never what you expected it to be. I am working on my art to the best of my ability. I wish one day there is a mature, sophisticated woman in my paintings. But maybe, in the end, all I will find is an angry woman disappointed with how her life turned out.
I came to New York for graduate school and got married. I’ve been trying to be an artist ever since I landed at JFK for the first time.
As an immigrant, creating a new life in a new country is difficult. As an immigrant artist, is it very difficult. As an immigrant artist married to another immigrant artist, it is near-impossible. However, I have memories of my homeland to help express myself through my art.
I remember I’m wearing fresh clothes dried after being washed on the rocks in a small brook near my house. I’m lying on a straw mat at sunset, having a conversation with friends and listening to the crying cicadas. I’m warm and safe and the day never ends.
I remember Mom is in our Buddhist temple and I play with the other children in the courtyard. I guard her favorite white rubber shoes with the thin soles as she prayed and prayed for something I never could know.
After getting married, my husband and I had no money and no place to live together. I drew on our kitchen table with materials my husband left over after while he slept. We didn’t have much back then but I was just happy to live in New York and continue making my art.
More than thirty years have passed since I first landed at JFK. Now I can finally afford a studio with time to spare. In my paintings you can find the woman alone, the woman in thought, the woman worn out, and the woman enjoying the moment. Sometimes I feel they all say the same thing: Do Not Disturb. If they have a husband and he disturbs them, she will file for divorce.
The Buddha taught his students two kinds of human pains. You want what you cannot have and even if you do get it, it’s never what you expected it to be. I am working on my art to the best of my ability. I wish one day there is a mature, sophisticated woman in my paintings. But maybe, in the end, all I will find is an angry woman disappointed with how her life turned out.
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