Traveling the Unexpected Path

We often find ourselves experiencing the truth behind the saying, “The wrong train can take you to the right destination.” Even if you board the wrong train, if you don't despair and wait, you will eventually arrive at an unexpected new place. In fact, on that unfamiliar journey, you might meet precious people and reach an even better destination. If you never get on the train, you can't get anywhere. Even if you miss one, stepping onto the next train opens up a world of unexpected experiences.

Back when I lived in Seoul, I wanted so badly to get married. However, being short and frail, no man easily approached me. Through a matchmaker, I met a doctor whose family blatantly demanded an apartment, claiming it was the only way to balance the scales. “Do you want to buy an apartment to marry that doctor? Or would you rather use that money to study abroad?” My father asked with a serious face, as if trying to see into my true heart. “I want to study abroad.” “I knew you would say that. Tall American men don't care much about height anyway. Who knows? Your soulmate might be waiting for you in America. And what if you don't get married? Just live freely.”

With that, I gained my independence from my father and unpacked my bags at a dormitory at Adelphi University in Long Island. During my first Thanksgiving in America, it snowed non-stop for three or four days. I couldn't step outside, and even the school cafeteria was closed. Having failed to prepare any food in advance, I starved for three whole days. Finally unable to bear it any longer, I called my father. “Dad, I want to come home. I can’t live here.” “Alright, then. You can't leave right now because of the weather, so come back once the snow stops.” Strangely enough, once the snow stopped and I finally ate something, I cleared my mind. Since I had already paid the tuition, I thought I should at least finish the semester. After that, whenever New York felt too hard to bear, I would call my father and cry, saying I wanted to return. Each time, he would gently comfort me. “Of course, if it’s too hard, you should come back. But you’ve gone all the way to New York—have you even been to Manhattan yet? Just going there on the weekend and watching the people walk by will teach you so much. You should at least see Manhattan properly before you come back.”

Following his advice, I wandered into the heart of Manhattan and found myself in Central Park. Sitting by the lake, I quietly watched the people passing by. Seeing them enjoying nature and living their lives so fully, a deep desire welled up inside me: I wanted to live freely and beautifully just like them. In the end, I put off returning to Seoul and transferred my school to Manhattan.

Not once did my father rush me to finish my studies and come home. Whenever I whined about wanting to go back to Korea, he quietly guided me to love New York instead, putting my worried mind at ease. Although I failed to catch the 'safe train' called marriage in Seoul and had to take a long, arduous detour, I eventually arrived at the destination I truly desired.

Suddenly, I look over at my husband, who is dozing off beside me. No, perhaps I am still on that train, journeying toward that beautiful destination even now.

보내는 마음

2025년 12월 20일, 뉴저지 해켄색(Hackensack) 리버사이드 스퀘어 몰(Riverside Square Mall)에 있는 리버사이드 갤러리에서 내 개인전 오프닝을 열었다. 그간 작업실에 틀어박혀 바람 한 점 쐬지 못하고 조명도 받지 못했던 66점의 작품들이, 갤러리의 환한 조명 아래서 행복한 듯 밝은 빛을 띠고 있었다.

나는 평생 고등학교 시절의 몸무게를 유지하고 있다. 덕분에 40여 년 전 옷도 서너 벌 여전히 간직하고 있다. 옷장에만 갇혀 바깥 구경을 못 하는 옷들에게 미안해서, 일 년에 한두 번씩은 일부러 꺼내 입고 바람도 쐬어주고 햇볕도 받게 한다. 내 작품들에게도 전시회를 통해 자꾸만 바깥세상을 구경시켜 주려는 이유가 바로 여기에 있다.

물건 사는 것을 그리 좋아하지 않지만, 일단 내 수중에 들어온 물건에는 사람에게 느끼는 것과 같은 동질감을 느껴 혼잣말을 중얼거리는 버릇이 있다. “미안해, 어두운 옷장 안에만 가둬둬서. 내 작품들에도 참 미안하구나. 좁은 작업실에만 처박아 두어서.”

하물며 오래전에 타던 빨간 차는 ‘효녀 딸’이라 불렀다. 차에 올라타 운전대를 잡을 때마다 나는 늘 이렇게 말했다. “효녀야, 오늘도 안전하게 다녔다가 무사히 집으로 돌아오자.” 11년 동안 사고 한번 없이 말 잘 듣던 그 차를 두고, 욕심을 내어 BMW 새 차를 뽑았다. 딜러 주차장에 왜 나를 두고 가느냐는 듯 멀뚱히 서 있던 효녀 빨간 차가 시야에서 멀어질 때, 나는 결국 눈물을 흘렸다. “미안해. 너를 여기 혼자 두고 나만 잘 살겠다고 떠나서.” 언젠가 서울에서 만난 대학 동기가 이런 말을 한 적이 있다. 너를 만나러 오기 전, 오래 타던 차를 폐차시키고 그 자리에 꽃다발 한 묶음을 놓고 오는 길이라고. 그녀의 여린 마음이 고스란히 내게도 전해져 깊이 공감했던 기억이 난다.

새로 온 BMW는 든든한 아들 같은 느낌이 들어 ‘효자’라고 불렀다. 하지만 4만 마일까지는 잘 달리더니, 워런티가 끝나자마자 고속도로 한복판에 서서 말썽을 부렸다. 한 번 고장 날 때마다 엄청난 수리비가 들었다. 불효자가 된 녀석과 매일 마주하는 것이 괴로워, 결국 미련 없이 팔아 없앴다.

사물에조차 이토록 애착을 갖는 나인데, 전시회가 끝나면 이 작품들은 어찌 될까. 누군가 내 작업을 좋아해 주어 데려가지 않는다면, 녀석들은 다시 어두운 작업실로 들어가 처박히고 말 것이다. 갤러리에서 환하게 빛나는 작품들을 둘러보는데 만감이 교차했다.

다행히도 내가 아끼는 친구들이 내 작품이 마음에 든다며 사려 하기에, 나는 갤러리 관장에게 가격을 더 낮추어 달라고 청했다. 내 작품이 아늑한 집 거실에 걸려 그들을 기쁘게 하고, 그곳에서 편안하게 숨 쉬기를 바라기 때문이다.

좋은 작품일수록 내가 품고 있기보다, 좋은 분에게 가 아낌없는 사랑을 받도록 그림 가격을 낮춰주는 것이 뭐 대수랴. 세상이 쪼개지는 일도 아니다. 사랑하는 자식일수록 품 안에서 멀리 보내, 스스로 홀로 서서 빛을 내며 행복하게 살기를 바라는 부모의 마음과 같은 것이다.

A Heart of Letting Go

On December 20, 2025, the opening night of my solo exhibition was held at the Riverside Gallery in the Riverside Square Mall in Hackensack, New Jersey. Sixty-six of my paintings, which had been locked away in my dark studio without a breath of fresh air or proper lighting, looked so bright and happy under the gallery lights.

I have maintained the same body weight since my high school days. Thanks to that, I still keep three or four outfits from over forty years ago. Feeling sorry for these clothes because they are trapped in the closet and never get to go out, I make sure to wear them once or twice a year so they can breathe the fresh air and feel the sunlight. This is exactly why I try to show my artwork the outside world through exhibitions.

I don’t really like buying things, but once something belongs to me, I feel a deep, human-like connection with it. I often find myself whispering to my things: "I’m sorry for keeping you locked in this dark closet. And I’m so sorry to my paintings, too, for leaving you cooped up in that cramped studio."

This was especially true for my old red car, which I used to call my "devoted daughter." Every time I got in and took the wheel, I would always say, "My good daughter, let's drive safely today and come back home in one piece." After eleven years of driving without a single accident, I let my greed get the best of me and bought a brand-new BMW. As I drove away from the dealership, looking back at my old red car standing there in the parking lot as if asking why I was leaving her behind, I couldn’t help but cry. "I’m so much sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you here alone just so I can go off and live a better life." It reminded me of what a college friend from Seoul once told me. Before coming to see me, she had sent her old car to the junkyard and left a bundle of flowers where it used to be. Her tender heart reached me, and I deeply resonated with her back then.

My new BMW felt like a dependable son, so I called him my "devoted son." He ran perfectly for the first 40,000 miles, but as soon as the warranty expired, he broke down right in the middle of the highway. Every single repair cost a small fortune. It became painful to face this "unfilial son" every day, so I eventually sold him without any regrets.

Since I am someone who attaches so much heart to mere objects, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to these paintings once the exhibition was over. If no one loved my work enough to take it home, these pieces would have to go right back into that dark studio. Walking among my paintings glowing so brightly in the gallery, a whirlwind of emotions crossed my mind.

Fortunately, some of my dear friends loved my paintings and wanted to buy them. So, I asked the gallery owner to lower the prices even further. I did this because I want my artwork to hang in their cozy living rooms, bringing them joy and breathing comfortably in a peaceful place.

When a piece of work is truly good, what does it matter if I lower the price? The world won’t fall apart just because I let it go so it can be loved by someone wonderful, rather than keeping it tucked away for myself. It is just like the heart of a parent who sends their beloved children out into the world, wishing for them to stand on their own two feet, shine brightly, and live happily.

그해 봄날은 따듯했네

일주일에 나흘 정도는 브루클린 그린포인트로 출근한다. 평생 '직장'이라는 곳에 다녀본 적 없는 내가, 12년 전 맨해튼으로 이사 오면서도 차마 처분하지 못하고 남겨둔 스튜디오에 판화 작업을 하러 가는 길이다. 정오부터 저녁 여섯 시까지 작업에 몰두하다 보면 온몸이 늘어진다. 집으로 돌아오는 길, 질질 끌리는 발걸음은 한없이 피곤하지만 아직도 출퇴근할 기운이 남아 있는 내 자신이 문득 대견하게 느껴진다.

문득 결혼 후 맞이했던 첫 크리스마스가 떠오른다. 당시 시아버지가 보내주신 비행기 표를 들고 LA에 갔다. 크리스마스 선물을 살 돈조차 없었던 나는 대학 시절 만든 판화를 액자에 넣어 머뭇거리며 내밀었다. “아버님, 선물로 제 작품을 가져왔습니다.” “이것은 판화가 아니냐?” “네, 뉴욕에 와서 판화 공부를 했어요. 학교 다닐 때 만든 작품이에요.” 훑어보시던 아버님이 나직하게 말씀하셨다. "판화기가 있어야겠구나."

그리고 1990년, 시아버님으로부터 한 통의 편지와 함께 거금의 수표가 도착했다. “판화기를 사라. 공부한 것을 썩여서야 하겠니. 남편 뒷바라지하고 아이들 잘 키우는 것도 좋지만, 좋아하는 일에서 손을 놓아서는 안 된다. 꼭 판화기를 사서 작품에 전념해라. 난 네 시어머니가 걱정이다. 할 줄 아는 거라고는 밥하고 빨래하고 청소하는 것뿐이니, 나이 들어 소일거리 없이 자식만 바라보고 살까 봐 참 걱정이구나.”

그해 따스한 봄날, 판화 프레스기를 사기 위해 필라델피아 근교의 시골길을 달리던 여정은 내 생애 가장 기쁜 순간으로 남아 있다. 눈물이 핑 도는 시야 너머로 가슴 깊이 외쳤었다. '아버님 감사해요. 정말 열심히 작업할게요.'

사실 내게 그린포인트는 그리 달가운 공간이 아니었다. 그곳에 살며 작업실을 꾸리고, 아이들을 키우며 화가 남편을 뒷바라지하느라 나름대로 고생을 참 많이 했기 때문이다. 그린포인트라는 이름만 들어도 암울했던 기억이 먼저 떠올라 오랫동안 외면해 왔었다. 어쩌다 일 년에 한두 번 겨우 발걸음을 할 뿐이었다. 특히 우리의 첫 작업실이었던, 거대하고 시커먼 팔각형 벽돌 굴뚝이 버티고 선 옛 염색공장 부근은 얼씬도 하지 않았다. 지독한 추위에 떨던 쓰라린 기억이 살갗에 남아 있는 탓이었다.

한동안 판화에서 손을 놓고 지낸 탓에 처음 며칠은 손에 익지 않아 애를 먹었다. 하지만 신기하게도 며칠이 지나자 신나게 찍어내기 시작했다. 마치 젊은 시절의 그 활기찬 나로 돌아간 기분이다. 아연판을 닦고 문지르는 몸은 고달프지만, 마음 밑바닥에서부터 삶의 활력이 세차게 솟구친다. 판에 그림을 그리고 묵직한 판화기를 돌릴 때면, 여전히 팔심 좋은 남편이 슬그머니 다가와 휠을 함께 거들어 준다. 가끔 들여다보는 아이들도 멋지게 나온 작업물을 보며 엄지를 치켜세운다. “얘들아, 이거 할아버지가 사주신 판화기야.” “알아요, 엄마. 할아버지는 정말 멋지고 좋은 분이셨어요.” 아버님이 물려주신 거대한 유산 위로, 우리 가족의 오늘이 다시 단단하게 찍혀 나가고 있다.

That spring day was warm

About four days a week, I commute to Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I have never held a conventional job in my entire life. But twelve years ago, when I moved to Manhattan, I couldn't bring myself to give up my old studio in Greenpoint. Now, I head back there to work on my printmaking. I immerse myself in my work from noon until six in the evening until my whole body feels heavy with exhaustion. On my way home, dragging my tired feet, I feel deeply fatigued—yet a sudden wave of pride washes over me. I am grateful that I still have the strength and energy to make this commute.

Suddenly, memories of our first Christmas after getting married come back to me. Back then, my father-in-law sent us plane tickets so we could visit him in Los Angeles. Since we didn't have enough money to buy him a Christmas gift, I brought a print I had made during my college years, neatly framed. With a bit of hesitation, I handed it to him and said, "Father, I brought my own artwork as a gift for you." He looked at it and asked, "Isn’t this a print?" I replied, "Yes, I studied printmaking after coming to New York. This is a piece I made when I was in school." After quietly examining it, he said softly, "You need a printing press."

Then, in 1990, a letter arrived from my father-in-law, along with a check for a large sum of money. "Buy a printing press," he wrote. "You shouldn't let your studies go to waste. Supporting your husband and raising your children well are important, but you must never let go of the work you love. Make sure to buy the press and dedicate yourself to your art. I worry about your mother-in-law. All she knows how to do is cook, do laundry, and clean. I am so worried that as she grows older, she will have no hobbies or interests of her own and will spend her life only looking toward her children."

On a warm spring day that year, we drove down the countryside roads near Philadelphia to buy the printmaking press. That journey remains the happiest moment of my life. With tears welling up in my eyes, I cried out from the depths of my heart, 'Thank you, Father. I will work truly hard.'

To be honest, Greenpoint was not a place of fond memories for me. Living there, setting up a studio, raising the children, and supporting my painter husband had been filled with hardships in its own way. Just hearing the name Greenpoint would bring back gloomy memories, so I avoided it for a long time. I would barely visit once or twice a year. In particular, I never went near our very first studio, located near an old dyeing factory where a massive, blackened octagonal brick chimney stood tall. The bitter memory of trembling in the freezing cold still felt raw against my skin.

Because I had let go of printmaking for quite some time, the first few days were difficult as my hands had grown stiff. But remarkably, after just a few days, I began pulling prints with sheer joy. It feels as though I have returned to my vibrant, younger self. Wiping and polishing the zinc plates wears my body out, but a powerful surge of life energy rises from the depths of my soul. When I draw on the plate and turn the heavy press, my husband, who is still strong, quietly slips over to help me turn the wheel. The children, who drop by every now and then, look at the finished prints and give me words of encouragement. "Kids, this is the printing press your grandfather bought for me." "We know, Mom. Grandfather was truly a wonderful and great man."

Over the grand legacy left behind by my father-in-law, our family's present day is being firmly and beautifully printed once again.

보일 듯 말 듯

내가 작기 때문인지 나는 덩치 큰 사람을 좋아하지 않거니와 거창한 것도 싫어합니다. 며칠 전 갤러리에서 만난 한 여자로부터 “영어 이름(sooim lee)을 왜 소문자로만 쓰느냐?”는 질문을 받았습니다. 그전에도 서너 번, 내 이름이 잘못 기재된 것이 아니냐는 이야기를 들은 적이 있습니다. 물론 처음 소문자로 쓰기 시작했을 때부터 나름의 의도가 있기는 했지만, 사람들에게 반복해서 질문을 받고 나서야 나의 그 무의식을 구체적으로 들여다보기 시작했습니다.

살다 보면 절대로 어디에서도 마주치기 싫은 사람이 있는가 하면, 오랜 세월이 흘러도 서늘하게 잊히지 않는 사람이 있습니다. 내게는 기회가 된다면 꼭 한 번 다시 만나고 싶은 사람이 있습니다. 내 나이 스물여섯, NYU 재학 시절에 만난 남자입니다.

그는 남미 콜롬비아에서 음악을 공부하러 온 유학생이었습니다. 수업을 마치고 집으로 가기 위해 지하철역에서 기차를 기다리고 있을 때였습니다. 가까이 서 있던 그 남자가 불쑥 나에게 말을 걸었습니다. “나 너 알아요.”

깜짝 놀랐습니다. 흰 피부에 슬픈 잿빛 눈동자를 가진, 배우 제이크 질렌할(Jake Gyllenhaal)을 닮은 훤칠한 남자가 나에게 말을 걸어오리라고는 전혀 예상치 못했기 때문입니다. 내 초라한 차림새가 부끄러워 슬그머니 지하철 기둥 뒤로 숨으려는 나를 보며, 그는 껄껄 웃더니 부드러운 목소리로 말했습니다. “난 네가 사는 아파트 옆 건물에 살아요.”

같은 대학에 다니는 이웃 남자라니, 게다가 그가 먼저 말을 걸어오다니. 가슴이 콩콩거려 무슨 말로 대답해야 할지 몰라 당황했던 기억이 선명합니다. 섬세하고 조용한 사람이었던 그는 얼마 후, 돌연 유럽으로 떠났습니다. 떠나기 전 내가 “왜 학업도 마치지 않고 떠나느냐”고 물었을 때, 그는 담담하게 대답했습니다. “그냥 새로운 곳에서 새로운 사람으로 살고 싶어서요. 그리고 또 다른 곳으로 옮겨가며 지난 삶을 잊고, 또 다른 사람으로 살고 싶어서.”

아주 오래전 일이지만 그의 그 말은 지워지지 않는 낙인처럼 남아있습니다. ‘그는 아직도 타지를 떠돌며 살고 있을까?’ 문득 궁금해져 구글링이라도 해보고 싶지만, 그의 이름만 기억날 뿐 외우기 어려웠던 성(Last name)은 잊어버려 그조차 불가능합니다.

예전에 알던 사람들이 살지 않는 곳으로 끊임없이 이동하며 매번 새로운 사람이 되어 살아가는 그와 달리, 나는 뉴욕에 깊이 정착했습니다. 하지만 나 역시 나만의 방식으로 남과 다르게 살고 싶었습니다. 그 '다름'에 대한 갈망은 거대하고 요란한 것이 아니라, 그저 내 작은 모습에 어울리는 작은 이름으로, 있는 듯 없는 듯 조용히 살아가는 일에 가까웠습니다.

나는 원래 크고 굵고 충격적인 것보다는, 보일 듯 말 듯 숨었다가 사라지는 것들에 마음이 끌립니다. 나의 그런 성향 때문인지, 대학에서도 날카로운 송곳으로 섬세한 이미지를 긁어내는 동판화(etching)를 전공했습니다. 보일 듯 말 듯 희미하면서도, 날카롭게 살아 숨 쉬는 그 가는 선의 떨림을 사랑합니다. 내가 이름을 온통 소문자로만 쓰는 이유도 바로 여기에 있습니다. 이 지독히 얇고 세밀한 떨림의 세계 속에서 살아가고 싶다는 고백이라면, 소문자 이름에 대한 충분한 답변이 될 수 있을는지요.

Almost Invisible

Perhaps because I am small myself, I have never been fond of large people, nor do I care for grand things. A few days ago at a gallery, a woman asked me, “Why do you write your English name, ‘sooim lee,’ only in lowercase?” Before that, I had already been asked three or four times if my name had been misspelled. Of course, I had a certain intention when I first started using lowercase letters, but it was only after being questioned repeatedly that I began to deeply examine the subconscious mind behind it.

In life, there are people you hope you never run into again, while there are others who remain vividly in your memory even after many years. For me, there is one person I would truly love to meet again if given the chance. He was a man I met when I was twenty-six, during my student days at NYU.

He was an international student from Colombia, South America, who had come to study music. It happened one day after class while I was waiting for the train at the subway station to go home. Standing close to me, he suddenly spoke. “I know you.”

I was startled. I never expected that such a tall, handsome man—with pale skin and sad gray eyes, looking much like the actor Jake Gyllenhaal—would ever speak to me. Seeing me try to shrink back behind a subway pillar out of embarrassment for my shabby appearance, he let out a warm laugh and said in a gentle voice, “I live in the building right next to your apartment.”

A neighbor who went to the same university! And he was the one to speak to me first! I remember so clearly how my heart pounded and how flustered I was, not knowing what to say. He was a sensitive and quiet soul, and not long after, he suddenly left for Europe. Before he departed, I asked him, “Why are you leaving before even finishing your studies?” He answered calmly, “I just want to live as a new person in a new place. And by moving to yet another place, I want to forget my past life and live as someone else.”

It all happened a very long time ago, but his words remain with me like an indelible imprint. Sometimes I wonder, Is he still wandering through foreign lands? Out of curiosity, I have wanted to search for him online, but while I can remember his first name, his last name was too difficult for me to memorize, so I have forgotten it. Searching is impossible.

Unlike him, who continuously moves to places where no one knows him to live a brand-new life, I settled deeply into New York. Yet, in my own way, I too wanted to live differently from others. My yearning for that 'difference' was not something grand or loud; it was closer to living quietly, almost invisibly, with a small name that fits my small self.

By nature, I am drawn to things that are faint, hiding, and disappearing, rather than things that are big, bold, and shocking. Perhaps because of this disposition, I majored in etching—a form of printmaking where delicate images are scratched onto a plate with a sharp needle. I love the trembling of those thin lines, which are barely visible yet sharply alive. This is precisely why I write my name entirely in lowercase. If I explain that this is my confession of wanting to live within that infinitely thin and meticulous world of trembling lines, would it be a sufficient answer for my lowercase name?