Essays

For several months, I have been quietly contemplating the artistic world of Hernan Bas (born 1978), allowing myself to drift into imagined realms and suspended meditations. In his work, I glimpse the world of Oscar Wilde. As Bas himself has mentioned, he diligently lays out lives that exist on the margins—lives at the threshold—carefully arranging them upon his canvas.

We live, in one way or another.

Ernest Shackleton, the explorer of Antarctica.

These are moments of unavoidable stillness.

It is raining. Rain falls like tears. Petals are falling.

My love is contained in a small bowl. A colored rice ball, smiling and begging to be hugged.

Many patients came in and out of the place where my son lay.

The sunlight slowly settles down on my forehead.

As I organize the day ahead, my steps naturally grow quicker.

For Koreans, the jeogori is the essence of femininity, a symbol of devotion and pain, and a history encompassing an entire era.

Because of my son, I feel as though I have traveled to another world—one I would never have known otherwise.

I gather my breath and accept my destiny in its entirety.