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Wish You Were Here
Now, in the twilight of their lives, my parents are reverting to a mode of foraging, collecting, and hiding away resources for an uncertain future — echoes of their core memories of postwar survival and shifting cultural identities. After immigrating to New York from Korea in the early 1980s, their mantra became "keep everything" as a means of survival and shelter. Our home became a cramped archive of second-hand furniture, moldy clothes from church donation bins, and expired canned goods that my mother diligently stores away for some imagined apocalypse.
This connection to objects—both as remnants of survival and vessels of memory—has shaped my understanding of the world and my creative practice. From the smell of dust of an old drawer filled with secrets to the elusive calligraphic marks of history in black and white photographs, each item holds a story waiting to be remembered and retold. Nostalgia permeates my work as I reflect on the spaces of my childhood, now tinged with the echoes of long-neglected heartaches and generational traumas.
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