01.01.2021
Starting from 2021, I want to put an end to the daily, weekly, and yearly drain on my body and mind. I promise myself to imagine and move upon the time, body, and mind I don’t know yet.
10.09.2023
This piece was written in 2023, the year when I turned thirty-four in Korean age, marking a decade of living in Germany. In June of last year, 2022, I experienced a period when I could no longer function and spent a whole year at a standstill. At that time, I sought guidance from a teacher who told me I would be embarking on a 'year in search of a body'. Even before falling ill, I had a vague sense that my life was 'consumptive' and 'excessive'. The feeling that 'something was amiss' was always there, but I couldn't pinpoint the alternative, only having a hunch that there would be 'a time, a body, and a mind I didn't yet know'. This writing is about my contemplation of the body, time and mind that I once lost.
05.2022
01.08.2022
It's been two months since I did nothing.To some people, doing nothing might simply mean quitting their job. And quitting a job might imply stopping what one does to make a living. However, my previous occupations —being an artist and engaging in various endeavors under the banner of social justice— never truly secured my livelihood. Furthermore, my work was not in line with capitalist production activities, so my decision to do nothing does not merely equate to quitting a job.
The void left by the absence of productive activities is filled by other reproductives. Washing my body, sweeping the floor, cooking meals, doing the dishes, grocery shopping, sorting garbage, and more. Daily routines now occupy the space once filled with deadlines and milestones. The small things that become rituals when they are repeated every day. Waking up in the morning, going out for a cappuccino, chatting with my closest friend in Korea while taking a stroll. Learning Arabic for at least 20 minutes a day with the Duolingo app, and walking a minimum of 2,000 steps a day. (2,000 steps roughly equal 8 kilometers, taking about two hours at a leisurely pace.) Exploring every nook and cranny of the city, I realize that I lived in Berlin for five years, with my ears and eyes mostly closed.
I'm also trying to change some habits. I’ve decided to travel light. I used to carry all sorts of things. Moisturizer, serum, acne cream (for pustules, small inflammations), atopic dermatitis cream (for mild and severe cases), epilator, hairbrush, special-sized hair rollers, cotton swab for ear cleaning, interdental toothbrush, extra shoes, extra clothes of various types, a few books just in case, and various miscellaneous items for 'just in case'. When the destination is South Korea, my obsession with 'home feeling' adds to the list. From groceries such as sesame oil that can only be found in Korea, dried fish broth for soups, bean powder, and even to nail clippers with Korean anime characters, trendy shoes, and nose patches – I used to pack two fully loaded suitcases and carry them back to Germany. Two 23 kg suitcases almost equated to my body weight, making it seem like I was carrying my own dummy made of items from my hometown.
My obsessive-compulsive condition, meticulously planning every accessible aspect of my life due to a decade-long state of being homeless and rootless, turned 'home' into 'baggage'. I folded, rolled, and vacuum-sealed my 'indefinite obsession with home', carrying it on my shoulders, arms, and legs wherever I went.
SHOULDER PAIN
I can't exactly pinpoint when it all began, this realization of the pain on my shoulders. It seemed that by the time phrases like 'listen to your body' and 'Bauchgefühl' started popping up, the pain had already firmly rooted itself in my daily life.
I started investing more time and money into tools meant to ease the tension for shoulder pain - foam rollers, half baths, yoga routines, scented candles, even a bottle of whiskey. However, I couldn’t imagine myself working less, feeling less weight of responsibilities or lowering the bar for standards of my goals. It never seemed like an option. I reached a point where, after an hour of work, I'd need to dedicate thirty minutes to yoga or a massage just to muster the energy for another hour of work. But with no one around to pick up the slack, and deadlines looming large, I simply carried on with the tasks. I pushed through somehow. My eyes were perpetually dry, leading me to invest in artificial tears. My stomach felt constricted, prompting me to buy whiskey. After wrapping up work for the day, I'd find myself too drained to engage in conversation with anyone. Instead, I'd sit in silence on the balcony, watching the soft, flickering light of the candles and the steady flow of cars on the highway.
Mornings began with tears streaming down my face. It felt as if a round jar was filling up to the brim, with droplets slowly trickling down one by one. I couldn't tell whether the jar couldn't hold a single drop more or if it had already overflowed, but the tears flowed unpredictably. As I gazed at the gentle light filtering through the curtains, while riding the subway to work, I'd suddenly feel my throat tighten. At that time, I was also struggling to keep a relationship afloat, akin to pouring water into a leaky bucket. For these reasons, thoughts of 'round jars and water' often occupied my mind. For five years, I diligently and somewhat foolishly went back and forth between a jar overflowing and the other jar that was never filled.
Even now, I'm not entirely sure. Carrying that huge overflowing jar on my shoulders, stuck between a rock and a hard place being. I often wonder, was there any alternative back then besides just toppling over?
Then, one day, it finally happened. I opened my eyes, unable to move, with the bed and my body drenched in water. It was the day when an old colleague was leaving the team. We all exchanged heartfelt words and gave presents to our colleague, who was donning a yellow shirt adorned with small flowers. I couldn't help but recall that I hadn't said a word when I left the place I had worked for the past five years. I had a reason for choosing to skip my farewell party. A reason I still can't quite bring myself to say. I couldn't confront the lingering regret I harbored for pouring so much time into that leaky bucket. As I watched my colleague depart, my entire body soaked, I finally felt my jar tipping over completely.
SCHEDULER
I used to carry around a B5-sized scheduler like it was my talisman. That scheduler acted as my compass, helping me navigate through the vast expanse of the cosmos. It was like a tiny beacon in the infinite sea of time, ensuring I wouldn't be swallowed by its relentless waves.
In the gridded monthly planner, each square represented a day. I'd break down that single square into two, four, or even eight smaller sections, meticulously planning and managing each day. I lived with the perception of a day as 24 hours, a week as seven days, a month as four rows of weeks, and a year as twelve pages of months. This way of life gave me the illusion that I had control over time. This delusion of control brought me comfort. But paradoxically, this fantasy also led to anxiety when faced with empty pages. The fear of 'no schedule', the dread of 'doing nothing'. Organizing and jotting down the 'must-do' lists was my way of visualizing 'productive tasks'. Activities like not skipping meals, taking breaks, or cleaning weren't considered as part of the schedule. That time remained blank, being read as 'doing nothing'.
The workplaces I spent five years in, from my late twenties to early thirties, also couldn't spare the energy and attention to focus on anything beyond 'visible work' or 'productive work'. In an environment where actions often pivoted on annual government subsidies, setting priorities was key to the survival of a nonprofit organization. I bit my tongue about the paradox of sacrificing small things for a greater cause. Productive labor always took precedence, while reproductive labor was consistently relegated to the background as 'insignificant work'.
Even my densely packed scheduler was all about presentation. Event hosting, market production, exhibition production, even attending colleagues' exhibitions - all of it was about exposure, presentation, and making myself seen. As my schedule brimmed with these external commitments, the time for silence, recharging, and relaxation dwindled.
Instead of staying silent, I channeled my energy into 'making noise'. And rather than fading into obscurity, I focused on 'revealing myself'. This wasn't just a challenge unique to the world of arts and culture; it was also intertwined with my own survival. Over the past decade of living as an 'Asian woman' in Germany, I've had to contemplate how to make my voice heard. If I didn't, it felt like my existence would quickly blur, and my voice would fade. I had never considered the practice of silence or the art of disappearing.
After falling ill, one of the first things I did was tuck away that gridded scheduler into a storage room. I was determined to erase the rows and columns that had supported the structure of my life. No, I was determined to erase myself from the world of rows and columns. Suddenly, it felt like I was standing in front of an open field I had never seen before. For the first time in a long while, I could feel my heart beating quietly.
24.07.2018
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angelic orders? And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against its heart, I would vanish into its stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear, and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains to destroy us. Every Angel is terror. ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies
BEAUTY AND ANGELS
From 2019 to 2021, I have carried on a project titled 'Body and Institution'. It was an exploration of the interactions between individuals and institutions while taking on various roles in different artistic organizations. I found it fascinating that each art institution had its own unique interests and distinct character. I was curious about the relationships among the people working behind the scenes to shape the institution's voice. I wanted to understand how the childhood experiences and dreams of those working in these institutions influenced the institution's identity and voice. To get a closer look at these relationships and experiences, I actually worked in various 'art institutions' for extended periods.
This project, which involves perceiving 'institutions as bodies' and 'bodies as institutions', also views institutions as microcosms of societal structures. It observes, slowly and closely, how societal inequalities are reflected within these special groups called art institutions and how they affect the bodies of individuals active within them. The observation of 'Body and Institution' begins with an observer's perspective, but it doesn't take long for the observer to realize that they too are a body participating in the institution. Art institutions are not free from patriarchy, gender discrimination, racism, classism, capitalism, or colonialism, and all of these deeply rooted forms of violence manifest in the habits ingrained in each individual's body. Furthermore, my own body is not free from all of these influences.
In the hazy and chilly winter of Berlin, there was a time when I lit a fire in the middle of a construction site of a certain institution and gathered all my colleagues. Why did I light a fire in the midst of a construction site, and why did I gather people? That winter marked the year when my role within the institution began to clearly reveal itself. While continuing the 'Body and Institutions' project, I felt that I kept sensing things that my colleagues at the time couldn't sense, and I felt a responsibility to give voice to those things. There was a unique voice within me that only I could bring forth among my colleagues. It was as if the institution kept pointing out to me areas that were hurting. I believed that addressing this pain was necessary for healing. And to heal, we needed warmth.
Those who work in the art field believe in the presence of their own angels as they work. No matter what kind of institution they speak for, ultimately, behind it all, there is an individual and the angel they believe in. The angel I believed in took the form of a quiet candle. In the cold darkness, this small candle illuminated the faces of other beings, shedding light on different realities. While examining them closely, I didn't realize that the flames were spreading through me. Warmth can also become a fiery flame. And so, the angel took me to its heart.
RETURNING
I paused everything. Everything came to a standstill as I spent fifteen hours on the plane, gradually distancing myself from my home in Germany. Simultaneously, I felt myself getting closer to the house I left precisely ten years ago, back in 2013.
Leaving one place, I arrived somewhere else, and departing from there, I landed here. Emptying one space, I existed elsewhere, and vacating that, I existed here. And I’ve been repeating this cycle for a decade. Seasons passed - summer, autumn, winter, and spring. Amongst heaps of fallen leaves, the azaleas began to raise their heads. At the tail end of the returning spring, I made the decision to return once more. Another very long journey. I arrived in Berlin after midnight. I felt the dissonance between myself and my surroundings. Maybe I was still in the process of arriving, or perhaps the 8000 kilometers of distance was something tangible.
Here or there, the questions of returning or leaving ceased, and finally, the beings in front of me began to appear fully. Kids with backpacks, playful jokes from the fruit shop’s owner on the street corner, a flock of birds pecking at the sand on the tennis court, a glistening river alongside the highway, and the steam rising from a 2 euro cup of coffee - all of these things truly started to exist in that place. During this time, I practice smiling even when I am alone. I lay beside my mother, we are chewing kimbap together, and time seems to flow in a peculiar way.
A NEST
I found a new flat. On the night I returned to the house I had called home for five years, it dawned on me that it was time to move on. Through a friend of a friend, I'd heard about a temporary vacancy in Neukölln, so I went to check it out. The previous tenant had already moved out, leaving behind a few odds and ends like some cups, a makeshift worktable, black-and-white photos on the fuse box, and a foldable garden table. Aside from these, the place was pretty much empty. Maybe because winter hadn't quite bid adieu yet, the house felt a bit chilly, and it had this peculiar layout with just one sided windows. That one window opened to a view of a tree with a barren branch, and a deserted bird's nest was on the edge of it. The sight of that empty nest gave me assurance that I should sign the lease for this house.
The first sound I hear in the house is the newspaper store owner across the street sweeping the sidewalk. Thanks to his daily routine of clearing away the debris from the night, I could tell it is nearly seven in the morning. When the oven across the corner signals that the bread is ready with its melodic jingle, I slowly open my eyes. I tidy up my blanket, brew some coffee, turn on the radio, and gaze at the sunlight dancing on the empty walls. I watch a pair of doves fluttering around the nest just outside the window. I grab a bucket and go out to the balcony, where lemon grass, thyme, basil, purple basil, salvia, drumstick, cherry tomatoes, chili peppers, jasmine, and sesame leaves had grown another day. At the same time, a woman living on the third floor of the building across from me also opens her window. Downstairs in the bakery, the elderly ladies are already seated. There is also a big, wide-nosed dog who would bark at any other dogs passing by.
On especially sunny days, I lay on the balcony, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. I close my eyes, listening to the rustling of leaves and the gentle breeze ruffling my hair. The sound of a motorcycle fading into the distance, and the constant chatter from the bakery, where people come and go all day long. I guess they must be Turkish. On quiet afternoons, I play the piano. I cook for myself, tidy up the room, wipe down the mirror, and do the laundry. I see the shadow of my hair on the leaf of a book. I touch them.
INVITATION
I'd like to invite you to my new home. Most of the words you're reading here were written in this very place. Since moving here, I've spent a lot of time alone, reminiscing about the past. Yet, while I've been exploring the time gone by, I've been existing in the present.
One of the first things I did after moving into this house was to spread out the things I had collected over the past ten years onto the empty floor. A box bearing postage stickers from here and there and smelling of the mold in the basement, held a decade of my life. In the middle of the empty living room with no furniture, the sound of packing tape screaming echoed in the void as I ripped open the box. As I began to take out items, one by one, they slowly covered the still unfamiliar floor into full. I sat there for a moment, gazing at them, and then, suddenly, tears welled up. It wasn't sadness. It was more like these objects, which had been silent for so long, were vibrating through me. The vibration continued for a while and then gradually faded away.
This house has been a space that reflects the sun like rippling waves, shows the movement of the atmosphere like trees, and constantly reminds me to be 'here and now'. I've collected fleeting vibrations from this place and would like to share them with you.
2023.12.15 - 2023.12.24
kihyun.park0@gmail.com
Visit only by appointment
Diele/Foyer
Wet Wall
Observing Lacuna A
Wohnen/Living Room
Utterance Practice
A Piled up tower of crumbling stones
Nest
Zimmer
Observing Lacuna B
There is another world, but it is in this one
OBJECTS 2013-2023
001 A postal box, received in Germany on 18.11.2017 from S. Korea
002 Three Pebbles of my grandmother and a white stone
003 A piece of glass looking like a mountain
004 A photo of my hand touching a salt rock in the dead sea
005 Educational props of organs with captions in Arabic
006 'Du bist tödlich'
007 8 Phones
008 A comic titled ‘Saudade’ missing one page
009 Semesterticket Berlin ABC
010 4 photos of walls, in 4 different houses I’ve lived in
011 A Drawing 'I think I’m doing something purely imaginative. And rather, I think the characters of the novel would seem more sincere, at least more interesting'
012 A Drawing 'Words are the source of misunderstanding'
013 A Postcard from M from Rome, Stamped on 06.09.2021
014 Passport pictures
015 Two ID cards, one german Auftenthaltstitel valid till 16-02-2018, one korean ID card validated on 07.12.2016 without date of expiration
016 Two vacuumed packages with several rolls of receipts
017 A black and white analogue picture of me with two ex colleagues
018 A short note by W written on an A4 paper with a blue pen saying: 'Help yourself to all the food in the fridge please, make yourself feel at home and chill out'
019 3 sets of keys, in total 8 keys
020 A pink wig
021 A grayish blue ceramic cup engraved with letters SEX inside of a heart shape
022 A matchbox and a replica of a matchbox
023 Dried pink hydrangea kept on a soy sauce dipping dish
024 A massage card
025 A red dress
026 'you will always find what you’re looking for within you, not inside of you' A card from Y
027 A Drawing 'Wenn ich spreche, versuche ich, die Impulse dieser Kraft einzuführen, die aus einem volleren Sprache Begriff fließen, welcher der geistige Begriff der Entwicklung ist'
028 A Book <The Concept of the 18 types of portrait painting techniques in the late Chosun dynasty>
029 A Book <Lesser Learning>
030 A gold framed drawing of a cactus, made by I in 2021
031 A Script for video work <Eine Nachbarin>
032 Work Calendars
033 Mini mouse toy playing a drum
034 Ticket to Helgifest
035 Calligraphy Practice
036 A white pebble picked from Casco’s backyard
PEBBLE
My grandmother used to hide several pebbles around our house. Each of those round pebbles fit snugly in your hand. She used to say, 'Think of me when you find these pebbles later.' They weren't particularly unique in color or shape, just slightly rough, ordinary round pebbles.
One sunny day, I picked up a glistening white pebble from the sidewalk. It made me realize that choosing that pebble wasn't just my decision; it was the pebble's choice too. At that moment, I felt a faint enlightenment of why my grandmother identified herself with the pebble.
UTTERANCE PRACTICE
These days, I've been practicing utterance. Inside my tiny grown heart, many things are tangled up with each other. I wish that all these things will make sound at least once. It might sound like the waves returning to the sea. It might be the sound of rain drying up. It might be the sound of tears hidden in the bathroom. I still don't know how they sound. I've always felt sorry for those many things tangled up inside me, but I didn't know what to say. I would rather put on a cold face at them or scream at them or talk to myself. And I still don't know what to say. So, I decided to open my mouth and listen quietly. If I open my mouth, they might come out on their own. It's okay if it takes long, if it's slow, or if it's frustrating. It takes time to choose the right words. It takes time to untangle things. It takes time to see where each one wants to go. I won't leave this place. I promise to listen to everything – the sounds you make, the speeding words, the slowing words, the wrong choices of words, the breaths between sounds, and the silence between breaths. I'll keep my mouth open until you finish speaking, slowly get up, open the door, and until your footsteps can no longer be heard. With my mouth open.
13.11.2022
These days, I'm spending my time in Gangwon Province. I wake up in the morning and run along the winding river, diligently sweep up the fallen leaves in the yard every day, gather branches to make a fire, provide fresh water to the chickens, and occasionally delve into some letters. While I’m sharing a bit of my dinner with the village cat, the sun goes behind the mountain, it's already dark outside.
I'm the only human around on my morning walks. The river glistens under the daily sunlight, and the leaves keep falling endlessly. Amidst the gentle movement of the wind, birds, and insects, it feels as though the house I've carefully constructed in my mind is slowly crumbling away as I walk along.
OBSERVING LACUNA
The scenery has changed
While everything was moving
There is nothing which stands still
Every-thing moves its body
Doesn’t have to be a dance
Doesn’t have to be a walk
Doesn’t have to be shaping clay
Everything is already moving
The whole willow shivers its body by a little touch of wind
Our voice shivers when we try to choose words for real
Our shoulders shrink when we talk about our friend’s death
Our lips make subtle bow
When we notice a leaf is landing on the other leaf
When we see two bugs are cuddling cheeks
When we notice the two trees have been hugging each other for decades
There comes a gentle wave on our foreheads
When we are looking into these things
Our hearts start to break into pieces
Pieces of thousands of leaves
Pieces of puzzles on the water
When we sit and look for real
-END