Traces of Healing and Emotion

1. Why Stone?

The stones that frequently appear in my works are expressions of my personal memories and emotions, carefully preserved over time.

They are the rocky shores shaped by the sea, the solitary boulders standing atop mountain peaks, and the smooth river stones from my childhood, with which I built small dams across flowing streams.

Though they may appear small and fragile, the rocks along the coast have endured relentless waves and harsh winds for hundreds of thousands of years without yielding. Silently receiving the force of the sea, they soften its breath and become resting places for weary seabirds.

To me, stone is not merely a natural material. It is a record of time, endurance, and the traces of existence itself.

2. Why Concrete (Cement)?

Through my series 23’s Philanthropy, I came to realize that genuine human emotion is ultimately formed through relationships. From that point on, concrete became an essential material in my work.

At some point, the city no longer felt like a collection of artificial structures. Instead, it began to evoke familiarity, comfort, and even a quiet sense of healing. When I look at concrete, I see the city itself.

Although concrete is cold and solid, it contains the accumulated time of our lives, countless memories, and the traces of human existence.

Stone and concrete embody two different dimensions of time. One is the trace of time created by nature; the other is the trace of civilization created by humanity. By bringing these two materials together, I seek to express the emotional traces that emerge between nature and humanity, between past and present, and within the relationships that connect us.

Personal Love — The Beginning of Everything
FOR marks the origin of my entire artistic practice.
It began with a simple wish: to create a lightweight, practical lacquered wooden vessel for my wife, who suffered from wrist pain.
To realize this idea, I spent years experimenting and researching, ultimately becoming the first to apply a thermosetting lacquer technique to wooden tableware. This innovation restored both the durability and practicality of traditional wooden vessels.
The organic, free-flowing curves of each form are inspired by nature. Just as nature has the power to heal, I hoped these forms might also bring comfort and healing to my wife’s heart.
FOR is not simply a work of functional craft; it is love transformed into form.

I continuously experiment with and investigate how the Earth’s materials respond to the forces of nature—rain, wind, snow, and fluctuations in temperature.
Upon forms shaped by the flowing lines of nature, these materials react with their environment, gradually creating their own distinctive colors and textures. These transformations evoke profound emotional resonance, revealing nature not only as a physical force but also as a source of human sensibility.
As time passes, materials worn away by nature ultimately return to the Earth from which they came. Beside their disappearance, nature quietly gives rise to new life once again.
Within this sublime cycle of emergence, transformation, decay, and renewal, I discover the inevitable equality shared by all finite beings, and the compassion that arises from our common destiny.

The Language of the Earth Is Sensibility

The same rain falls, the same wind blows, and the same sunlight touches every living being.

Yet within this identical natural environment, some lives emerge in brilliance, while others quietly come to an end.

For a long time, I questioned this difference.

What determines the different paths of life?
Why do beings leave behind such different traces and stories within the same world?

Through this contemplation, I came to understand that the Earth is constantly communicating with humanity through its own language.

However, the language of the Earth is not composed of logic, words, or written symbols.

The language of the Earth is sensibility.

It is not a language that explains; it is a language that allows us to feel.
It is not understood through knowledge, but received through the heart.

For one year, I observed the countless winds that passed across my skin. I discovered that even the same wind never leaves behind the same emotion.

Some winds brought comfort.
Some awakened forgotten memories.
Some carried emotions that could not be defined by words.

The wind was not merely a natural phenomenon.

It was a medium where time and space, nature and human consciousness, encountered one another through emotion.

Rain, wind, sunlight, soil, and time do not speak through voices.

Yet through them, we remember, we feel, and we empathize.

At that moment, nature ceases to be merely an object of observation and becomes a presence that forms a relationship with us.

In Earth’s Things, I explored the idea that human beings are composed of the materials and energy of the Earth.

In The Language of the Earth, I move beyond material existence and explore the emotional connection between humanity and the Earth.

We do not simply exist upon the Earth.

We exist together with the Earth.

The language of the Earth does not provide answers.

It allows us to feel.

And through that sensibility, we understand nature, understand one another, and rediscover our connection.

The language of the Earth is sensibility.
And sensibility is the oldest language that connects all beings.

지구의언어는 2024년 The 1st Yoolizzy Craft Award 에서 Winner가되었다.

If the language of the Earth is one of emotion and feeling, then by what means does the invisible Earth communicate its heart to humanity?
After years of experimentation and contemplation, I arrived at the conclusion that its language is spoken through time, wind, sound, and scent.
My work gives visual and sculptural form to these invisible languages of the Earth, transforming them into signs that can be perceived through human experience.
Thus, the series unfolds through four variations—The Sign of Time, The Sign of Wind, The Sign of Sound, and The Sign of Scent—each serving as a vessel that carries the Earth’s sensibility to humanity.
Through these works, I seek to make the invisible perceptible, allowing the Earth’s silent language to be seen, felt, and ultimately shared.

The intention of DNA may simply be survival.

Human beings, however, possess the capacity to move beyond survival—to understand, empathize with, and care for one another.

Through The Sign series, I have explored time, wind, sound, and scent as the language through which the Earth speaks to humanity. Yet after a long period of reflection, I arrived at another conclusion: these are not emotions themselves.

Time leaves memories. Wind awakens the senses. Sound stirs the heart. Scent recalls the past. They do not create emotion; rather, they serve as catalysts through which emotion is awakened. Genuine human emotion is ultimately formed through relationships.

Relationships give rise to empathy, and empathy makes philanthropy possible.

It was at this point that my inquiry finally arrived at humanity and Fraternité .

Yet Fraternité can exist only where there is equality.

Defining equality was neither simple nor straightforward. It required a foundation that was universal, objective, and free from cultural, religious, racial, or social distinctions. It also had to remain consistent with the worldview that began in my earlier series, Earth’s Things, where I approached humanity through matter and energy.

I therefore returned to the most fundamental biological foundation of human existence.

For me, equality begins not with culture, religion, race, or gender, but with the biological foundation shared by the human species: 23 pairs of chromosomes. Although we differ in language, appearance, belief, and culture, we all belong to the same human family and share the same biological origin. This shared foundation is where my understanding of equality begins.

Upon this equality, empathy becomes possible. Empathy forms relationships, and relationships expand into philanthropy.

In 23’s Fraternité , two wooden panels carved from the same piece of timber symbolize human equality. Though their forms differ, their essence remains one. The stone placed between them represents healing, memory, and rest, serving as the emotional medium that connects one being to another.

Three stones symbolize compassion, empathy, and love. Four stones represent altruism, responsibility, justice, and moral outrage; they may also be understood as mercy, tolerance, humility, and gratitude—the ethical virtues that guide human beings toward one another.

In this work, I deliberately removed function and utility. More important than touch or practical use was the intention embodied within the work.

The intention of DNA may be survival.

The intention of humanity, however, should be to understand, connect with, and care for one another.

I call that intentionFraternité .

In 23’s Fraternité , I explored Fraternité as the ethical force that enables human beings to understand and remain connected to one another.

Yet philanthropy is not truly revealed in moments of joy or peace. Its deepest meaning emerges only in moments of loss.

Farewell is one of the few emotions that every human being, without exception, must eventually face. Whether through the loss of a loved one, the ending of a relationship, the passage of time, or ultimately our own mortality, life is shaped by countless farewells.

To me, farewell resembles the aftermath of a typhoon.

Everything appears to have collapsed, yet the wind still blows, and light slowly breaks through the dark clouds. Despair is never absolute darkness, just as hope is never complete light. Human beings exist within the fragile and ambiguous space between the two.

Farewell gives form to that emotional threshold.

Rather than depicting loss itself, this work asks what enables us to remain human in the presence of loss. If 23’s Fraternité speaks of the relationships that connect us, Farewell reflects on the moment when those relationships are broken—and asks whether philanthropy can still endure.

For me, farewell is not the end of a relationship. It is the moment when empathy is most deeply required, and when philanthropy reveals its true purpose.

Philanthropy is not a virtue reserved for times of happiness.

It is the quiet strength that allows us to remain connected to one another, even in the deepest experience of loss.

Farewell explored the emotional threshold where relationships are broken by loss. Yet after every farewell, another journey inevitably begins.

That journey is solitude.

For me, solitude is not loneliness.

It is the inner space where grief settles into silence, where the self is stripped of attachment, and where one slowly becomes capable of embracing another once again.

I carve the exterior of my work intuitively.

Its form, weight, and surface carry the weight of life itself. They embody the quiet strength of one who remains beside another without words—the silent comfort of endurance, dignity, and presence.

I believe that only those who have endured their own solitude can truly recognize the solitude of others.

Only by emptying oneself of selfishness can one make room for another. In this sense, solitude is not withdrawal from the world, but the very condition that makes empathy possible.

If empathy gives rise to relationships, and relationships expand into philanthropy, then solitude is the ground upon which they are born.

Solitude is therefore not a state of abandonment, but a profound inner vessel where humanity is patiently cultivated.

It is the place where equality is no longer an idea, philanthropy is no longer an ideal, and compassion quietly becomes a way of being.

Life is never completely restored.

Throughout time, we encounter countless cracks and wounds, and we live by mending them again and again. Yet not every wound can be perfectly healed. Some traces remain, and even the rough marks of repair eventually become part of a person’s life.

This work is a space that holds life.

The cracks in the wood are roughly filled with lacquer and earth, without concealing the traces of damage. Rather than restoring the surface to perfection, I chose to reveal that the wounds existed and to leave the traces of incomplete healing visible.

These rough traces do not represent failure or imperfection. They are records of time—the time spent forming relationships, loving, parting, and enduring solitude.

I believe that life is not a state without wounds, but a process of continuing to live while carrying our wounds and cracks within us.

If fraternity is the beginning of connection, farewell is the loss of that connection, and solitude is the time in which we look inward after that loss. All of these experiences accumulate and eventually become a life of one’s own.

A Life does not speak of a perfect life. It speaks of how a life shaped by its curves, wounds, and traces may, perhaps, be beautiful precisely because it carries them all.

Can we call all the traces of what we have lived through
a beautiful life of its own?

In Kang’s recent body of work, Romance exists on the same conceptual line as Farewell and Solitude—yet it carries a different emotional temperature. If those works confront the inevitability of loss and the quiet weight of existence, Romance emerges as a return to a more humane and gentle sensibility.

Romance, in this context, does not simply refer to love or nostalgia. It represents a fundamentally human goodness—a soft ethical emotion through which the world can still be perceived with warmth.

It recalls the atmosphere of films from the 1980s and 1990s, where images were slightly blurred, colors were softened by time, and narratives unfolded with a certain slowness and sincerity. In those cinematic moments, production itself felt less mechanical and more intuitive, as if storytelling was guided by emotion rather than efficiency.

The artist is particularly drawn to recurring images of that era: the deep blue of summer oceans and the wide expanse of white sand beaches. These landscapes are not merely aesthetic preferences, but emotional coordinates—spaces where memory, longing, and innocence briefly converge.

Within Kang’s overall practice, Romance functions as a gentle counterpoint to the philosophical weight of equality, solitude, and fraternity. While Solitude strips the self down to an inner ethical space, and Farewell confronts emotional rupture, Romance restores the possibility of tenderness within human perception.

In this sense, Romance does not stand apart from fraternity (fraternité); rather, it sustains it.

Fraternity, in Kang’s work, is not a concept born only from shared suffering or ethical obligation. It also requires emotional warmth—the ability to see another being not only through equality and empathy, but through a soft human affection that does not demand justification.

Romance therefore becomes the emotional foundation that allows fraternity to remain alive. It reminds us that before philosophy, before ethics, and even before language, there is a simple human sensibility: the ability to feel gently toward the world.

In this way, Romance completes the emotional spectrum of Kang’s practice—where equality, loss, solitude, and fraternity are ultimately held together by a quiet, humane warmth that refuses to disappear.

Human beings have always existed through relationships.

We connect with one another by sharing food, gathering around the same table, and experiencing the warmth of a vessel held together.

For me, tableware is not merely an object that contains food.

It is one of humanity’s oldest mediums of connection—a vessel through which people have accepted, cared for, and understood one another.

The first vessel ever held by human hands was made of wood.

However, throughout history, porcelain, glass, and metal became symbols of wealth, authority, and social status, while wooden vessels remained associated with ordinary people due to their limitations in hygiene and durability.

Yet within this overlooked material, I discover a different value.

Woodenware is the oldest vessel, the closest to nature, and the most egalitarian form of tableware shared by humanity.

The First is an attempt to return this primordial vessel—the first object of human sharing—to the contemporary table.

Through the spirit of traditional lacquer and a newly developed thermosetting approach, I seek to restore the durability, permanence, and everyday possibility of woodenware while preserving the living sensibility of wood itself.

This work is not a simple revival of tradition.

The equality and fraternity explored in 23’s Fraternité,
the meaning of loss and connection confronted in Farewell,
the inner reflection discovered through Solitude,
and the human warmth recovered in Romance—

all ultimately arrive at one place:

the table.

The table is the space where human beings meet as equals, where differences are temporarily dissolved, and where existence is shared through the simplest act of eating together.

Through the materials of the Earth—wood, lacquer, soil, and time—my philosophy becomes an everyday practice.

To eat.
To share.
To exist together.

The First is a table of fraternity where the Earth’s materials and human sensibility converge.

It is the place where art returns to the origin of human life.

"My Fraternité may be frail, but our Fraternité is boundless."

An artist crying out for philanthropy alone on a cold gallery plinth can feel utterly powerless against the vast, indifferent world. Therefore, I choose to lower my art from that detached pedestal and place it directly into the palm of your hand, onto your warmest dining table.
This is my new practice, 〈Mug 23〉, inheriting the deep history of woodenware—humanity's first and most egalitarian tableware.

Initially, this project was envisioned specifically for fellow 'artists.' This is because the language of the Earth—emotion—deeply resembles the language of the artist.
Art serves as both a mirror reflecting the contemporary era and a guide pointing toward the future. Looking back at thousands of years of human history, the human intent channeled through art dedicated to myth and religion was always resolute and magnificent.
Humanity has demonstrated a sublime will: if a grand value could not be fulfilled within one's own generation, it would be achieved by passing that torch down through successive generations.

I earnestly desire for 'Fraternité ' and 'equality' to become the central themes animating the creative work of today's artists.
In an era where it is all too easy to be trapped within self-centered art, I wished to penetrate deep into the contemplative hours of my fellow creators, occupying even a small corner of their thoughts.

In every artist's studio, alongside the well-worn tools of their trade, there always sits a cup. The cup of coffee, tea, water, or spirits shared amidst the agony of creation is no mere beverage.
It is an extension of their work, a time of fierce contemplation, and a moment of purifying emptiness.
I decided to create a cup to accompany them during those most solitary, yet purest hours.

The name of this cup, '23', signifies the 23 pairs of chromosomes—the absolute, scientific baseline of equality inherited equally by every human being, transcending culture, race, and religion.
Within the form of the cup, free-flowing organic curves that resemble human warmth harmoniously coexist without discrimination alongside the stark rectangular signs that echo the rules of the Earth.
The lines of humanity and the lines of nature live together as equals within this small vessel.

My hope is that during those fleeting moments when artists hold this cup in their studios, taking a sip of tea, they will remember that we are fundamentally identical beings, and that we live in an age that desperately thirsts for mutual compassion and philanthropy.

This small diffusion of experience—shifting one's gaze from the center of the self to the center of the world—holds immense power.
When the seed of philanthropy is planted within the heart of an artist holding this cup, blooming into yet another art of compassion, and when the art world shifts its axis toward philanthropy, the grand flare that will evolve the human soul will finally be launched.
This small mug is the quiet, steadfast anchor I cast into the world—a catalyst toward that immense solidarity.

"I plan to present an exhibition upon crafting 1,000 mugs, a journey I estimate will take up to five years.
Sadako Sasaki set out with the goal of folding 1,000 paper cranes, but her life was cut short after completing 644.
Transcending borders and faiths, I undertake this work with an earnest prayer that the hopes for peace, healing, and recovery may be realized."