시간 (Time)
Hanji is a Korean paper that has been made for thousands of years out of the inner bark of a mulberry tree. Traditionally it has been crafted into doors and windows, layered and polished into flooring with sesame oil, bound into books, even stitched into clothing. As a photography paper, its long fibers hold it together even after repeated washing.
I see in hanji, the resilience of my mother who was adopted at 12, and my older aunt--who died young, orphaning two boys with their absentee father--both brought to America by G.I.s. I see my younger aunt who gave up university to care for their dying mother. I use hanji because its delicate appearance belies an incredible strength.
An accordion book folds the disparate experiences and times into each other. One end is an old image of my mother carrying her younger sister on her back, both of them with toothy smiles, right before my mother was adopted. The other end is an image of my aunt (the younger sister) holding her grandson, taken during my second visit with them. The images lying between them capture my experience that summer in South Korea.
I see in hanji, the resilience of my mother who was adopted at 12, and my older aunt--who died young, orphaning two boys with their absentee father--both brought to America by G.I.s. I see my younger aunt who gave up university to care for their dying mother. I use hanji because its delicate appearance belies an incredible strength.
An accordion book folds the disparate experiences and times into each other. One end is an old image of my mother carrying her younger sister on her back, both of them with toothy smiles, right before my mother was adopted. The other end is an image of my aunt (the younger sister) holding her grandson, taken during my second visit with them. The images lying between them capture my experience that summer in South Korea.