Correspondence: Earth, Rope, Salt

          Kim Minhoon & QF(Ha Sanghyun)

         

Hello, Sanghyun. I'm currently traveling near Las Vegas.

It feels like just yesterday when I was excitedly bragging about going to see ancient petroglyphs, and today, I finally got to see them at the Valley of Fire. To reach the petroglyphs, I had to climb a set of metal stairs running alongside massive rock formations. A herd of wild bighorn sheep was resting at the base of the stairs, which made me a little nervous. The rocks were covered with carvings of various sizes—humans, animals, spirals, and shapes that resembled tools, all spread across a fairly large surface. I climbed the stairs effortlessly and stood in front of them, but I couldn’t help but wonder—how did the people who carved these images make their way up here? It must have taken an incredible amount of effort.

The rocks in this region have a striking red hue. I learned that it’s due to a high iron content, which has oxidized over time. Some parts of the rock and ground surface have also turned black, a phenomenon called desert varnish. It’s a thin, dark coating that forms over long periods in arid climates, created by the accumulation of clay, iron oxide, and manganese. The petroglyphs were made by scraping away this layer.

Shall we talk a little more about the drawings? Starting from the bottom, there's a figure with one leg exaggeratedly stretched out, raising both arms. Above that, a horned figure draped in a cloak stands beside a tree. Further up, three bighorn sheep face left, with a large cross-like symbol next to them. A ladder begins at the waist of the leading sheep, and as it ascends, there are large handprints, wavy lines, and two more figures raising their arms. At the very top, another figure is holding a staff, arms lifted, with horizontal lines stacked above them. It felt as if they were whispering to me—reminding me that we are all connected, that I shouldn't forget. I thought about the ways we position ourselves—gazing upward in admiration, looking downward with condescension, or meeting something face to face.

There was a sense of awe and reverence in the way I looked up at the rock from the ground. Isn’t it natural for us to gaze upward at things that surpass our abilities or understanding? The endless procession toward the peaks of the Himalayas, the relentless pursuit of the tallest skyscraper—sometimes, it feels as if our spirits are elevated through such endeavors. I wish I could remember the very first moment I looked up at the sky.

When I climbed the stairs and looked down at the land below, the vast desert horizon and the scorching wind sweeping through the rocky canyons seemed to stretch my thoughts beyond the visible world. For a moment, I felt enormous, as if I had become something greater. How do you feel when you stand atop a mountain or a skyscraper, looking down at the vast expanse below? This perspective is often linked to arrogance, but perhaps it is also solitary—isolated, because it refuses to yield space to another.

Now, I stand face to face with these images etched into the rock thousands of years ago. I am not looking up at them in reverence or down at them from above—I am meeting them at eye level. In that moment, there is an unpredictable tension, a sense that what is before me could leap out at any moment. But at the same time, trust begins to take root. When we sit across from someone at a table and meet their gaze, don’t we become connected? Somewhere in the space between our eyes, emotions and thoughts collide, and before long, a bond begins to form.

Standing in front of the petroglyphs, I felt undeniably connected to something. It was beyond the language I could use, which made it both a comfort and a source of energy. The male bighorn sheep at the base of the stairs watched me until the moment I left. A young one, its small horns just beginning to grow—take care. That is the feeling I carried with me today.

Hello, Minhoon.

It has already been a month since I received your first letter. I haven’t written back for a long time. I think I struggled to find the right words to begin. Maybe it’s because I was already anticipating our third and final exchange, thinking too far ahead. Not too long ago, I went through a deep depression. The things I once cherished, the sensations I found joy in, all vanished so completely it was almost shocking. The possibilities of the future closed off, the past became distorted, and I found myself trying to hold onto time itself, keeping it from flowing. There’s an old saying—Carpe diem. In English, seize the day. I’d like to grasp the present, to hold it in my hands, to feel its damp texture. To keep it within my grip, yet still let it flow.

In your last letter, you wrote about admiring, condescending, and facing different situations. You also described how your body and mind expanded in the presence of the petroglyphs and the bighorn sheep. I received your letter while I was stuck in my room, unable to move due to illness, and I envied how open you were to the world. Admiring, condescending, and facing something—these are experiences that only those who take a step out of their rooms, into the plaza, into the outside world, can have. Then, I thought about a body that cannot stand, lying still in a room. The gaze of an unwell body does not reach outward. Instead, it turns inward, sinking into the world of sleep. If, for a moment, my eyes could open just slightly, they would meet only the ceiling or the wall. One could compare this to facing something, but it is not about connecting with an external subject. It is more like staring into a mirror, reflecting back onto oneself, or gazing into empty space without meaning. If someone were to enter the room at that moment, I would glance at them weakly from an angle, without lifting my head. This might resemble admiring something, but instead of awe and reverence, the gaze would be filled with intimidation, discouragement, perhaps even envy. Through your last letter, it felt as if you had stepped into my sickroom in that way.

Shall we talk about your experience of the bighorn sheep staring at you without the slightest movement? Recently, I met an artist who had a similar experience on Anmado, an island where a thousand deer live. On this island, deer outnumber people. In our daily lives, we often see animals as something cute, or we encounter them through the safe, domesticated images presented by media. We observe animals within human-made systems—through tightly arranged grids, screens, and enclosures. But encountering animals in the wild, especially in overwhelming numbers, strips away the human tendency to observe them from above, as mere subjects of our gaze. And yet, this is not quite like sitting across from someone at a table, where “emotions and thoughts collide, and a bond begins to form.” This act of facing is also an encounter with bodies that could, at any moment, overwhelm or even kill us. To face something whose intentions are unknown is not just an act of connection—it is also a risk, a confrontation with the possibility of discord and misalignment. I want to talk a little more about admiring before closing this first letter.

When you created 〈YOU +〉 in 2022, you used discarded pine beams that had once served as structural supports. I remember you describing the experience of standing a 2.8-meter-long beam upright—something that had always existed in a horizontal position—and looking up at it. Watching your fascination with gazing up at something larger than yourself, I wondered where that desire comes from. The following year, you created 〈Bride〉 , which also surpassed human height. I'm curious how you will continue to engage with height and the experience of looking up in your sculptures. In 〈Bride〉 , the outermost surface was made by binding rope using traditional knotting techniques. Rope naturally yields to gravity, pulling downward. Recently, I participated in the creation of a performance where bodies were concealed beneath fabric, exploring intimate forms of contact. It was then that I fully realized how fabric can take on mass, or flatten completely against the ground. Even when fabric stands tall, it does not resist gravity directly—it absorbs force, yields to it, and in doing so, alters its own surface. From what I’ve seen, the new work you’re preparing for your solo exhibition seems to emphasize this quality of rope’s slackness. I’m eager to see how you’ll bring it to life. Looking forward to your response.

Hello, Sanghyun. I’m writing from my studio in Ilsan.

I was relieved to see that what you went through was written in the past tense. I’d like to share a small practice I’ve learned. Close your eyes and take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale. Repeat this, and with each breath, imagine your body expanding—like a balloon. As you grow larger and larger, close your eyes and look down at your palm. Resting there are the problems and emotions that have been weighing on you. Look at them from above and smile. They say it’s best to laugh out loud, but I usually just smile. Then, with each breath, return to your body. This is something I do from time to time, when I want to take care of myself.

That’s right—I looked up at the pillar beams. I remember saying that it felt as if they were communicating something to me. I spent hours with a chisel and hammer, carving out wavering, undulating forms. To me, that was a way of speaking—of engaging in a conversation through the act of making. And then, I placed it back high above, where it once belonged. In that position, it resembled a doorway—an opening that allowed bodies to pass through. But in a recent exhibition I participated in, the height was lowered to waist level, turning it into a barricade—an obstruction that restricted movement. It made me reconsider how space and the direction of one’s gaze interact. Having been able to spend time with both situations, I naturally arrived at the realization that height and perspective can be both an opening and a closure, entangled in a delicate balance.

Looking up at something sometimes forces the skin on the back of my neck to crease uncomfortably—at least for me. Ever since I was young, staring upward for too long has given me headaches. I think it must be a hereditary trait. I remember experiencing this over a decade ago, when I was preparing for university entrance exams and sculpting faces out of clay. My teachers told me to observe the head from below, using the nose as a central axis to balance the depth and symmetry of both sides of the face. That perspective was, indeed, the most precise for assessing proportion. By crouching down and looking up at the clay form, I could catch distortions and imbalances in depth that weren’t visible from the front. But before long, the throbbing in my head would begin. Perhaps that’s why I’ve come to prefer looking downward. When observing a face from above, I could still detect the areas that needed correction, just as I did from below. Yet, this perspective obscured the chin, making it difficult to assess symmetry. Looking up, despite the discomfort, was something I simply had to do. So, from the front, from below, from above—I sculpted a face. Lately, I’ve been thinking that no single perspective is ever enough on its own.

I was reminded of something you wrote for my solo exhibition 《Four Beams》: “To sculpt the same way twice is not an act of seeking a singular origin, but rather an erotic repetition—one that unfolds here and now.” Recreating previous sculptures was not only a way to keep them from being lonely, but also a deliberate act of reconsidering my relationship with the world. Can repetition be seen as something beyond mere formal or physical labor? Is it always possible to raise a beam that exceeds the scale of the body? Perhaps such beamss were destined to collapse from the very beginning. And yet, we continue to build, searching for meaning within that act. I often imagine these beams crumbling as I work. Collapse may signify failure, but it can also open up another dimension of creation. Just like how I once gathered sculptures and discarded materials from my undergraduate exhibition 《GRABO》 to create 〈They Were There〉—a new work born from what had already been.

《Four Beams》 was a sculptural reflection on the things that hold us up. I assembled beam-like structures—not necessarily vertical ones—from materials that once lay along railway tracks, aiding the transport of people and goods; from objects imbued with long-held desires; from fragments that shaped the conditions of the exhibition; from scattered limbs that had broken away. In our past conversation,* we spoke of “what is already upright” and “what can be made to stand through an act.” These ideas stemmed from the contrast between passive and active experiences. But now I wonder—were the beams I erected truly acts of agency? I had thought of them as something actively raised, yet perhaps, more than anything, they were profoundly passive. There were forces already inscribed into my body—things far beyond my own knowledge—waiting for a chance to be released. And perhaps I was merely a medium for that unfolding. It reminds me of how, without anyone telling me to, I once instinctively stacked pebbles near a valley. The act of stacking—it may be an impulse of longing, a ritual in itself. And yet, at times, that very impulse operates through violence or power, shaping the otherness of someone or something.

* The artist does not engage in this process to erect something, but rather to make contact with what has already been raised and to twist it. In this sense, a beam is not something that simply stands upright—it is something that can be gradually lifted through action, something we can press upon, something we can touch." — 《Four Beams》 Introduction, QF (Sanghyun)

Birds that drum the ground with their broad feet to mimic the sound of rain, earthworms that sense the raindrops and decide to emerge, and the birds that feast on them with satisfaction. In nature, survival depends on the ability to read the signals generated by others. But sometimes, those signals are deceptions. That’s why I found it interesting when you described your encounter with the bighorn sheep as facing something whose intentions were unknown. The path of coexistence is not just about harmony—it also involves the risk of discord and misalignment. And sometimes, what lacks a discernible intent is not even recognized as a living being. In Janghang, airborne dust from the copper smelting plant mixed with rain and seeped into the soil, poisoning the people who lived on that land—some even to the point of death. It reminded me of the residents of Love Canal, who were attacked by forgotten chemicals buried beneath their feet.

Is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable? What answer came to your mind? I came across an anecdote while reading about environmental sociology. Botanically speaking, a tomato is classified as a fruit. And yet, I’ve never been fully comfortable considering it as one. In the United States, the Nix family once sued customs officer Edward L. Hedden over import taxes on tomatoes. The issue was simple: fruits were exempt from tariffs, while vegetables were not—so why had Hedden imposed a tax on tomatoes? The U.S. Supreme Court ultimately ruled in favor of Hedden, classifying tomatoes as vegetables. The reasoning? Unlike other fruits, tomatoes are not typically eaten as dessert but are used as staple ingredients, like cauliflower or cabbage. In this case, the scientific, biological classification of the tomato was deemed irrelevant. “The dictionary’s definition cannot serve as evidence—it is merely a tool to aid the court’s memory and understanding.” The legal context of tariffs had interfered with the very definition of a tomato, and once the Supreme Court had ruled, individuals had no choice but to comply. Systems of classification, whether in biology or any other field built on social consensus, may appear solid and airtight, yet they are highly malleable—easily dissolved under the pressures of politics and power. How effortlessly can even the facts we take for granted be rewritten?

《The Stump》 began from a lingering discomfort—an unease with no clear origin. These were things I needed to study. Through my work, I’ve had the chance to touch and handle so many materials. Wooden railroad ties, their surfaces imprinted with the weight they’ve borne over time. Smooth, transparent polycarbonate panels used for service windows. Lime mortar, damp at first, but quick to harden. The beams that once supported a building’s weight. Tree branches severed through pruning. And the sculptures that emerged from my entanglement with these materials, like something excreted from the act of embracing them. These are undeniable facts. In the process of coming into contact with these things, I felt that what I needed to do was to linger—deliberately staying with what is uncertain, refusing to look away.

Sanghyun, through these experiences, I’ve decided to trace three directional lines—returning to them again and again through sculpture.
September is approaching, yet summer shows no signs of ending. Take care of yourself. It was a pleasant surprise running into you the other day.

안녕하세요, 상현 님. 오랜만에 답장을 보내요. 저는 요즘 작업실에서 새벽을 맞는 날이 잦아졌습니다. 시간 관리를 어떻게 해야 건강한 생활을 지킬 수 있을지 고민하는 날들입니다. 자꾸 실패하는 듯해요…

고민을 했었어요. 흔적 없이 다녀가는 것이 가능한 것인가요? 아뇨… 그건 불가능합니다. 우리는 항상 잔재를 남기고, 그 잔재는 스스로 새로운 이야기를 만들어 나가게 될 것입니다. 낙관적이기만 한 이야기는 아니에요. 나뭇등걸은 단순히 잘려 나간 나무의 잔재가 아니라, 살아 숨 쉬는 뜨거운 기억이고, 이전과 다른 새로운 것이 시작하는 곳일 수도 있겠죠. 하지만 그것은 무언가의 부재를 연상시키는 차가운 마주봄-응시가 되기도 할 겁니다.

사랑하는 사람들이 살고 있는 세계에 참여하는 것으로서 다들 하나쯤은 갈망하는 것들이 있지 않나요? 제 가족과 제 친구들과 제 연인과 제 스승들이 각자의 시간을 빚고 있는 세계… 제 경우에는, 너무 빠른 사람들이 놓치고 가는 것들을 최대한 줍고 싶은 그런 생각이 있어요. 전 되게 느린 사람이고… 그것을 부정할 수 없습니다. 속도가 등수가 되는 경우를 자주 보는데, 그렇다면 저는 말씀하신 햄버거 게임에서 가장 아래 깔린 상황일 거예요. 그런 상황에서 볼 수 있는 것들이 있기를 희망해봅니다. 아주 느리고 깊은 것들, 쉽게 흐르지 않았거나 늘 그곳에 있어 왔던 것들이 있다면요.

무언가를 추출한다는 것. 얼마 전에 들은 말인데요, 바다에 최소 백만 명 이상의 선원이 언제나 항해하고 있다고 해요. 지금 이 글을 쓰고 있는 시점에도, 상현님이 글을 받아 읽을 시점에서도요. 떠다니는 거대한 컨테이너들, 저장고, 그 속에 올라탄 물건들을 떠올려봅니다. 얼마 전에 제 주변에서 TEMU에서 상품을 구매하는 것이 유행했어요. 저도 호기심에 셔츠 몇 장을 구입했는데, 놀랍도록 싼 가격에 물건을 받아볼 수 있었어요. 담배 한 갑보다 싼 셔츠라니… 물론 이것을 입고 밖에 나갈 수 있겠다는 마음은 들지 않았어요. 문제는 대체 이게 어떻게 가능한 것인지에 대한 의문이 남았다는 겁니다. 내가 믿을 수 없을 정도로 싼 가격에 물품을 구매할 수 있었고, 기업이 이런 심리로 박리다매를이뤄낸다면, 이 구조에선 무언가가 필히 착취당하고 있다는 것 아닐까요.

이건 오프라인의 문제만은 아닐 겁니다. 전 지구적인 네트워킹 속에서 우리는 똥 싸듯 데이터를 배설하는 기계입니다. 지난번 상현님이 일을 할 때 인공지능의 도움을 받았다고 한 것이 생각나요. 저 또한 인공지능과 자주 대화하기도 하고요. 처음으로 인공지능을 개인적인 용도로 사용했을 때 느낀 경이로운 감정이 아직도 생생하네요. 여하튼 이런 일이 가능하려면, 정보가 추출되어야 하겠습니다. 휴대 가능한 디지털 기기를 통해 삶의 많은 부분은 데이터가 되고, 인공지능은 이런 데이터를 눈 깜짝할 새 크롤링하여 무언가로 빚어냅니다. 이것은 제국주의의 유산이 작동하는 방식 중 하나가 되기도하겠죠. 물리적 자원을 추출하며 땅을 장악했던 방식이 이제는 삶의 데이터를 추출하여 권력의 땅을 그리고 있으므로, 우리의 몸과 삶 자체가 하나의 자원이 된 것입니다. 하나의 몸을 복수의 기업들이 꿰고 지나가며, 개인의 현실을 계산 가능한 것으로 만들어버렸습니다. 유튜브나 넷플릭스의 알고리듬이 저에게 보여주는-추천하는 것은 기가 막히긴 하거든요. 알고리듬이 선제적으로 제 취향을 빚어가는 것 같고, 이것은 매우 편하면서도 동시에 매우 무력하게 느껴지기도 해요. 내가 어떤 것을 좋아하는지 아는 건, 내가 아니라 기업인 것만 같기도 해서요.

이런 인공지능은 학습에 기반한 가중치를 형성합니다. 지금의 다수가 상대적으로 중요하다고 여기는 정보들은 갈수록 순환하며 견고해질텐데, 그렇지 않은 것들은 고여있거나 묻히게 될 거예요. 우리의 모든 일상이 정보 불균형을 가속화한다는 점은 분명히 인지하고 있어야 할 사실일 겁니다. 그렇다면 데이터 생산으로부터 조차 탈락된 주체들의 기억은 어디로 가나요? 이런 일들은 가끔 당혹스럽게도 크게 느껴집니다.

첫 편지에서 사막에서 경험한 올려다봄(admiring), 내려다봄(condescending), 마주봄(facing)을 이야기했었죠. 올려다본다는 것은 그것이 가지고 있는 성질에 압도당하는 것이기도 할 텐데, 동시에 그것을 더 잘 이해해 보려 다가서는 시도이기도 합니다. 내려다본다는 것은 위에서 바라보며 이해하려는 모습이지만, 턱의 대칭을 맞출 수 없던 것처럼 숨겨진 것을 간과하기 쉬운 것이고, 어떤 것을 놓치게 만들 것이기도 하고요. 또 마주봄은 긴장의 순간을 요구하는 일이기도 합니다. 이런 방향들이 단순히 시각적인 경험에 그치는 것이 아니라, 몸의 자세와 태도를 통해 재감각될 수 있다면, 어떻게 그것을 실현할 수 있을 것인지에 대한 의문을 품고 작업을 시작했습니다. 무언가와 오랫동안 시간을 보내며 바라보고, 그것이 나에게 어떤 말을 걸어오는지 기다리는 일이 저에겐 필요한 일이라 느껴졌어요.

이런 의문을 안고 저는 흙으로 돌아갔습니다. 땅, 그러니까 흙은 단순한 토양이 아니라, 말씀하신 것처럼 다층적인 이야기의 집합체입니다. 영토라는 개념이 달라붙어 육화된 곳이고, 인간과 비인간의 몸들이 뒤섞여 있는 곳이며, 곧 죽을 것들과 죽은 것들이 만들어낸 것이고, 또 새로운 생명을 만드는 곳이죠. 때문에 흙은 수동적인 삶의 ‘배경’이 아니라 능동적인 무엇으로 볼 수 있을 것 같아요. 발 밑의 존재로 여겨지지만, 일전에 몇개의 일화를 언급한 것처럼 묻히고 잊히고 깔린 ‘유령’들이 밀도 높게 바글거리는 곳이기도 합니다. 그래서 흙을 마주본다는 것은 이 얽힘을 바라볼 수 있길 희망함에서 나온 표현이었습니다. 거대한 유산을, 기억을, 혹은 압력을 어떻게 받아들일지 묻는 과정이었어요. 이런 의미에서 흙은 역사적인 주체라고 생각했습니다.

동사(verb)를 조각의 조건으로 삼았던 22년도의 개인전 《GRABO》에서, 저는 ‘빚기’를 재료로 찰흙을 빚어 화분 형태의 도기 조각을 만들었습니다. 전시가 끝난 후엔 거기에 흙을 담아 나리꽃을 길렀어요. 조각의 품 안에서 자라난 채도 높은 주황색 꽃, 그게 저한테는 꽤 근사한 기억으로 남아있습니다. 그리고 이번 여름, 익숙한 갈색 빛의 사막 사이에서 장미같이 붉은 바위가 떠올랐을 때, 그 빨강은 그 자체로 존재했습니다. 너무 강렬해서, 우리의 사이에 어떤 의미도 가져다 붙일 필요가 없는, 부담스럽게도 솔직한 얼굴, 달아오른 얼굴과의 ‘마주봄(facing)’ 그 자체였어요.

딛는다는 행위는 단순히 표면 위에 있는 것이 아닌, 땅을 눌러 감각하고, 자신의 존재를 인식하는 과정입니다. 말씀하신 것처럼, 딛는다는 것은 중력에 대항해 일어서는 행위이고, 동시에 발을 지탱하는 것들에 의존하는 것이기도 하죠. 딛고 선 흙이 그 자체로 기억과 역사를 담고 있는 능동적인 무엇이라면 우리와 어떻게 눈을 맞추고 있을지요. 과연 제가 흙 속에 얽힌 씨실과 날실 사이 ‘매개들(mediums)’를 찾아볼 수 있을지요.

매개한다는 것은 둘 사이의 관계를 연결한다는 것이죠. 작년 이맘쯤 ‘매개체로서 밧줄과 매듭’이라는 이름으로 발표를 했던 적이 있습니다. 발표 준비를 하면서 고대부터 근현대의 시간을 오갔습니다. 초목의 넝쿨이나 나무껍질, 짐승 가죽 등으로 끈을 만들었던 것은 인류사에 있어 중요한 역할을 했습니다. 운반과 농경 등의 분야에 폭넓게 활용되며 시대와 민족의 생활문화가 발전했고, 각각의 지역적 특징을 살린 매듭으로 나뉘어 발전해 왔습니다. 매듭언어(전승문자)는 남북아메리카나 동아시아 등 세계 곳곳에서 사용되었고, 우리나라도 전라남도 지방에서 구한말까지 사용되었어요. 서양의 장식적인 매듭(macrame)은 바빌로니아로부터 기원했고, 정복의 역사대로 유럽에 전파되었습니다. 또 동아시아의 매듭 공예는 삼국이 서로 교류하며 발전시켜 왔습니다. 불상 유물에서 매듭과 술이 조각된 모습을 쉽게 찾아볼 수 있다는 사실이 재미있지 않나요? 밧줄과 매듭엔 다양한 상징적 의미들이 달라붙어 있어요. 지금 선박의 속도를 나타내는 노트(knot)도 매듭(knot)에서 유래한 말이고, 지금 어린이 스카우트가 배우는 파이어니어링(pioneering, 나뭇가지에 밧줄을 묶어 구조물을 만드는 것)도 과거 군대의 공병이 정복지를 개척할 때의 기술에서 비롯된 것입니다.

그러니 이런 상징들은 단순히 지나가버린 과거의 것으로 여길 수가 없었습니다. 밧줄과 매듭은 어떤 시공간 속에서 다른 권력과 문화가 교차하며 의미가 혼합되기 했고, 정복의 역사처럼 재배치되기도 했으며, 때론 맥락이 소거되고 다른 목적을 위해 소환되기도 했습니다. 가령, 서양의 장식적인 매듭(macrame)이 과거 부유한 계층의 과시가 된 것은 문화 전유와 정복의 역사와도 달라붙어 있어요. 그래서 밧줄과 매듭을 도구적으로 바라보는 것보다, 그것의 기억들을 들여다보고, 그것이 나에게 어떤 말을 걸어올지 기대하며 올려다보기(admiring)로 한 것입니다.

그때 발표를 준비하며 한 공예가님과 대화를 했었는데, ‘소원을 빌지 않은 매듭은 엉킨 끈일 뿐이다. 두 손을 모아 정성껏 예뻐져라 주문을 외우면 즐거운 마음이 깃든다.’라고 하셨어요. 당시엔 뚱딴지같은 말이라고 생각했는데, 손을 움직이며 밧줄을 꼬다 보니 왜 그런 말씀을 하셨는지 납득이 되네요. 그런 점에서 밧줄은 일종의 포털 같은 것처럼 느껴지기도 해요.

마지막으로, 파키스탄이라는 먼 땅에서 뿌리 뽑혀, 배를 타고 머나먼 바다를 건너온 소금 덩어리는, 어떤 유목민 같은 존재입니다. 혹은 방주라고 표현해 볼 수도 있겠어요. 왜냐하면 이것은 거대한 바다의 흔적, 땅으로 밀려 나온 물의 엄청나게 오래 걸린 증발, 지구의 자치적인 아카이브, 누군가의 생업, 곡괭이를 들고 아침을 맞는 사람의 땀과 노동, 격정적인 근육의 떨림, 이사 중 비를 맞아 녹아내린 흔적, 유실의 아름다운 승격, 마치 협곡을 연상시키는 돌 위로 흐른 물의 자국, 까마득한 과거 유기체의 탄생, 절대적이고 바뀔 리 없는 소금에 대한 몸의 의존, 나폴레옹이 타고 있던 말이 발견한 소금 광맥, 매달린 소금 덩어리를 핥는 가축들, 물자의 이송, 경제적으로 최적화된 것으로부터 나의 이익, 지구적인 상업 네트워크를 껴안은 것이기 때문입니다. 제게 이 덩어리들은 긴 여정을 끝내고 잠깐 쉬고 있는 잔재이자 새로운 시작을 의미하는 살아있는 기록이에요. 이런 시선을 ‘내려다봄(condescending)’이라고 표현한 것은 소금 덩어리가 쉽게 이해할 수 있는 대상이 아니었다는 사실을 표한 말이었어요. 내려다보는 것은 충분하지 않다고 하신 말씀이 와닿습니다.

흙과 밧줄과 소금, 이것들을 다루기로 했던 결정은 결국 ‘나뭇등걸’이라는 질문으로 모이는 것 같아요. 어떤 것이 남는지, 어떤 것이 새로운 시작을 만들 수 있는지, 그 경계는 어디인지. 나뭇등걸은 단순히 잘려나간 나무의 흔적이 아니라 그 자리에 걸터앉을 수 있도록 남아 있습니다. 우리에게 과일과 팔다리와 몸통을 내어준 나무들을 바라보며, 그것들이 품고 있는 기억을 쫓아보고 싶습니다.

그럼, 이만 줄일게요. 마지막 답장은 전시를 보신 후 써주시면 어떨까요. 편지를 쓰다 보니 어느새 가을이 왔어요. 열어둔 창에서 넘어오는 귀뚜라미 소리가 듣기 좋은 밤이네요. 올해의 남은 일정들을 응원합니다. 곧 만나요.