Texts
Dear Beams, Leaving My Clumsy Heart
Kim Minhoon
The past days have been filled with emotions I couldn’t cast off. These feelings had no shape, so at first, I didn’t know what to call them. At times, they felt like a crumpled blanket yellowed with age, and at times, like the pink flowers of moss phlox blooming in a corner of the yard. Above all, those emotions endured like eerie, unspoken words trapped heavy things.
Kneading lime paste the color of ash, sweeping away fragments the color of old coins from dried railroad ties, carrying back and forth massive salt stones the color of sunset, and wiping off the dust that rose as I twisted rope the color of milk—through all of this, I hesitated countless times. I kept wondering why I became so clumsy even while making something so solid, why my heart wavered so much even as I gave strength to my hands. What I had set out to shape as sculpture began to have words, to hold memories, and to claim space. It was sculpture, but also a form through which I retched and slowly chewed over the time I had spent.
I came to believe that what we might call a pillar, or a beam, or even a column does not simply stand, but endures something unseen. I used to think about the worth of the things gently placed on top of it, but at some point, I began to see it differently. Looking back, everything was such a thing, and it began to appear as a being barely managing to support itself and stand in place. Not out of resemblance or reverence, but as emotions barely managing to prop themselves up and rise. It was different from the Pillars of Herculues, which declared that one could go no further—non plus ultra.
What is a pillar, or a beam, or a column like? Perhaps it is someone trembling, without even knowing what they are holding onto. At times, I thought that was me. Before the sculptures came to carry their weight here, they sank and collapsed many times. And in the process of raising them up again, certain feelings also leaned, then slowly unfolded.
Now, I believe in staying. None of these sculptures have ended, and none of them have not ended. They remain just as they are, still taking up space somewhere in the world, even now, radiating their own color. Even if they look clumsy or foolish, they were once my heart—or someone else’s—and so I am no longer ashamed of them.
Kim Minhoon
The past days have been filled with emotions I couldn’t cast off. These feelings had no shape, so at first, I didn’t know what to call them. At times, they felt like a crumpled blanket yellowed with age, and at times, like the pink flowers of moss phlox blooming in a corner of the yard. Above all, those emotions endured like eerie, unspoken words trapped heavy things.
Kneading lime paste the color of ash, sweeping away fragments the color of old coins from dried railroad ties, carrying back and forth massive salt stones the color of sunset, and wiping off the dust that rose as I twisted rope the color of milk—through all of this, I hesitated countless times. I kept wondering why I became so clumsy even while making something so solid, why my heart wavered so much even as I gave strength to my hands. What I had set out to shape as sculpture began to have words, to hold memories, and to claim space. It was sculpture, but also a form through which I retched and slowly chewed over the time I had spent.
I came to believe that what we might call a pillar, or a beam, or even a column does not simply stand, but endures something unseen. I used to think about the worth of the things gently placed on top of it, but at some point, I began to see it differently. Looking back, everything was such a thing, and it began to appear as a being barely managing to support itself and stand in place. Not out of resemblance or reverence, but as emotions barely managing to prop themselves up and rise. It was different from the Pillars of Herculues, which declared that one could go no further—non plus ultra.
What is a pillar, or a beam, or a column like? Perhaps it is someone trembling, without even knowing what they are holding onto. At times, I thought that was me. Before the sculptures came to carry their weight here, they sank and collapsed many times. And in the process of raising them up again, certain feelings also leaned, then slowly unfolded.
Now, I believe in staying. None of these sculptures have ended, and none of them have not ended. They remain just as they are, still taking up space somewhere in the world, even now, radiating their own color. Even if they look clumsy or foolish, they were once my heart—or someone else’s—and so I am no longer ashamed of them.
