This pink cloth began as a shared gesture within my family. In the spring of 2024, we performed a "foot painting" together: rolling meteorite-like objects—used as metaphors for the nine planets of the solar system—with our feet, we left traces across the surface. At times, we also marked constellation symbols with chalk. This action was rooted in one of my core practices: astrology, or more precisely, a bodily and lived approach to reading celestial configurations. It was an attempt to overlap two motions—reading the stars and grounding the body—into a single plane.
For me, art is a way of exploring how I am grounded in and resonating with the world. Foot painting is one of the methods through which I test this connection.
In 2025, I reconfigured the cloth by suspending it vertically instead of laying it flat on the floor. Hung with its long edge at the bottom, the fabric is folded twice, creating an interplay between the front and back surfaces. The first fold encloses a small meteorite-like object, which adds subtle tension to the cloth and introduces a gentle curvature—an almost imperceptible expression held in its sag. At the edge where the folds meet, a shoe-shaped sculpture straddles the boundary.
When reconfiguring the work, I was struck by a strange sensation: seeing the imprint of a foot from the reverse side of the cloth. It was as though I were facing the underside of the sole—the reverse of the reverse, or perhaps the unconscious. This encounter felt like a convergence of surface and depth, consciousness and what lies beneath.
The shoe-shaped sculpture was created using a unique technique in which clay and acrylic pigment are blended into a viscous material, applied with pressure from the fingers, and then carved after drying. The resulting undulating surface bears neither the randomness of natural stone nor the intentional patterning of marbling. It occupies a space between the natural and the artificial.
The form itself was born from the idea of uniting two symbolic elements: the mountain, as a feminine vessel receiving divine voice, and the pillar, as the masculine act of erecting a conduit for the sacred—carried out by the carpenter. This convergence unexpectedly took the shape of a shoe. It is not a mimicry of footwear, but a metaphorical object where opposing forces intertwine.
The entire work is not a finished structure but a state of “wandering construction in progress.” Even when bodily movement temporarily imbues space with meaning, that meaning never settles—it floats, vibrates, and remains open. It is not a “sealed temple,” but a site where symbol and chance collide, where traces become structure, and where construction and collapse coexist.
Architecture runs deep in me. My father was a carpenter, and my playground as a child was the skeletons of houses under construction. I remember the wind passing between pillars, the sky beyond, and the sense of being held inside something not yet complete. Memories of demolition sites and my own experience working as a carpenter have led me to see “architecture” not merely as material or form, but as a totality of memory and bodily perception shaped through space.
What I seek in art may be a kind of open architecture—one that lives in the in-between, in the process. An architecture of intervals: between sign and body, construction and dismantling, consciousness and the unconscious.
