During high school, classes were split into odd and even days. I thought attending physics every day was compulsory, only realizing later I could've chosen geology instead. By the time I found out, I'd already spent two months in physics. Mr. Nakawati (or Nachawati) taught physics; he was smart, but students found the subject challenging. My experience with physics was a blend of fascination for the concepts and frustration with the calculations.

This is just a bit of background to set the stage for a pivotal moment in my high school experience. While Mr. Nachawati was discussing hypotheses and scientific uncertainty, he mentioned that scientists formulate hypotheses that may be incorrect or incomplete, and there might be more to discover. That moment was an epiphany for me. I had always been taught that 1+1 equals 2, Abraham Lincoln was the 16th president of the United States, and apples fall from trees due to gravity. Learning that not everything was set in stone, that there was room for doubt, was mind blowing. It made me realize that nothing in life is entirely stable; circumstances can shift and change, and we can't predict every outcome.

We lack control in many aspects of our lives, except when we're tidying up our homes, where we have complete authority over creating order from chaos. Recently, I've yearned for a sense of permanence, not because I feel torn between my Korean and American identities – that doesn't trouble me. It's because I've never truly felt like any place I've lived was my home; they all felt like temporary residences throughout my life. This feeling sometimes leads to anxiety, as I long to find my own place and create a sense of belonging, even though my family has always been supportive and loving.

In the summer of 2023, during a visit to Korea, something profound happened. As I descended from the sky and set foot on Korean soil, I felt a profound sense of dwelling, even though I don't reside in Korea, and it was not my first time flying from the U.S to Korea. All the comfort and stability I sought seemed to flow into me at that moment. It dawned on me that dwelling isn't solely a physical state; it's also a mental state. Regardless of how much I travel or move from place to place, I can find a sense of dwelling by cherishing the fleeting moments that life offers.

I began to collect references that evoked the moments when I found respite, allowing me to catch my breath and be present, akin to the feeling of dwelling. Whether it was through serendipitous spaces, captivating architecture, or compelling frames that piqued my interest, I continued this journey of discovery tirelessly. I've always found myself dwelling, one moment at a time, as I navigate through life.

Past images sometimes undergo distortion and fade due to the tricks of memory. Based on the psychological concept of GestaltzerFall—meaning 'shape decomposition' in German—when people fixate on a complex object, it breaks into pieces, forming a new image due to delayed recognition. While this visual agnosia commonly occurs with words or shapes, I've applied it to the process of recalling memories, visualizing how they exist and evolve in our lives. My art reflects this state by portraying the breakdown of structures, showcasing altered and faded scenes from memory through a screen. Different dimensions merge to create new environments, while rough brush strokes signify the passage of time. Vibrant colors symbolize the altered screens we use to revisit our memories.

My art is a reflection of these moments. It's an attempt to encapsulate those instances that transcend my memory. In an effort to preserve them before they fade into oblivion, I aim to immortalize them in my artwork—a tangible representation of my life and the history of my dwelling experiences.