Like the primordial strike of a gong, I conceive of my work as a mallet that jolts one into a space
of immediacy, where questions of voice, subjectivity, and the deep entanglement of political
polarization begin to reverberate.

I could be described as an instrument maker—not only in the musical sense, but as a sculptor of
resonance. I craft works that do not simply emit sound but activate the tensions embedded within
them: structures of conflict, memory, and ideology. My practice centers around Korea’s enduring
contradictions, the dissonance of a nation divided not just by borders but by ideological clashes,
vibrating through us like a note held too long, a fracture that refuses to fade.

To make instruments, in my practice, is not to compose harmony but to engineer disturbance—
drawing out latent pressure from materials already charged with history: steel from militarized
debris, camouflage hues from military uniform, plastics shaped for lost voices. These are not
passive media; they vibrate with the residue of systems they once served. My task is to expose
that resonance—to turn object into pulse, material into confrontation, and form into frequency.
Here, the political is not embedded in overt messages but in ways of sensing and seeing, where
aesthetics and ideology converge in the shaping of perception itself. The tactility of my
process—hammering, painting, imprinting—is its own form of knowledge (is its epistemology),
an embodied act of remembrance that transforms historical trauma into present resonance. This is
a feedback loop: material affects body, body alters material, and together they produce a
vibration that reverberates outward, implicating the viewer in the very systems the work exposes.
That is what it means, for me, to make instruments; the voices of history refusing to fade.