Shape of Land
2024
inked sand, acrylic binder on linen or cotton canvas
In the fourth-grade social studies class of my generation in Korea, young students faced the challenge of memorizing the intricate details of the countless mountain ranges on the Korean peninsula. At the time, I viewed it as just another seemingly irrelevant subject forced upon us in school, yet I couldn't help but to question the peculiar academic rigor demanded by this specific chapter. It lingered in my memory as a symbol of the inefficiencies in the Korean education system that I and my peers grappled with. Fast forward 35 years, and it was during this period that I was introduced to the concept of the unique bond between Koreans and their mountains. A friend of mine, Dr. Richard Pegg, a respected historian specializing in East Asian artifacts, shared insights with me. In his book titled Cartographic Traditions in East Asian Maps, he delves into the distinctive relationship Koreans have with their mountainous terrain. The profound depths of these mountains served as the spiritual origin of Korean culture, and I believe their naturalist worldview was shaped through the challenging and sometimes enigmatic connection with the land.
In the same book, I came across the revelation of the first world map, crafted by Koreans approximately 300 years ago during the Joseon Dynasty. These early world maps were a crude amalgamation of fragments gleaned from regional maps worldwide, gathered by intrepid travelers and stitched together to form a speculative representation of the globe. What caught my attention was the deliberate disregard for geological precision; instead, the map functioned as a testament to the unknown, catering to those reliant solely on the device of imagination. By observing these visual depictions of unfamiliar territories, I find a connection to their perspective. Like them, I engage in the act of shaping a worldview with the limited knowledge at my disposal. I construct my understanding of the past, present, and future with scant information, gradually filling the voids as I navigate through the complexities of life. Through these ancestral maps, I've come to recognize that my recollections are akin to 'maps'—depicting the contours of the landscapes where I once resided, the pathways to friends' homes, or the layout of my childhood school's playground.
Our identity, too, is intertwined with the form of the land that symbolizes us, even when we've only encountered it through generated images. I sense both closeness and disconnection between my experiences and these enduring icons. National borders does not mirror the actual terrain, yet they shape certain collective identity.
In "Shape of Land," I draw upon my memory to reconstruct the land's form from past memories and various territories I've traversed. While geographically imprecise, these mental maps feel somehow complete.
