Orbiting
For Kwanghee Ko´s Solo Exhibition <Breath>, Seohak Art Space, Jeonju, KR
October 2024
Text: Areumbit Park
A friend came over to my house yesterday and mentioned that it's important to bring life to the corners of a room. She said that a house with lively corners is a beautiful house, leaving behind this interior design tip before she left. Looking at the corner of the room across from the desk, I noticed a wilting plant. It's a Calathea Orbifolia with broad, round leaves. A few years ago, I found this plant abandoned at my studio building and started taking care of it. However, after bringing the already wilting plant home, it ended up in an even worse state. Calathea originally grows under the trees of tropical American jungles. The thick rainforest blocks out direct sunlight.
Its large leaves have adapted to thrive in bright but indirect light. To keep its leaves hydrated, it's better to mist them with water than to water the soil directly. Perhaps it’s because my friend had talked about the importance of corners, but now the withering Calathea looks as if it’s standing alone on a stage.
The cookie tin supporting the Calathea was likely purchased from IKEA some time ago. The ginger cookies that once filled the tin gradually became soggy, and by Christmas, I had all been eaten. Now, the tin is filled with tangled cables and adapters, compressed together as if they've made a nest. I can’t quite remember when I last opened the lid. The tin now bears the weight of the Calathea.
The lightbulb hanging awkwardly from the ceiling gives the room that characteristic feel of temporary living spaces. Its dim yellow glow envelops the room, but the cold drafts sneaking in through the gaps in the window bring a chill. Outside, everything is a shade of gray. On days like this, it’s rare to see anyone through the window. The chipped white paint on the window frame of the building across the street, along with the small, clustered flowerpots, all look oddly artificial in this bleak weather.
Next to several round coffee stains left on the desk, there is an unfinished coffee cup from yesterday. Stacked books, with the yellow cover of The Dawn of Everything¹ on top, sit nearby. A film camera, used maybe once a month, a phone charger, and an external hard drive rest alongside the pile. In the corner of the desk, there’s a jam jar—cleaned out and label removed—now holding scissors, knives, and a variety of colorful highlighters and pens, tightly packed. Behind that, a clear acrylic organizer with eight compartments houses various objects: a padlock missing its key, Polaroid pictures with friends, half-eaten medicine, USB drives, sticky notes in assorted colors, a card reader, a few disks, and 3,000 won². I’m not sure if buying this organizer was a good decision; I bought it to organize things, but the random items just sit there in neat little squares, without much improvement.
As I examine each object, I begin to realize just how much I cling to memories. The fast-paced week seems to speed up the piling of the past on my desk. My eyes catch a single photo leaning against the organizer. It’s from a few summers ago when I visited my hometown. My younger cousin, with her small frame, stands there in the photo, staring blankly at me, the one holding the camera. She stands in the same spot, in the scentless summer air, frozen in time.
1. This summer, I spent several months reading this book. Sometimes I would read it on the subway, other times while gazing out the bus window at the bustling streets, imagining the world from 30,000 years ago in my mind. The beliefs and lifestyles of ancient humans feel very different from the lives we lead today. Yet, the rituals surrounding death seem to transcend time and take on similar forms, regardless of the era. The intricate burial practices and artifacts found alongside the deceased reveal their attitudes toward death. Early human societies were not as simple or egalitarian as we often imagine. Burial rituals were more than a way to honor the dead; they symbolically expressed social hierarchies, spiritual beliefs, and communal values.
2. After returning home from a trip, the currencies from various countries often appear unfamiliar, like relics that have lost their function.
When I wake up at my grandfather’s house and step out into the yard, the jangdokdae are clustered together. The image of my grandmother always bustling around them gently comes to mind. Whatever goes into the jangdokdae thickens over time, releasing a deep, pungent flavor and aroma. I think about opening one to see what's inside, but my steps already take me past the yard and out the gate. Beneath a sky filled with the scent of grass, we are walking together. It’s the same path I used to walk with my grandfather when we went to feed the cows. Every time the wind blows, the rice stalks between the fields sway quietly. The warm sun dries the grass, mixing its scent with the earth brushing my feet.³
My cousin, though technically a relative, feels more like a nephew due to the significant age gap between us. Today, she seems delighted to be walking with me after such a long time, her excited steps leading the way. Watching her hop under the big tree, I feel like it should be the younger version of myself following behind. Back then, I was skinnier and paler, running around this place freely. But now, I slowly follow behind her. When she stop to pluck a leaf, I stop too. If I continue down this path, a familiar landscape will soon come into view, but my cousin, walking just ahead, resembles me so closely that I feel I might lose my way.
Behind me, my father walks, gently pushing my back, followed by my grandfather. It feels like a musical that never grows tiresome, endlessly repeating with different actors weaving the story, always reappearing with a fresh poster. Under the same tree, in different times, we are walking together. The tone is slightly different, the steps are different, the breaths are different as we pass through that place. In every moment of life, I feel both the undeniable certainty of being myself and the mysterious wonder of this world that comes with it, leaving me in a state of confusion.
3. In Berlin, I often catch whiffs of certain smells that trigger vivid memories of specific moments or places I had forgotten. It’s curious how the present moment, when the memory is revived, also becomes a memory of its own, transforming the meaning of that smell. I once read an article explaining that smells have such a powerful connection to memory and emotion because olfactory information is directly linked to the brain’s limbic system. The limbic system plays a crucial role in processing emotions and memories, which is why smells affect our memories far more immediately than other senses. Now, this particular scent reminds me of my hometown but also conjures up images of the tree-lined paths along the Berlin canals.
Riding the subway on my way to the meeting place, I am nothing more than a small single blue dot. While I can orient myself, but I cannot move forward on my own. I become the subway itself, gliding smoothly along a predetermined track toward the next station. With a sense of relief that I won't derail toward one of the countless possibilities branching out to the sides, I move forward without any real sensation of progress. Only the fleeting scenery outside the window reminds me that I am heading somewhere else.
As the subway doors slide open, people pour in, bringing with them the layered smell of musty winter jackets. It's the scent of winter approaching. The winter I remember from childhood was silent, like a snow-covered plain, carrying no discernible scent. The cold air, sharp and invasive, seeps into every part of me. In the distance, I catch a sight of my father. He seems to be on his way home. The landscape, kissed with the orange glow of a setting sun, passes faintly through my mind. The subway doors open with an unpleasant screech, and people flood out, leaving behind a faint warmth and the lingering, musty smell.
Perhaps my hometown is like gravity, holding all the objects on this round earth in place. Just as every phenomenon is governed by physical forces, could it be the force that drives me forward? Like a star tracing a specific orbit under the influence of all the celestial bodies in the universe.⁴ And perhaps my duty, as the eldest grandchild, is to continuously bring to the surface something lifeless, buried by winds in a faraway desert. One day, it will sink deeper and deeper under layers of sediment built up over countless years. But each time, someone will pull it back up, brushing away and shaking off the sand with their hands.
People move about busily, and I, too, merge into the bustling crowd. In the distance, Friedrichstraße Station comes into view. Under the orange-tinted sky, the train station crumbles, darkened as if scorched. Kicking fallen leaves on the ground, I take a few steps and feel a sense of liveliness. Warm breaths spread inside my jacket, mingling with the crisp, cold air. I pull out my phone from my pocket and check the calendar.
As the bustling energy and mingling scents fade away, a neat and orderly scene unfolds. A bunch of grapes tinged with blue, three pears and three apples with their tops neatly sliced flat, fern and spinach namul (seasoned vegetable dishes), yukjeon (pan-fried beef), cod jeon, a bowl of tteokguk (rice cake soup), dried pollock, a small dish of soy sauce, japchae (stir-fried glass noodles), sikhye (sweet rice drink), jujubes, peeled white chestnuts, and dried persimmons come into view. Two candlesticks stand upright on either side of the table. Like the food and utensils neatly placed on the ceremonial table, we too stand in our designated places. My grandfather bows solemnly, followed by my father and then myself. Now, it is my turn.
I take a step forward. People sitting by the narrow Spree River are either sipping coffee or animatedly chatting with someone far away through their AirPods. I hear French, quickly followed by German. The various languages mix, creating a sense of space like ambient music often does. Words flung into the air lose their meaning and instead form rhythms and melodies, which, though they occasionally sharpen the senses, also bring a strange joy. In this vast metropolis filled with chirping birds and buzzing bees, I find an odd sense of comfort.
4. In a galaxy, stars, planets, and dark matter are all drawn together by gravity. The Earth orbits the Sun due to the Sun’s gravitational pull, while the Moon orbits the Earth due to the Earth’s gravitational pull. Gravity causes these celestial bodies to pull on one another, maintaining a consistent orbit. This balance ensures that they don't drift too far apart, and instead, they revolve around each other in stable orbits, creating the ordered motion observed in space. The forces of gravity are what keep galaxies, solar systems, and planetary orbits in harmony.
As I ascend the escalator in a single line, my sense of direction slowly begins to blur. The steps that were once synchronized now scatter as everyone charts their own course. I place my neatly packed, spotless suitcase next to me for a moment and quietly gaze at my phone’s clock. Time feels agonizingly slow, while the people around me vanish and reappear, as if in a loop. Words from the crowd sound like distant echoes of delusions. Invisible shapes float through the vast space of the airport, like moss suspended in the air, gathering and dispersing again and again.
Where could my grandfather's breath be? I try to imagine the labored breath he must be exhaling, but all I hear is the steady sound of my own. Then, my father calls. Like an effect in a movie, I feel myself and the background around me separate, moving at different speeds. My impression remains clear while everything else is blurred without mercy. For the first time in my life, I feel like I am fully hearing the timbre of my father's voice. As I look at the board filled with departure and arrival times, a sense of dizziness overtakes me.
The roaring airplane quickly ascends above the clouds. The places I live, initially clear and distinct, blur into pixels, like a screen losing resolution. I feel the subtle vibrations through the seat, and it seems that not only my body but even my internal organs float higher than usual. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. The plane's characteristic cool air flows through my nose. The rhythm of my inhaling and exhaling creates a steady pattern that keeps my body in balance.
We quietly enter the wooden floor and disperse to our own rooms. I lie down between the cold air and the warm wooden floor. I can hear the steady rhythm of breathing. Warm air passes through my stuffy nose. I take a shallow breath and release it again. The air goes out and comes back in, over and over. The constant rhythm of this simple act of breathing suddenly feels strange, reminding me that this is what keeps me alive. The breaths of my aunt sleeping in the next room and my father’s breath seep through the thin wall, reaching my ears. Our breaths, mingling together, illuminate the darkened room one by one, like fireflies glowing softly in staggered intervals.
When layers of time accumulate, do they eventually become an infinite flat space? Like charcoal sinking into paper, or paint rubbed and settling into a canvas, leaving a mark that never escapes? They say that when the soul leaves the body, a person loses about 21.3 grams. Does that 21.3 grams disperse into the air, remain suspended, settle in the world, rise to the heavens, or sink into the earth? Will it return home, or move beyond this life? When a person dies, is the soul left in an unstable, excited state, or is it peaceful? Is 21.3 grams the weight of death, or the weight of life? Will it pass through the deepest and darkest places, slide through the throat, brushing the tongue on its way out? Will it hide away quietly, only to reveal itself later? Will it rise, like an ancient relic that has never descended? Like gravity, which has never fallen but holds its weight steady? Will it rise like the heat warming my cheek, like the smoke from burning wood shooting up? Will it soar like a bird taking flight into the sky? Like the sun rising every morning, grand but unnoticed? Will it glide, quiet and swift, like a school of shimmering fish? Will it brush against the earth like warm air surging upward, slowly replaced by cool air seeping in to fill the space?
As I walk along the pavement by the river, I gaze up at the mountains. Following the even path, perfect for walking, I watch as the sun slowly sets, once again focusing my eyes on the mountains. Will I ever be able to climb them again, as I did back then? Somehow, I feel as though I’ve said goodbye to that place forever. In front of the mountain where my father’s father, my grandfather’s father, and his father all rest, I bow my head in silence. With familiar hands, I brush away the weeds growing on the round gravestone and gently smooth its surface. Another hand touches the rounded surface too.
The family genealogy⁵, a fragment of an unknown history that existed long before I was born, will continue through the years I am unaware of. Someday, another grave will be added beside the existing ones, and the photographs will fade. Forgetfulness will encroach upon me, erasing certain memories. Memory feels like something uniquely original to me, but in the end, isn't it merely the byproduct of repetitive breaths? Someone will touch my grave without even remembering me. My grave will disappear, and my story will scatter like dust in the wind. In the end, I will be completed as just one link in this chain of generations. While my own story is certainly entwined in this tangle, over time, it will no longer be distinguishable. As the wind brushes by, the rich scent of grass reaches my nose. It's time to descend. Perhaps because of the setting sun, I have a feeling that I will miss this scene one day.⁶
5. One day when I was young, my father showed me our family genealogy, where names branched vertically like roots of a tree. Confronted with the genealogy as a child, I felt both the eternity of time and its emptiness at the same time.
6. I began to miss it.
If I follow his breath, I encounter the places where I live, the places where I have lived, the places that I neither possess nor have lost, and the places I began dreaming of at some point. As an observer, I always exist in more than one place at the same time. Guided by the forces of all these places, I, like a star in the universe, slowly shift and leave behind a trajectory.
As I gaze at his breath, I survey my surroundings. Familiar objects in my four-cornered room come into view. The half-finished cold medicine from when I had a cold a few days ago is still visible. Next to the cold medicine, a tea bag clings to the inside of a transparent cup. Two external hard drives are plugged in behind my monitor, with cables sprawled around them. An open notebook with dates written on sticky notes lies on the desk. Behind it, small items remain untouched in the storage box. Nearby, an empty film canister sits forlornly. The table lamp behind my monitor droops slightly to one side. A half-finished glass of water and a few scattered photographs rest nearby. The Calathea looks yellower than before, but its stems seem to stand taller than they did. The yellow light bulb brightens one corner of the room, and frost forms on the windowpane.