Dying Sun was born out of sound not from the outside, but from within. A sound that has never ceased for the past three years. The diving accident left not only physical scars, but also the cicada-like ringing in my ear that never departed. It became an unignorable signal, trembling in silence, whispering: “Perhaps what we thought has always been ours, may not be our voice at all.”
I once sought peace in distant mountains, escaping the chaos of the world. Yet this sound turned every journey inward, deeper and deeper, into a landscape I could no longer avoid or conceal.
Amid dense fog, jagged rocks, and a weary body, I faced nature in its uncontrollable form. For the first time, the mind surrendered—not in defeat, but in understanding: that certain greatness does not ask us to resist, but to listen.
On that freezing night, surrounded by despair, I looked up at the Milky Way and felt a stillness so profound it dissolved the self, merging me with the universe. Pebbles once overlooked revealed hidden structures—chaos with rhythm, emptiness filled with life. And the sound that once burdened me crystallized into a “stone”—a new sun born in the darkest night.
The works in this exhibition are explorations of the inner landscape—not with the urge to control or explain, but to dwell with it, to let it reveal itself, layer by layer, breath by breath.