Space, especially in that particular place called "home," carries its own addressee, I think. A few years ago, having encountered feminism, I handed my mother a copy of Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982. A few days later she returned it, saying, "It was too painful to read." I feel I overstepped, toward my mother.

What preoccupies me most is that there was no room of my mother's own in my parents' house. Each of us childrena had our own room, and my father had his study, but my mother always stayed curled up small in a chair in the living room. That a "mother" has no room of her own is not particular to my family. Working in architecture, I have spent the past several years repeating interviews with my mother and recording her through photographs. From her words — "But Mama can't just shut herself away alone, can she?" — I sense something that exceeds the structure of architecture itself, and something of my mother's spirit of "maybe I can't." My father was given a study to work in; I was given a room with a pink carpet and a walk-in closet; my brother's room had a blue carpet. And yet it seems that all of these addressees were, in the end, directed toward my mother. Just as the first space assigned to her was the hallway, she faced every space, and every direction was, in turn, aimed at her.

The exhibition's title, I hope this finds you well, taken literally, means something like "by the time this letter finds you" — a greeting that presumes arrival while addressing the time in between. What I want to do here is softly trace something like an arrow pointing toward my mother. In this exhibition, photographs of my mother's traces — an exaggerated tidying, preparations for sleeping on the sofa, feet left dangling — are fixed onto panels with glue. The faint decoration added in oil paint loosens the contours of the hard, given surfaces, and settles only on what is soft, on the margins, or, on the rare occasions it is caught in the frame, my mother's own body. While looking at the net in the kitchen drain, I was painting this. Toward the maternal, that receptacle which seems able to catch everything and yet is, in truth, so delicate.