I have long cherished the moon jar and the earthen vessel, known in the Korean language as dalhangari and jilgeureut. When I look at them, a deep sense of tranquility descends upon me. Yet this calm is not born merely of stillness. It is like the grace of those who steadfastly cradle life’s joy and sorrow alike with unspoken strength. Upon the canvas, I seek to give form to that quiet radiance of strength and serenity.
As I gaze upon a dalhangari or jilgeureut, it almost seems to take on the semblance of a human head. Perhaps it is the roundness of its form, or the breadth of its curve. When I gaze into a vessel’s generous void, I can picture my face or someone else’s, as if reflected in still water. And I wonder what visage might bear the serenity I feel within these vessels. It surely must be a face not untouched or flawless, but one where time has written its gentle script—creased with wisdom, burnished by troubles and endurance. Such beauty moves me more than the perfection of the new.
A vessel shaped by the years—uneven and rough to the touch, its rim broken, its surface cracked and darkened by time—is like a human life. For we are born into the world an empty vessel, and as we journey through the days appointed to us, we fill that vessel with the substance of our living. Along the way, we meet suffering. Trials come as the rain upon the earth – without herald and without choice. Some are sharp and sudden, while others are slow as the settling of dust. Sometimes, the memories of wounds rise within the heart unbidden, and our soul trembles beneath their weight. Other times, wounds remain not as scars upon the flesh but as shadows upon the spirit—deep, silent, and heavy to bear. Yet, it is through the furnace of sorrow that the gold of wisdom is refined, and through the darkness of the night that the morning reveals its first light.
When we look back at the laughter, the lament, the pain, the love and the loss, and decide to accept them, finally are the marks of our journey revealed. They lie on the heart like the fine cracks upon a vessel of clay, delicate yet enduring. These marks are not to be hidden, for they are the record of our becoming. Thus are they proof of grace, and witness to the mystery of time. I have therefore named my work Mark of Age and A Tapestry of Years. Using the discipline of realism, I seek to express the depth of time and the resonance of the inner self by constructing a subdued chromatic harmony through the deliberate modulation and interlacing of multiple tones rather than employing vivid primary colors.
Ever since childhood, a subtle and deep sense of unexplainable loneliness has dwelt within me. Even amid laughter and warmth, emptiness lingered at my core. When I was younger, I tried to ignore it by living passionately. But as I grew older, I ceased to resist; I allowed it to remain, to rest beside me. And from that surrender, life began to unfold anew—each emotion, each fleeting grace, finding its home within the vessel of my being. As the old saying goes: “Never regret a day in your life. Good days give you happiness. Bad days give you experience. Worst days give you lessons. And best days give you memories.” Thus have I striven to welcome even the darkest hours, and in doing so, the feelings long held within me have begun to glow softly—like the tranquil radiance resting upon a moon jar. In painting the dalhangari or jilgeureut, I learn the very way of life to which my soul aspires. And I pray that those who stand before my work may also pause for a moment to recall the journey of their lives, to offer themselves gentle words of courage and love, and to find therein a quiet hour of healing.