Current, 2023
Photographic image from films transferred on paper pulp sculpture
Note:
Jan 2023;
When the memory becomes the story
There is no same memory.
People remember the same thing, but no one has the "same" memory.
From the big story called life to the small things that happen daily, people live through various happenings and remember them. Since everyone's life is different, memories are also recorded in different shapes, even though they remember the same event.
Some memory becomes a story. Time passing cannot naturally makes it. It happens when people constantly consider a memory that impressed them for a long time. Only memories refined with such thoughts exist as a story.
The memory that became a story spreads, just as its name, "Story." And the story is remembered as a memory by another.
I compress the moment of my life into a frame called "Photo." And just as I live with various experiences and thoughts, I add, remove, or overturn the memory in the picture, making the memory into a story. My story is becoming more abstract. But it seems similar to my appreciation of my memory.
This process reminds me of piling a small tower with stones in the mountains when I was young. I searched the hill to find stones I liked with a vague wish. Looking at the sloppy tower I piled up, I thought my wish would come true. Maybe I am making my memory into a story in a similar way. Am I wishing myself full of stories that might have been a little better?
Everyone is living with their own story.
And I am completing my story one by one today.
Sep 2022;
As I hiked amongst the trees, there were towers I saw, built of stones, and I stared at them, fascinated.
They sat by a trail I'd often go to and over time, the trail went through changes.
Typhoons blew by and the road even flooded, but despite the changes, the towers of stone always stood.
In all the silence of that trail, among the quiet trees, the towers seemed to speak to me.
Then a thought came to me, as I looked at the stone tower: living is similar. Events of varying values constantly happen in our lives; a small inconvenience could cause us significant pain or something we were anxious about might turn out well. The story of who we are are made of the different, varying, and random things that happen in our lives.
Just as the stones are scattered, piled together to form into a tower, I gather the pieces of my experience and stack them into an amalgamation of who I am.
When I need to put down my thoughts, I still prefer to use paper and pencil. But my thoughts do not always fit into words. When this situation arises, I crumple up the paper instead, and lump them together. To me, the crumpled paper are like stones, a shape made by an unconscious nature. The wrinkled and lumpy forms somehow seem similar to my thoughts or situation.
Such things, created by the release of emotion without any clear purpose, piled up in my space, like a stone rolling down a street.
Though words can't define the stones, they became something to me. Things that were nothing began to become something. Crumpling paper made my thoughts clear, like a period to a sentence.
A tower of my sentiments solidified.
Jan 2023;
When the memory becomes the story
There is no same memory.
People remember the same thing, but no one has the "same" memory.
From the big story called life to the small things that happen daily, people live through various happenings and remember them. Since everyone's life is different, memories are also recorded in different shapes, even though they remember the same event.
Some memory becomes a story. Time passing cannot naturally makes it. It happens when people constantly consider a memory that impressed them for a long time. Only memories refined with such thoughts exist as a story.
The memory that became a story spreads, just as its name, "Story." And the story is remembered as a memory by another.
I compress the moment of my life into a frame called "Photo." And just as I live with various experiences and thoughts, I add, remove, or overturn the memory in the picture, making the memory into a story. My story is becoming more abstract. But it seems similar to my appreciation of my memory.
This process reminds me of piling a small tower with stones in the mountains when I was young. I searched the hill to find stones I liked with a vague wish. Looking at the sloppy tower I piled up, I thought my wish would come true. Maybe I am making my memory into a story in a similar way. Am I wishing myself full of stories that might have been a little better?
Everyone is living with their own story.
And I am completing my story one by one today.
Sep 2022;
As I hiked amongst the trees, there were towers I saw, built of stones, and I stared at them, fascinated.
They sat by a trail I'd often go to and over time, the trail went through changes.
Typhoons blew by and the road even flooded, but despite the changes, the towers of stone always stood.
In all the silence of that trail, among the quiet trees, the towers seemed to speak to me.
Then a thought came to me, as I looked at the stone tower: living is similar. Events of varying values constantly happen in our lives; a small inconvenience could cause us significant pain or something we were anxious about might turn out well. The story of who we are are made of the different, varying, and random things that happen in our lives.
Just as the stones are scattered, piled together to form into a tower, I gather the pieces of my experience and stack them into an amalgamation of who I am.
When I need to put down my thoughts, I still prefer to use paper and pencil. But my thoughts do not always fit into words. When this situation arises, I crumple up the paper instead, and lump them together. To me, the crumpled paper are like stones, a shape made by an unconscious nature. The wrinkled and lumpy forms somehow seem similar to my thoughts or situation.
Such things, created by the release of emotion without any clear purpose, piled up in my space, like a stone rolling down a street.
Though words can't define the stones, they became something to me. Things that were nothing began to become something. Crumpling paper made my thoughts clear, like a period to a sentence.
A tower of my sentiments solidified.
Documentation Video;
Jul 2022
Jul 2022