Exhibition
Text
Links
Curated by Didi Kim
Winter, long and reluctant to leave, finally draws back.
Even the chill that lingered in early spring begins to fade.
The sun stretches its shadows with hesitation, and green returns quietly through the cracks in the hardened ground.
From the neglected seams of asphalt, the tips of trees reach upward, their branches holding dew-like buds—
a slow, stretching gesture, like a body waking into spring.
Trees do not speak, yet they carry time within.
Beyond the seasons of falling leaves and restless wind, their roots hold steady, deepening in silence.
Even when still on the surface, life continues below, preparing to bloom again.
Hokma Gim views the world through trees.
Her trees are tender shoots and ancient bodies at once—
they are family, companions, and sometimes, the outline of a presence.
Time passes through the curves of their limbs;
the forms recall emotions long held or moments just passed.
There are no fixed narratives here, only quiet gestures that guide us back through the seams of memory.
At times, her trees grow from crumpled surfaces.
Planted into cracked hanji, they speak of beauty born not from perfection but from the very possibility of healing.
Occasionally, a shadow besides them—
a subtle trace, visible only in light, affirming the tree’s quiet presence in the world.
Her green is not merely a color, but a sign of life.
Even within composed forms, there are small and large movements of being.
A fleeting memory from childhood, the texture of a relationship, or an unspoken emotion still unfolding—
each seems to rest on one of the branches.
This exhibition unfolds at ppuri (root), a space grounded in soil.
Tucked within the layered landscapes of Seoul,
it offers a pause—a space where unseen depths are given time to surface.
Here, from root and soil (heulg), new sprouts (ssak) quietly rise.
Before Gim’s trees, we find ourselves listening for the structure of life itself.
Even beneath cement, the earth still breathes—
and the life within us has never ceased its flow.
The trees here grow in different forms and directions.
They need not be alike to belong.
Their difference is not a conflict but a way of composing a forest.
And between the works and the space they inhabit, something wordless happens:
a gaze returned, a quiet resonance, a forest made together.
Eternal Spring – Onsaemiro speaks of the quiet wonder of life returning, again and again, in its own time.
Onsaemiro—as it is, just as it always has been.
The word carries a way of being that doesn’t resist the current, but grows firm within its flow.
Life follows the rhythm of seasons.
Spring feels new each time, though its essence does not change.
Within this forest—made of works, space, and your presence— you are invited to pause, and perhaps prepare to bloom once again.
Brush off your hands.
Let yourself soften.
Eternal spring is here.
© Copyright HOKMA GIM All Rights ReservedEven the chill that lingered in early spring begins to fade.
The sun stretches its shadows with hesitation, and green returns quietly through the cracks in the hardened ground.
From the neglected seams of asphalt, the tips of trees reach upward, their branches holding dew-like buds—
a slow, stretching gesture, like a body waking into spring.
Trees do not speak, yet they carry time within.
Beyond the seasons of falling leaves and restless wind, their roots hold steady, deepening in silence.
Even when still on the surface, life continues below, preparing to bloom again.
Hokma Gim views the world through trees.
Her trees are tender shoots and ancient bodies at once—
they are family, companions, and sometimes, the outline of a presence.
Time passes through the curves of their limbs;
the forms recall emotions long held or moments just passed.
There are no fixed narratives here, only quiet gestures that guide us back through the seams of memory.
At times, her trees grow from crumpled surfaces.
Planted into cracked hanji, they speak of beauty born not from perfection but from the very possibility of healing.
Occasionally, a shadow besides them—
a subtle trace, visible only in light, affirming the tree’s quiet presence in the world.
Her green is not merely a color, but a sign of life.
Even within composed forms, there are small and large movements of being.
A fleeting memory from childhood, the texture of a relationship, or an unspoken emotion still unfolding—
each seems to rest on one of the branches.
This exhibition unfolds at ppuri (root), a space grounded in soil.
Tucked within the layered landscapes of Seoul,
it offers a pause—a space where unseen depths are given time to surface.
Here, from root and soil (heulg), new sprouts (ssak) quietly rise.
Before Gim’s trees, we find ourselves listening for the structure of life itself.
Even beneath cement, the earth still breathes—
and the life within us has never ceased its flow.
The trees here grow in different forms and directions.
They need not be alike to belong.
Their difference is not a conflict but a way of composing a forest.
And between the works and the space they inhabit, something wordless happens:
a gaze returned, a quiet resonance, a forest made together.
Eternal Spring – Onsaemiro speaks of the quiet wonder of life returning, again and again, in its own time.
Onsaemiro—as it is, just as it always has been.
The word carries a way of being that doesn’t resist the current, but grows firm within its flow.
Life follows the rhythm of seasons.
Spring feels new each time, though its essence does not change.
Within this forest—made of works, space, and your presence— you are invited to pause, and perhaps prepare to bloom once again.
Brush off your hands.
Let yourself soften.
Eternal spring is here.