Spring 봄
Some people measure their lives in years. I think I measure mine in kitchens.
I’ve lived in a few different countries now, long enough in each to get used to the sidewalks, the trains, the way people speak. Every move means learning again: new streets, new grocery stores, new routines. But somehow, the kitchen is always the place that makes it feel manageable. When everything outside feels unfamiliar, the signs, the jokes, the smells from the street, I start with something simple. I chop garlic. I rinse rice. I cook what I know. As the scent fills the room, the city feels less distant. It doesn’t matter where we are, Japan, Belgium, the UK, now South Korea. When the kitchen light is on and the rest of the apartment fades into shadow, I feel like myself again. And for that moment, it’s home.
In the studio, I’m never just thinking about the piece in front of me. I’m carrying trips I’ve taken, colors from distant markets, and the stories friends have pressed into my hands along with something they once loved. As I work through those gathered moments, I start to see more clearly what stays with me and who I’m becoming.
Journal
On my table
Thread
A line I’m carrying
This week’s small ritual
Elsewhere
Stories
A shared table | creative response
inviting members in our community
A shared table | creative response
inviting members in our community
A shared table | creative response
inviting members in our community
This is a curated selection of letters that left a mark on the world, on someone’s life, or just in the margins of time.
Each is transcribed with care and respect for the medium that first carried it: the typewritten page.