The Story Behind Shapes of Elsewhere

People often ask me where my paintings come from.

The truth is, I almost never begin with a particular place in mind.

I don't sit in the studio thinking, Today I'm going to paint this street, or I'm going to paint that landscape. Instead, I begin with colour, shapes, and the quiet curiosity of not knowing where they'll take me.

Somewhere along the way, something begins to surface.

A curve suddenly reminds me of a hill I've driven over countless times. A patch of colour feels like the afternoon light on a street in Melbourne. A cluster of shapes brings back the wide skies of Texas, or a tree I passed without thinking much about at the time. Sometimes it's not even a landscape. It might be the feeling of eating unfamiliar food, hearing strangers speak a language I don't understand, or walking down a street I've never seen before.

It's strange how unfamiliarity can become familiar.

There are moments when a place you've only just discovered somehow opens a door to a memory you didn't know you were carrying. A flower reminds you of childhood. The colour of a building echoes somewhere you've lived before. A winding road feels like one from years ago. None of it makes logical sense, yet it feels completely true.

Those are the moments that fascinate me.

I think our memories don't live in neat boxes. They drift between places, people, smells, colours and seasons, quietly waiting for something to awaken them.

Perhaps that's why I paint the way I do.

I don't paint landscapes as they are. I paint the feeling of recognising something unexpectedly. The moment when a place becomes part of you without asking permission.

As an immigrant, I've spent much of my life moving between different ideas of home. Korea is part of me. Melbourne is part of me. Places I've travelled through have quietly left their mark too. Over time, home has become less about geography and more about the collection of moments that shape who I am.

This series, Shapes of Elsewhere, grew from that realisation.

The paintings aren't maps. They aren't memories of one specific location. They're fragments of many places stitched together through colour, shape and intuition. They belong somewhere between remembering and imagining.

Looking back now, I realise each painting has become a small record of where I've been—not just physically, but emotionally.

Maybe that's what "elsewhere" really means.

Not another place.

But all the places that continue to live within us.

I hope that when you spend time with these works, they don't simply tell you my story. I hope they awaken something of your own. A road you've travelled. A tree you once sat beneath. A holiday you haven't thought about for years. Or perhaps just a feeling that reminds you that we are all shaped by the places we pass through, even when we don't realise it at the time.

Perhaps that's the quiet magic of painting.

Sometimes I think I'm making the work.

Other times, I wonder if the work is gently reminding me who I've become.