Storytelling has also been something I wanted to incorporate into my art. Perhaps I simply wanted to share my story, and in doing so, I found a sense of connection and understanding. In the beginning, I wasn’t sure which medium I enjoyed the most. I felt immense internal pressure to choose — fine art or illustration, traditional painting or digital media. Would I remain a fine artist, or should I take any job I could find? These questions brought confusion and uncertainty throughout my college years, my twenties, and even into my thirties.

One of my works, The Weeping Trees, is an ongoing illustration and drawing series that explores human relationships and resilience. This series began on my little sketchbook during an emotional period while caring for my father in the ICU in 2015

One day, while working at a book fair in New York, I received a call from 911. My father was being transported to Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, DC. Without hesitation, I rushed to catch the next Amtrak train, unprepared for what lie ahead. He had suffered a severe stroke and was diagnosed with global aphasia — a condition that affects a person’s ability to speak, understand language, read, and write. For the first five days, he spoke in a language I had never heard before. It wasn’t just slurred or fragmented speech; it was as if he were speaking an entirely unknown language.

Oddly, despite this, I could still understand him. Through his gestures and expressions, I instinctively interpreted his needs — something the doctors and nurses couldn’t do. Without a change of clothes, without meals or rest, I stayed by his side, translating his non-existent language. At times, his misfiring neurons led him to call me “wife.” Then, on the seventh morning, his language ability suddenly returned — almost 80% restored. 

It was the longest and most difficult week of my life.

Time, Space & Blues Series
The cyanotype prints narrate an eight-month planting odyssey with the annual Japanese indigo plant (Polygonum tinctorium), from seed germination to seed collection.

Thriving in my small Brooklyn backyard, these plants sprouted from April to August, underwent harvest between August and September, and culminated in the gathering of seeds in late October 2018. 

Each image serves as a visual chapter, unveiling the intricate and transformative journey of nurturing and harvesting Japanese indigo within the boundaries of my urban oasis.

During that time, I began sketching. These tree-like figures, with their tangled and interconnected branches, became a metaphor for the unseen bonds between people — the ways we support, shape, and hold one another up, even in the most uncertain moments.

A couple of years after the incident, my friend Ivanny gifted me a book, The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, after seeing my Weeping Trees series. Through this book, I learned how real trees support one another — sharing nutrients through their interconnected roots, sustaining ailing trees, and even helping rival trees for the sake of a larger symbiotic ecosystem. This deeper understanding reinforced the meaning behind my work, highlighting the resilience and interconnectedness that exists not only among trees but also among people.

For over a decade, I have been immersed in the world of indigo. The traditional dyeing techniques of Korea and East Asia have become a cornerstone of my work, not only for their aesthetic qualities but also for the philosophy they embody. Indigo is resilient. It thrives in poor soil, replenishing it rather than depleting it. This mirrors my own journey — learning to adapt, grow, and give back to the communities around me. 

Working with Polygonum tinctorium, the indigo species cultivated in Korea and Japan, has been a way for me to reconnect with my cultural roots. When I first encountered natural dyeing, I was unaware of Korea’s rich indigo traditions, despite being born there. Up until the 1940s, growing indigo and dyeing clothes were common practices in rural areas of Korea. A young bride’s mother would hand-stitch a blanket from indigo-dyed fabric as a wedding gift for her daughter. According to old scripts from the Chosun period, farmers and lower-class people who could not afford medicine would boil indigo-dyed fabric in water and drink it as a remedy during epidemics. In fact, indigo has antiseptic and antioxidant properties, and people in the past discovered these benefits long ago.

Now, indigo is a bridge — connecting past and present, tradition and innovation, my old home and my new one. By growing the same indigo plants my ancestors cultivated, and practicing similar methods to extract pigments from these magical plants, I honor their legacy. Additionally, I incorporate indigo into my daily life, embedding their wisdom into my own journey.

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I explore various natural dye techniques, drawing from traditions like Japanese boro and Korean bojagi — both methods of mending that honor sustainability and longevity. Through patchwork, hand embroidery, beading, and resist-dye techniques such as katazome and shibori, I create layered narratives that expand my storytelling beyond paper and canvas. Each piece carries a history, a connection to the land, and a reflection of my personal journey. In 2021, after my grandmother’s passing, I returned to Korea and brought back sambae, a traditional hemp fabric used for summer clothing and funeral rituals. This material inspired my large-scale installation Relics, in which I dyed sambae with black walnut and indigo to symbolize mourning and memory. I also mended two of my grandmother’s old cotton sheets, incorporating fabric scraps as a way to honor her life and the generations of women before me.

My journey with indigo, textiles, and my research-based online project, Indigo Shade Map, eventually led me to publish My Indigo World, a picture book that weaves together science, art, and storytelling. The book celebrates the cultural significance of indigo and my personal connection to it. Writing and illustrating this book became another form of storytelling — one that allowed me to share my love for indigo with a wider audience, particularly children. Seeing how the book has resonated with readers has been incredibly rewarding, reaffirming my belief in the power of art to educate, connect, and inspire.