70 x 70 cm
Oil on linen on board
In My Tree Lives Here, I am wearing a traditional Korean undergarment, which could also be perceived as a conventional funeral outfit for Korean women, symbolising the state of chronic illness and pain that has had a devastating and pervasive effect on most of my adult life. This garment, deeply rooted in cultural significance, represents my vulnerability and a profoundly private moment. The incomplete nature of the petticoat or funeral dress, with the top half missing, mirrors my sense of incompleteness as a woman, mother, colleague, friend, and wife, and a feeling of not fully Korean as a 1.5th-generation immigrant in a different country. I exist in a liminal state – I am neither terminally sick nor exuberantly healthy nor belong to a part of the dominant white Australian culture.
Unlike my other paintings, I stare directly at the viewer, breaking my usual intention of looking away. This direct gaze signifies that I have grown fully aware of my actions and feelings and a lack of shame in them. The gaze communicates with the viewer about my space, inviting for an intimate connection and a sense of shared understanding.
A tree, a recurring motif in my work, personifies the core of my being, my soul. It is untouchable, unpolluted, and sacred, providing strength and protection. But, in this painting, the tree appears to be dying. It is hurting. In my mind, I have wrapped the tree with cloth cut from my Korean dress to shield it from harm. This cloth, once white, is now soaked in red. Is it blood? Is my tree bleeding or weeping? The cloth is loosening, suggesting the tree might be shrinking, collapsing, or suffering from long-term neglect. Yet, the red cloth glistens with energy, appearing vibrant and fresh. I am gently holding onto the cloth, caught between nurturing and lamenting.
The patterns on the floor and walls do not resemble typical wallpaper. They look like tiny seedlings of a tree. Are these patterns connected to my tree? Did the tree produce them, or did they manifest independently? The pattern on the centre wall creates a barrier for me to open this window. It feels more like a cage. I used to be able to open the window before, but now I no longer can. The pattern is doing something that I cannot predict, and it makes me anxious.
The left-side window remains unaffected. I can still maintain my routine to open this window, allowing beautiful sunshine and fresh air in. I feel hopeful and safe because it behaves in a way that is predictable to me. I have a sense of control still. But a small portion of this pattern has begun to spread, showing its vulnerability to other influences. For now, though, this window is still safe.
Although the pattern on the floor seems pervasive, it has not overwhelmed me or the tree. Could it be that the pattern is forming a protective ring around us? Maybe I was wrong about the patterns all along. Nothing seems clear to me. Regardless, the pattern is here to stay and demands my attention, making me acutely aware of its presence in my room.
How does my dear tree respond to these surrounding patterns? It communicates with me in ways I cannot fully understand. Yet, the green grass beneath the tree is showing me that it is thriving.
My tree is alive. My tree is well.
I am now holding the red cloth with gratitude because I have finally realised my tree has been sustaining me all my life ever so quietly and steadily. I finally see its strong branch leaning towards me, tirelessly offering protection whenever I need it.
My tree cares for me.
