There’s something about translucency that is so intriguing, no? It’s not transparent like glass, nor is it opaque like mirrors. It exists in that state of ambiguity, in a place of obscurity, in a moment of uncertainty—hiding, revealing, shunning, tactful, reserved, complex, subtle, diffused, contem-plating. In a cloud—blurred, shape-shifting, dream-like. In the fog—shadows, silhouettes, ghostly. In my mind—magical, reflective, hazy. Perhaps, translucency acts as a metaphor for our own lives, within us and without; where memories ebb and flow as we inhabit pasts and futures, where dreams overlap with reality, where communication fails clarity, where nuances are lost in transla-tion… or find new meaning. All of this, until time slows down and the light fades, to be reduced to a state of deep, dark slumber. You know, it’s making me think of that short story light of other days—such a subtle hint at memory, grief, joy and endurance, as light passes through slow glass, and love, care, loss and longing is translated across displaced, yet overlapping moments in time.​

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 < Read: Bob Shaw, Light of Other Days (1966) >

 

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Nanjoo Lee in response to the Korean term 돌봄dolbom that translates to ‘care’, observes a house plant she has been nurturing. What does it mean to care for a plant in the absence of verbal exchanges? Or what does care even mean between two humans who speak the same language but may not fully communicate? Building on a previous series of works exploring her relationship with her mother—marked by conflicts and misunderstandings, but acknowledging differences through translation—Lee delves into what it means to care for oneself and extend that to a house plant—both adapting to new environments and resonating with each other’s feelings. Similar to linguistics, she deconstructs the house plant in various ways: emotionally, through a painting of the plant fragmented and reorganised—translated; analytically, through drawings of its microscopic aspects—mistranslated; or culturally, through bronze replicas of the leaves, reminiscent of the Korean tradition of casting parts of a newborn baby. The natural pigment derived from dried leaves and symbolic of ashes, serves as a metaphor for life and death. This gesture of observing and understanding the different dimensions of the plant both by Lee and ourselves as viewers, itself reflects on the effort one invests in extending care.

Yeonjoo Cho draws on ideas around reflections, repetitions and variations in remembrance of her grandmother, and to further acknowledge the geographical distance from her family. She predominantly uses the translucent qualities of silk, painted on both sides and softly stretched across frames to give it a window-like appearance. This is accompanied by pieces of tinted glass and mirrors, capturing the interplay of light and shadow and the naturally ensuing shapes on surfaces. These components summon varying degrees of emotions within different contexts, drawing on new relationships and meanings from unexpected encounters. Further, the windows both connect and separate, but also serve as portals to times both past and anticipated. Perceived through these windows are magical hours between the day and night, the meeting of the sun and moon, the overlapping of dreams and realities, and the merging of the East and West—aspects that defy cultural dichotomy. Cho seeks to find these in-between spaces, to still these oscillations and reflect on our states of being, allowing reminiscence, rumination and contemplation. The inclusion of mirrored surfaces serves as abrupt breaks, prompting one to reflect on themselves. Cho uses this meditative space not only to evoke but also commemorate memories, longings, transitions, journeys, and moments of adaptation.