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02/02/2025
It was a wet Saturday, and I slept all morning, unconscious of its arrival. My bedtime has recently dropped to about 3 AM. I can't wholly conclude my day until I've gathered the words within me, organized them, and put them in order. I follow my body's rhythm and let my days unfold spontaneously. I try to eat healthily, remain active, and get enough sleep whenever feasible to feel refreshed. I finally reverted to a more consistent routine, like the water does after a storm. Maybe not immediately, but it will happen eventually.
An artist friend informed me the night before that she was preparing for a solo exhibition in her place. She asked if I could write an introduction for her exhibit, and I readily accepted. We decided to meet the next afternoon at her vegan bistro cafe. I imagined arriving before opening hours to admire her artwork, write, and read—the perfect Saturday. When the time arrived, I put on my rain boots, which I hadn't worn in a while, and made a leisurely 30-minute stroll to her cafe. Strangely, it always rains on the days I see her.
As soon as I came inside, she grabbed my arm and escorted me around, eager to show me the paintings she had displayed. My first impression was that the area already felt like an extension of her—its colors, ambiance, and dreamy vibe. It felt like the space had been designed to house her art as if the paintings and the setting were inseparable. Hundreds of little paintings spread across the tables, awaiting their place on the walls. She told me she intended to cover every vacant place with them. As we strolled through, she explained her concept for the display. Listening to her, I felt I had met her soul through her work. And then a thought occurred to me: Will I ever have my own space like this?
The name of this location is "Home." The first space was nearby, and here is the second Home. It will be open until next Saturday, after which the third Home will begin again in Dalmaji Hill. My friend, who goes by the artist name "Inus," titled this final exhibition at the space "Home in Us." With a glass of white wine, we let the conversation flow, sharing each other's updates and moving from one topic to another. As the customers showed up, I began to write. I wrote down words as they came to mind, integrating them into her stories.
Two hours have elapsed. Between reading and journaling, I finished the first draft of her exhibit introduction and messaged her. She approached, enthusiasm in her eyes.
— Should I read it now, or wait till I get home? Which would be more enjoyable?
— Just do what you prefer.
— Then I will read it on the way home!
I returned to my book and drink, but her curiosity quickly took over. After finishing in the kitchen, she sat across from me, unable to wait any longer. I was interested in how she would react, but a sense of dread crept in—what if it wasn't precisely how she had hoped? To get rid of the feeling, I stood up and walked around, taking another look at her work. When I got back, she looked at me and said,
— Chaelin, I adore it, but...
Oh. So it wasn't exactly right after all. I prepared myself to make the best modifications I could.
— It's clearly your work, but because it's in the first person, it nearly sounds like I wrote it myself. How can we make it clear that this is your voice?
It was a different way of thinking for me. As I responded to my friend's question, I discussed the method and process of my writing. Strangely, I had never voiced this immediately after finishing a piece. Expressing what generally happens in my head felt terrific—almost like stepping outside to observe my own process. I was curious if jazz artists experience something similar when they improvise. Before the details faded, I wanted to capture the experience. One day it would be interesting to return and explore deeper. Here's how I described my real-time writing process to my friend:
- Instead of writing in a detached, analytical tone—describing Inus's paintings as if criticizing them—I wrote in the first person, as a friend.
- I wondered how Inus felt when she painted. How does she want her work to be viewed?
- I wrote down crucial words and associations in the margins.
- Without regard for order, I built phrases from those words, allowing them to arise freely.
- As we talked, I looked for words to improve the essay. (For example, when discussing ceramics, I picked up the verb "to shape," which was ideal for the space theme.)
- I found a guiding principle to help me anchor the piece. ( "The soul within Inus paints, using her as its instrument." )
- I organized the fragmented sentences into a cohesive arrangement.
- I devised transition sentences to connect the notions.
- I refined the rhythm, seeking opportunities to incorporate flow and subtle rhyme.
- I read the piece aloud and adjusted it until it seemed right.
A jazz performance for an audience of one. My friend's curiosity appeared limitless—how did this sentence emerge? Why did I chose that particular phrase? As I responded, our discourse grew deeper, adding new layers of significance. I was listening with open ears and an open heart, trying to comprehend another person's soul. She could sense the intensity of my concentration, which made her delighted. I felt grateful to have someone with whom I could share this kind of joy. And it ignited something in me—a hunger to read more, to write better. Writing is drawn from life, and to write well, I must live well.
HOME INUS
An ancient soul resides in every body
Like fabric steeped in time,
the soul drinks the years,
spilling itself through the tools it loves most.
My joy lives in lines and colors,
in movement, in form.
The stillness here was dance elsewhere;
what paused there rose again in motion.
As my days layered upon themselves,
my soul stood witness to a thousand scenes.
Then, in a whisper of memory, it recalled—
a world once touched, a life once traced.
From my fingertips, it shimmered onto paper.
Now, these primal joys gather in this space,
each corner breathing a universe of its own.
I hope this world, shaped by my hands,
emerges here simply and naturally.
One last dance in this HOME,
one dream stretching toward the next.
May those who enter drift through their own cosmos,
floating softly in the tides of memory.