My drawing practice initially focused on the plasticity of individual memory. However, through ongoing creation and reflection, I gradually came to realize that “reinterpretation” is not merely a process of reassembling personal recollections. Rather, it is a visual response to the emotional suppression and perceptual fragmentation embedded in contemporary urban experience. In a society marked by rapid rhythms and information overload, individuals are increasingly confronted with a profound sense of spatial alienation: we inhabit highly structured physical environments, yet have gradually lost our emotional connections to space, to others, and even to ourselves.

This condition echoes what Byung-Chul Han articulates in The Burnout Society—that contemporary society has shifted from what Michel Foucault once described as a “disciplinary society” to a “performance society.” Here, individuals are no longer oppressed by external forces but instead driven by internalized imperatives of self-motivation and self-exploitation. Han writes: “Today’s subject is no longer an ‘obedience-subject’ who follows orders, but an achievement-subject who declares ‘I can.’” This apparent freedom, however, traps individuals in a relentless cycle of self-imposed pressure, resulting in burnout, depression, attention disorders, and emotional numbness. In such a structure, the degradation of perception and suppression of emotion are no longer abnormalities—they have become normalized.

As early as the early twentieth century, sociologist Georg Simmel observed that the sensory overstimulation of the modern metropolis compels individuals to develop a kind of “nervous defensive mechanism,” dulling their psychological responsiveness. Contemporary theorist Jonathan Crary similarly criticizes how society systematically undermines our capacity for deep perception through visual acceleration, fragmented attention, and image saturation. These arguments align with Han’s account of the burnout society: we are no longer passively deprived, but actively depleted by our compulsion to remain endlessly “positive.” In this context, drawing becomes, for me, not merely a medium of expression, but a form of resistance against socially constructed perceptual regimes.

Space has never been a neutral container. As Henri Lefebvre emphasizes, all spaces are socially produced and shaped by power relations. In my drawing practice, I attempt to reconfigure seemingly ordinary yet deeply structured spatial elements in order to challenge the dominant logics embedded in spatial narratives. In my work, viewers are no longer passive spectators but become wanderers within emotional landscapes, seeking a temporary place of rest amidst the indistinct and the fragmented.

Thus, reinterpretation is not just the rearrangement of images of memory—it is a micro-political act of spatial resistance. Through drawing, I strive to construct a visual field that resists narrative, refuses explanation, and embraces hesitation. It offers viewers a momentary departure from the logic of the city—a space where one can re-encounter emotion, memory, and space in non-linear, non-rational ways. In a world obsessed with speed, efficiency, and visual dominance, drawing becomes a form of psychological intervention: a vessel for delay, ambiguity, and resistance—a space where one might finally pause. As Han suggests, true healing lies in the reactivation of negativity; only by abandoning the illusion of perpetual performance can we begin to restore our connection to the self and the world.