Reorganizing
I began to experiment with the “reorganization” of these memories.
Memory is not a passive repository—it is more like a malleable material, constantly reshaped by emotion, imagination, and the present self. Each time I return to a fragment, I unconsciously introduce new tones, atmospheres, or missing details. This act of reorganization is not about repairing or restoring a fixed reality, but about granting memory a new internal logic, a new modality of existence. At the same time, it becomes a form of self-reflection, enabling me to find more fluid and emotionally truthful ways of engaging with the past.
This understanding resonates with Henri Bergson’s notion that memory is not stored like files in a cabinet, but flows through time as a continuous, subjective experience. For Bergson, memory is inseparable from consciousness—it is not static, but constantly moving in relation to the present moment. Similarly, my approach to memory in painting is not one of retrieval, but of re-creation. By consciously fragmenting, reordering, and layering visual cues from past experiences, I create not a copy of the past, but a reconstructed field that reflects my evolving emotional and spatial relationship with it.
Untitled (Ocean), 1968, Vija Celmins
Night Sky, 1991, Vija Celmins
The work of Vija Celmins has had a significant influence on me. I am particularly drawn to the way Celmins uses pencil to create a sense of blurriness in her depictions of natural scenes such as the ocean and night sky. Rather than aiming for narrative function, these images convey a profound sense of space through calm, repetitive, and densely textured linear marks.
In her compositions, space is no longer constructed through traditional perspective; instead, it becomes flattened, expanded, and introspective. What inspires me most about Celmins’s work is her ability to evoke depth without clarity. Influenced by her approach, I no longer aim to depict clearly defined scenes, but rather use lines and fragmented forms to construct a non-linear, non-narrative space of memory—spaces that seem to invite me in, leading me inward into a psychological or emotional interior.
A part of The Faintest Sign, 2025
In my drawing, I replace linear narratives with fragments, partial details, and blurred contours, attempting to preserve the “unfinished” texture of memory. I depict isolated yet emotionally charged scenes—doors, windows, staircases, the distant sea—not as representations of specific spaces, but as condensed remnants of experience. After completing each individual piece, I reassemble and recombine them to construct new spatial configurations. These fragments are no longer merely symbols of incompleteness; rather, they embody what Marianne Hirsch describes as elements of “postmemory”—memories not derived from direct experience, but emotionally charged and symbolically reconstructed.
These images are not meant to recreate a specific time or place. Instead, they become what historian Pierre Nora calls lieux de mémoire—“sites of memory.” They preserve and condense memory through symbolic, emotional, and sometimes spatial forms. Each object becomes a container of time, holding fragments of real or imagined experiences, shifting between intimacy and distance.
The act of reorganizing memory is a constant back-and-forth—an ongoing adjustment between what is remembered and what is felt. It’s no longer about accurately reconstructing the past, but about weaving a new narrative. Through this process, I begin to shape what might be called a “poetics of memory”: a continuous, embodied dialogue between time, the self, and the surface of the image.
Container, 2025
A part of The Faintest Sign, 2025
As part of my ongoing exploration into the fragmentation and reorganization of memory, I have begun constructing wooden frameworks that function as spatial extensions of my two-dimensional works. These structures are not merely display devices—they act as physical translations of the fragmented logic embedded within my paintings. By using wood, a material both structural and tactile, I aim to translate the sensibility of broken memory into real space.
The forms are deliberately unresolved, balancing tension and openness. Some elements lean against others without closure; angles remain imperfect, and lines suggest architectural gestures—doorways, windows, slanted roofs—without ever becoming fully functional or representational. This ambiguity echoes the unstable and elusive quality of memory fragments. The construction process itself, full of improvisation, misalignment, and temporary solutions, mirrors the intuitive way we revisit and reshape memory.
In the unit 3, I plan to refine these structures further—not to perfect them, but to continue exploring how form can be used to spatialize emotional and psychological states. The frameworks may hold or frame drawings, or they may simply stand as quiet, skeletal markers of imagined spaces. In line with Bachelard’s idea of “the house as a space for dreaming” (The Poetics of Space), I see these assemblages as thresholds: places where memory shifts from the internal to the external, and where spatial logic becomes a means of introspection.
Rreferences
1. Bachelard, G. (1994). The Poetics of Space (M. Jolas, Trans.). Beacon Press.
(Original work published 1958)
2. Bergson, H. (1991). Matter and Memory (N. M. Paul & W. S. Palmer, Trans.). Zone Books.
(Original work published 1896)
3. Hirsch, M. (2012). The Generation of Postmemory: Writing and Visual Culture After the Holocaust. Columbia University Press.
4. Nora, P. (1989). Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire. Representations, 26, 7–24.