I’M CLUMSY AT LIVING – ADORE GALLERY

Welcome, and thank you for visiting my modest gallery tucked away in a quiet corner.

Here you will find a variety of my works—large and small, diverse in character and spirit. I arranged them in this way because, seen together, they may give you a clearer sense of who I am.

To be honest, I often feel my lack of formal training and the limited time I have been able to devote to art. Yet I continue without pause—feeling, learning, and growing in the process.

I am not a master of any single field, nor do I belong wholly to any place. Take what you see as it is, and carry with you whatever impressions remain. Though I began in earnest later in life, I have always sought to keep faith with my first intent—to let neither results nor criticism define me, but to follow the quiet integrity of my own path in art.

At times, a sudden impulse led me to submit small works to competitions, and a few were recognized. In Korea, I once taught art at a high school for about ten years. In 2009, after twenty years of living in Australia, I returned to Korea, where I now work as a sculptor. That, in essence, is the whole of my artistic journey.

I have no interest in heavy philosophy. What moves me are the kinds of impressions that feel like music, and the vivid realities that the world tirelessly brings forth.

I love travel and every kind of documentary, and hold special respect for the creators of BBC Earth, whose programs I watch with admiration. And one thing is certain: without music, I imagine my veins would carry nothing but plain water.

Perhaps artists are simply those who live in the busy square between the entrance of expectation and the exit of fulfillment.

Even if you arrived here by chance, I am grateful.

Yoonki Hong
Born 1952

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I’M CLUMSY AT LIVING

Nuna, how was it that you came to marry a man so inept, and so came to suffer pain after pain?

Latte, how was it that you followed so wretched a man, and lost the smile that should so plainly have been yours?

With the passing of time, one ought to grow wise and capable, yet misfortune makes no sound—

perhaps it is my fate never to hear it coming.

Each thing I did, thinking I could do a little more, only added guilt to incompetence;

I tended and polished what I cherished, yet everywhere lie the things I broke.

For two months I gave you medicine, only to send your platelet count plunging; then, when I stopped it for two weeks,

the count rose sharply instead—what perverse thing had I been doing to you?

Terrified of the hospital, you turned your back on me and vanished like a comet. Forgive me, Nuna.

I did not see the deep wound in your tail until it had grown thick with clotted blood.

And what grotesque excuse is The Book of Disquiet supposed to be?

“It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.”

As if those words could ever repay the suffering that was yours to bear, not mine.

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