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

ADORE-GALLERY
85 Cheongun-ro, Mungyeong-eup, Mungyeong-si Gyeongsangbuk-do, Republic of Korea

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Cats & Kittens

To You, Who Have Once Again Become a Statue

If I am to say I love you,
I should first empty half of myself,
fill that hollow with you, and make you firm within me.
I should carry you on my back
over all the countless passes along the mountainside.

If I am to say I will protect you,
then upon the ground where I have torn myself down,
I should build you a palace, its lamps glowing bright.
But today the sky is overcast,
and you, too, are terribly dark—
so how could I, without shame, remain bright alone?

What kind of bond could be so fickle
that it has come to this—
that I have pushed you into a damp and desolate cave!

Thinking I could bear it no longer,
I wounded your belly.
And that wound drove away even the footsteps
of the fellow you used to cry for and wait for at night.
With what face could I ever ask you
to forgive me for this?

Until I finally put down my spoon,
you did not move at all,
like a Sphinx without expression.
And I searched through every moment
your heart had spent drenched in tears.

Amusement and delight, happiness and contentment
have long since gone off with your friends.
Our walls fell long ago,
and for more than two months
I have had to watch your patience wear thin
under the tyranny of an intruder.

Last night, when that shameless brute
climbed over the wall yet again,
I fired a handful of beans at him without mercy—
as your guardian.

When I saw the fellow you had been searching for
appear at the far end of the wall,
I hurriedly gathered you into my arms,
carried you outside, and set you atop the wall.

But he slipped away
without even coming near you.

You, who had held your breath,
stretched your long body out
and could do nothing but sniff here and there.

You sniffed at everything that brushed beneath the wall,
then wandered even into the back alley
you had hardly ever visited before.
Watching you search like that
nearly brought me to tears.

A scent is only a wrapping.

What you were trying to uncover
was the treasure hidden inside—
all those private stories, woven close and dense,
soaked in moonlight
and gently consoled by the stars.

I failed to keep out the rampaging intruder
or shield you from the fear that came again and again.
And now the friend you searched for so sorrowfully
has gone as well.

Can this lonely, empty house
truly be your palace?

The question only grows larger.
I feel as though I am standing at a crossroads.

Can the dream of one who confesses his guilt
not even dare call itself a hope?

To say, I love you—
such an overwhelming thing to say
that I have always hesitated before it.

Just once,
before I go,
I wanted to say it properly.

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