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

Blog

Life & Living

That Which Is Called an Idol — and the Supreme Idol

Episode One

Long ago, I once watched a documentary about the animal world —
an episode about three cheetah brothers.

I was so deeply moved that even now, the scenes remain vivid before my eyes.

Time has blurred some details, so I can only recount the essence.

The three young cheetahs, still unskilled at hunting, were sitting in the grass.
Suddenly, all three fixed their gaze in one direction.

The next shot revealed a trembling moment:
a newborn fawn — perhaps a gazelle —
bleating softly,
walking slowly toward them
as if searching for its mother.

My heart sank.

Yet the cheetahs’ reaction was utterly unexpected.
Two of them watched indifferently,
but the third lowered its face close
and began gently licking the baby deer here and there.

I watched, breath held,
unable to believe what I was seeing.

Why —
what was it
that restrained the instinct to hunt
and replaced it, even briefly,
with peace and compassion?

Episode Two

Another scene often seen
in wildlife documentaries.

Far below a cliff of dizzying height,
upon a pile of jagged rocks,
a mother bird cried out loudly,
calling to her chicks.

One by one,
they appeared at the entrance of the nest —
yet none dared to leap.

At last, one chick
made the bold plunge.

When it struck the ground,
its tennis-ball-sized body
bounced upward.

Then the next —
and the next —
until all of them followed,
their fledging completed in full.

Why —
what mechanism, what assurance,
enabled them to overcome
their instinctive terror of the abyss?

Episode Three

A thick-bodied snake
was climbing toward a nest
hidden among tree branches.

Two parent birds —
tiny creatures
no bigger than a clenched fist —
immediately launched
a desperate defense.

Taking turns,
they darted above, below, and beside the snake,
flying fiercely around it.

At first, the snake seemed merely annoyed,
as though brushing off trivial pests.

But as the attacks intensified,
it finally relented —
drawing back its rising body
and retreating.

In those breath-tightened moments,
the tiny birds —
so mismatched in size —
had become
majestic eagles.

Why —
what stirred such extraordinary courage
within so small a being?

The mysteries of the heavens
are too small to be seen —
and yet
I have never witnessed
anything greater than these.

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