A LONG COIL SPRING, STANDING IN FOR THE TAIL, CAN BE PLUCKED LIKE A GUITAR STRING—EVOKING THE CRY OF A HORSE. TOUCH THE SCULPTURE, AND YOU WILL FEEL THE DEEP VIBRATIONS RESONATE THROUGH YOUR HAND. THIS IS A SCULPTURE MEANT TO BE EXPERIENCED, NOT JUST SEEN

Most recently, there was a quiet dialogue—unspoken but piercing—that occurred during the live broadcast of the Paris Olympics opening ceremony. In the rain-drenched night, a white horse trudged through the city streets, head bowed the entire way. Upon reaching its destination, the driver dismounted and handed the reins to another. At that instant, the horse lifted its head high and shook it violently, resisting. Perhaps that, at least, was a kind of victory.

[너도 말이구나 – YOU ARE ME] – THEY SAY IT IS A BLESSING. I KNOW IT IS HUMILIATION. I WAS BORN TO RUN— NEVER FREELY. MY SKY IS A SQUARE. MY MOUTH IS CLOSED. YOUR CROWN SITS ON MY BACK. MY CHILD IS BORN. ALREADY HARNESSED. ALREADY MOURNED. THEY CALL IT CELEBRATION. IT ECHOES LIKE DRUMS. IT GLEAMS LIKE A CAGE. I WHISPER: “RUN. BE NO ONE’S ROAD BUT YOUR OWN.” BUT I KNOW. YOU’LL LEARN TO BOW TO REINS TOO BEAUTIFUL TO REFUSE. AND I—WE— STILL CRY. BECAUSE WE ARE HORSES.

I was born to run,
but never once have I run
my own way.

The fields unfurl beneath my hooves,
but only in dreams
do they whisper with the wind.

Above my head,
a square sky
is diced by the stable’s beams.

When the saddle fell on my back,
and the bit silenced my mouth,
not once
did I raise my head to say “no.”

Your answer
would have been the whip.
My path
was your reins.

You climbed upon my back
and crowned yourself a king.
But I—
I have never been my own master.
I am not myself.
I am a horse.

My legs fold
beneath the weight of wagons.
With every gasp
through flared nostrils,
the carousel of delusion
vomits and
washes out even my sight.

Tears, mixed with dust,
run like sweat—
pretending not to be sorrow.

And today—
I see my newborn foal.
Yes,
you are a horse too.

Already etched
into your soft spine
are the laws of hooves and harness.

In the stable,
hoofbeats echo
like war drums.

One prepares a golden saddle
to celebrate your birth,
another—a lavish carriage
for the parade.

Gleaming iron trimmings,
rose-tinted bells,
tassels of color on taut reins…

They call it a blessing.
I call it humiliation.
And I sank to the ground—
wrapped in silence.

I wanted to cry.
No—
I truly cried.

A blunt, faltering sound
spilled from my mouth.
A shard of silence
clung to my shin…

Child,
may you run.
Truly run.
May no one ever own your back.
May your legs
be your only road.

But I know.
I know—
you will birth your guilt as I did.
Our fate has always
been bound by cords,
bridles
too beautiful to resist.

even tomorrow,
I will cry.
Because I am a horse.