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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World & Society

DO NOT CALL IT FATE. DO NOT SNEER, “FATE”

Do not call it fate.
A girl, her hands caked with dirt, wiping her tear-wet lashes, and a boy sitting blankly with his head bowed—they ask again.
The older brother running with a dented empty bowl, and a mother trying to squeeze out milk—they ask again.

Do not sneer, “fate.”
All the gods are angered. They see it for what it is: the monstrous collusion of the wicked with the wicked.
They record, in meticulous detail, the schemes of those brazen and perilous enough to defy the justice of the gods.

Even now—amid the thunder and dust of explosions—the child and the mother, hands clasped, long for the faithful switchman who will change this track.

Indict your barbarous governments, until they spit out the words shame and forgiveness.
Praise the brave and beautiful nations that have rolled up their sleeves and stepped forward; confer on them the master’s charter of a new order.

Free Palestine

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