A Reflective Object
It was during my exchange semester in Germany that I first realized being Korean was a part of my identity. In a new environment, you start to notice the gaps and misalignments between yourself and your surroundings. It’s not only the place that feels foreign. You start to feel foreign to yourself as well. You become your own observer, looking into a mirror.
For me, language is where that sense of foreignness is most accentuated. It feels offbeat to pronounce my name with an American accent. And I would sometimes mishear “Do you wanna” as “Jeewon.”
When I began bringing Korean text into my practice in the U.S., I often had to translate it as well. Translation is a deliberate act. Unlike speaking or thinking, where words emerge directly in your chosen language, translation begins with an original. It is an act of connecting the separated input and output languages. It is almost impossible to fully represent the original, but the translated language gains a uniqueness that the original didn’t have. The two languages may be unfamiliar to each other, but they are looking into one another. Now I see myself in the mirror—who seemed to be so foreign—and think, I look awkward. But that is me.
A mirror doesn’t show what’s behind it, but it has a certain quality of transparency, in the sense that it reveals whatever it is facing. It is an X-ray object activated by confrontation. I keep returning to this image. Maybe I enjoy discovering all the foreign selves in different environments after all. I do love change, I love exploring things, and I love adapting myself and reflecting on things that are surrounding me. There is something therapeutic about being able to live your life as a foreigner to things.
I cannot stop looking at the mirror—A mirror that becomes bigger when I am far away from it. A mirror that shows me speaking another language. A mirror that feels like a twin.