In college I encountered another kind of gap. A professor stood in front of my painting and said, “That bus has already left.” To me it sounded like reducing the direction of art to whatever was currently in fashion.I asked back: Is art something that follows a route already decided?That moment was less a clash than a question of direction. What does it mean to be “ahead” or “behind”? Who gets to decide that? I refused to postpone the question.​

 

At the time, the university was an environment where you could not find a path unless you investigated on your own. I studied in the library by tracing papers and their bibliographies. One book led to another, and that connection opened onto yet another text. Later I called this method a “zigzag walk” (之)—a path of pursuit, irregular and complex.

 

But study could not be sustained by solitary reading alone. I organized a study group within the department. We divided texts, exchanged summaries, and filled gaps through weekly discussion: from Courbet to Minimalism; Postmodernism and Feminism; 1970s monochrome painting and 1980s Minjung art. It was not simply learning—it was a process of checking coordinates, of locating contemporary art.​

 

Many dropped out along the way. With those who remained, I co-founded Meta-Vox, moving from critique to collective practice. The habit of questioning direction took shape there, and it became a foundation for my later work and activities.