Surrealism

“You look peaceful,” said a friend.

It was a plain Saturday morning. We were on a Zoom call, catching up on each other’s lives across different continents.

“I have surpassed,” I said, smiling at the camera.

“Hmm?”

“I learned how to live beyond the chaos and concerns. I’m practicing surrealism.”

We both laughed.

*

When life feels like wading through rough water, I come here, to this small palace in the city. Once you pass the gate, the world suddenly grows quiet and still. Without hesitation, I walk to the outdoor cafe and order a hot tea. I then sit and stare at the garden, the changing seasons, and occasionally eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. I watch the birds fly. I let time pass. For a moment, I am transported to a different era. Here, nothing can disturb my serenity.

—

The theme of the special exhibition was Surrealism and Korean Modern Arts, featuring artworks by 49 artists who had explored and perfected their own surrealistic worlds. I blankly read through the museum brochure.

To be honest, I had never been a fan of surrealist art. Although I’d seen Salvador Dali’s melting clocks and René Magritte’s faceless lovers in other museums before, I struggled to relate to them. What was the point of all that ominous fantasy anyway? I often wondered.

In the exhibition hall, quotes by André Breton were displayed, highlighting surrealism’s role in daily life. One passage from his book “Second Manifesto of Surrealism (1929)” stood out to me:

“Everything tends to make us believe that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imagined, past and future, communicable and incommunicable, high and low, cease to be perceived as contradictory. It would be vain to search for any other motive in Surrealism than the hope of determining this point.”

I marveled at his genius. The idea that surrealism could be a bridge between irreconcilable worlds delighted me. In fact, that is what I have been trying to do with my book, and with Han, my personified alter ego. She has been a source of aching mystery throughout my life, and yet, somehow, her presence became a medium for exploring the world around me.

Every artist had a reason for turning to surrealism: one had hidden his Korean identity while working in Japan, another had lost home and family to war. Whatever their story, they shared one belief that surrealism could transcend the cold, bloody realities. Their art was a form of active mediation, a quiet defiance.

As I walked out of the museum, I could almost hear Han’s voice lunging at me: “So, Bora, what exactly are you trying to mend — with me?” It was a question I wasn’t ready to answer yet.

To mend anything, an opening must be made first. Untie. Expose. Confront. And through publication, I was attempting to display the personal, familial, and national injuries. To write — and therefore to mend — while risking failure, ridicule, rejection, even humiliation.

Ouch, I thought.

How I wished I didn’t know what that position felt like. How hard it is to dream again after being hurt so many times. And how sad it is to live with pain, every day hoping one day it will go away.

I couldn’t write anything that day — there was no energy left to revisit the past or breathe life into language.

That night, however, I had a surreal dream: I was swimming through the Ala Wai Canal on a bright afternoon. I wasn’t alone; I was with with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. The water felt soft and sweet, like biting into cotton candy. And for a moment, everything felt alright.