My interest in Repetition did not begin with theory or art history, but from a sense of rhythm rooted in everyday life. Repetition is a universal condition embedded in our most basic actions—breathing, walking, brushing our teeth, washing our face, waking up and heading out each morning. These acts shape our intuitive understanding of time and behavior. They don't need to be emphasized to be strongly felt; they exist with quiet persistence.​

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Yet in my earlier artistic practice, my understanding of repetition remained rather abstract. I treated it as a visual language—a formal strategy that could be composed through order, accumulation, or rhythm. I believed that by creating visual uniformity and structure, I could convey the concept of repetition. But these works often remained superficial, lacking depth of experience and emotional resonance. More precisely, they posed as repetition, rather than embodying the experience of it.

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This shift occurred when I began using the “human” as the unit of repetition. It started with my series of handleless hammers, which made me question: who is repeating in this process? Why is he repeating? What exactly is being repeated? The form of the tool gradually receded, and I found myself focusing instead on the state of the subject—not the body executing a repetitive action, but a body being repeated itself. I stopped merely using the body to make sculpture, and instead began using the body as the material and structure of sculpture—a series of faceless human figures, heads bowed, knees bent, hands supporting the ground, stacked one upon another, forming a concrete column that appears both stable and suffocating.

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Through this process, I began to realize that repetition is not a neutral term. It is not only about structure and rhythm—it also involves direction, power, and control. Especially through my research this term on space, material, and political structures, I’ve come to locate myself not as an external critic of politics, but as someone long conditioned within its systems. The bodily memory generated by repeated actions, the muscle reactions, and the postural logic formed day after day—these have become the perceptual foundation of my work. They are not something I deliberately imagined; they are traces of a real condition embedded in my body.

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This also led me to reconsider the meaning of repetition. Philosopher Gilles Deleuze, in Difference and Repetition (1968, France), proposes that repetition is never merely the reproduction of the same, but a process of “producing difference.” In other words, every instance of repetition, no matter how similar it appears, carries within it subtle changes—deviation, erosion, or resistance. These nuances quietly shape the way we perceive the world and ourselves. Deleuze once wrote: “Repetition is not the recurrence of the same, but the return of difference.” This idea has offered me a new lens for understanding the repeated human forms in my work. These bowed, crouching, and weight-bearing concrete figures may look alike, but each is a product of difference born from embodied memory and material interaction. They carry the physical traces of my repeated labor—nuanced and real—and suggest the individuality that struggles to remain within systems of conformity.

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Thus, repetition is no longer just a formal or structural strategy; it becomes a mode of being. It reveals how institutions seep into our bodies through daily rhythms, and how individuals, while yielding and supporting, try to preserve the parts of themselves not yet erased. Deleuze’s thinking helped me reframe these “nameless bodies” in my work—not as anonymous, but as witnesses to the return of difference through repetition.

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At the same time, Antony Gormley’s work Allotment II (1996) had a powerful impact on me both visually and conceptually. He created over 300 concrete “body cavities,” each built to human dimensions, faceless but with ears. They are arranged in solemn rows, like a monument to the collective—or an abstract cemetery. His treatment of anonymity evokes a strong sense of how the body is categorized and dissolved within systems.

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​​Unlike Gormley, I don’t treat the body as cavity or architectural logic. Instead, I use the full human form as a unit of structure—bodies bent, bowed, crouching, mutually dependent, trapped in a behavior system like “living bricks.” If Gormley highlights “the individual within structure,” I focus on “the individual who has internalized structure.” His work taught me how to use repetition, form, and spatial arrangement to create emotional tension. It also showed me that repetition exists not just in motion, but as spatial condition—a collective environment constructed by and inescapable to the body.

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Because of this, I’m no longer satisfied with things that merely “look like repetition.” I try to excavate the psychological weight, bodily language, and spatial oppression within repetition itself. Repetition is not about order—it often signals entrapment, and the slow erosion of both self and difference. It is precisely within these seemingly identical acts that difference can truly emerge.

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I never aim to directly reflect politics or society through my work—but I also can’t deny how deeply real-life experiences have shaped me. As I wrote in my artist statement, “group order, discipline, and efficiency”—those seemingly neutral standards—have subtly shaped how I understand the body and posture. This reflexive muscle memory may not be a clearly defined theme, but it is a language I keep returning to in my practice. Repetition is no longer just a method or strategy, but a bodily instinct—an ingrained familiarity with collective structures, and a hesitance and struggle over individual agency.

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Ai Weiwei’s work doesn’t strive for uniqueness, but often uses “minor repetition” to express the dissolution of individuality and the force of systems. His influence on me isn’t limited to his artworks, but in how he made me realize that repetition can embody structural experience. That structure doesn’t need to come from grand systems—it can emerge from the rhythms of daily life. I don’t comment on any particular institution in my work, but this silent repetition speaks nonetheless—it records my sensitivity to order and my awareness of the trained body. It’s chronic, disoriented, even numb—but real.

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For this reason, I am especially drawn to Richard Wright’s “labor-without-result” type of repetition. His wall paintings are completely erased at the end of the exhibition—order established, then actively dissolved. That emptiness led me to reflect on my own inner drive: am I also using mechanical labor to push myself closer to some invisible structure? Meanwhile, Martin Creed’s absurd and slightly annoying repetitions made me realize that repetition can also be a kind of stubborn self-assurance.

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To me, this work attempts to shift repetition from external form to internal excavation. I want viewers to feel the weight, tension, dependency, and imbalance in repetition—not just see it. When I speak of “language,” I mean the language of the body: kneeling, bending, supporting weight with hands—these are not just physical actions, but culturally learned postures. I didn’t invent them, but by repeating them again and again, I’m trying to speak in a language that is vague yet real. Perhaps, this is the closest I’ve come to “sculpting language.”

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Materials and Making

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#Concrete​

Concrete is a material that lies somewhere between liquid and stone. It never boasts about itself, yet it has participated in the construction of nearly every city. It symbolizes functionalism—efficiency, standardization, and permanence. Its presence is invisible—few people stare at a concrete wall. But it is everywhere, a silent infrastructure supporting our daily lives. From city foundations to Khrushchyovka housing blocks, from bridges to sidewalks, concrete has become the default structure of modern life—a material embodiment of industrial rationality.

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Concrete is to Brutalism what graphite is to drawing. It doesn’t strive for surface beauty, but expresses power by exposing structure. This raw, unornamented language fascinates me. It naturally resonates with the Khrushchyovka buildings I mentioned in my context: the same gray, the same repetition, the same hard yet hollow sense of shelter.

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​In contemporary art, concrete often emphasizes materiality, weight, irreversibility, and death—it solidifies time and compresses traces of life. Some artists use it to build monumental images; others highlight its gritty texture to express the tension between authority and decay. Philosopher Gaston Bachelard, in The Poetics of Space, also discusses concrete’s “heavy temporality”—its irreversible, unchangeable quality that symbolizes a historical command.

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For me, concrete is irreplaceable. Clay is too soft; ceramics, too delicate; plaster, too brittle; wood, too alive. Concrete possesses a rational, indifferent stability—like the system I imagined: uncompromising. In this project, it’s not just a material, but a grammar.

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#Making​

So far, I’ve created nine concrete human forms, each bound by structural constraints: the head is an inverted trapezoid block, resembling a hammerhead. This is intentional—the head is not for thinking or feeling, but engineered for bearing weight. Their heads face downward or support another body, obeying an anonymous gravity. They are gears, joinery, self-contained units within a system. Ask a gear if it understands the machine’s direction—it only knows rotation. Ask a joint if it understands the structure it fits—it only knows connection. Each figure faces another’s back—or their buttocks. This closed, circular field of vision is exactly the “being trapped within structure” I hoped to convey.

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During mold-making, I initially designed many details—muscle contours, sharp posture breaks—but they caused problems during casting. Too many crevices tore the silicone molds; the cement wouldn’t flow evenly. So I began simplifying—thickening limbs, smoothing joints, gradually stripping away detail. But this reduction did not weaken the emotional strength of the figures. On the contrary, as the form became more generalized, its symbolic function became clearer. I realized that expression does not rely on complexity. Simplicity can deliver greater clarity. These bodies don’t need eyes, noses, or mouths; their function is to be repeated, to support, to conform. Their facial features are not missing—they are unnecessary.

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I also encountered many unexpected discoveries during the process. For example, in the de-molding stage, I tried to eliminate the seam lines between molds, but found them extremely stubborn. Some even added accidental lines and distortions. Initially I thought this was a failure, but as the number of repetitions grew, I came to see these seams as a kind of “scar”—a memory of industrial reproduction. They reminded me of the production molds used in cheap toys or figurines, where the traces of mass manufacturing are visible. Within the context of repeated bodies, these lines gained symbolic value. They are marks left by the system—imprints of how the “individual” is manufactured.

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Another discovery was how posture affected mold durability. The crouching, head-down pose caused pressure to concentrate at the neck and knees. These were always the first parts to crack during casting, and the ones that required constant repair. Ironically, the most “obedient” body position—submissive, bearing weight—was also the most vulnerable. This irony wasn’t designed, but the process revealed it to me: the posture best suited for submission is also the most prone to breaking. This fragile balance between submission and collapse became a central tension in the work.

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Because of this, I never tried to perfect the molds. Instead, I allowed the body to carry these flaws—fragments, ruptures, patches. These variations aren’t intentional designs, but are outcomes of labor, time, and decay. And they reflect exactly what I want to express: repetition is not mechanical sameness, but the slow differentiation that emerges over time.

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There’s also something very strange about the production experience: I have to repeat the same process—mixing concrete, preparing molds, pouring, vibrating, de-molding, repairing—yet each figure is slightly different. Not because I want them to be different, but because difference inevitably appears. Temperature, humidity, mold condition, how I mix on that day—everything leaves a mark. Just like people repeating the same workday after day, no two “same” days are truly identical. The process itself became an embodiment of the theme. I wasn’t just sculpting repetition—I was living it.