I called Mum in Korea to tell her I’m in trouble with a lot of deadlines, as usual.
I didn’t tell her I might be homeless soon, or that I’m too broke to send her next month’s allowance, or that I’m on trial as a victim of a crime in this foreign country after 15 years of being here.
My brother warned me that her memory loss is getting worse, and she’s deteriorating. He’s been looking after her full-time for the last couple of years.
I thought I could give her some sort of purpose for her days, which seem to be blending into nights too quickly these days.
“Mum, I’ve got an exhibition coming up. Do you think you could help me make some jewellery? Something that could protect me. I’ll mix it with my stone jewellery and say it’s a half-Korean, half-New Zealand identity thing.”
Mum, who’s been an artist herself for more than half a century, got very serious and said, “But you’re Korean. Don’t make things or pretend to be someone else.”
I tried explaining that I’m both, or somewhere in between, but it just made her more upset. It ended in shouting and tears again. I gave up. My brother scolded me for unsettling her.
Forty-nine days later, I got a box from Korea. My brother said Mum worked on it every day. She told him these would be the last things she’d ever make. (But she says that every time she finishes a painting.)
When I opened the box, it was full of traditional Korean protective charms—symbols that would ‘guard’ me. I was surprised by the detail she could still achieve with her hands. But one of the wooden blocks had her scribbled writing on the side, hidden away, and it made me cry. It said, “I miss you so much.”
For my part of the work, I kept carrying around the rocks I collected from Aotearoa to Australia in my car for more than six months. They scratched each other up. They were beautiful as they were, but I drilled a lot of holes in them to let the light through. My rocks ended up looking like children’s drawings. They could be monsters, or ghosts, or maybe your pet. I attached a lot of string I got from fishing and climbing shops—things I’d never seen in South Korea.
We have different hobbies there than we do in New Zealand or Australia, I suppose. What a luxury, having all this space and water around you.
These colourful strings bear weight well. I feel like I’m the one hanging at the end of these strings, not the rocks.
I felt bad when I cut those rocks—they bled into water, their colours running as diamond saw slides them. I felt guilty when the rocks cracked, which happened when I ran out of patience and rushed the drilling process. I didn’t feel qualified to sculpt them. It felt like butchery. So, I stopped.
While my friends with proper jobs are buying their mums Louis Vuitton or Prada bags, I’ll probably give my mum these ridiculous rocks to wear. I wonder if she’ll laugh or ask me what the hell they are.
“Mum, I heard this cool story about, ‘There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.’”
She’ll probably just tell me how terrible I am with my artwork and everything else, like a typical Asian parent. And honestly, I probably deserve it.
