Manifesto – A Postcard to Korea
In a forgotten town, caught between two eras. A woman receives a passionate letter, her heart steeped in crimson prose. It comes from Korea. She has never set foot there, yet every word seems meant for her.
The Addressee
Her name is Mia, a reclusive artist, a restorer of old garments. She lives surrounded by aged objects: forgotten art magazines, faded newspapers, hastily sketched drawings, dress forms draped in reinvented pieces. Every detail of her environment feels suspended in vintage melancholy.
One day after receiving the letter… Unusual changes occur. The magazines rearrange themselves, the illustrations come alive: fashion houses that no longer exist, enigmatic designs… pages that stare back at her.
Mia decides to respond to the postcard. She sends a letter in a vintage package, complete with a seal and handwritten labels. She fills it with cherished objects: her creations, pages from magazines, rough sketches, then binds it all with a cord.
But shortly thereafter, the recipient… doesn’t exist.
The package returns to her. Yet it bears a Dojang (signature stamp). It is thicker inside—filled with clothes
But shortly thereafter, the recipient… doesn’t exist.
The package returns to her. Yet it bears a Dojang (signature stamp). It is thicker inside—filled with clothes
The Aesthetic of the Clothes
- A ribbed hem on a cropped sweatshirt seems to stretch as if trying to contain something too large.
- Pleats on an asymmetrical wrap skirt fall like shifting shadows.
- Black lace ribbons tie themselves on a delicate top, forming new patterns against the skin.
Something inexplicable inhabits her, a fascination mixed with unease. Yes, these garments are crafted from the very fabrics she had used before. She recognizes them: the gabardine she carefully picked at an auction, the black lace she had snatched from her old job when it was carelessly discarded. But something feels wrong.
How could anyone make a sweatshirt out of a glove?
A glove in devoré suede that she had tucked into the envelope has turned into a cropped sweatshirt with exaggerated gigot sleeves, as if the fibers had come to life, twisting and growing.
A strip of denim she had used as padding in the package has transformed into an elegant but heavy pair of pants… too heavy, as if carrying an invisible weight.
These clothes are alien to her hand. “But what if they are the answer?”
Why A Postcard to Korea?
The postcard is the guiding thread, a metaphor for the connection between what we believe to be true and what eludes us. Through it, Mia is invited to travel. But the journey has no clear destination. It is inward, labyrinthine.
Like her, every piece in the collection is a message intended for an unknown recipient, a fragment of clothing transformed into a story. Even the packaging becomes a relic, telling the fabric’s tale before it becomes clothing.
The Suspension
“Did I send only that glove?”
Her nights are haunted by dreams where her creations distort and expand, draping over distant and indiscreet silhouettes that silently watch her.
The faces are blurred, but their gazes are insistent, almost oppressive.
One morning, a new package arrives… She hasn’t sent anything! Inside? A skirt… hers… but different. A belt adorned with a shirt collar flap she had designed for another piece. Flipping the flap, she finds a note: “With, here, then you.”
The irrationality. : Mia’s questions spiral in—fragments of herself, this cloth?
Toward the Escalation
Mia rereads: “With, here, then you.”
Then again: “With, here, then you.”
Then she hums it: “With, here… then you.”
The words seem to float, disassociate, as if written to obscure their meaning. Part of her wants to understand. The other wants to throw everything away and forget.
She places the garment on her desk, but her mind won’t let go. The letters dance. With. That’s a connection, isn’t it? An association. Here. Where? Here? Elsewhere? And you? Her? Another?
The next day, in her studio, she picks up her sketches. But the lines slip away under her pencil.
She pauses and stares. Her drawings are no longer clothes. Shapes layer over one another, impossible to wear!
“With.”
When she sews, the thread slides. The stitches become uncontrollable. She lets go, exhales, steps back. In front of her is an unfinished piece—but perfect.
She starts speaking softly, in fragmented sentences:
“Me? This isn’t mine. Why… here?”
The silence answers.
The Shift
Mia falls asleep without sewing. Without sketching.
She dreams of walking on an endless road, lined with trees resembling needles. A red light cuts across the sky, like a stitch slipping off a canvas.
She wakes up.
But she isn’t in her bed.
Her hands touch fabric: a hanbok, pure white. The floor beneath her feet is hard, warm—a heated floor. Her stinging eyes move toward a glow of light; she opens the doors, and looking up, she sees skyscrapers. Their silhouettes overwhelm her, trembling slightly, like poorly fixed stage props.
She walks forward, but each step brings her back to the same place. The wind carries the faint, steady sound of a bell.
Then she notices an injang (인장), engraved on a door to her left. She approaches, hesitates. Behind the door, the sound of fabric being crumpled. Then, silence.