Rocked to a soothing sleep, we dream of explosions. A candy coated smoke plume billows into the sky. Wet eyes squint into the bright epicenter. What else is there to do but smile? Laugh until there is a stitch in your side. The stitch grows into a pain, into a hunger, into a longing. You lay down in a field of rusted flowers as the shockwave spills over you. Euphoria through the tears.

In Perhaps, it will carry on, Yang-ha shows the world as she sees it. A liminal space where actions and consequences are no longer consecutive. It is merely a dot on the map of her mind, where events and imagination are blended. Enmeshed in all of Yang-ha’s work is her strong sense of self. She appears to the viewer as an enigmatic observer.

She mocks the masculine desire for violence and war and instead thrusts herself into the military industrial complex with stubborn irony and cynicism. The phallic missile is transformed into a flattened and voluminous portrait of an explosion. The safety of the home and garden have become archaeological sites of tragedy and disaster.
Yang-ha uses her experience of growing up as a Korean woman in a christian household to move through the aesthetic world. We are immediately made aware of a great irony in her work. White hot clouds from massive explosions surround the space. They appear as though dipped in sugar. Pastel, soft and floss-like. You must walk around them. They are not merely images on the walls, but objects that demand our bodies to move.

Something has come to pass. The flowers are already in bloom, but they are forever changed. They are crude and disformed into rubble. Are we walking through a hallowed space? Did something terrible happen here? Yang-ha creates a world that shows the end of unforeseen actions. She invites us into the space where soft has become hard and where the opposite of pretty is not ugly, but mystery.