When Carlos figures he can run in five inch heels but six is pushing it, I hear it as anticipatory, and less boast than fair assessment based on experience. To slay and to sprint. To slay at a sprint. Such double duty is another reminder that some of us do more, have to do more, than others. Better inclined to than have to but same difference after a while.
 
This penchant for the two (three, five) fold may also account for what I thought a commonly shared sentiment but recognize now, chillingly, as absolutely not the case. And that is an affection for English spoken with an accent. No doubt this has something to do with trilingual parents. The infinite charms of my father’s English though, gave little hint of the piercing sarcasm and wit in his Korean. And when he spoke Japanese which I do not, I would wonder what other nuances are inaccessible to me. What do I in fact not know, about those I think I know so well? When something is said, what else is unsaid and unheard?
 
Following these lines and amidst a configuration of preloved oddities in relief—protruding yet attached, sculptural yet pictorial—is an invitation to inhabit another kind of space alongside the one given, however schematically registered. Not as mise-en-scene exactly, nor a window on the world, but one nonetheless conducive to spacing in and out and reverie, to perturbation possibly, or as with the Flemish of old, to an aggregation of views held together in a curious simultaneity. Flat yet dimensional, isometric and perspectival. Two (three, five) point.
 
In the American context, I don’t speak with an accent. (And can muster almost as much DIY gumption for building platforms where none exist as your average Joe. Bet your boots, by our own bootstraps, best foot forward, walk a mile in someone else’s, one two buckle my… et al.) But I ask you to consider here, what it might mean to make work with an accent.

– Sowon Kwon