Not all messages are written in words. Some emerge slowly, shaped by time and touch, whispered by the wind through leaves, etched into the twisting forms of roots and branches. Wooji’s sculptures carry such a message—a letter from the forest, where the boundary between the animal and the vegetal, the architectural and the organic, begins to blur.
Her ceramic beings stand like sentinels of an unfamiliar landscape, creatures neither fully human nor entirely arboreal. They are hybrids—figures that evoke both the skeletal remains of ancient trees and the upright stance of sentient bodies. Some arch and twist like limbs reaching skyward, while others root themselves into unseen ground, their hollowed openings like breathing chambers, their spindly bases recalling the delicate balance of both tree trunks and standing figures. These are not inert objects but entities, their forms shaped by unseen forces—wind, time, movement, and perhaps memory.
Each sculpture is built by hand, layer by layer, not with the mechanical precision of an architect, but with the patience of natural growth. Their rigid structures suggest something constructed, but their fluid curves soften them, making them feel less like structures and more like living being. The straight edges, though deliberate, appear eroded, softened by an organic logic rather than strict geometry. In these works, form is not fixed—it shifts, adapts, evolves, like a tree bending with the wind or a body caught mid-motion.
In Letter from the Forest, we are invited into this liminal space—a place where the artificial and the organic, the past and the future, meet. Wooji’s sculptures remind us that the boundaries between nature and civilization, between structure and life, have always been more porous than we assume.
As we walk among them, we do not merely observe. We recognize them. In their twisting forms, we see reflections of ourselves—not separate from the forest, but part of its ever-growing story.
