Wendy Park’s paintings leave me somewhere between joy, heartache, and reminiscence, hopelessly pining for my mother’s cooking. A forgotten trifle awakens from deep inside the mind, the smallest detail catapulting me back to my parent’s Korean deli in ’90s New York City. Without any actual representations of people or emotions, Park’s work seamlessly elicits memory more akin to a bittersweet melody—through high-key colors, playfully syncopated objects, and sharp letters that dance like a strummed chord vibrating across the canvas.
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