The conflict between individual emotions and societal rules, standards, morals, and consensus is the common theme expressed in my work. As I grew up, I realized I could neither fully adhere to nor identify with what society deems "correct." I yearn to explore the deeper, instinctual emotions and desires within the human heart and project them onto the characters I create in my films.

“Family” serves as a tangible symbol of the "collective" in my work. Growing up as a woman in an East Asian family, I often found that beneath the façade of "intimacy," family brought me an ineffable sense of loneliness and helplessness. When faced with family, the women in my works often choose to escape or remain as distant observers. This reflects a questioning, resistance, and disappointment toward societal expectations that women "should feel a sense of belonging to their family."

In my short screenplay So She Decides to Go to the Sunflower Forest, Jessica, an elderly woman nearing the end of her life, lives with her family but has long been "abandoned" by them emotionally. She yearns to leave her family and return to the sunflower field where she once gathered with friends in her youth. Yet her aging body and her family's neglect leave her with no choice but to pass away with regret. In this story, "death" becomes her only means of fulfilling her wish and serves as the final strike in the conflict between the individual and the family.

"Marriage" and "intimate relationships" are another form of societal consensus explored in my work. In my short film Before Starting, the characters' indifference following disruptions in their marital relationships leads them to question and doubt their own emotions. Ultimately, however, what drives their release and liberation is something unrelated to any person or external factor—it is pure instinct.

My creations are rooted in real life and focus on the desires and confusion of people in contemporary society. In reality, I often observe people struggling to attain the most genuine joy and freedom in a complex world. This forms the core of the inner conflicts in my films.

The characters I create are often lonely and unique, marked by "strange traits" that set them apart from the norm. These traits captivate me, compelling me to portray the conflict between the minority and the majority. I aspire to reveal the softness and vulnerability behind these "strange traits," evoking empathy in my audience. Accepting one’s individuality often means standing in opposition to societal norms, a choice that requires immense courage.

Through my films, I aim to share these stories to resonate emotionally with the audience and offer them encouragement. I hope viewers can find a momentary reconciliation with the unexplainable confusion and inner turmoil they experience in their lives. For a brief moment, they can forget about good and evil, right and wrong, what should be and what should not be, and instead embrace the misunderstood, indescribable emotions within themselves.

At the end of Atonement, there is a long tracking shot that glides behind a row of soldiers. Their shoulders rise and fall like pages turning in the wind. I don’t know why, but I cried. There were no lines, no performance—only images. And yet I felt it all: the erosion of memory, the tenderness of time, the quiet devastation of war. That moment stayed with me. It was the first time I truly understood the emotional weight a single shot could carry, and it marked the beginning of my journey into cinematography.

I believe cinematography is not about decoration or spectacle, but about emotional clarity. Through the choreography of light, space, and movement, I seek to translate interior states into visual form. My approach is often shaped by restraint—by silence, distance, and stillness—because I believe some of the most powerful moments are the quietest ones. I’m especially drawn to characters who exist on the margins: the ones who don’t fit, who observe, who long for something unspeakable. These internal tensions—between presence and absence, intimacy and detachment—are what I aim to capture in my images.

In Hive, a science fiction mystery short, I worked against genre expectations—resisting the typical dark tones, large-scale world-building, or dramatic visual effects. Instead, I approached the film with minimalism, using cold, controlled compositions and stark lighting to evoke a sterile, oppressive environment. Within this space, the human body became fragile and isolated. The camera language was intentionally calm and distant, echoing the emotional numbness of the characters and the quiet violence of the system they were caught in. For me, Hive became a visual parable of survival—sci-fi not as spectacle, but as metaphor.

At the same time, I continue to work in documentary. I’m drawn to the real—those fleeting, unscripted moments that vanish if you’re not paying attention. Documentary filmmaking keeps my instincts sharp. It reminds me to look, to feel, and to listen. In The Echo of Dust, a poetic portrait of a rural East Asian farming family, I used restrained camera work and natural light to observe the rhythms of everyday life. Through this lens, I aimed to capture the passage of time, the fading traces of tradition, and the quiet dignity embedded in the landscape. It was not about intervention, but about presence. About letting the image speak for itself.

This dual practice—of narrative and documentary—has shaped the way I see. Whether the scene is carefully constructed or entirely spontaneous, I search for the same thing: emotional truth. I want to create images that don’t just illustrate, but resonate. Images that hold memory, fragility, resistance.

Growing up in East Asia, I’ve been shaped by a culture that often values emotional restraint and collective harmony. At the same time, my artistic instincts push me to question, to resist, to reveal what hides beneath the surface. This duality—between control and vulnerability—is central to how I frame the world. My background in directing gives me an additional sensitivity to story and performance, and has taught me how to collaborate deeply with directors and actors. But behind the camera, I’ve found a more instinctual voice—one that trusts the image to carry what words cannot.

To me, cinematography is not about showing—it’s about feeling. It’s a quiet negotiation between instinct and technique, emotion and form. It is how I connect, how I remember, and how I ask questions I don’t yet have answers to. Through this language of light and shadow, I hope to offer not just clarity, but connection.

Updates coming soon!