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Even now, as we still walk around wearing masks, I sometimes wonder how the past three years would have been if the COVID-19 pandemic had never happened. Imagining that alternate future feels like thinking about another version of ourselves in a parallel world. With that in mind, I wanted to reflect on two sci-fi movies that passed us by. This year was, as always, a busy one for me. I moved back and forth between Seoul and Cheongju, spending most of my time either on the move or engaged in physically demanding work. As I packed up my things to return to Seoul, I had to break apart the concrete pieces I had created in Cheongju. Wearing a mask to shield myself from the dust, I used a hammer and chisel to dismantle my work. Thud, thud, thud... As the dust and noise filled the air, a scene from 'Dune (2021)' came to mind.

The film follows Paul, the heir of House Atreides, as he struggles to survive on the desert planet of Arrakis while being hunted by House Harkonnen. After Paul's family is destroyed by the Emperor’s schemes, Dr. Kynes, a planetary ecologist, chooses to help him. In one scene, when Kynes is pursued by the Emperor’s elite troops, she strikes the desert ground to create vibrations—calling forth a massive sandworm that devours them all. The vast Arrakis desert and its shimmering spice are breathtaking, almost like a vast ocean with golden waves glistening in the sunlight. The sound of Kynes pounding the sand resonated through the theater, as if we were underwater, feeling the distant shockwaves of something powerful approaching. That moment left a deep impression on me. Seeing a creature that would typically be considered a monster, yet revered as a god by the Fremen, and watching Kynes willingly surrender herself to the sandworm felt strangely profound. Her final words—"I serve only my master. His name is Shai-Hulud."—stuck with me. I found it intriguing because I don’t quite understand the mindset of worshiping a force that ultimately leads to one’s own destruction. Fear, to me, begins and ends as fear—I’ve never imagined it transforming into devotion. It’s almost like saying, "You’ve come to ruin me, and yet you are my salvation."

While hammering away in Cheongju, I wondered—could I do this anywhere? Could I work like this in my Seoul studio, located in a commercial-residential building? Creating artwork, only to break it down due to storage issues, is both physically and emotionally exhausting. But I can’t carry everything on my back like a snail, so I have no choice. Interestingly, though, as I hacked away at my own work, I found myself feeling a strange excitement at the sound of the vibrations. Just as sandworms are drawn to the rhythmic tremors in 'Dune', I felt a pull toward creation again, as if each strike of the hammer was luring me back into the process of making. Now, my new studio in Seoul sits below a piano academy. I can only hope that my noise will be drowned out by the melodies above as I recall the deep, resonating sound of Arrakis’ desert. Watching 'Dune' also reminded me of another film—'Tremors (1990)'. When Paul and his mother, Jessica, scramble across the dunes to escape the sandworm, it felt eerily similar to 'Tremors', where the characters, Valentine and Earl, flee from underground creatures that hunt by sensing vibrations. In 'Tremors', these creatures terrorize the residents of a small desert town, cutting off communication and picking people off one by one. Valentine and Earl initially try to escape, but after witnessing the destruction, they decide to stay and fight. They climb onto rooftops and boulders to stay out of reach, strategizing ways to lure and destroy the monsters. The film’s grainy visuals and over-the-top dialogue capture the classic sci-fi aesthetic of the past. Watching it as a kid on an old, bulky TV screen, I found 'Tremors' both cheesy and unforgettable. For some reason, it always reminded me of nachos drenched in cheese sauce—maybe because the desert setting made me think of snacks, or maybe because the creatures’ insides, when they exploded, oozed out like melted cheese. Among all the earthy tones of the desert, that bright orange color stood out the most.

The trend forecasting company WGSN announced Digital Lavender, Luscious Red, and Sundial as key colors for 2023. Looking at Sundial, a warm sandy hue, I felt an odd sense of unease—it reminded me of 'Tremors' again. I’ve never actually been to a vast desert, but whenever I watch movies set in one, I feel an overwhelming sense of isolation, as if I’ve been cast adrift in an endless sea. I felt this watching 'Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)', when Furiosa searches for the “Green Place”; in 'Bagdad Cafe (1987)', when Jasmin is abandoned by her husband and left to drag her suitcase through the desert; and in 'No Country for Old Men (2007)', when Anton Chigurh ominously appears at a dusty roadside store. Deserts in these films evoke a feeling of helplessness, as if all I can do is wait for the sun to rise while parched with thirst. Looking out at the hazy horizon, I imagine that salvation will never come.
 
In 'Dune', Paul unwittingly becomes the prophesied savior, receiving help from those who see him as their messiah. In contrast, 'Tremors’ Valentine and Earl take matters into their own hands, becoming the town’s unlikely heroes when no one else comes to save them. That self-reliance resonates with me—sometimes, making art feels the same. No one else can fully understand why I’m in a certain situation, so it’s up to me to navigate my way out of it.

But this time, I actually was saved. The exhibition space in my Cheongju studio was vast, too high and wide for me to install everything alone. So, I sent out an S.O.S. Friends from Seoul rushed down to help, and thanks to them, everything was completed smoothly. When my call for help was answered, I felt an immense relief—as if the work had already been done. I can’t describe how happy I was when they arrived, braving the storm to come to my aid. It made me realize that I should be more willing to ask for help and to offer it in return. I’ve always hesitated to reach out, not because I fear rejection, but because I worry about burdening others. But maybe I’ve spent too much time fearing things I don’t need to fear. So, this time, I remind myself: Help me, if you can!

Post-apocalyptic films often feature a savior figure who leads people into a new and better world—even if they themselves never make it there. Sometimes, salvation isn’t about a single hero but about small efforts adding up to something greater, like the famous 'Cloud Atlas (2012)' quote: “What is an ocean but a multitude of drops?”

As we close this year, I wonder—what kind of help did you receive in 2022? And what kind of help did you give? It might be a bit dramatic to end on a philosophical note after discussing fictional saviors, but still—how did this (fake future) world look to you upon returning to it? And what do you look forward to in the year ahead? With gratitude for the kindness shared this year, I welcome the next.