Tokyo Note, June, 2003
by Brent Hallard
Positioned to the domestic, and hanging in the range of a certain minimalism, though unbound by objectness, or conceptual counter turns, Ke-sook Lee pushes the needle through an oversized apron and pulls it back out onto a world of micro diffusions and energies which when you stand back to look reach almost galactic proportion. At close range this out-sizeyness holds nothing other than stitches and holes in and through a super-thin cloth. You find doodles in haberdashery, fine stitches holding together ends of missing thread; patterns hobbling in and out of small rips or tears. Take the whole thing in again and the shadows formed from the denser bits, stitches, and folds, are thrown back into the wall, destabilizing the real, of what little there is. Scattered larger holes, ephemeral, and by no means hinting at the vortex, just sit in absence, burning outward, and look to be the only real thing that you can find retinal hold. What isn't there is then expressively clear.