Seoul, South Korea
Spring Night

This project explores ways of moving through loss and isolation via language, image, and performance. It begins with a woman performing as a cat, navigating a circus of poetry and survival. She moves with precision in a world spinning like a tire. In the early morning, the cat tears apart mice and pecks at frogs with the accuracy of a beak. These rituals repeat each day – a prayer strung with tendons, a sun-softened meditation full of holes.

At the far edge, where traces of spinning remain, an image slowly emerges – a white dog, reduced to bones and fur. It has countless legs and moves along every edge of space like a furry worm, guided by touch alone. Perhaps born blind or deaf, the dog’s most peaceful qualities – detachment from life, trust, and loyalty – envelop this acrobatic world, leaning with quiet weight toward balance. Such secrets are not born on stage, but arise in the folds of the audience’s palms, their eyes closed. 

The title Spring Night (봄밤) is borrowed from a poem of the same name by Kim Eon Hee. The fist-sized bones and white flowers in this poem, open as empty bodies that have been devoured, with no mother, no offspring, no owner, no reader. What remains is not tragedy but joy, finally being struck and falling into sleep. Spring Night

The dogless
Dog owner stands

Before the dogless
Dog house 

From bare magnolia branches 

Fist-sized
Skulls 
Burst forth, tearing through April’s air

What kind of hole devours babies, then spits out their bones?

Beneath this tree
The dog that kept birthing stillborns
Was beaten

To death

All she wanted was to
Get it over with and

Sleep

— Kim Eon Hee, Spring Night. Translated by Soje, 2025.*
(*The full poem is reproduced with the permission of the poet and the translator.)

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