The 95^th ARTCaffè hosted Hye-Ryoung Min.

The artist recently held an exhibition at Sarubia Project, one of the oldest and most respected galleries supporting artists in Seoul. When invited to select a body of work for the show, she revisited several of her past series and ultimately chose to return to one of her earliest: Channel 247. Though the decision to revisit such an early project was not easy, it proved to be both refreshing and insightful. Through the process, she gained a new perspective, which she shares in thispresentation.

Alongside this, she also introduces a more recent project, The Hours Breathe, which began in 2018 with the birth of her twin boys and was completed in 2024.

Hye-Ryoung Min: Living in New York as a photographer, together with my husband—who is also a photographer—meant that our entire lives revolved around art and photography.

For a while, that felt perfectly okay. But everything changed when we became parents. The world around us shifted. Even the objects on my table looked different. Still, I didn’t have time to pause and reflect—it felt like I was constantly in motion.

Then, after a couple of months, I noticed something simple but profound: the sunlight coming through the window, resting on one of those unfamiliar new objects. It felt like it was speaking to me—telling me to stop.

Raising two boys is honestly a bit insane. But at some point, I made a conscious decision to stop, to really look at the objects around me—and to greet them properly, through photography.

The Hours Breathe is about those moments I shared with these everyday things, and the new scenes that emerged inside my home. I couldn’t leave the house because of the kids, so everything had to happen there.

I began finding the right spot for each object and waiting for the right light. But the light didn’t always come when I wanted it to. If I missed it, I might have to wait a few days—or even weeks—for the right moment to return. It was challenging, but also meditative. It helped me come to terms with my newlife as a mother.

To give you some examples: these crackers were the only food I could eat while pregnant—they became my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then, there’s the underwear I wore during pregnancy— really ugly, but so comfortable. I was genuinely grateful for it, so I wanted to find a way to make it look beautiful.

And the breastfeeding pillow, designed so that two babies can lie on top while you feed them. The brand name was “My Brest Friend”—and honestly, it really was. Even after I stopped breastfeeding, I couldn’t get rid of it. I was too attached, too emotional. I think it was one of the objects I photographed the most, trying different spots and lighting to do it justice.

Then I moved to Korea, and everything changed. We relocated in the middle of this project, and suddenly the light, the floor, the walls—everything was different.

In Korea, the look and feel of things shifted so much that I felt lost. I didn’t know how to continue or complete the project. The light, especially, felt unfamiliar—and for me, light is everything. 

At that point, I received an award from Sangsang Madang, and with it came the responsibility—and motivation—to finish the work. I took time to reflect and eventually I realized: maybe this shift was meant to happen. Maybe this was the natural evolution of the project.

I had to accept the change, find a new way to move forward—and I did.

Details like the cherry wood floors—so typical in Korean apartments—or the patterned wallpaper became part of the story. I completed the project in spaces like my mother’s house, where even the windows filter in a greenish light, something quite unique to Korean homes. I embraced it.

And in the final stages of the project, the focus began to expand. It wasn’t just about the objects anymore. Sometimes, even my twin boys—and myself—became part of the composition.

Originally, this series began as a still life project. But as it evolved, I changed the title to The Hours Breathe to reflect that transformation. It became more than a still life; it became about presence, about life inside a home, about motherhood.

247 was simply our house number—not a reference to “24/7,” though many people assume that.

Before we got married, I moved into the apartment where Jaime was already living, in Brooklyn. That meant we had to rearrange the furniture a bit. Jaime used to have a big table placed in the center of the living room, but we moved it so it faced the windows.

Naturally, as we sat down for breakfast or lunch, we began looking outside. The brownstone had three large, rounded windows that made it really easy to see the street.

What fascinated me most was watching people when they weren’t conscious of being observed—when they were simply going about their lives. Heading to work. Dropping off their kids. Taking out the trash. These in-between moments, when nothing “special” was happening, revealed so much.

I began to notice subtle differences—how people moved, dressed, interacted—and started imagining their stories.

I treated those windows—the large ones in the living room and the smaller ones in the kitchen that faced the backyard—like my own TV screens.

That’s how Channel 247 began. I used my camera, and those neighbors or passersby became actors and actresses in an unscripted, silent film.

Overtime, I began to read deeper into these scenes—guessing what had changed, noticing when routines were disrupted. The silence made everything more vivid. Of course, it wasn’t always consistent. Rain might cancel the “show,” or somedays I was just too tired to keep watching.

But I kept this project going for about a year, before we got married—before we even thought about having kids. That was 14 years ago.

Back then, I didn’t know anything about raising children. But now, revisiting this project for the exhibition—and this talk—I see it differently.

I notice the kids. I see the parents. And now, I understand what they’re going through. I can read their body language, the tension or tenderness in theirgestures.

I know what she’s thinking when her child refuses to go to school. Because now, my kid does the exact same thing.

My subjects were always in public space. I tried not to feel bad about photographing them. Of course, I had many thoughts about it, but ultimately, I never intruded into their private areas.

Still, I remember that when I was a teenager, I often felt like someone was watching me—so I acted like an actress all the time, like in *The Truman Show*. Even though these people weren’t in their own private spaces, I sometimes felt like I was doing something wrong.

In the end, I realized: they weren't the ones trapped—it was me. I was the one inside a tiny apartment, unable to go out into the world. So, I decided to free myself. When we moved out, I stopped the project. I hadn’t worked on it while we lived there—I just stored the photographs. But once we left, I started working on it properly.

The photo of the boy reaching for the doorknob reminded me of *The Truman Show*. It felt like he was escaping his own story, finding the fake sky and stepping outinto the unknown. That image became one of the last ones I included in the project.

And then, the table. I took a photo of it just before the movers came to take it away. That moment marked the end of the project.