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photography / exhibits / Things That Won't Change

Things That Won't Change
Bluepot Cafe, GIST Library
October 26 – November 6, 2026
- Photography & Text: Hanjae Kim, School of Life Sciences, GIST
- Curated by Kanghun Ahn, Professor of Philosophy and Aesthetics, GIST
- Design: Jiyeon Kang, School of Life Sciences, GIST
I started taking photos because I needed to archive — a defense against how much time and distance had already taken from me. Growing up between Ohio, Texas, and Korea, and now living on the opposite side of the country from my parents, I’ve rarely had the luxury of staying anywhere long enough to feel entitled to it. So I built a fortress of photographs instead: proof that I had once belonged somewhere, even if I couldn’t stay. But somewhere along the way, what my photos were doing for me changed. I stopped needing the images to remember, and started needing them to understand — why a scene that felt completely alien could suddenly feel warm.
That warmth is almost always the work of a person: a grandmother laughing at my bad knife skills, a stranger’s silhouette against a skyline, a hand in the corner of a frame. It doesn’t take much — we recognize each other as human almost instantly, and that recognition is what turns a landscape into somewhere I could belong. So I’d rather miss a photo than miss the moment, because the point was never really the archive. What started as an anxious need to hold onto things before I lost them has become something closer to a practice: repeated proof that wherever I go, whatever I do, whoever I meet, I’ll find that same warmth again.
Part 01 | Small Against the World
Some places feel alien. They stop us in our tracks, and we feel awe. But awe is a particular kind of fear: the feeling of standing before something vast that doesn't need us. These are moments when the world felt too big to belong to.
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The mouth of an ice cave at the foot of Mýrdalsjökull in southern Iceland. The ice here moves more than 100 meters a year, and with it the caves melt away and re-form anew. The cave in this photograph no longer exists.
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Taken by accident on a moving bus, back when I was first learning to shoot, the shutter left open far longer than intended.
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As the hot-air balloons of Göreme, Türkiye, rise into the sky, their burners flare on and off at irregular intervals. The balloons in the foreground hang dark and unlit, while one small balloon in the distance glows red. Its burner happened to ignite in the very instant the shutter clicked.
Part 02 | Familiar Strangeness
Stay inside an unfamiliar moment long enough, and small traces of people begin to appear. However far from home we are, a sign of human hands tells us that someone has lived here, and that we could too.
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A small church in Vík, a village on Iceland's southern coast. What drew me in was the contrast: green moss blanketing the ground where grass would normally grow, set against the church's red roof.
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A sunset in a color I had never seen before, and likely never will again.
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I came to Hong Kong after falling for the films of Wong Kar-wai. The 1990s neon signs that once crowded the streets of his films are now being taken down rapidly over safety concerns. I spent more than three hours one evening wandering Kowloon in search of the ones that remain.
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A man climbing out of a metro station in Tashkent, seen from behind. I took this on my way to catch a train to Samarkand.
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Three Sadhus (Holy Men) at the Pashupatinath Temple in Kathmandu. These men are devoted to Lord Shiva and have bright forehead paintings. Many of these "holy men" will shout at you for payment if their photo is taken.
Part 03 | What Won't Change
Strangeness doesn't last once people get involved. I've watched this happen again and again, wherever I've traveled. Places change, but human warmth doesn't. Given enough time, it's what lets us connect with anyone, anywhere.
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Taken at an exhibition at the Asia Culture Center (ACC) in Gwangju. The light settling on the hand felt almost like heat.
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Two brothers I met at Jogeumnaru Beach. I was photographing the sunset when they came over to ask what I was doing. Showing them how to take pictures, we quickly became friends, and with their parents' permission, I took this photo. Their family was grilling pork belly by the beach, and just before I left, the boys stuffed a big lettuce wrap into my mouth.
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Ankara, the capital of Türkiye. On our way back to the hotel, a group of men drinking by the roadside shouted out and waved us over. After a moment of surprise, we realized they just wanted their picture taken.
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A hot-air balloon climbing higher into the sky over Göreme. Even though it is just a hot air balloon, we all feel certain that people are on board.
Epilogue | ça-a-été (That-Has-Been)
None of these moments will happen the same way again. The light has moved, the people have gone home, the place itself may have changed. A photograph can prove that it happened, and that I was there to experience it. Roland Barthes called this ça-a-été, "that-has-been." Twenty moments across four years. Some were planned, most were not; some are from far away, others from just down the road. None of them were taken to be shown together, and none of them could be taken again. What they share is only that they happened, and that I was there.
Jökulsárlón, 2023
Curtains, 2023
Viewing Room No.1
Things That Float, 2025
Settling, 2025
Lungta, Prayers in the Morning, 2025
Viewing Room No.2
Junction, 2025
Guarding Nothing, 2025
Men Playing Okey, 2025
Half Wild, 2025
Migration, 2025
Borrowed Blue, 2025
Sculpted Posture, 2024
우사, 2025
Nine Steps, and a Couple More
곡우 이후, 2025
어스름, 2026
협문, 2026
Just in Time, 2026