My drawings begin in deliberate aimlessness. On a blank sheet of paper, I let my hand move freely, drawing lines without intention or orientation. I repeat the process several times on tracing paper, allowing spontaneous intersections and irregular forms to emerge. This unstructured beginning gradually reveals compositions that my conscious mind would never have created.

Once I identify a composition that resonates, I redraw it on new paper — this time with intention. I begin to control every direction, thickness, and curve drawn on the page, asserting authorship over what was once accidental.

During this shift from randomness to control, I constantly confront my own shortcomings: my habitual linework, my weariness of repetition, and my obsession with perfection. I move a line by five degrees, shift it an inch higher, or adjust its thickness until it finally feels right, whatever “right” means. I silently shout at myself, It doesn’t matter, just leave it. But I never say, No one will notice. Because drawing, for me, is a dialogue with myself. It’s not about being seen — it’s about seeing myself.

I want the result to be complex yet clean. I want it to be genius. I want it to go on and on, but then my body gives out. That’s when the drawing is done. Not complete, but done.

Circle (2017), a metamorphic drawing animation,  marked the beginning of the Counterparts series. I composited scans of my hand drawings into a one-minute digital animation.

Rhombuses (2018–2019) followed, entirely hand-drawn. Some were photographed in the woods, where shadows became part of the composition. Six years later, as I returned to the series with Ovals (2025), I finally asked myself why I fill pages with almost imperceptible differences. The answer is that I adore my own neuroticism.

In daily life, I try to contain it. Imagine missing a deadline because I had to test 296 different fonts. That kind of perfectionism doesn’t survive in the world. But when I’m working on Counterparts, I let it run free. I draw almost identical lines again and again, circling my table like a hedgehog before hibernation. Once I accepted that I adore this quality in myself, I almost felt liberated. And as each drawing nears completion, I feel a return of ownership — not only over the work, but over life itself.

Ovals (2025) was also the first of the series that I timed deliberately. I pushed myself to work faster, use full color, and commit to truly different lines. And, for once, I succeeded.

Still, I’m not ready to advertise my weirdness.
So, when people ask about Counterparts, I usually say:

“There are 86,400 seconds in a day — 86,400 choices to make. How do you know which one is right? You don’t, until you reach the end and trace the line backward. Counterparts is my attempt to navigate that uncertainty, to make peace with the choices that shape both my lines and my life.”

 — Hyun Jee Kim, 2025