My Philosophy in Photography

I am going to die. All the moments I have sacrificed so much to seize what I wanted become meaningless. Yet recognizing the inevitability of death has set me free. The instant I understood that time flows only one way, the present became desperately precious. I feel nostalgia for right now—

"Ah, someday I'll miss this very moment, too."

My chest aches after parting with someone I love; I shrink when my boss scolds me; I bomb a final exam—still, every second tastes rich to me. When I let the present flood my whole body, I know I am alive, and I record this fleeting instant that will never return. That is why the world I see is so breathtakingly beautiful. To capture the now I remember, I press the shutter. Unlike many photographers, I don't edit afterward. My photos are simply "eye screenshots," not attempts to make something look grander or prettier. You won't find the usual "artistic intention" critics and photographers talk about.

The images on display show the world exactly as Songgun Lee experienced it. You are, in effect, a spectator inside my eyeball. It's my answer to the question that goes a step beyond "What would I look like through your eyes?"—namely, "What would the whole world look like through your eyes?"

I chased a good job to buy a good house, chased a good school to land a good job, and slogged through studies I hated to reach that school. A fat tuition bill came as a bonus. Paying what I never wanted to pay and doing the job I thought I wanted, I found myself forced to communicate with people I never wanted to talk to. Following the success formula others handed me, my mantra "You can't just do what you like" turned into "Will I ever get to do what I like?" and finally into "What did I even want?" I charged toward what I thought was a distant utopia, but landed in hell—and even there, I was hopelessly lost. On the way I lost friends, family time, money, hours—above all, I lost myself, only to fall straight into hell.

But once I grasped that death is inevitable, everything felt light. "When I'm dying, will I really care that I didn't get into a top school or failed the perfect job hunt? Since I'm going to die anyway, why not do what I actually want?"

My first real dream, the earliest one I remember taking seriously, was to become a pilot. Not the kindergarten fantasy kind—this was middle school me thinking: travel the world, earn great money, and after a long haul flight get at least two days off. To that kid, it was the ultimate job. Looking back as an adult, the core was "freedom." I wanted to spend my time on things I chose—roam, experience, and most of all, have fun. Yet scanning my 24 hours, I found no action deliberately made purely for fun. Stretching the view to a whole month, I realized photography was my single deliberate act of joy. I'd grab my camera, memorize a place and its light, then return days later to capture the scene.

This exhibit, then, is just one ordinary person's example of returning to an original dream, remembering the reason behind it, and turning that reason into action.

So I ask you: What was your primal dream? What reason or desire fueled it? Whether it was happiness, freedom, fun—are you, in your current 24 hours, your current 30 days, doing anything with that intention in mind? If we can't reverse or stop time, perhaps living truly means plunging into the present with every fiber of our being. Acting on our first intentions—consciously, deliberately—may be one path. I end this writing with that invitation.