Hank Yang

My name is Hank Yang, and I am a Korean-American artist, poet, and student at Northwestern University studying Journalism. My goal through my creative practice is to give a voice to those who don’t have one and to find beauty in the world around us, both natural and human-made.

Under the Stairs

“Under the Stairs” describes a time during an art exhibition when I had to interact with a barrage of people in a short span of time, and as a natural introvert, it socially drained me. I escaped at that point to be alone and found myself under the stairs, which seemed so peaceful in relation to the constant flow of interaction before. Finding a place just to be alone and recharge brings me healing in a world which is always hurrying to be somewhere.

People chatter away in little groups,

sipping on cups of juice and crackers and

walking around, looking at art on the wall.

My arms are crossed across my chest in

self-comfort or self-defense—probably both.

Fleeting conversations end in puddles of

awkwardness, and insidious thoughts

deplete my social battery. My face

muscles ache from contraction, and

my demeanor is getting meaner by the minute.

I need to get away, somewhere I can hide,

and there! I see it:

under the stairs.

A quick look around, and I glide underneath,

nonchalant so no one notices.

Finally, a moment to myself.

I hunker down, hugging my knees and

rest my forehead on my forearms.

Each breath, unnoticed before, grows

loud in the quiet. I can hear the

echoing, enthusiastic conversations

of people I was smiling at a minute ago.

But why does it matter to me; now I am

a goblin hiding under the bridge,

a muddy toad sheltering under a wet leaf,

a blind salamander in a dark, dank cavern,

wallowing in a pool of my thoughts.

I recall a particular interaction I had

twenty minutes ago, and elect to blot

it out of my memory forever. I wish

I could get rid of this sinking feeling in

my stomach: a mess of mistakes and regrets

of the past that always well up whenever

I’m alone.

But it’s better than being out there.

Some sick part of me wants to be

discovered, but that’s a cry for help.

My mind is a slideshow, flicking through

channels of everything and nothing, racing

yet sitting still at the same time.

Time passes.

I can’t stay here forever.

I must go back out at some point, and

smile for people, laugh at everything.

With my battery somewhat charged, I

should suffice for the rest of the night.

I brush myself off and step out,

never looking back.

Monet in a Museum

“Monet in a Museum” depicts my emotions when I went to see the Monet exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. The large, open space was a breath of fresh air for me and seeing the work of masters lining the walls was amazing. I had always wanted to see Monet in person, especially as I had sought to recreate his brushstrokes before in the art studio. Being able to see such mastery up close was a beautiful experience for me.

The sweet open space fills

my chest with ease, and I

breathe it in when I enter

rooms with hundreds and

hundreds of century-old

relics colonizing the walls. The

cracked oil paints are so vibrant

in their aged golden frames,

and behind are the

deep velvets and teals

and beiges and umbers

of museum wall paint.

People mill around,

and a gentle bustle

fills my ears. A backpack

weighs down one

shoulder, but I forget it all

when I walk in and see

Picassos, Degas,

Manets, Kandinskys,

Matisses, Pollocks, and other

works of dead men, and I

feel small in their presence.

I reach my hand out to

almost touch it, it’s so close!

I can see the texture of each

individual paint stroke, and

I imagine a paint-laden brush

dancing across the canvas:

light like an impressionist,

bold like an abstract expressionist,

or meticulous like a renaissance

painter.

And then I see

the king of color:

Claude Monet.

Oh, to see his brief,

hasty brushstrokes that,

once you step back, melt

together into a wonderful

rich taste of the water, so

subtle yet awestriking;

imagining his great white

beard musing over the water,

brilliantly creating colors

where there are none but

seem so real nonetheless.

The bluntness of black is

effortlessly substituted with

a host of other colors that

sit so uncharacteristically

beside one another:

dim reds and sea blues

and bright yellows and

lying greens, mixing

but not mixing, fooling

the eye to see an idyllic

world within a world.

It’s like a magic trick, but is

really the rainbow of reality,

where nothing is muddy or

overpowering, and for

me, it is the sublime.

Sestina of my Mother

“Sestina of my Mother” delves into my childhood and my family’s immigrant status from Korea. My mom is my role model, but I didn’t realize that until I got older and looked back on all my experiences with her. As a child, I was not appreciative of her self-sacrificial love, but now, she is the spring of healing for me, and spending time with her is one of my favorite pastimes.

She has the callused, overworked hands

that can only come from the tireless work

of cooking meals for the family as a mother,

full of flavor, satisfaction, and love.

With those hands, she wiped away my tears

at times when I was disciplined my father’s way.

She never hesitates to push me the right way,

encouraging me, always taking me by the hand,

mending my clothes and tears,

telling me stories of how life works.

Impressing on me the all-encompassing love

that only can come from a mother.

Our family is quite small: me, brother, father, and mother,

alone in America. That was the only way

we could immigrate. I couldn’t be more grateful and love

her for leaving a life behind, no one to hand

her anything in this foreign land, finding work

where she can, spilling unspoken tears.

I vaguely remember a miscarriage, there must have been tears

of sorrow; I was so young. My father’s work

as a pastor in a small church added way

too much stress on my mild-tempered mother

who wouldn’t stand up for herself, wringing her hands.

I wasn’t grateful, and I didn’t love

when she came up to me in school in love

which I rejected because it wasn’t cool. I wanted to tear

our relationship like a foolish child, my hands

pushing her away, but my mother

disciplined me immediately, in her own way,

with words, not blows, saying I must put in work

to maintain a beautiful family, to work

for true compassion and love:

Valuable lessons I still remember, way

into the future, looking back at our tears

and regretting the times when I didn’t treat mother

the way she deserved. Now, clasping my hands,

I want to learn her ways, her tireless work,

I want to learn her love, the caress of her hands,

I want to learn to mend tears, and find joy in calling her mother.