MinOhrichar, Kahee Jeong, Dead Spot at Caption Seoul, Seoul

There’s an artificial coolness that stings like ice. Stepping into the exhibition Dead Spot feels like entering a spiritual freezer, a space where the crisp air is so precise it sharpens our awareness of the heat buried beneath. We found ourselves wondering whether this chill, this composed stillness, might be the quiet face of a deeper pain, like homes that appear orderly only because no one truly lives in them anymore. Yet we live, fully, in these algorithmic silences. We exist beside faint signals, lost in the background hum of modern life, and though we’ve learned to ignore them, they keep calling to us. Han Munhee (Amo) invites us to pause exactly there, where no signal should reach: the dead spot.

The exhibition unfolds like a quiet echo in a space holding its breath. The lighting is cold, almost surgical, reminiscent of server rooms or hospital corridors. The environment induces a calibrated disorientation: visitors move slowly, unsure if they might disturb a fragile order. The works of Kahee Jeong and MinOhrichar don’t impose a path; they suggest one. This is a show without a climax. Each piece is a coded message, a probe sent into the void, hoping for contact.

Material choices speak volumes. In Silent Engine, Jeong constructs a red, pristine dystopia where a glowing data center watches like an infected technological heart. Figures moving away from it lose definition, as if eroded by rain that seems less like water and more like disintegrating pixels. The medium is cold, but never sterile. Her use of light, ambient sound, and temporal fade-outs mimics the slow erosion of identity in an era of forced customization. And it’s not just about theme: by representing surveillance not through cameras but through climate, that blind, relentless rain, Jeong makes the violence feel internal, almost inevitable.

MinOhrichar works at the edge of perception. In The Floor of Interpretation, sound becomes a metaphor for attention: a narrow tonal range of nearly imperceptible frequencies invites a kind of embodied listening. Technology here becomes metaphysical infrastructure. The artist’s silent performance is as crucial as the audio itself. Noise, rather than a nuisance, becomes language, residual poetry, a protest without decibels. In Rocket Sequence #9 Leave, duplicated images lose parts of themselves, fragments erased by compression, ghosts of what was. The artist makes tangible what we typically overlook: the cost of efficiency, the violence of seamlessness. The crackling noise between original and copy is no longer a glitch; it’s the voice of everything we’ve discarded.

A soft hiss remains in our ears, like an old modem reaching for a signal. Or perhaps it’s silence: the kind that belongs to those who’ve lost their voice but might one day speak again. Han Munhee doesn’t shout, nor do her artists. They whisper. And if we stop, if we truly listen, we might recognize our own pain in their signal, and know we are not alone.