Circuit of Problems
2024
Materials: Plastic sprues, Lego, Foam, Plywood
As a child, I spent countless hours on my bedroom floor, surrounded by plastic runners and scattered bricks. I built Gundam models and LEGO sets one piece at a time, following instructions that read more like blueprints than toy manuals. When something didn’t fit, when an arm wouldn’t move or a wall leaned the wrong way, I didn’t give up. I traced my steps backward, piece by piece, until I found the moment where things went wrong. Without knowing it, I was learning how to think. Those quiet hours taught me to solve problems long before I had words for what I was doing.
This piece is built from what that process left behind. Gundam sprues are the plastic frames that hold each part until it is snapped free, and they are almost always thrown away. They are the skeletons of finished things, the outlines of what has already been made. Here, they are given a second life. Woven together with LEGO bricks, they form a dense network of paths, junctions and branches that resembles a circuit board, a map of connections that seems to hum with quiet energy.
Like a circuit, nothing in this work exists alone. Every piece touches another, and every path depends on the one before it. A single broken connection can stop the whole system, and a single repaired one can bring it back to life. To understand the work, as with any problem, the viewer has to follow it, tracing one line at a time through what first looks like chaos.
At the center sits a foam question mark: the problem itself. Every path in the work leads toward it, drawn inward the way a question pulls at the mind until it is answered. It is soft where everything around it is rigid, unfinished where everything else is built, a reminder that every solution begins with not knowing.
The piece reflects how I have come to see problem solving: not as a single flash of insight, but as patient building, one connection at a time. What was once discarded becomes the structure; what was once a mistake becomes the path forward. In the end, the question at the center isn’t something to fear, but the reason to keep building.
Circuit of Problems
2024
Materials: Plastic Sprues, LEGO Bricks, Foam, Plywood
As a child, I spent countless hours building Gundam models and LEGO sets. When something did not fit, I learned to trace my steps backward, piece by piece, until I found the mistake. Without realizing it, I was learning the foundations of problem solving.
This work is built from the remnants of that process. Gundam sprues, the plastic frames that normally hold model parts before they are discarded, are given a second life. Combined with LEGO bricks, they form an intricate network of paths and connections reminiscent of a circuit board. Materials once considered waste become the foundation of something new.
At the center of each piece is a question mark. It represents the problem that every path leads toward. Surrounded by rigid plastic structures, the question mark remains unfinished and uncertain, reflecting the idea that every solution begins with a question.
Created for the For a Greener Tomorrow exhibition, the work connects environmental responsibility with problem solving. Just as solutions emerge from unexpected connections, sustainable design often begins by reconsidering materials that would otherwise be thrown away. The discarded sprues become structure, waste becomes resource, and the process of building becomes an act of renewal.
For me, the question mark is not a symbol of confusion. It is an invitation to explore, create, and keep searching for better solutions. In the same way, sustainability begins with a simple question: not "What can we throw away?" but "What else can this become?"
The Growing Question
2024
Materials: Plywood, Foam, Industrial dust (Sand Core), Steel, Scandinavian Moss
The Growing Question sets up a quiet confrontation between industry and nature. At its base lies a layer of ceramic dust collected from a factory floor: the residue of production, a stand-in for an earth worn down by human industry. This sand core is piled into the shape of a lava volcano, a polluted earth made visible. I chose the volcano because it looks frightening, and I wanted it to raise a sense of alarm. Out of this barren ground rises a form covered in Scandinavian moss, its surface soft and green where nothing should flourish.
The choice of moss is deliberate. Scandinavian moss needs no soil, no watering and no care; it draws everything it requires from the humidity in the air. It gives off no pollen and asks nothing of its surroundings. In its quiet self-sufficiency, it becomes a metaphor for resilience, proof that life can persist even on depleted ground.
The construction reflects the same tension. The foam form, covered in moss, is held up by four steel pipes, so the organic and the industrial support each other. The sand core is left plainly visible beneath what grows above it.
The work poses its question without sentimentality: if something this small can thrive on a polluted earth with so little, how much could we restore with only a little effort? The Growing Question suggests that saving our planet may not demand grand gestures, only the willingness to begin.
The Growing Question
2024
Materials: Plywood, Foam, Industrial Dust (Sand Core), Steel, Scandinavian Moss
Created for the For a Greener Tomorrow exhibition, The Growing Question explores the relationship between industry, nature, and environmental responsibility.
At its base lies industrial ceramic dust collected from a factory floor, a material that represents both production and environmental degradation. Shaped into the form of a volcano, it creates the image of a damaged landscape, making the consequences of human activity visible rather than hidden.
Rising from this barren ground is a question mark covered in Scandinavian moss. Unlike most plants, the moss requires no soil and draws what it needs from the surrounding air. Its ability to thrive with so little became a symbol of resilience and renewal.
The structure itself reflects the relationship between the natural and industrial worlds. Steel supports the moss-covered form, while the industrial dust remains visible below, emphasizing that environmental recovery cannot be separated from the systems that shape modern life.
The question mark stands at the center of the work because sustainability begins with a question. If life can emerge from damaged ground with so little support, what could we achieve with even a small effort toward restoration? Rather than presenting a solution, The Growing Question invites viewers to consider their own role in creating a greener future.
Scandanavian Moss
Sand Core
disposable, custom-shaped insert made of sand and a binder used in metal casting to create internal hollows, cavities, and complex passages.
Scandia moss is preserved reindeer moss, a type of lichen harvested in the Scandinavian region. Its main benefit is humidity regulation: it absorbs moisture from the surrounding air and releases it back when the air gets dry, which helps keep a space balanced. Because it is preserved, it needs no soil, no watering, and no sunlight, so it stays soft and green with almost no upkeep. It also gives off no pollen, which makes it a clean material to place in an indoor exhibition.
Making the work was a process of trial and error. Building the base up to the height of a mountain and keeping the loose powder in place was the hardest part. I experimented with several internal structures before finding one that could hold the shape. Luckily, the dust is a heavy sand mixed with metal powder, so it stayed put and did not drift into the room once installed. The overall structure came together fairly easily. The slow part was the detail work: fixing the moss with hot glue and shaping the surface to read as a lava volcano. The display box was built from plywood and finished with water-based paint, which turned out to be simpler than I expected.
Process
Creating The Growing Question involved considerable experimentation. The most challenging part was constructing the volcano-shaped base and finding a way to support the industrial dust without compromising the form. I tested several internal structures before developing one that could reliably hold the weight and maintain the desired shape.
Fortunately, the ceramic dust contained metal particles, making it denser than ordinary sand and stable enough to remain in place once installed. With the underlying structure solved, the remaining work focused on refining the surface. I carefully attached Scandinavian moss with hot glue and sculpted its texture to create the appearance of new life emerging from a barren landscape.
The display pedestal was constructed from plywood and finished with water-based paint. While the fabrication process required patience and repeated adjustments, the completed piece successfully balanced industrial materials and organic forms, reinforcing the themes of resilience and environmental renewal that inspired the project.