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 Everywhere and Nowhere: An Eye to See an Era




“ The whole modern system seems to me to be grounded on a false view of man... There is a spirit of self-confidence in it, which, left to Everywhere and Nowhere: An Eye to See an Era its natural tendencies, will inevitably bring a deeper and wider woe upon man that earth has ever yet know.” ¹

I
Ecological Wordview                             In an era of crisis, it is unsurprising that the urgent focal point is the “ecological worldview.” However, the once incisive concept of the Anthropocene has been overused to the point of losing its sharpness. Yes, we know—it’s the age of human impact. But do we need another beautifully designed exhibition to remind us of our hubris? This became the challenge I needed to unravel. I had to approach this challenge with a sense of modesty.
                             Although the direction of policies and international consultations at the national level such as the Paris Agreement on Climate Change, ESG management, and carbon neutrality are only what we have recently begun to pay attention to when various signs have become serious, a number of events and international conventions calling for awareness of the global environmental crisis have been steadily continuing since the 1960s.² After all, it would be impossible to cram every aspect of the global environmental movements of the past few decades into a single exhibition .
                              Instead, I decided to borrow from Korea’s “Anabada” movement— an acronym for “Save, Share, Exchange, and Reuse.” The Anabada Everywhere and Nowhere: An Eye to See an Era campaign, initiated by the Korean government during the 1997 financial crisis as a way to overcome economic hardship, is still regarded as one of the country’s most successful campaigns. Every Korean youth grew up hearing this term.
                              The Anabada movement is like a lone praying mantis standing against the runaway locomotive of capitalism. It may be crushed f lat under the wheels, but if a million like-minded mantises were to join forces, perhaps the cart might at least pause for a moment in its relentless course.

II
Moving Space                             Designing Time of the Earth taught me something unexpected: exhibitions that simply illustrate the Anthropocene often risk preaching to the converted. Instead, I wanted to ask harder questions. The spirit of the mantis—an unapologetic member of Earth’s ecosystem, inviting others to recognize that they, too, are part of this interconnected web—inspired the direction of the exhibition. The answer lay not in static displays, but in the creation of a dynamic and mobile platform that fundamentally transform how we think, act, and move.
                             This is where Time of the Earth came alive for me—not as an exhibition, but as an experiment in creating a “moving place of Everywhere and Nowhere: An Eye to See an Era discourse.” By rejecting the permanence of traditional museum and embracing spatial fluidity, I saw the potential to design not just spaces, but mechanism—mechanism that adapt, evolve, and provoke.
                            The zero-level archive was my first stab at this. At its core, the concept was simple: designing for the uncomfortable—no walls, no rigid structures—just materials that demanded engagement. Only pauses in the space that demand the participation of the audience. Visitors weren’t told where to go or what to think; they had to figure it out themselves. Some found it liberating, others confusing. To design one’s own gaze, That’s the point.

Exhibition View, photo by EH KIM

The space forced visitors to confront their role—not as passive spectators, but as active participants in a shared ecosystem. Designing this was both exhilarating and terrifying. Would people get it? Would they care? Might I be the lone mantis standing in front of the cart? And, more importantly, was this enough to challenge the Anthropocene’s pervasive hold on our imaginations ?
                              The Anthropocene loves its monuments—grand gestures of human achievement (and destruction) carved in concrete and steel. Time of the Earth was a deliberate rejection of that permanence. The pneumatic structures, which could be deflated, stored, and reused, symbolized this philosophy. Their reflective surfaces drew attention to the interconnectedness of humans and nature, but their mobility was the real statement .
                              For me, these structures were more than sustainable design solutions—they were acts of resistance. They questioned the need for exhibitions to exist in fixed locations, for spaces to remain static, and for design to prioritize human convenience over ecological adaptation. In hindsight, the ability to pack an entire exhibition into a 1.5-cubic-meter box was as much a practical triumph as a philosophical one. Design doesn’t have to take up space to make an impact—it can be light, mobile, and unassuming.
                              Here’s the thing: the Anthropocene isn’t just about ecological destruction; it’s about perspective. It centers humans as the defining force of the planet, reducing the vast complexity of Earth’s systems into a story about us. Time of the Earth tried to break that frame. The reflective spheres didn’t just mirror visitors—they placed them in a broader context, surrounded by works that asked questions about coexistence, balance, and symbiosis .
                                But I wasn’t fully satisfied. Reflection is passive; transformation is active. How could the design push beyond showing people their place in the ecosystem to actually shifting how they think and act within it? This is the question I took with me after the project—and the one that continues to drive my work today.
                               What I learned from Time of the Earth is this: design isn’t about answers. It’s about creating spaces where questions can thrive. The zero-level archive wasn’t perfect—it left some visitors confused and others disengaged. But it wasn’t meant to be perfect. It was meant to provoke, to disrupt, to make people pause and think about their own complicity in the systems that sustain and destroy us.


III
Eros
Time of the Earth was preserved well after the exhibition ended and was reused in 2022 for the Performing Arts Seminar and Exhibition Related Talk Concert.

Exhibition View, photo by EH KIM

Exhibition View, photo by EH KIM

In that sense, the exhibition wasn’t an end but a beginning—a mobile, adaptable agora of discourse that could evolve over time. As an eye reflecting the era, present everywhere yet nowhere, by embracing impermanence and adaptability, it became a metaphor for the kind of ecological thinking we need: not one of control and mastery, but of humility, curiosity, and constant revision.

Exhibition View, photo by EH KIM

                            I don’t believe in designing monuments to the Anthropocene. I believe in designing tools to dismantle it. Time of the Earth was one such tool—a flawed, ambitious, and deeply personal experiment in creating a space where ecological discourse could move, adapt, and grow.  
                            As a designer, I’m not interested in creating beautiful objects or seamless experiences. I want to make people uncomfortable. I want to disrupt the narratives that hold us back and push the boundaries of what design can do. In the face of global crises, design must be more than a discipline—it must be a provocation. And if we’re lucky, it might just be the start of something bigger.

Rendering image for an virtual scenario
Time of the Earth unfolding in another part of the planet

Ⅳ
Posthumanism                             The most straightforward answer to the question, “Why do some people pursue veganism, partake in the zero waste movement, or that climate change is our problem?” would be, “Because all living things on earth are interconnected.” Some believe that their efforts to reduce waste and exclude meat from their diet can change the world for the better, if only minutely. This is because they reckon that their actions, big or small, are bound to affect not only humans but also animals and the environment in one way or another. They trust that “sense of connection.”
                            In fact, we’re not at the center of the universe at all. We’re nodes in a vast, interconnected network—a messy web where humans, animals, objects, and even the non-living all play their parts. If this sounds like chaos, that’s because it is.
                             Posthumanism dismantles the notion of human exceptionalism by suggesting that all entities—be they human, animal, machine, or environment—exist in a web of relations. It’s not just about coexisting; it’s about acknowledging that we are these connections. Consider the smartphone in your pocket. It’s not just a gadget—it’s a material manifestation of countless networks: rare earth minerals mined from exploited lands, assembly lines worked by undervalued labor, and digital systems that link you to billions of other users. So, when we talk about “sense of connection,” it’s not a warm, fuzzy feeling of global unity.
                            In the context of posthumanism, the Anthropocene starts to feel like a tantrum thrown by humanity as it realizes it’s not the main character. By framing the entire planet’s story around human actions, the Anthropocene reduces the intricate relationships of the world to a singular narrative. Posthumanism flips this script. It asks us to stop thinking about the Earth as “ours” and start considering how we’re part of the Earth’s system, no more or less significant than a tree, a river, or even a microbe.
                            But here’s the catch: posthumanism doesn’t let us off the hook. It doesn’t say, “You’re just another cog in the machine, so relax.” It says, “You’re a cog, yes, but your actions still ripple through the entire machine.” This is where the discomfort sets in. We’re part of something bigger, yet we still bear responsibility for how we interact with it.
                             Let’s take this a step further—into the realm of identity. Posthumanism doesn’t just erase the lines between human and non human; it also redefines what it means to be. In a digital age, where identities are fractured and reconstructed online, we’re already living posthuman lives. Consider the avatar you created for a video game or the carefully curated Instagram feed you use to project a certain image. These aren’t separate from you—they’re extensions of you. And yet, they interact in ways you can’t fully control.
                             Posthumanism asks: if your identity is scattered across platforms, objects, and networks, who are you? The answer isn’t simple, and that’s the point. By embracing the fragmented and fluid nature of existence, posthumanism challenges us to let go of fixed notions of self.



Ⅴ
The era of human exceptionalism is ending                             Now, let’s bring this back to design— In designing Time of the Earth, I leaned into posthumanism’s messy web. The reflective spheres in the exhibition weren’t just mirrors; they were eyes. Eyes that didn’t just look back at the viewer but also reflected their place in a larger system. This wasn’t about making people feel good about their eco consciousness. It was about making them squirm, even just a little, as they saw themselves tangled in a network of relations that extended far beyond the exhibition space.
                             But here’s the real question: can design ever truly escape human centered thinking? Even as we attempt to de-center humanity, we inevitably design for human interaction, for human understanding. This is the paradox of posthumanism in practice. It’s a philosophy that demands we step outside ourselves while being trapped in our own perspectives.
                             Posthumanism doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t let us fall back on neat solutions or comforting narratives. Instead, it invites us to embrace complexity, uncertainty, and interdependence. As we move deeper into a world shaped by ecological crises and technological entanglements, this perspective feels less like an academic exercise and more like a survival strategy. 
                              The era of human exceptionalism is ending. What comes next is a messy, interconnected dance where every step matters—even if we’re not leading. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of humility we need to build a future that works for all beings, not just the ones who think they’re in charge.


1.Why Amrica Failed. Morris Berman.
2.
15. Silent Spring. Rachel Carson. 1962, is mentioned as a trigger to spark Western awareness of environmental issues. In 1972, the United Nations Conference on the Human Environment (UNCHE) was held in Stockholm, and the First World Climate Conference(WCC), the so-called ‘Geneva Convention’, was held in 199. The Roman club report, “Limits to , Arne . James Lovelock then advocated the Gaia theory in 1978. An important attempt was also made in art; The 7,000 Oak Trees project started by Joseph Beuys in 1982 is said to be an eco-social sculpture that addresses environmental issues through art. In the 1980s, community-based movements became active in various regions of the world, and the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) was established in 1988. Since then, varuous international agreements were followed such as the United Nations Bali Roadmap, Cancun Climate Change Conference After the meeting, and came to the Paris Agreement. MMCA, The Progress and State of Korean Ecological Art: From Nature Art to Ecological Art, (2021), 20-21.
Ibid.

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