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shitty translation (v.)

I receive anything (such as horse) only through translation. I also utter (such as horse) only through translation. In translation, we often believe that meaning must be preserved. However, how can instance of language be unaltered in a new context? Also, out of all the stuff an instance of language contains at a certain place in a certain time, what exactly is the meaning that we must preserve? Instead of struggling to preserve stuff that cannot be defined and thus preserved, I focus on how to give up, tweaking meanings and creating new ones in my process of shitty translation. This is a process of distancing and becoming aloof

 

shitty translation can happen between any language. Translating from Korean to English, I can translate 구린 번역 [gu-reen bun-yuck], which means shitty translation, into Green Translation. Also, as a visual artist, it is important to me that such translations include visual language just as much as any other form of language. For instance, translating from eye to photo, from photo to hand, and from hand to painting, I can pull out just the shadow patterns of a certain moment that catches my eye. Most of my images are created through self-talk, which is a procedure that forces iterations of this process.

 

This process of shitty translation is defined by the following rules: 

 

Shitty translation respects the translated-from. Shitty translation respects the trans-lated-to. Shitty translation respects the context and surroundings of the environment it is translated to. Shitty translation tries to maintain, but it gives up when it has to give up. Shitty translation does not aim to overcome language barrier. Shitty translation admits language barrier. If you don't understand my shitty translation, it is okay; as a reader (in the sense that Roland Barthes asserts), you may "shittily" interpret it in any way you want. Shitty translation is not bound by grammar rules. 

 

Through this process, I lose parts of the original. As I go through multiple iterations of this operation, I can distance myself more and more. In my own precious world of fiction, I allow myself to become aloof and observe, and then read and write again. As I get distanced, at the same time, I get closer to something, perhaps something more important than what is lost. 

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