A Star at Dawn, A Bubble in a Stream 🫧

     While the weather warms up, I found myself scrolling through old photos and stopped at one from the beach. I could almost feel the heat of the sand again—the way the tiny grains molded to my skin as I lay there. I was always making something, sculpting shapes in the sand, but never too far from the water. Just close enough that I had time to build what I wanted—knowing the tide would eventually wash it away. And I liked that. There’s something satisfying about standing there, watching the waves reclaim it, letting the ocean decide how it ends.

     That same instinct; creating something clearly destined to disappear—shows up in Tibetan sand mandalas. And while mandalas aren’t exactly the same as a castle on the shore, you can find a similar idea even in modern auction houses that costs millions of dollars. 

     It makes me wonder: if everything’s eventually going to vanish, why do we bother at all? Maybe the answer lies in what we feel, and what we share—not in how long it sticks around. 

The Mandala and the Lessons of Impermanence

 

     Tibetan monks take the concept of ephemeral art to another level. The word “mandala” comes from Sanskrit, meaning “circle,” but these creations go far beyond geometry. Think of them as spiritual maps of the universe, guiding practitioners toward enlightenment. Each color carries significance—red for compassion, blue for wisdom—arranged in a meticulous pattern radiating from a central point. It’s an entire cosmos, contained in grains of sand. 

     And yet, despite their breathtaking detail, mandalas are swept away the moment they’re complete. This isn’t some nihilistic statement; it’s a hands-on demonstration of impermanence (Anicca)—nothing lasts forever. By pouring so much effort into a piece and then dissolving it, the monks illustrate the futility of clinging to what we produce. The energy returns to water, symbolizing a continuous cycle of renewal, underlining how interconnected we all are.

 

 

     I remember being a kid, shaping my first real sandcastle without worrying about “saving” it or proving anything. I just loved the act of stacking wet sand into walls and towers, fully aware they’d be gone by sunset. A friend once told me she was actually babysat by a Tibetan monk as a child, and they would practice making tiny mandalas together. She’s one of the kindest people I know, so who knows—maybe that gentle, mindful approach left its mark. In a results-driven culture, spending weeks on something only to let it go sounds counterintuitive, but there’s a liberating charm in creating purely for its own sake.

A Modern: Banksy’s “Girl with Balloon” 🎈

     You might think our modern, profit-obsessed world would reject impermanence, but it keeps popping up. A prime example is Banksy’s “Girl with Balloon,” which sold at Sotheby’s in October 2018 for over a million pounds. The moment the gavel hit, a hidden mechanism in the frame shredded the artwork into dangling strips, instantly transforming it into “Love is in the Bin.” Instead of losing value, the piece actually soared in popularity, eventually reselling for £18.5 million in 2021. 

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      Some say Banksy was mocking the commercialization of art, pointing out how chasing permanence—especially for a price tag—can be absurd. Yet the market’s reaction was just as ridiculous, turning a half-destroyed piece into an even more treasured commodity. Yes, “Girl with Balloon” is still touring the world, so it’s hardly as fleeting as, say, a sandcastle, but the core statement remains: not all art is meant to stick around forever. And in this case, destruction itself made it even more famous than before.

     I visited the Real Banksy exhibition at Ground Seoul in June 2024, invited by my former professor from undergrad. It was my first time seeing so many of Banksy’s works in one place. The exhibition was both informative and designed to appeal to a wider audience.

     Ultimately, I think the real thrill lies in the act of creation—or destruction—reminding us how transient everything can be. There’s definitely some irony in a graffiti artist breaking records at one of the most prestigious auction houses. But that’s Banksy: he took what he does best (vandalism, basically) and messed with a million-pound artwork the instant it sold. Did he know it’d become even more valuable? Probably. But maybe it didn’t matter to him. 

     That rebellious spontaneity is why I love Banksy—like his graffiti that appears overnight and can vanish just as quickly. 

 Process Over Permanence 🍎

     This tension, between trying to preserve something and letting it vanish—shows up daily, especially in big cities like New York, where competition is intense. Everyone’s chasing a dream or goal, and the final result overshadows the real work that goes into it. But time and again, we see how fragile so-called “success” can be without a solid foundation. Lottery winners often blow through their fortunes, entrepreneurs slack off after a single triumph—if there’s no genuine process or discipline, it all slips away before you know it. 

     So is there any reason to create if nothing truly lasts? Maybe the point isn’t freezing things in time, but exploring the experience itself. Consider a live music performance: the pristine sound of a studio album can’t replace the raw energy of an artist feeding off a live crowd on a specific night. No two concerts are ever the same, and that fleeting energy is exactly why they matter. In the same way, Banksy’s shredded canvas and a Tibetan monk’s mandala are not about preserving a perfect artifact. Even if the Banksy piece physically remains, the real statement was made at the instant it self-destructed, just like the monk’s message is in the act of dismantling weeks of careful work.

     Outcomes matter. Hard work and discipline pay off; that’s undeniable. But when the end goal consumes us entirely, we can overlook opportunities right in front of us. I think back to that sandcastle I built—knowing the ocean would claim it but enjoying it anyway. Watching the water wash it away turned out to be half the fun.

     If we approach our pursuits—big or small—with that same sense of presence, we often end up with more creativity, adaptability, and genuine satisfaction in what we do. The process itself can reveal insights, spark connections, and even lead to a result that’s stronger because we weren’t racing only for the finish line. Sometimes, the real payoff is the growth and perspective we gain along the way, not just a trophy that gathers dust.

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Watch Full Mandala Video (Youtube)