Hidden WordsSearching for meaning in a rubber stamp Uljana Wolf (bio) Translated by Sophie Seita (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Mot Caché, 1978. [End Page 164] in 1978, theresa hak kyung cha made a stamp—a rubber stamp, not a postage stamp—for a small exhibition in Amsterdam. Cha, whose "mail art," writing, and performances explore patterns of public circulation, mistranslation, and exchange, made the stamp to fit on a standard postcard. At the stamp's center are two words, outlined in black: mot caché (French for "hidden word"). Arranged in an oval around them are other French words, in mirror image—empreinte révèle signe évoque énonce dévoile marque tache inscrite trace—all of which relate to the act of inscription. [End Page 165] After the stamp is applied to paper, the outer circle of words becomes legible. The words in the middle, however, hide themselves again. (They now say tom éhcac.) So the "correct expression," at least in this mode and direction of reading, stays behind, on the stamp, elsewhere. The words of inscription wrap around the hidden word(s) like a glove, within which: a center that doesn't send. But there's another word, too. In the lower right-hand corner of the stamp, uncapitalized: cha, Theresa's family name. At first glance, the name lies outside the word circle of inscription. But if you look again, you notice that the name also lies buried within the phrase in the middle of the stamp, in the rearranged letters of the word caché. In this way, "cha" itself is the mot caché: the hidden word. What exactly is being sent with this postcard? Is the hidden word meant to be a Korean name, or is it so untranslatable as to be absent, undetectable? Does everyone who sees the stamp or the postcard have access to the same hidden word? The same experience of displacement? When I came across Dictee in New York a few years ago, it was like receiving a dispatch, a linguistic memo I didn't understand. It stayed with me, this dispatch, because (I now realize) as a German poet writing mostly in the language I was raised in, I was and am always in search of paths that lead me away: away from the sorts of understanding that I've inherited; away from my ways of thinking as an East-, perhaps post-East-, perhaps multi-German writer; away from the categories of estrangement and non-estrangement in my life, which has long swung like a pendulum between New York and Berlin. For me, being a multilingual writer means that words are always inscribed with ghost-words. Cha's work was particularly relevant to my experience of multilayered cultural and linguistic self-estrangement. Dictee explores the same obsessions and methods that characterize Cha's mail art: fragmentary, translingual language pointing to the failure of translation; documentary material questioning the possibility of singular memory; conversations that straddle [End Page 166] Click for larger view View full resolution A postcard from Cha addressed to her brother John Cha and his family. A Mot Caché impression in black ink is stamped on one side. [End Page 167] multiple artistic mediums. In both the stamp and the book, Cha makes traceable what it means to be someone who has a language that is not "the right one," not their own, not original or real—a language that exists only on a fantasized, distant, handmade stamp. A stamp perhaps like: home. Like: nation. Like: mother tongue. When we use the term mother tongue, which language are we referring to? Just as the stamped image exists in an in-between realm, adrift and unbelonging, Dictee also demonstrates the failure to construct possible identifications through the actual language of the mother. Cha's own mother, Cha Hyung Soon, grew up as a refugee in Manchuria, moving between the language of exile (Chinese), that of occupation (Japanese), and that of her ancestral country (Korean). For Cha, the search for heritage, for the place of the mother and her language, is not a search for a state of monolingual belonging. Rather: her rebellious...