Platform-L-2016-EX-Push Pull Drag-EN

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Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016

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Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016

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Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016

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Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016

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Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction

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Danji Lee Erasing the Thematic

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Hanbum Lee Gim Ikhyun, Link Path Layer:

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Swollen Reality and Glaring Darkness Seawoo Chung Interview with Hejum Bä:

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Coming the Painterly

Hyo Gyoung Jeon Yi Yunyi, Look in a Mirror, She’s Not There

Danji Lee

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Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot:

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Audaciously Speaking Hyo Gyoung Jeon Guided Tour with a Curator

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Jiwon Yu Between The Spatial and The Sensible:

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A Reading of Push, Pull, Drag Gahee Park Interview with Jeong Seyoung,

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Deus ex Machina

Seawoo Chung Artists’ Biographies

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List of Works

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How does our curiosity for art arise? How can one’s intuitive, immediate experience be accentuated beyond the conventional objectification of a given artwork?

Born out of a question about creating an exhibition without a theme, Push, Pull, Drag serves as platform for exploring the curiosity surrounding an individual’s perception and interpretation of art, rather than flatly rejecting any curatorial drive for thematic structure. As opposed to assuming an omniscient viewpoint and imposing a single prescribed path through the exhibition, Push, Pull, Drag—which presents the work of Gim Ikhyun, Hejum Bä, Yi Yunyi, Jeong Seyoung and Ikjung Cho—adopts a loosening of landscapes which are themselves comprised of various and minute elements.

Encompassing the second and third floor galleries as well as the building’s machine room located 18 meters below ground level, the exhibition permits viewers to navigate individualized routes in multiple directions and across diverse viewing environments. Exhibited works present layers of photography, drawing, video, installation and performance; supported by a juxtaposition of fragmented stories in various forms, these works act as propositions for displacement and deviation of meaning. Each visitor to the exhibition, following his or her own path, engages his or her body in the experience of art. Thus, an ‘exercise of thinking’ takes place in the pursuit of the interpretation and appreciation and of art.

Push, Pull, Drag: these verbs trigger musings on the

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movements they entail, the subjects and objects involved, and perhaps even the distance and direction of their implied actions. Here, the subjects can be understood as all exhibition visitors, inclusive of participating artists and curators. An investigation into the viewer’s curiosity would certainly seem worthwhile, therefore, having been initiated via a recognition of the perceived distance and unfamiliarity which separates art from life. And one may reasonably expect, at the very source of that budding curiosity, the possibility of authentic and meaningful discourse with the artworks in the exhibition.

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ERASING THE THEMATIC Hanbum Lee

As a tagline, “curated exhibition without themes” sounded quite pleasing to me. The decision to vacate an exhibition of any specific theme is tantamount to an innate inclination toward reexamining the ways in which art (works) actually function and operate, an impulse rooted in the legacy of avant-garde attitudes toward aesthetic practice. As such, the context within which this desire arises must be considered with regard to a number of complex, overlapping factors. Here, think of the figure of the curator. Since the appearance of Harald Szeemann—one of a type of curators now recognized as creators in their own right, assuming a position which overarches that of the artist—the role of the curator has grown in status. The arrival of global capitalism has also given rise to a curatorial practice which weaves together grand narratives by means of generating platforms for discourse. Curators fulfill their obligations as knowledge producers by selecting works which adequately serve as supplements to language and directing their arrangement and installation within space. Yet these works, in reverse, are evaluated based on how and by whom they are selected. In this way, a work is recognized as a part of the visual language within contemporary ‘theme-oriented’ curatorial culture, yet it also faces constant lack of understanding; instances where a work’s artistic achievement is only

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acknowledged when it directly reflects reality without resorting to explicit verbalization.

Whenever a work is circulated in vain, lacking any meaning aside from the exhibition’s given theme or discourse, this work (or its artist) is subsumed by the curator or institution and thus degraded as a kind of loot. This is based on the phenomenon of (literally) exponential art production, regardless of any aggravated lack of understanding. Following the lead of the verbalized core of art practice, plentiful substitutes swarm around it—prizes / exhibitions / events which are rhetorically tagged with the term ‘young’ are perhaps the most stereotypical examples today. Any perceived differences with standards and conventions become roughly incorporated into a certain understanding of the avant-garde, while notions of ‘young’ which ought to convey a sense of novelty are easily absorbed by the institution’s inertia, despite the lack of contextual comprehension of the term’s meaning. This scenario is the result of a fetishized politics of difference which would have likely been a more radical strategy. Rather than endlessly accumulating mere instances of difference, however, this has nothing to do with the possible reproduction of the radicalism which that term ‘young’ formerly implied.

Here it is no different. The structure of production feeds the art world, maintaining its physical and moral obesity, constructing the framework of radicalism with the convenience of a declarative proposition. Despite its pioneering, radical appearance, we must recognize that its desire lies fundamentally elsewhere; this paradox only serves to further confirm the apparent impossibility of discovering something new within such a structure

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of production. As long as curatorial language continues to focus on specific themes and discourses, artist’s work will be rendered susceptible to collapse at any moment, thrust upon the ever-accelerating treadmill of the industry.

Dutch artist Guido van der Werve put it simply: “… heavily curated biennales, where the context and content is so strongly and readily defined by the curator, really bothers me as an artist… By putting pieces in such strong contexts and even commissioning autonomous artists to create site- and content-specific work, the autonomy of the pieces are lost.”1 The conclusion to be drawn is that requiring art (work) to serve the purposes of verbalized knowledge is no longer a valid approach, a theory previously introduced by Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev among others, who experimented with alternate modes of knowledge production in her presentations at documenta 13 and the 14th Istanbul Biennale. Presciently, the 57th Venice Biennale has announced that its upcoming 2017 iteration will concentrate on individual artists rather than focusing on a concrete theme.2 European art historians currently find themselves facing difficulties in establishing a methodology for highlighting the individuality of contemporary local cultures; this doesn’t seem to be in pursuit of another, renewed system, but rather a movement to reconsider these invisible beings which had always existed, however neglected by the speed of mainstream 1. Guido van der Werve, “Heavily curated biennales really bother me as an artist” (http://conversations.e-flux.com/t/heavilycurated-biennales-really-bother-me-as-anartist/1715)

2. https://news.artnet.com/art-world/the-2017venice-biennale-will-focus-on-artists-not-bigthemes-666668

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(globalist) art’s violent expansion. Instead, individuality has begun to increase in value. Once the individual can be fully understood on a number of diverse levels, only then will a reproduction of radicalism become possible.

Thus the decision to abolish curatorial themes not only indicates a special episode in the history of curating, it also signifies a primal return to exploring what art can do here and now, in the reality of the present.

Does this mean that an artwork’s autonomy can be reclaimed by eliminating curatorial themes? Now is probably too soon to judge. If a thing’s autonomy were achieved by operating on the platform of its integrity, then for an artwork there is the also a need to understand how it functions. An exhibition is one of the best approaches to visualize this function in an effective way; it is a kind of fiction composed of artworks, born out of the conflicts intrinsic to unique artworks and arbitrary situations. In this regard, Push, Pull, Drag leaves me with a certain dissatisfaction. I failed to detect any particularity in this exhibition beyond my perceptions of the physical arrangement of videos, photography, paintings and objects. Failing to discover words to delineate this, I consider Push, Pull, Drag a sort of fiction which has yet to be resolved for me. In place of any rescinded themes, more acute conflicts should be endorsed. Notwithstanding, what prevails in the exhibition is the gesture of this exclusion alone, while the actual state of the addressed issues remains to be discerned.

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This ought not be stigmatized as an effort somehow unfulfilled, however. Instead, we might discuss what ought to be the focus of our collective effort. Using curated knowledge as a model which eschews unilateral practice, every subject surrounding the artwork is thereby engaged in a process of negotiation. By participating in an uncompromising discussion which refuses to adhere to any set power dynamics, an artwork increases its chances of achieving autonomy through every single method and place. In contrast, when artwork is distributed without first having secured its autonomy, an obscured symbolic power is destined to intrude. In 2016 we witnessed explosive eruptions of festering corruption—I consider this to be the very reason why now, in a very realistic sense, we have to break from the past and confront a different aesthetic attitude. Our urgent task today is to imagine a place where the power of art for its own sake can become functional.

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Yellow Spot

Deus ex Machina Link Path Layer

Coming the Painterly Hearts Echo Like Mercury

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GIM IKHYUN, LINK PATH LAYER: SWOLLEN REALITY AND GLARING DARKNESS Seawoo Chung I precariously press a finger to the uneven surface of a photograph taken of the pitch-dark interior of a gold mine. The image briefly adheres flat to the gallery wall, as if attempting to merge with it, only to immediately swell back out—a return to the reality of the present from the ephemerality of a uniformly flat image. My daily pat-down of this swollen reality leaves my hands covered with the sooty traces of the printed image. As my hands grow dirtier with black pigment the surface of the photograph grows glossier, transforming it into an autonomously shining thing which ultimately ends up non-flat. Minuscule pigment particles are substituted for the pixels of the digital original, printed on Baryta paper. The cotton fibers in this paper are chemically treated with melted gelatin so that the layer of pigment on the paper refracts projected light, lending materiality to this glossy darkness. Dragged from its data-based dimension, the image interacts with reality to result in an imperfect surface.

Gim Ikhyun is interested in the possibility of revealing the photographic image as a form of data without depth and exposing it as it truly is. Instead of the traditional method of installing photographs as framed images which structure our gaze so that they appear reinforced with a certain existential mass, Gim glues each printed work directly onto the walls of the gallery space, situ-

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ating these images in an alternate context. The perception of Gim’s photo of the inside of a mine within the three-dimensional space of an exhibition yields results similar to a digital environment rendered in 3D graphics. This effect endows texture to the vacuum of the white cube, camouflaging it as a separate, unrelated space as a cave or Seoul Square. Though the artist’s previous Monument series attempted to capture the decisive moment wherein historical events are transposed solidly into gigantic monuments, Link Path Layer reflects a shift in Gim’s focus toward perceiving spaces themselves as subjects for his work. This can be seen in the change in Gim’s approach to aim inward rather than outward, toward surface over mass and dark over light.

As the subject of his work changes with each exhibition space, its narrative simultaneously expands in multiplicity. In this particular case, such a structure is unable to bring about a transition to an empirical or descriptive narrative, thus neither can it serve as camouflage for conventional ideas of representation.

Link Path Layer also evolves into later works. Gim’s most recent work, for instance, is similar to landscape photography but is nonetheless distinct in its departure from traditional methods of photo production. A Future Where Everyone Is Connected (2016), presented at SeMA Biennale Mediacity Seoul 2016, takes Google Street View’s algorithm as its reference and stitches together multiple images within one colossal landscape, rearranging and adjusting it in a space of vacuum.

Google Street View does this by stitching together separate images photographed on specific dates in an enormous three-dimensional digital reconstruction built

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with Google’s mapping database. This application overlays previously captured images, current location markers and a virtual landscape constructed with map data—all collapsed into a single, interlinked time and space. When compared to similar map applications in South Korea, Google Street View is considered rather inconsistent due to its lack of frequent updates. For example, in a Google search of the current (2016) location of Seoul Square, the results show the location’s image dated July 2014; or put another way, presents an image of Seoul Square from 2014 overlaid with information and location markers from 2016. This conflation creates an uncanny dislocation between reality and data-constructed space. Similarly, Seoul’s landscape can be exported as a single-print image, although this exposes optical dislocations including pixelated or unfocused areas due to the application’s faulty algorithm. Such dislocations in Gim’s work reveal ruptures where narrative can intervene.

As an artist, Gim has consistently looked to historical events in realizing his works. The objects of his attention have shifted over time, from monuments to caves, historic heritage to contemporary landscape. His overall approach has also changed, from shooting each object in order to complement it with multiple narratives to his current practice of creating images which are generated in staged states of vacuum onto which the narrative is transparently rendered. In each case, Gim’s recollections of historic events always seem to persist. Link Path Layer is connected to the past through its images of gold mines which are, in fact, artificially constructed caves. Nadar, the 18th century French photographer

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who introduced artificial lighting to the medium for the first time; Changsun Kim, the miner who survived being buried underground for fifteen days and eight hours without a single ray of light; desires lit up by luminous gold and narratives, lumps of reality’s hefty burdens repeatedly overlaid onto layers of image data floating in a vacuum—these are, of course, paradoxical metaphors which disclose related historical dislocations. Gim employs similar methodologies as those used by contemporary artists but delves into the historicity of the realities he captures, along with the effects of gravity and their political connotations. Upon being transposed onto the exhibition space, the image data reflects an in-between state of reality; its embossed surface is interrupted by protruding air bubbles so that even when pressed flat, it never achieves a perfectly smooth surface. The act of physically pressing this swollen reality, trying to stick it flat to the wall, is equivalent to the futile act of attempting to achieve perfection, resulting in the lustrous surface of the gold mine beginning to shine by itself and being recontextualized as an actual image. The imperfection of an image which cannot effectively adhere to the gallery wall, therefore, functions as a path enabling layers of history to link together rather than result in a conclusive failure.

These works are currently linked to the prosperity and disaster which coexisted in South Korea in the 1990s.

The 1995 collapse of the Sampoong Department Store marked one of the worst man-made disasters in the nation’s history. The site of the ruins, with its pinkpainted walls representing the aftermath of distorted

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desire, was renewed by yet more desire within less than a decade; the disaster site was rebuilt as a high rise complex where eerie rumors persisted for some time— stories of phantoms, strange voices in the underground parking lot, a woman pushing a shopping cart—although they were gradually drowned out by the unequivocal ruling of capitalistic logic. The numerous deaths in the subterranean catacombs lit by Nadar are linked to the miner Changsun Kim who returned from his own site of death, and the survivors from Sampoong Department Store who broke Kim’s record 28 years later to pass through the darkness. What did they encounter in that place? In this iteration of history, individual moments of glaring darkness are linked together along paths and collapsed into one unified, translucent layer.

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INTERVIEW WITH HEJUM BÄ COMING THE PAINTERLY Hyo Gyoung Jeon JEON I understand that you have a long-term interest in plant drawings. What was your motivation to continue drawing plants during your travels to different countries over the years?

BÄ The movement of plants isn’t usually thought of as actual movement, or perhaps it is simply thought too slow to be perceived, but once you become aware and take note of this process, a plant’s transformation suggests the change of the seasons. I feel deeply connected to the idea of movement in still objects. Of course, my drawings of plants reflect my own parallel physical movement as the painting’s subject, where the passage of time can be seen in my physical body. What I ended up uncovering after repeated contemplation and drawing, however, is actually the ‘time of drawing;’ that is, the duration of time itself necessary for a drawing to be realized. I see this as similar to the static movement of plants and the blocks of time that must accumulate in order for perceptible changes to take place.

These seemingly motionless organisms are capable of surviving from season to season for extended lengths of time, fulfilling their lifespans by means of incremental

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change—a growth which I observed differently each day, even with the naked eye. These experiences remained as abstract forms in my mind until they were finally dragged out and onto paper along with their clumsy shapes.

One might interpret these drawings to be the results of such observations, yet my intention was to actually propose a specific time frame by densely recording the many facets of the process, particularly when an image in my mind takes form as a drawing. One image serves as the starting point for another image in the drawings; I sought to unfold this layered aspect consisting of drawings which had formerly existed as other images.

In that case, why plants?

The reason for focusing my intention specifically on plants for this series and not others was due to the somewhat peculiar shape of the subjects themselves.

Since these plants have bizarre shapes, I was able to recall them as images according to their idiosyncratic appearances. Some were infinitely arrayed, others bulging; as such, I considered them to be examples capable of portraying the movement of images in a more overt way. The premise was to question “how an image occurs,� yet regardless of that effort there were some attempts which turned out to be irrelevant for conveying any message as a drawing, while others served as examples of powerful visual language which initiated contact through even the slightest touch. I assume that most painters likely experience such moments.

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It’s interesting to hear you mention yourself in relation to painters. To me, it sounds like a statement in which you define yourself as a ‘drawing person’ above all, a resolution or decision which seems to be directly connected to your working method and attitude.

It seems to me that I have spent rather scant time as a painter in dealing with the transformation of an ‘image,’ at least insofar as the process of observation and documentation. So for a long time drawing and the drawn image appeared more relevant to me in terms of the act itself, one which could hold its own alongside other elements related to this act. In 2016, when I was in Seoul, recalling an odd-looking and unknown plant that I had encountered while in Liverpool in 2009, I recognized that my drawings did not aim to mimic plants’ appearances but were instead directed toward conveying a certain sense of movement, one which results from the process of giving shape to their images in my mind. An ‘image’ such as this is particularly interesting as an embodiment of the drawing artist’s physical movement.

While I was working on the series this summer, I began to pay more attention not only to the act of drawing but also to its outcome. In doing so I also imagined what might be considered a painter’s perspective, which was a fascinating thought. Of course, this is a completely subjective notion, and it might not be adequate to call myself a painter after this series of works or even during this interview, but one thing is definitely true—my idea

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of drawing has changed quite a bit.

Would you define the “certain sense of movement” you described earlier as the energy inherent in a particular image? If so, and if a drawing were an embodiment of physical movement, I would like to explore this further. What prevails throughout your oeuvre is a sense of the artist’s intuition.

The brushwork and manual mark-making which correspond to the arrangement and composition of your drawings seem to be driven by the very moment when color is laid down onto paper, causing each shape to be constantly revised before finally being concluded as an image, rather than following the strict execution of a plan.

These fleeting moments of formation appear spontaneously within each drawing, and I think this is why they convey such a strong sense of capturing this sort of ‘image.’ That said, what does it mean to you to draw, or rather, what does a drawing mean to you? In one of your previous works, If a Thought Can Have (2013), you questioned “whether the existence of the abstract object of ‘thought’ could be inferred by means of the artist’s body.” I believe that attempting to answer this question through the act of ‘drawing’ itself could certainly be a palpable method of capturing a particular moment—a method which involves surprisingly delicate feel-

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ings and sensations.

Your expression “concluded as an image” is intriguing; drawing until conclusion, rather than until completion or accomplishment, seems to indicate that my act of drawing is comprised of fleeting moments. For me, my drawings seem to bring substance to an image in a physical state. Imagine skimming a thin layer of ink floating on the surface of water, after which a film from the ink stain lingers on the surface of the spoon or skimming tool. The stain can be removed, but it will still leave noticeable traces behind.

Continuing on the topic of materiality, could you discuss the materials and techniques you use in your drawing practice?

I selected drawing materials for my recent work based on principles drawn from the process of bringing an ‘image’ from my mind to paper. Whenever I approached a subject with only some vague or unclear afterimage in mind I tended to prefer the soft and rustling texture of pastel, while in instances when the image was clearer I would work in watercolor. I approached the works as portraits, necessitating somewhat basic and fundamental efforts in terms of drawing.

Regarding the process of my work more generally, I see the countless possibilities of drawing as being open in technical terms, instead of typically being grouped into specific styles or types. In the context of my other works, each piece might be perceived completely differently; it takes time to present the different aspects of

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my practice from a singular perspective. Anyhow, experimenting with alternative sources of motivation and rhetoric is a huge pleasure for me and is probably what compels me to continue presenting their resulting drawings. I would equate artistic pursuit to a persistent knocking, which is an act related to the unknown. When I try to ascertain the unknown, the ways of going about doing so aren’t predetermined. You learn whether an attempt is valid only after having tested it.

This is linked to projecting an unknown being onto a formerly blank space with the help of my hands, or welcoming—at least temporarily—an embodiment of this being. My drawings thus far reveal traces of movements, however faint, which reflect my endless pursuit, estimation and relocation of invisible thoughts which amorphously wander about, in addition to other related notions. It is just one second out of some ten thousands which I am intent on preserving at any cost, a thought or an image which might have otherwise disappeared.

Your drawings reflect an artistic sensibility which doesn’t necessarily prioritize having everything planned out ahead of time before meticulously working to realize this vision for the drawing. In contrast to drawings which begin with predetermined objectives, I would say that yours engage in a constant relinking to the initial thought with images shaped by brushstrokes and colors which were not completely planned ahead of time, something which seems truly telling.

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This aspect is also apparent in the manner of presentation chosen for the drawings in the exhibition. You mounted each work to a structure made of timber and wooden panels, hanging the drawings and paintings as if constructing a scene. Can you elaborate on your concept for installing the exhibition?

When separate sounds with unique phonetic attributes are assembled to acquire collective meaning, each phoneme is momentarily deprived of its individual characteristics in an act of cooperation with the others in order to generate meaning. By suggesting that the plant drawing series, where each work exists within its own separate timeline, might be considered a similar conglomeration of compound elements, I imagined that such a composite setting would actually be presented as another element demonstrating the passage of time and physical distance.

To summarize, you have described your practice as a continuous quest for what you are willing to know while remaining conscious of the impossibility of grasping the unknown. Artist Hejum Bä would never state that she knows everything, a fact which leads the reader—at this point all-too-familiar with the experience of viewing paintings in an exhibition—to a refreshed perspective for appreciating her work which can be applied to more than just her drawings, offering insight into

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engagement with contemporary painting more generally as well as introducing critical perspectives in context. There are still countless stories about Bä’s work which remain to be told.

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YI YUNYI, LOOK IN A MIRROR, SHE’S NOT THERE1 Danji Lee Toward the midpoint of Hearts Echo Like Mercury (2016), a video lit on the surface by misty shades, comes a scene of a woman skipping rope like a child.

Superimposed over this scene, Yeonwoo’s2 handwriting reads: “Ugly? In every possible way / Though I grow old and ugly, / will crawl my way out, screaming like hell / Should my body not work, I will use my spirit and mind, my soul, / to rush out and back inside / Together with the windmill that goes round and round / let us die out.” 3 Hearts Echo Like Mercury is a new work by Yi Yunyi, created in Seoul during the summer of 2016. The video roughly consists of three parts, beginning with the voiceover of a woman carrying a bow and arrow and in pursuit of a mysterious someone. The artist and her friend are shown taking a trip together where they discuss various moments of dreams and reality, with a narrative vaguely interwoven across several scattered yet notable episodes: a figure chasing after a girl who has grown into an old woman; the story of Echo, who fell in love with her reflection in the water and withered away; and a brief mention of a youth who perished in a tunnel accident. In actual fact, it would be acceptable to 1. The title is a quote from Only Shallow, a song by My Bloody Valentine.

2. Yeonwoo Do is the figure who leads the narrative in Hearts Echo Like Mercury. Actually Do is an old friend of the artist as well as a member of Yellow Kitchen, an indie band that active in the 1990s.

3. From the voiceover script of Hearts Echo Like Mercury.

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consider what seem to be narrative distinctions to be ultimately irrelevant. Like reading a book in random page order, the video has no beginning or end and yet it resonates within the projection’s set duration, hitting the wall and bouncing back to our eyes in a perceptual ping-pong.

Don’t give out your heart / Don’t give out your heart / Greedy as it can be / This old and decaying brook / Give me your face instead / Give me your voice / Give me everything / So I could have it all Most of Yi’s works, including In the Meanwhile… The Child (2011), Time to Play (2011–2016), Man Is Ship Woman Is Harbour (2014), Maya (Not That) (2013) and Meet Me at the Eagle (2012), start out with an illusion of a space split in two. We see a figure performing a somewhat burlesque choreography of dodging stone projectiles hurled by an off-frame presence, or a woman and man playing drums and immersed in the rhythm, or back spending time with Maya in a two-room apartment in Mexico. Thus the artist supports the perpetuation of dual parallels while exposing the illusion, disappointment and narcissism the figures experience both individually and through one another. Much like a harbor serves as both a site of departure as well as arrival, or the name Yi Yunyi which is the same when read forward and backward—the parallels in Yi’s work are inverses of each other just like one’s right and left hands. Like the shadow in the mirror constantly lingering at one’s side.

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“Between the mid 90s and the millennium, I was in a band with friends. Also the friends of friends shared similar taste of music, fashion and style, and similar kids gathered in similar bands. Instead of feeling united through a sense of belonging to the scene, publishing a record or going on stage, we hung out on and off, intrigued by accidental melody that arose through the act of creating noise. But paradoxically, it was a period of echo in the void with no feedback, even though we were actually creating howling and feedback sounds.

We were like mirrors to each other, as embarrassing and despicable as facing oneself.”

— Excerpt from Yi Yunyi’s note.

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The psychology to be parsed from Hearts Echo Like Mercury’s dramaturgy, which depicts Yi’s trip with her friend Yeonwoo, might best be represented by the image of ‘twins.’ For others, twins might just mean two marvelously similar faces, but for twins themselves the term implies a border or plane which serves to divide them and identify who is who. We feel concern for those with whom we can identify ourselves, yet by the same reasoning we also wish to negate their existence.

When faced with an instance of confrontation with one another, or with a past self mirroring the present one, would that imply that we are looking at ourselves or the other? Yeonwoo appears as herself in addition to playing the ‘role’ of Yeonwoo, while the artist observes her subject in front of the camera, revealing the connection of their ongoing empathy through her use of music and poetry. The video’s music was composed by Yeonwoo Do and contributes to the work’s ‘shoegazing’ attitude—a term derived from live music performances of alternative rock artists, indicating the genre’s performers’ tendency to stare at their shoes instead of facing the audience—highlighting the relation of the performer to herself, instead of that between the performer and an audience. In other words, it emphasizes the performing self listening to the howling sounds of her own voice calling back to her through audio speakers as well as the intimacy of this act of listening and immersion within the inner self.

In this work, the artist quotes from both a poem by Yi Sang4 and the myth of Echo, in combination with a series of mirror images which linger throughout various parts of the video. At times this imagery appears as an iridescent plastic curtain scattering colorful reflections and casting light onto the face of a woman reading poetry aloud. Other times it appears as a mask constructed of cutouts of colored plastic wrap and paper, or as a fan being spun by the wind. It creates a mirror which reflects an infinite space that we can look into but which lacks depth. A line from Hélène Cixous’ The Laugh of the Medusa (“She is incomprehensible, even 4. Yi Sang’s Mirror (1934) was not inserted directly in the work, but it is cited as an indirect reference.

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to herself. That got her anxious for a long time”5) is followed by a still photograph of Yeonwoo’s room, shown full of literature books and posters of prominent rock bands from the 80s and 90s. The reddish surface of the faded photograph reflects the strongly undulating texture of the video. A woman having “bobbed hair with an angular face” is seen wandering through a forest blanketed in thick fog, searching for a fading existence while being herself pursued by the camera, its condensation-flecked lens as a skin enveloping the video.

Similarly, as seen in the text, Yeonwoo writes on the fogged-up glass with her fingertip; poetry and video create a transparent surface which mirrors our own selves.

The English title of Hearts Echo Like Mercury reflects Yi’s questioning regarding primary beings that existed before language. A whispering off-screen in a delicate and deep voice tells us, “not to give our hearts.” The yearning of a mother calling for her daughter who died in a tunnel is inserted as text subtitle without voiceover, reading, “for a moment, I lived… / A hasty and deafening life / Once again be mine, (in your next life).” These lines function as a poetic eulogy in tribute to a lived life.

Some scenes are shot in low resolution with a mobile phone, others capture a newborn cat, a father with his infant son in his arms, wishing for happiness for his family while shooting fireworks toward the sea at night, a silhouette of people taking selfies and smiling while wandering around a tidal flat—every example evokes so many of life’s little moments of affection, taking precedence over poetry and video. Camera shots caress the 5. Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa, 1975.

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remote lights along the shore while the hummed melody of a song with a certain familiarity6 amplifies the ‘mind’ amidst a tranquil silence like an overheard soliloquy. At every moment of disappearing, as a flame fades away when lit in a vacuum, will we ever be able to remember the ‘heart,’ the repository of all ephemera?

I should like to come back to a With too many I knowthe yet docontinuous not know, I tossed and spoken, creation turned, and remained, for real. In a dark room, a woman lays hugging a shiny green guitar. Although the guitar seems to be going on inthe the univ riff projects its howling through the speakers, woman keeps her eyes closed and remains motionless.

I feel I am experiencing it co Aside from a tiny object fragment blinking red on the speakers, there is no movement from a single (presumably) living thing. In almost in complete darkness, the to imagine detail what is go scene continues for a long time, vibrating only through 59 the sound.

The spreading sound is accompanied by inadequate, how abstract and stil wind from a fan which flutters a white piece of lace on Yeonwoo’s chest as she lays with her eyes shut. What in comparison to what actually did they encounter in the dreams that repeated three times? along with it an unforeseeable no 7

Philippe Garrel once confessed his obsession with the impossibility of capturing lovers gazing at one another within a single frame.8 For him, film is to convey the appearance of the lovers looking at each other with deep affection, but at the same time it is constructed on the paradox of destroying the intimacy of such a relationship.

Henri, Bergson. The Creative Mi New York: Philosophical Library

6. Эхо любви (The Echo Of Love), the original song was written by Evgeny Ptichkin and sung by Anna German, 1977. Yeonwoo Do’s arranged the version is inserted to the video.

7. The last line from the script of Hearts Echo Like Mercury.

During my conversation with Yi regarding the editing process involved in this work, the artist revealed that she primarily shot the video in chronological order in the course of the trip, something which imbues the work with its defining nuance. This is perhaps the only approach through which to transmit a genuine record of the moments spent together with Yeonwoo, who accompanied three short dreams, their dialogue (“She tells me her twin sister got married and went away / And I knew that her boyfriend got married / She changed her name / And songs have stopped (…)”) and the warmth of their friendship. One dialogue includes the line: “First night ever to sleep by someone else, for the sake of that person”—stitching together raw fragments of memory from ‘the present,’ unfolded over a slowly passing duration of time while they navigate through the fog. Their wandering in search of a girl leads them through changing environments including a forest, a brook, a tunnel swallowing the sound of a siren, a moth hovering in midair below a fluorescent light, and a starlit sky extending over a beach at night. It then returns to the foggy forest, telling her stories and mine. How can we re-encounter the two who “were first in mom’s belly, but now she’s the one chasing”? Where exactly are ‘we,’ currently?

subject on which I have already of unforeseeable novelty which verse. As far as I am concerned, onstantly. No matter how I try oing to happen to me, still how lted is the thing I have imagined happens! The realization brings othing which changes everything.

ind. Trans.

Mabelle L. Andison.

Yi makes use of music, poetry and video to create works are both revealing and concealing. The resoy, 1946.which p.107 nance of Hearts Echo Like Mercury urges viewers to

truly meet ‘ourselves’ after having been absently absorbed within our everyday routines, an observation apparent in hollow text message conversations such as, “what’s up,” “nothing,” “alright,” “take care” and “yeah,”

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floating on our mobile phone displays. Facing a mirror must be equal to the lucid dreams which we repeatedly recall so as not to forget anything, regardless of any awareness of ever-dissipating moments of nowness in a time which no longer offers anything to specifically record in diaries. In the end, Hearts Echo Like Mercury is concerned with notions of ‘us’ rather than of the artist, about the invisible ‘heart’ rather than the visible and the ‘mind’ of you and me rather than its characters’ inner psychology.

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IKJUNG CHO, YELLOW SPOT: AUDACIOUSLY SPEAKING Hyo Gyoung Jeon How does one summon the audacity to make moves that have not been already sanctioned, especially within spaces where they may not be acceptable?

Cultivating this audacity is less a structural concern—of how to deal with a given space, how to access a history or a network of relations, how to make work visible, and so forth—and more a question of how to identify the kind of thinking which is capable of transcending physical structures and even institutionalization altogether. We might call this artistic thinking.1 Ikjung Cho’s performance Yellow Spot (2016) bombards viewers with an excessive amount of cursing and swearing. In this work, the artist’s Korean-speaking performers communicate with each other using only Arabic, Chinese and English. This aspect 1. Julieta Aranda, Brian Kuan Wood, Anton Vidokle, Editorial—“Artistic Thinking,” e-flux Journal #26 - June 2011, http://www.e-flux.com/journal/26/67920/ editorial-artistic-thinking/

prevents Cho’s majority from comprehending th the work’s dialogue, alt resonance of the perfor clear that these verbal a hurled at one other. The explained through the p lines but is disclosed ra the performers’ physica words, the narrative arc constructed by overtly opment of the figures’ s describing them concre backdrop of a desert, th is presented through co unusual empathy, from encounter with a Chine conflicts and tensions b classes, to the Bedouin the Chinese stranger. T trated across a number Bedouins striding aroun structures reminiscent o ment whilst unable to c toward a Chinese visito alone; the visitor apply unknown Bedouin wom in praise of the desert’s dark night; Bedouins ag spitting at the Chinese

y-Korean audience he exact meaning of though the aggressive rmers’ voices makes it attacks are being e work’s narrative isn’t performers’ spoken ather by accentuating al movements. In other c in Yellow Spot is conveying the develsentiments but not etely. Set against the his flow of sentiments onsecutive scenes of m the Bedouins’ first ese visitor, to the subtle between Bedouin ns’ active expulsion of This process is illusof specific scenes: nd theatrical stage of gymnastics equipconceal their curiosity or traveling the desert ying lipstick to an man; Bedouins singing s beauty against the gain shouting and stranger. Thus aggra-

vated, the stranger loudly swears back at the Bedouins in passionate rage, leading to a culmination in the action’s dramatic tension wherein the stranger serenely strolls through the desert under the close surveillance of Bedouin stares. This final scene leaves the audience with a strangely acute sense of alertness and tension between the Chinese visitor and the Bedouins, resulting in a lingering, unresolved and unpleasant sense of ‘hostility.’

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Cho’s Spot series conveys narratives based on the artist’s own experiences and her unexpected interactions with individuals of unfamiliar cultural and social backgrounds, presented as theatrical performances. Yellow Spot in particular was based on an incident between the artist and a group of Bedouins she encountered while on a trip to the desert;

a previous work, Spot, was based on Cho’s accidental confrontation with some teenagers in London. This latter work—performed by Cho herself—depicts the teenagers’ hostility as perceived by the artist during a screening of her own works held near a small canal, a confrontation to which she responded with a certain aggressiveness of her own as an act of self-defense which she reenacts in the work.

The feelings of rage and conflict with which Cho directly engages in her performances generate a sensation of being besieged by an external source of anger, either directly or indirectly. Violence often finds form in the mediums of film and video, although it is rather rare for a performance to confront the viewer with an explicit act of violence, perhaps due to the obvious immediacy of the viewers’ gaze with regard to the work. Yellow Spot and Spot have been presented in theatrical settings of small and intimate scale, with the distance between viewers and performers close enough so as to make eye contact unavoidable. Facing such a demonstrative performance of violent rage, audiences are thus engulfed in an extremely profound sentiment, especially when compared to the 2.

typical visual mediation and film. These scenes abiding anger which lo mind, forcing me to pro different phases. First, sense of discomfort ons revealed in each perfor followed by a phase in redefine the works’ con personal projection but interpretation. Once thi reached, I immediately Cho’s audacity as an ar nation to realize such a

Cho’s practice implicat to challenge common s conventions in the unfo Yet we might also appl she skillfully activates engage with tradition. W artist’s previous works (2007), Four Refrigera Girl (2010) and Little D (2013), I often struggle number of questions w down to just one: “Can aesthetic decision be va

n inherent in video left me with an ong lingered in my ocess the work in I had to digest the set by the anger rmance. This was which I attempted to ntents not as objects of t rather as objects of is distinction had been y became aware of rtist and her determian unorthodox project.

tes its critical impulse sense and typical olding of her stories. laud the reverse; that her stories in order to When considering the such as Rooftop Bear2 ators (2009), Daddy’s Does She Know ed to contemplate a which ultimately boiled n this kind of story or alid?” In these works,

Cho challenges a broader range of social and historical problems by disclosing her own personal circumstances related to, for instance, her family or boyfriend. Such forfeiture of the artist’s privacy in Cho’s practice is nonetheless subject to criticism, as is the genre-specific formal legacy to which it belongs. On one hand, the characters in Yellow Spot seem quite out of the ordinary, particularly given the work’s defining elements—selecting the narrative background of a desert, rendering herself as a Chinese figure, deciding to depict the performers as Bedouins. On the other hand, her choice of a fusion of mediums between visual art and theater could also be seen as dubious, or least questionable. As mentioned above, Cho’s work tends to appeal to more practical and physical sensations through aspects such as body movement, sound and light instead of language-based discourse. Diverging from typical approaches of theatrical stage scenarios, her work connects with these aspects by establishing the boundaries of her own stage through works of sculpture and installation.

Thus, Cho has developed her own language by emphasizing sculptural interpretations of the stage and dealing directly with their

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visual implications, as well as having absorbed the immediacy and temporality of performance.2 The interdisciplinary nature of this mode of expression might be considered compelling across the fields of both visual arts and theater. Simultaneously, its ambivalent nature makes it difficult to position Cho’s work within just one discipline, especially considering each genre’s specific formal legacy. The work thus repeatedly leads viewers to question the adequacy of applying such unprecedentedly different elements in its interpretation. Viewers, to begin with, must also contend with the impossibility of any informed judgment, lacking proper and solid criteria to define the adequacy based in such interdisciplinary but ambivalent forms. Regardless of the viewer’s dilemma, the artist developed a process for her practice accompanied by an engaged and open questioning, refraining from waiting for a moment of conviction about her possible choices when making a work, which she invites audiences to witness. This could be the artist’s “artistic thinking that grows into audacity.”4 Cho’s audacity is the fulcrum which activates her work and which serves as her own 3. In the two recent performances of Spot and Yellow Spot presented at Post Territory Ujeongguk (Seoul, South Korea), a more developed form of the formalistic structure is noticeable. The work was premiered at Unknown Packages held at the Queens

idiosyncratic quality. T fested in her work, whi mance’ with specified d tion which continues to this day. Audacity as an becomes an almost hab which is difficult to era having been implement period of time. Augmen character, her condition pleted via the specified she chooses to commun mode of expression is i intuitively present befo of the work. Perhaps th artist’s nature being pre producing the performa or its language for trans mined afterward. More addressed to the audien embodied by the oppre performers and the dram

Such audacity is a cruc trigger the unfolding of conclusion of the narra not what provides answ posed in the work. Inste the viewer to distinguis

Museum (New York, USA). The project consisted of a series of performance workshops held at the museum from late-May to mid-August 2015, led by Korean artists Ikjung Cho, Jihyun Jung, Jinju Lee, Boram Moon and Jewyo Rhii. These visual artists

This audacity is maniich exists as ‘perforduration—an inclinao persist in her work to n intuitive impulse bituated behavior adicate, especially after ted over a given nting Cho’s own ned audacity is comd mode of expression nicate each work. This immediately and ore all other elements his is a result of the edestined prior to ance’s actual narrative smission being detereover, it is entirely nce, its character essive tone of the matic atmosphere.

tion of the work, the artist’s inclination and attitude, and the viewer’s capacity to determine their own position. Subsequent contemplation on the dialogue between Cho’s performers reminds viewers of the charged atmosphere of the space, even long after the show. I propose that the possibility of such questioning is what ultimately guides Cho’s audacity-driven mode of a valid aesthetic decision.

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cial element which can f a narrative. The ative itself, however, is wers to the questions ead, it is the role of sh between the intenutilize a variety of mediums (painting, installation, performance, video) in the pursuit of realizing their own artistic languages. The result opened as an exhibition, unveiling the possibility of a mode of storytelling which had been refined and negotiated via

each artist’s genre of focus before being transformed into the format of a ‘drama.’ For Cho, the workshop and exhibition served as a focal motivation to successively realize a range of performative works.

4. Aranda, Wood, Vidokle, “Artistic Thinking,” 2011

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GUIDED TOUR WITH A CURATOR Jiwon Yu It’s me, I’m looking at the grotto.

How do I get in?

Give me the password.

I can’t imagine going all the way down; I’m a bit claustrophobic.

I know all too well the chill emanating from eighteen meters below.

As the lumpy mass floats along, Make room for it to take shape.

When you awake from a sound nap, Don’t sweat trying to recall your dreams or trace your memories.

Oh, and I wouldn’t take that call if I were you.

The refrigerator may cough up a little smoke but Don’t panic, it’s not your fault.

A light marks the shadows of stone fragments but I can’t help you out of the trap of flatness.

Yellow light penetrates the vibrating veil An unheard-of language pushes away and Echoes draw in wishes yet Harakeke without a seat drags its steps No matter what I’m called or what month it is I found myself erasing all the places to return

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When the unexpectedly low ceiling inches its way down bit by bit, When you finally find an excellence to make getting through another day worthwhile, Leave me a message.

P.S. Don’t be startled by the explosion, objects are more flat than they appear.

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BETWEEN THE SPATIAL AND THE SENSIBLE: A READING OF PUSH, PULL, DRAG Gahee Park

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Fig. 1. The movement of sensation and thought, laid out according to a diagram appropriated from space syntax theory.

This text is a reading of Push, Pull, Drag and is premised upon the exhibition’s artistic attempt to overcome the spatial limitations of a fixed exhibition space, particularly with regard to the dynamics of the spatial and the sensible. Figure 1 (above) is a visualization of the flow and movement of thoughts, adhering to a triangular constellation which serves to connect work, viewer and exhibition space. This diagram is appropriated from space syntax,1 an analytic method for approaching the structure of a given space. Guided by this

drawing, I intend to examine the mechanism and operation of the sort of movement the exhibition aims to pursue. An initial observation of the drawing shows the clear distinction between each floor, impeding any potential mediation involving multiple floors. This attribute of the exhibition spaces’ fixed structures may hinder their potential for diversifying the networks of their interrelations.

And yet, since a work or exhibition relies on more than simply its connections to physical composition, we ought to inspect that alternate layer which operates beyond a fixed space—the movement of thoughts and perceptions. Such movement is visualized as a set of lines which unfold to inscribe a spatial structure diagram composed of interconnected black nodes.

In this highly subjective diagram we also observe the disconnection blocking the movement of thoughts which ‘push, pull and drag’ as well as the accumulating stagnation of immersing thoughts which constantly disrupt these thoughts’ flow.

Even if the exhibition’s curatorial intention were to focus on each work and its innate power, with agency as its own independent and individual element rather than serving to imply a common curatorial theme, we cannot help but consider the landscape such works create among themselves 1. Space syntax is one method of architectural analysis which perceives each space as an independent unit in an understanding of the interrelation between spaces. Space syntax relies on two key factors: total spatial depth (TSD) and relative asymmetry created within TSD; this differs from distance in the physical sense, and indicates the basic unit which can suggest a relation between spaces, induced when moving from one space to another. I presume that the movement empowered by the senses as well as the viewer’s sensorial experience stimulated by it and aimed by Push, Pull, Drag are exactly orchestrated by the depth and asymmetry of the sensorial layers, mediated by the viewer’s engagement while navigating between one work and another.

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within a shared space. Once more, the harmony / tension established by each individual work within a specific space offers viewers clues for reading the exhibition. On the third floor, for instance, the juxtaposition of detailed photographs of a mine which seem to exhale a stale humidity alongside a supposedly moving refrigerator results in the degradation of both works as mere images of similarity due to their arbitrarily presumed chilling sense, regardless of the works’ colliding contextual implications. Furthermore, the exhibition’s final work is installed at quite a distance from the rest so that visitors must descend an elevator which confronts them with its cold and polished surface, traverse an outdoor courtyard and continue their journey down another flight of stairs until finally reaching the basement level.

Although it is clear that this two- or three-minutes’ journey must have been conceived according to the curator’s intention, the viewer is left dumbfounded with the perplexity of being unable to grasp any concrete curatorial context running throughout. This is, unfortunately, due in large part to the impossibility of visitor participation in any practical form, aside from the physical transitions between spaces along the exhibition route.

In fact, I had expected to find clues on these pathways concerning the works I was about to encounter or some similar force which might propel me forward with authentic reflections initiated by the works I had experienced on previous paths.

Regrettably, all I faced were exhibition information signs with directions to continue, repeated

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over and over again throughout the journey.

Let us now return to curatorial intention. The curatorial statement describes the exhibition’s concept as beginning with a question regarding the possibility of mounting an exhibition which would “avoid any specific themes” in order to overcome conceptual rhetoric associated with art as well as to experiment into whether the exhibition format could convey with integrity the sensibility and actual experience of art. As suggested by its minimal title consisting of the verbs ‘push,’ ‘pull’ and ‘drag,’ the exhibition invites one to focus on the movement of perceptions or thoughts, stimulated by the very curiosity and often stupefaction which confrontations with art can inspire.

It is clear that by exploring the impetus behind the sensations works of art can generate, curators and public alike operate as crucial elements in the making and reading of this exhibition. And so one final question naturally arises: “Was this impetus actually seen to manifest in the exhibition?” My analysis probed the tension inherent in the inevitable clash between the curator’s vision for structuring the exhibition space as a triangle connecting works, viewers and curators, and the perceptions of viewers wandering therein. The exhibition, I found, appears to present a challenge to surpassing the spatial limitations of the exhibition format. In this regard, I am curious to know what kind of diagram the curator might have drawn to represent the intended landscape within the given space, as well as which interpretation

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they wished to share with viewers. I still wonder, however, whether more precise planning might have been necessary, especially when the configuration of the space was clear to this extent, so as to fill in the ruptures between these fragmented spaces with reflections on the exhibited works and catalysts for contemplation.

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INTERVIEW WITH JEONG SEYOUNG, DEUS EX MACHINA Seawoo Chung CHUNG Let’s start with your work entitled Deus ex Machina (2016). Can you share some of your thoughts regarding this installation?

JEONG Deus ex Machina is about how a performative structure or system itself operates and is represented through the vehicle of theater, observed at a certain distance removed from more traditional notions of theater or performance. I studied stage design, working from the assumption that the beauty of formal balance would speak for itself. However, in the process of seeking the most effective methods for addressing dramatic structure I became more and more attracted to dance instead of utilizing any artificial stage apparatus. When one goes about directing a play it is often effective for the director to introduce a figure which will present oneself. An example of this would be if the director—who in traditional theater typically remains external to the play—appeared as a character on the stage in order to suggest that he or she does indeed act out a specific role; that is, directing the play. This sort of methodology is suitable for exposing the structure of the play itself as well as establishing a sense of psychological distance separating the audience and the work.

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I am not very fond of traditional approaches to theater, but I have ironically observed that whenever a piece attempts to resist and deny traditional influences, it often results in presenting yet another stereotype. This stereotype can easily attain a level of universal comprehension, however, and in that sense Deus ex Machina can be seen as a piece which actively appropriates such traditional methods. But still, even for viewers familiar with the stage apparatus, including its physical properties, stereotypes can evoke moments which elicit an involuntary response. Take for example, the sound of thunder: despite being a rather common convention, it nonetheless effectively seems to trigger a latent instinct buried deep within one’s physical remembrance, thus perpetuating a habitual bodily response. In the end, I am interested in ways of interpreting these traditional universalities in a contemporary sense. I believe artists are actually quite subjective and instinctive individuals, despite being driven by the fantasy of attaining objectivity.

My work critically engages with how artists recognize and approach tradition.

Could you elaborate on the evolution of your interests from theater and stage design to dance?

I originally wanted to be an actor. I pined for classic roles such as Hamlet and Romeo in particular, but for me achieving that dream was simply impossible. And after considering other ways in which I might yet activate classical traditions in my work, I came to study theater direction before shifting to stage design

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and finally positioning myself as a choreographer. In the end, I left stage design for choreography because of my pragmatic interest in the conditions of its production. After finding it difficult to establish the ideal conditions in which to produce a piece, I discovered that the field of choreography, and especially French contemporary dance, was welcoming to anything non-traditional. So I went to France with the intention of experimenting as much as possible.

When I returned from my studies and set about actually staging works I realized that, apparently due to my interstitial position between genres, my work was likely to garner more attention from the art world than the theater world. My work largely consists of formalistic elements and, perhaps because I enjoy employing traditional methods in intuitive ways, I tend to neglect more objective and conceptual logic in realizing my projects.

Discussions regarding tradition seem to generate an implicit bias from negative critics, yet you have no qualms in openly declaring your affinity for precedent. In fact, while reading the strongly critical perspective you put forth in Deus ex Machina I grew curious as to whether you had intended this ambivalence in your approach, in the sense that the piece appears critical toward tradition yet simultaneously fond of it, or was my reading rather misled?

The classical music tradition is one I appreciate for its

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canonical depth and substance—qualities which I also pursue in my work. As far as I can tell, many artists consistently reject tradition yet lack the capacity or profound knowledge for utilizing the classical. I am happy to watch performances of well-produced classical works and I will applaud without any hesitation in recognition of the craft and effort required to accomplish such projects. I suppose this is rooted in my desire to access classical and traditional formats and establish my own best practices in doing so, since I believe I still have more to learn. Thus I am consciously critical toward the present tendency of neglecting such conventions without adopting an appropriately critical approach. I believe an approach founded in a thorough understanding of classical forms could yield convincing results, although this point is often quickly abandoned whenever artists focus their energies on the potential of artistic practice in the contemporary context. There is a danger to the perceptive bias that contemporaneity is what matters most, similar to the perceived ostensible arrogance in the belief that the sound of thunder, when played through audio speakers, lacks the potential to instill fear due to the fact that it represents a fake output.

This criticism is not directed at others but instead focuses on my own perceptive criteria; even though it might be interpreted as a form of self-censorship since it isn’t really related to external objects, I see it more as a restriction I set for myself. I can certainly enjoy and appreciate classical standards and norms, but I also feel compelled to discard exhausted expressions and replace them with alternate possibilities which might allow for a continuity of contemporary classi-

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cism. I trained in theater, an education which was strictly language-based. Yet, as I encountered works which weren’t easily explained using language, I began to explore other languages for interpretation, including stage design and the plastic arts. German dancer Pina Bausch, for example, wanted to free herself from the widely-held notion that language was ill-suited to discussing dance due to the inherently abstract quality of the genre. This led me to ponder whether the reverse might also be true; was it possible to realize a narrative exclusively through formal elements, without any linguistic aspect whatsoever?

As such, formal arrangement is an important consideration for me. Examining a single situation from multiple perspectives definitely results in changes in direction, in turn giving rise to notions of form itself as a means of communication.

You once stated that the objects utilized in your work are not anthropomorphized, despite engaging in “creating their own choreography.� What is the difference between the object-as-substitute for a performer and the object-as-is on your stage?

One major reason why I use domestic appliances in my work is not because I find them essential as signifiers for other entities but because I wish to embrace the full range of possible interpretations they might evoke. I think anything placed on stage inevitably assumes meaning as a figure, since the theater environment is designed for human use, inducing

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related human behaviors which we typically associate with the stage. These associations are not directly operating in any actual works, however; let us say that a refrigerator elicits in one’s imagination the act of opening its door and removing an item from within, however due to formal requirements I chose not to reenact this behavior. In cases like this, it is sufficient that the viewer associates the object with anything else via its mere presence.

In the previous series of Deus ex Machina consisting of ten fans, I considered these objects personifications or interchangeable substitutes for performers.

Whenever I choose to utilize mundane objects in a performance and manipulate their positioning on stage, a sort of narrative structure organically arises out of the resulting theatrical setting in which viewers are already aware of certain archetypal dramatic narratives. Whether an object such as a fan is standing upright or laid flat, the difference is notable. Viewers are also cognizant of the metaphorical subtext conveyed by this choreography, often associating the prone position as some kind of non-positive sign, either as something negative or as a symbol of inactivity. Likewise, whenever an object enters the context of the theater its dramatic potency grows—an effect I make use of in constructing a tragedy conveyed through nothing more than movement and changes in position of such objects. In such previous cases, the objects were clearly personifications of designated performers, while in later works I have chosen to focus on the practical applications of the objects themselves.

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In these later attempts to achieve similar objectives I set aside all dramatic concerns and focused much more on suggesting images by merely invoking the functional qualities of objects, leading to scenarios and imagery which came together quite intuitively.

For example, much of the movement was oriented on the vertical axis, either in the form of an object moving up and down or being thrown toward the sky and falling back to earth. I long contemplated how best to imply imagery through this upward movement.

You might call the result a short drama, since it concentrates overwhelmingly on functionality, but personification was simply not necessary in this endeavor. Indeed, I restricted personification to serving a secondary, supportive role. However, other works previously presented in Yeon Mal Yeon Si (2015)1 as well as currently in Push, Pull, Drag have always done so within the context of performance, keeping my concern primarily on how best to present them in an accessible format for audiences. This was especially true in Yeon Mal Yeon Si, where I sought to strike a balance with two other artists who also presented performances; I intended that my usage of objects would enable our constellation of three artists to become more cohesive as a single exhibition.

So would you describe the objects in your current work as choreographed dancers?

I would call them figures in motion rather than dancers. While they are not personified, I nonetheless wanted to activate otherwise stationary objects using 1. Held at Insa Art Space, Seoul, 2015.

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movement; in other words, setting non-moving things in motion. Some critics have interpreted the objects such as refrigerators in my work as rather mundane, framing their arguments in terms of the social context of domestic appliances and then delving into a broader history going as far back as the Second World War. The refrigerator, in fact, was selected by chance. It could have been any other object—it simply needed to be stationary and functional.

The composition found in my work is often described as rather rigid and I actually acknowledge its potency as a sort of religious composition; even if a church’s crucifix were replaced with a refrigerator, it would nonetheless project the same meaning. Objects themselves are blank and only acquire meaning or value in relation to specific systems or compositional structures. In my recent works, I selected objects not only based on their functions but also on the images derived from their empirical associations. Having been said, any object will do as long as it can be moved from point A to point B. I have a tendency to insert everyday objects into more rigid compositions, which in turn reveal even more clarity in their rigidity.

Much like the stage of a theater, the white cube imbues mundane objects with a certain authority. At least, that was my impression of the exhibition environment when I initially began engaging in the contemporary art sphere.

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In conclusion, one might define your practice as an act of directing within the theatrical environment at large. During the preparation of Push, Pull, Drag the original structure of the stage adhered to a standard horizontal composition, but you ended up reconfiguring this structure as well. Were you seeking to transcend the ordinary orientation and arrangement of elements within this environment in order to construct a new kind of platform-stage?

When working on personal projects I believe in selecting the methodology which best suits me. For instance, compared to other visual artists, my relative strength might be my familiarity with constructing scenarios for the theater. It is quite rare, on the other hand, to enjoy the luxury of being able to occupy a space and develop a narrative collectively, as in the case of Push, Pull, Drag. Nevertheless, working under such conditions was somewhat confusing for me, given my background in theater, where I became used to managing my space independently for the given duration of each project. One challenge in producing this project was learning how to share the space while remaining authentic to my intended composition. This also provided a chance for me to recognize the range of conditions within which I am capable or incapable of working, something which taken as a whole led to my ultimate realization of the resulting environment for production.

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GIM IKHYUN had his first solo exhibition at Space Nowhere (2016) and participated group exhibitions including SeMA Biennale Mediacity Seoul 2016, NERIRI KIRURU HARARA, Urban Synesthesia (2016) at Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts. In 2015, Gim has co-founded the space Nowhere and organized exhibitions.

HEJUM BÄ studied drawing and painting at Staatliche Akademie der Bildenden Künste Stuttgart, Germany.

Recently she had a solo exhibition Life Reportage (Sophie’s Tree, New York, 2016) after having participated in a number of group exhibitions including Unknown Packages (Queens Museum, New York, 2015), Projekt Just (Calwer Passage, Stuttgart, 2014), and Unter Neuer Haut (Kunstverein Feuerbach, Stuttgart, 2013). Bä lives and works in Stuttgart and Seoul.

YI YUNYI studied Korean Poetry at the Creative Writing department of the Seoul Institute of the Arts and earned her BFA and MFA, majored in Combined Media from the Studio Art department at Hunter College in New York. She had her first solo exhibition A Round Turn and Two Half-Hitches (Insa Art Space, Seoul, 2014). She participates in group shows, wellknown unknown (Kukje Gallery, Seoul, 2016), Floating and Sinking (Gallery Factory, Seoul, 2015) and Headron Archive (Gyoyokso, Seoul, 2015). She was a participant at SeMA Nanji Studio Program (Seoul, 2015), the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture

(Maine, 2013) and the SOMA Summer (Mexico City, 2012).

IKJUNG CHO deals with narratives that are revealed through observation based on daily hassles and occasional discords.

She studied fine art at Ewha Womans University, Seoul and Chelsea College of Art and Design, London. Her works have been shown at Corner art space, Post Territory Ujeongguk, Doosan Gallery, Sangsangmadang, Total museum (Seoul), Queens Museum (New York), L’espace des arts sans frontiers (Paris), L’appartment 22 (Rabat), Arts admin, Salon flux (London) in collaboration with Even the Neck (Regent’s canal, London).

JEONG SEYOUNG, introduced to the field of theater as an actor, has become interested in the ‘stage’ as a medium and extended his interests to the SpaceBody-Narrative Structure. He recently works about the relations between the physical and the social that exist between the theater and the spectator.

He has participated in Festival d’Automne à Paris, Yeon Mal Yeon Si (INSA Art Space, Seoul, 2015), Choreography LAB (Korea National Contemporary Dance Company, Seoul, 2014), and diverse projects. Recently, he was awarded 1st prize in Danse Elaragie (2016).

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Gim Ikhyun, LINK PATH LAYER, digital inkjet print, 50×40(cm), 2014.

Gim Ikhyun, LINK PATH LAYER, digital inkjet print, 50×40(cm), 2014.

Gim Ikhyun, LINK PATH LAYER, digital inkjet print, 40×50(cm), 2014.

Gim Ikhyun, A Future Where Everyone Is Connected, digital inkjet print, Variable dimension, 2016.

Gim Ikhyun, Raptured, Digital Inkjet Print, Variable dimension, 2016.

Hejum Bä, Guide Drawing for Sophie, Life Reportage, Sophie’s Tree, New York, 2016.

Hejum Bä, Guide Drawing for Sophie, Life Reportage, Sophie’s Tree, New York, 2016.

Hejum Bä, Coming the Painterly, Installation View, Seoul, 2016.

Hejum Bä, Coming the Painterly, Installation View, Seoul, 2016.

Yi Yunyi, Hearts Echo Like Mercury, HD video, sound, color, 19min 12sec, 2016.

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Yi Yunyi, Hearts Echo Like Mercury, HD video, sound, color, 19min 12sec, 2016.

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Yi Yunyi, Hearts Echo Like Mercury, HD video, sound, color, 19min 12sec, 2016.

Video still cut.

Yi Yunyi, Hearts Echo Like Mercury, HD video, sound,

color, 19min 12sec, 2016.

Video still cut. p.63 Yi Yunyi, Hearts Echo Like Mercury ‒ poster, 84×59cm, 2016. p.65 Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot, Performance Installation, 2016. p.68 Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot, Performance, 2016. p.69 Ikjung Cho, Rooftop Bear, Installation, 2007. p.73 Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot, Performance, 2016. p.83 Push, Pull Drag, Installation View, 2016. p.92 Jeong Seyoung, Deus ex Machina – Showcase for Freezing, Mixed Media, Variable Dimension, 2016. p.94–01 Jeong Seyoung, Deus ex Machina, Mixed Media, Variable Dimension, 2015. p.94–02 Jeong Seyoung, Deus ex Machina, Mixed Media, Variable Dimension, 2015. p.95 Gim Ikhyun, LINK PATH LAYER, Digital Inkjet Print, Variable dimension, 2016. p.97 Hejum Bä, Coming the Painterly, Installation View, 2016. Seoul. p.98 Hejum Bä, A Heave-Up, Installation View, 2016, Seoul. p.99 Push, Pull Drag, Installation View, 2016. p.101 Push, Pull Drag, Installation View, 2016. p.103 Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot, Performance, 2016. p.105 Ikjung Cho, Yellow Spot, Performance, 2016.

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Push, Pull, Drag Aug 30 – Nov 13, 2016 Organized by Platform-L Contemporary Art Center Curated by Danji Lee, Hyo Gyoung Jeon Director: Manu Park Head of Management: Sang Un Jeon Chief Curator: Danji Lee Curator: Hyo Gyoung Jeon Assistant Curator: Seawoo Chung, Youeun Choi Administration: Deukyoung Oh, Sooyoung Chun Technical Director: Dongwoo Shin Construction: ANTS. A/V Installment: Art K Design: Moonsick Gang In-House Designer: Minsu Kim Intern: Jiyoon Baek Publication Publisher Taejin Culture Foundation Jung-seung Shin 11 Eonju-ro 133-gil, Gangnam, Seoul, Republic of Korea Tel 02 6929 4470 Fax 02 3442 4484 www.platform-l.org Publication Date: 10 Nov 2017 Texts by Danji Lee, Hyo Gyoung Jeon, Seawoo Chung, Hanbum Lee, Gahee Park, Jiwon Yu Edited by Danji Lee, Hyo Gyoung Jeon Translated by Sylbee Kim Proofread by Andy St Louis

Photographic Documentation by Gim Ikhyun, Jaemin Kim, Gayoung Lee Design by Moonsick Gang All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of the publication may be allowed without permission of the publisher. ⓒ The artists, the authors, Platform-L Contemporary Art Center.