Story of Chun Kyung-ja's colors
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By Kate Lim
The public interest in the work of the late painter Chun Kyung-Ja is escalating amidst a hubbub of an admitted act of forgery of her painting “Meeindoh” (美人圖) and reports on the failure of authentication institutions. Chun had announced an end to her artistic career and left Korea for good, feeling gravely hurt and resentful after the art world rebuked her for being wrong about her judgment that “Meeindoh” had been forged. Before leaving, Chun said, “There are no parents in this world who cannot recognize their own child.” She was not fooled, and most definitely able to distinguish her own creation from imitation. However, a chain of art-insiders from gallery directors to professional members of authentication boards claimed Chun was senile and failed to recognize her own painting. I can imagine the artist’s emotional wreckage and bitterness towards this display of moral corruption in the art world. Admittedly, while scandals and controversy bring the artist and their artwork into the spotlight, this was not the decisive factor that constantly drew art viewers to her paintings.
Chun’s genius in her paintings was the use of color, and the forger, however skillful, could not replicate her coloring technique. Those who love to look at her work might not be able to analytically deconstruct the charm of her pieces, but they will immediately understand how unique her work with color was, especially after reading the report on Chun’s angry accusation of the fake. She had said: “I would never f****ing color the hair pitch-black like that!” The hair of all the women in her picture, including their complexion and striking eye make-up are painted with multiple layers, not in a single even density. The accumulation of colors on paper, layer by layer, works a mysterious difference. The color that viewers see is a result of the layers of color underneath; a color in which hidden layers whisper their presence. In a way, each layer is backlit by the color underneath. Such color construction emphasizes the mesmerizing appearance of her painted women. They are appealing and visually striking. Chun did not use paint, but made colored pigments herself. She occasionally mixed in gold dust or used pigment made from powdered natural rock mixed with glue, lending the surface a tactile roughness. It is this singularity of her color-manufacturing that melts into her images of striking women, their self-assured gaze and posture, which make Chun’s paintings so irresistible.
Chun acquired her method of coloring when she studied Japanese traditional color painting in Tokyo in the early 1940s. Her color-construction came from this Japanese artistic legacy. As aptly expressed through the common language, Japanese painting is “constructed,” not painted. In other words, the sheer repetition of the action of coloring is quintessential to Japanese painting. Inside the painting is a susurration of multiple layers of colors, starting from three different basecoats to a few layers of complementary colors for the final color that in turn are all covered in a thin layer of monochrome pigment. Only then do the intended colors take their final form.
During Chun’s stay in Tokyo, she was naturally exposed to and absorbed the Japanese art scene of the time. Japanese painting had had a wake-up call from the ongoing Westernization of society by the end of the 19th century, and had been engaged with reinterpreting the aesthetic value of the Japanese painting technique and its underlying philosophy of art. Japanese society’s way of coming to terms with this changing reality was to refocus on their traditional “color” painting rather than brush stroke-centered black-and-white ink painting, which was considered part of the Chinese legacy. Certain aspects of Japanese traditional color painting came to be accentuated or sacrificed in response to the dialogue with Westernization. From the Japanese point of view, reinstating their traditional color painting was a serious artistic response to Western style modernization, and it occupied a special position in the preservation of their own artistic integrity.
However, when Chun came back to Korea and started her artistic career, criticism from the art world fell upon a group of artists who had studied abroad in Japan and were working on traditional color painting. Their work was criticized for being redolent with the so-called “Japanese color” or “taint.” Chun was one of the victims. The “elimination of the Japanese legacy” was a political buzz-phrase after the liberation of Korea, and there came about a distinct delineation between the characteristics of Korean traditional color painting and that of the Japanese: the first with artistic chastity and the latter with artistic licentiousness. During that period, the politicized sentiment of local critics rejected whatever was inherently Japanese and looked down on Chun’s artistic beginnings and achievements.
Starting from this disdained Japanese legacy in her early career, Chun steadily developed her work into her signature style of painting, which attracts us, the contemporary viewers. The passage of time has cleared a path for viewers to appreciate her unique work as it is, without being compelled to put the elimination of the Japanese legacy above any other artistic criterion. Over the years we have been able to detach political associations with Chun’s works, and can now simply appreciate the aesthetic influences and differences. All art begins its journey from imitation and assimilation before it strikes a stunning code of great talent. The truth about Chun is that her art and her unique colors have withstood politics and history. Her art story took off from the Japanese color painting tradition but it was her creative idiosyncrasy that kept it in flight.
Kate Lim is director of Art Platform Asia, an independent curator and art writer. Contact her at kate.yk.lim@gmail.com.