Light buried in color

By Kate Lim

Leeum, Samsung Museum of Art, is currently having a very interesting permanent exhibition composed of two separate parts: one is titled “Beyond Time” and the other is “Beyond Space,” both of which are carefully selected from Leeum’s own collection of artwork. Beyond Time presents the museum’s choice ceramics, calligraphy, traditional paintings and Buddhist artwork from different historical periods of Korea, and this treasure trove of a patinated past and its visual charm is interwoven with several contemporary works.

Walking through the quiet shimmering of the featured works, I found myself in front of two paintings by Byron Kim, “Goryeo Celadon Glazing # 1” (1995-96) _ a semblance of the curatorial intention to suggest a “resonation [of artworks] between various time periods,” which is actually a truer and not just a literal translation of the original Korean title of the exhibition. “shidaekyogam” (Beyond Time). But how on earth does the color of Byron Kim’s canvas resonate with the color of celadon of the Goryeo Dynasty? In my opinion, Byron Kim’s color is far from the material truth of the color of the Goryeo Celadon. What’s more, I feel that this type of misunderstanding and the related train of judgments might have effectively weakened the narrative of Korean contemporary art.

The color of the celadon of the Goyreo Dynasty, considered an authentically exquisite feature, is commonly described as jade green or pale greenish blue. But when you observe it for long enough to be able to focus on the essential ambience ­just like when specific physical features of someone you spend a long time with becomes an abstract entirety, losing each individuality ­ you will find that what sets the celadon apart is not the greenish blue itself, but the subdued sheen of the color that seems to be retained; light seems to be held within the vessel. For now, let us skip past the potter’s secret know-how in bringing out the sheen of the celadon. What I want to focus on is that the two materials of ceramics and hanji (traditional paper) had a compatibility that allowed for similar visual phenomena. One of the key aesthetic aspects of hanji was that it absorbed the ink or pigment into its fibrous inner layers so well that it emanated a subtle reflectance. The porousness of hanji worked up a small wonder, too. Light penetrated from the reverse as well, and the ink or pigment appeared impregnated with light. Light was buried in the color. Literati scholars, artisans, or potters in the past of Korea knew this unconsciously and relished this visual effect of their popular medium.

Although this kind of color perception was ingrained for about a millennium in their lives and practices (even if we exclude roughly a century’s modernization of the local art world), the Korean artist’s “unconscious” sensibility towards this color penetrated by light, seemed to have been eclipsed by the effect of oil on canvas. Yet strangely it did not completely die out, and has stayed in contemporary artists’ generic interests. The art-narrative maker, depending on the perspective, might love to call this a “return” or “reinstatement.” In my view, “the return of the traditional” is a reductive phrase. The artist in fact has to hold two distinct perspectives; one eye for the extracting of the intrinsic relationship of light and color bore upon traditional medium; the other for engaging with “the Western medium” through re-enacting material truth of the traditional medium.

For example, Yun Hyong-Keun (1928-2007) heavily diluted oil paint with turpentine and adjusted its thickness to something akin to ink. When he made repetitive broad strokes of brush on the canvas, the darkish, rustic column and the formless landscape of blooming or bleeding around it emitted the unlikely presence of subtle light. Kim Whan-Ki (1913-1974)’s dot painting was created by the use of diluted paint, too. Kim’s canvas is brimming with hundreds of small dots and there is very soft humming of reflected light. Yun and Kim are celebrated as exponents of Dansaekhwa artists and local critics are poring over what makes Dansaekhwa ‘uniquely different’ from the Western monochrome. Why can’t we stop beating about the bush and directly look at the content, the material reality of the artists’ own color-making?

The artists belonging to the younger generation also delve into this contemporary classic. As just one example, an artist like Kim Taek-sang (b.1959) soaks his canvas in heavily diluted acrylic solution and dries it under natural conditions. The repetition of this process results in the condensation of extra-thin layers of color in hues of miniscule difference. Viewed in the profusion of light, Kim’s work breathes out light in a way similar to the effect of hanji but in a brilliance of color explosion.

None of these artists’ works has greenish blue paint on canvas that looks visually similar to the color of Goryeo Celadon. Their colors are not in the register of mimesis. At a glance, we cannot find a popularized hint of a traditional signifier and the artwork doesn’t let out rhetoric of cultural identity either. All they do is show the embodiment of the essential relationship between light and color that they implicitly discovered and evolved through their practice. Through this type of work, we vividly see the artist’s creative interpretation of the light (color) of the ancestor’s celadon: truly ‘Beyond Time’. Their work has a magical and liberating turn from the past, which also makes us embrace the past artwork in live moments of appreciation of the present artwork. Through these contemporary artists’ works, the delineation between past and present, the categorical differentiation between the East and West, are all crumbled. It’s a victory of art.

The point of my argument is that to be deeply observant of “the visual truth or material reality” of the artwork provides an effective perspective to find out its renewal or transubstantiation across the different times. To me, Byron Kim’s monochrome feels as if the artist transferred the color too literally in the moment when he painted it. It merely echoes a line of thought from his understanding of a multi-colored New York scene. There is actually no resonance between Kim’s paintings and the color of celadon. More and more, the connection between art of the past and contemporary art is being severed. How can we grow the timelessness of art? How can we encourage more organic connections in art between the past and present?

Kate Lim is director of Art Platform Asia, an independent curator and art writer. Contact her at kate.yk.lim@gmail.com.