“A Dance Alone” [1] by Shin Jihyun

Henri Bergson wrote that the comic arises from rigidity. According to him, matter (form) slows and stiffens the living body in which the immaterial (spirit) moves freely. Laughter emerges when the deep resistance of matter, hidden beneath a harmonious surface, becomes exposed.[2] Let us place “painting as form” where Bergson’s matter stood, and “spirit”—that is, the latent mind or sentiment—where the immaterial resided.

The keywords running through Jeong Juwon’s solo exhibition 《Lukewarm Comfort and Good Bad Jokes》 are “flesh” and “tree.” The world composed through the interplay of these two words is deeply entwined with what is “human.” I have always sensed that a quiet tenderness lies behind Jeong’s work—a sentiment made up of love, failure, loss, anxiety, and fulfillment.

Though these belong to the most universal conditions of life, they attain individuality when transformed into images through his brush. When something human presses upward from beneath the form (the image), the work finally gains its comic quality. If laughter is a social gesture,[3] then these failed jokes or artistic gestures may likewise be social by-products. People are drawn to his paintings because they recognize traces of themselves —as social by-products— within them.

The exhibition title 《Lukewarm comfort and good bad jokes》 itself reveals the artist’s stance. The adjective “lukewarm” presupposes a certain distance rather than full empathy or embrace, suggesting a critical tension toward its subject. A “bad joke,” awkwardly tossed out, inevitably ends in failure. If stiffness is the opposite of grace, then an unfunny joke—incapable of grace—is indeed stiff, and from this stiffness laughter arises. If such laughter stems from failure, and if failure too can be a kind of craft, then the situation the phrase describes once again makes us think of the comic. It is, above all, a way for the artist to speak to herself — a means of situating her own being in the world.

Upon entering the exhibition, the viewer first encounters Wrinkled Butt (2024) and Two People Three Legs (2024). One’s gaze moves back and forth between them. Beyond their external sameness—the same size and materials—the visual similarity of their depicted motifs (a standing child and a tree) implies a connection between the two. They form the exhibition’s point of departure. The plump, creased body of early childhood, filled with vitality, foretells boundless growth.

Meanwhile, the intertwined tree branches that support or substitute for one another’s bodies[4] — even without mention of their parched, hardened surfaces — direct our eyes to the temporality that accompanies aging and to the minor deviations that emerge from normative forms. Between the awkward strength of a body just learning to stand and the residual force that must rely on another as a prop lies a shared condition: both are beings that require care. The feeling established at this starting point extends throughout the exhibition
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The artist repeatedly emphasizes that love is important. Having witnessed the immediacy of aging while living with her grandparents and the radiance of new life while caring for her nephew, Jeong moves between these experiences through an act of care that she identifies as lover approach to painting is not so different. Love, for her, is a force that propels. This force circulates and returns to her practice. Just as the body moves when the heart stirs, her paintings are, inescapably, products of love. Through her series of works, the artist offers a “comfort that merely watches over” or “a consolation laid gently upon another’s back,” and she expresses solidarity through “bad jokes,” like “an overripe tangerine,” that fail yet endear.

Since her debut solo exhibition in 2017, Jeong Juwon has held five solo shows, each reflecting the sentiments and thoughts of its time. Her early exhibitions revealed her anguish over art as labor—an effort to prove sincerity and confront the social precarity of being an artist. Her unexpected trip to Mongolia, chosen as a way to distance herself from the frantic art scene of Seoul and its relentless demand for diligence, led her into self-reflection on usefulness, a contemplation that carried over into her next exhibition 《Starry, starry ghost》(2020, Gallery 175). By this point, Jeong seemed to have decided to build a parallel world of her own pace rather than align herself with social labels or measures of success—as if discord were her destiny.

The solo exhibition 《Go Up to Your Neck in Love》(2021, Onsu Gonggan) directly preceded and conceptually connected to the current show, presenting works that delved more explicitly into the theme of love. Afterward came a period of material exploration centered on the properties of glue-tempera, culminating in 《Immortal Crack》(2022, GOP Factory). Though eight years have passed, the artist still carries the question of her foundation— her roots—continuing what Jack Halberstam calls “staying lost.”[5] Here, to “stay lost” does not bear a negative meaning but rather implies a creative act of seeking new possibilities within a world of different shapes and tempos—of groping through the dark to find forms of invention.

Let us look at her lines. The lines in Jeong Juwon’s paintings resemble water stains. They sometimes appear like traces of tears, and indeed faces that seem to be crying often surface in her work. These water-stain-like marks reflect both the emotional undercurrent of her practice and the results of her material research. The unavoidable cracks produced by the glue-tempera mixture[6] were once regarded by the artist as an obstacle.

Yet now she embraces them as a distinct feature, adjusting them flexibly by applying thin layers of pigment and allowing the cracks to settle naturally within the composition. What she once perceived as failure has become a means to reorganize existing perceptions, conventions, and norms—an attitude that aligns with her broader artistic direction. Her drawn lines are not sharp or decisive but hesitant and blurred—not to divide, but to soften. When a clear form emerges amid these overlapping lines, and when a moment of humanity flickers beyond the shape, the work reaches completion.

On one side of the gallery stands an awkward sculptural structure, Great Wall (2024), which can be read in the same context. It is a kind of partition meant to hang paintings on, yet this brick-like wall, roughly woven together with a 3D pen, occupies neither the center nor effectively blocks anything; it merely supports a few small paintings.[7] In its very ambiguity, it performs its role, guiding the viewer’s path and perception through the space.
Looking at Nine Bodies, Four Hands (2024), one can once again sense Jeong Juwon’s attitude toward art and life.

Perhaps it resembles the state of Firm and Healthy Body (2024): rooted firmly in the ground, stacking fragments into one large “existence.” It matters little what time each fragment has endured; what counts is that every fold, callus, and shell bears witness to experience. Behind the surfaces of Jeong’s paintings lies a profound tenderness—an infinite time accumulated through hesitation and persistence. Standing before her completed works, one traces that immeasurable duration he must have spent, layer by layer.


 
Notes
[1] The essay’s title quotes the song A Dance Alone by the Korean band Sister’s Barbershop.
[2] Henri Bergson, Le Rire (1900); Korean translation by Jeong Yeon-bok, Moonhak-gwa Jiseongsa, 2021, pp. 34–36.
[3] Ibid., p. 28.
[4] Trees and branches in Jeong’s work often appear as extensions of the body—like crutches or two-person race straps—sometimes stacking as fragments into a single solid form, or evoking the jangseung (totem pole) that traditionally guarded villages and marked paths.
[5] Jack Halberstam, The Queer Art of Failure (2011); Korean translation by Heo Won, Hyunsil Culture, 2024, p. 62.
[6] Except for her 2020 show, Jeong has consistently worked with traditional Korean pigments and kaolin mixed with glue as a binder. She has referred to this medium as “glue-tempera,” a hand-made paint created by mixing pigment with binder. Due to its variable viscosity and density, her paintings inevitably develop fine cracks. Her previous solo show 《Immortal Crack》(2022, GOP Factory) focused intensively on this sense of fragility and powerlessness that cracks evoke.
[7] Ironically, the construction of this wall required an enormous amount of labor and time. “The Great Wall” is thus both a truth and a joke.

References

• 《팽팽한 위로와 안 웃긴 농담들 (Lukewarm Comfort and Good Bad Jokes)》