Installation view of 《Thickness of Pictures》(Hall1, 2022) ©Hyewon Kim

[Artist Note] Understanding the Drawing Plan
 
If the material foundations of a painting are the canvas ground and the pigments applied to it, then I considered the image to be the secondary element. But what exactly is an “image”? Is it something visible before my eyes, or something that appears when I close them? I pondered this briefly, but the latter was filled only with vague flatness, so I abandoned the idea.

A landscape outside the window can be observed for hours, but an image cannot be approached unless it is visually evoked. I eventually decided to define “image” as an optical phenomenon—something actually seen—and naturally chose the photograph as a practical tool for capturing it. Since the photograph functioned merely as a tool, I preferred it to depict something familiar: an image anyone might see, anywhere, at any time.

Using these ordinary, frequently seen and casually taken photographs as material, I begin my work simply by staring at the selected image. Unlike an actual view, the photograph fixes the viewpoint so that only the front-facing surfaces of things can be seen. It turns the above-ground world into a kind of relief sculpture with a flat backside.

Although one cannot physically walk into the spaces shown in the photograph, they resemble places anyone might have visited at least once. Because of this familiarity, one can infer the background partially obscured by the objects positioned at the front. Drawing upon memory, I pull out the fine layers of the world and reorganize each layer inside my mind as a kind of diagram.

Installation view of 《Thickness of Pictures》(Hall1, 2022) ©Hyewon Kim

Only after settling on suitable painting materials do I finally begin to paint. Most of the imagination and conceptual leaps required for the work are exhausted during the stage of diagramming the image. When I move into the actual stage of painting, all my energy is devoted solely to repetition. Squeezing paint, mixing calculated colors, choosing brushes of the proper shape and size, and applying pigments to the canvas eventually make me forget that I am depicting a particular object.

As I mechanically build up layers and enter the more delicate phases of the process, every nerve in my body concentrates in the hand gripping the brush. When my awareness of “depicting a subject” approaches zero—when time flows in a way unrelated to creative intention—only the movement of my hand stimulates my vision. Paintings completed through the repeated motions of the wrist and the joints of the fingers end up resembling handcrafted objects rather than something that guarantees “artistic authorship.”

If someone values the act of accumulating layers on the surface more than the subject matter of the image they intend to depict, can we really say that person is engaged in an act of continuous creative invention? If the creative moments within the process flash by only briefly, while the remaining time flows in a manner entirely unrelated to artistic imagination, then what, exactly, should we call the sum of that time—every moment spent painting?

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