Installation view of 《Studio Rainbow Breath》 (Hapjungjigu, 2017) © Hapjungjigu

It has already been six or seven years since I first met Choi Sujin. A residency program in Paju matched us together as an artist-critic pair. When I arrived rather early to our meeting place, she was yet to be seen. A staff member told me she was taking a walk despite the rain. I thought she must be an artist given to romanticism. On the other hand, since most artists tend to be romanticists, it seemed nothing out of the ordinary.

After a considerable time, she appeared with an umbrella in her hand. She was wearing a hat and dressed in shorts. I did not take too much notice of her clothes since it was our first meeting. Since then, I met her again on different occasions.

Considering how long we have been acquainted, our meetings were not frequent. I retained a vivid memory of her attire but not because it was particularly eye-catching or flashy. It was because I gradually realized that one of the characters in her paintings was starting to resemble her.

Choi drew attention in the art scene as the grand prize winner of the JoongAng Fine Arts Prize. At the time, her work focused mostly on forests—the landscape’s ambiance enveloped the paintings. Of course, anyone who has seen the paintings would readily agree that they do not reflect a predilection for landscape painting or an intention to create landscape painting per se.

One might fittingly describe the depictions as people who have blended into the landscape or humans diluted by the air. Choi takes no interest in nature for nature’s sake. Even so, the nature captured in her paintings appears remarkably fresh. On closer inspection, the forest in the background is sprinkled with tantalizing traces of an unknowable bout of play.

These traces, appearing as blots, also represent the breaths, afterimages, and residue of reverie buoyed in the air. Several critics—including myself—have taken interest in the existential traces of “breath” and “breathing” latent in Choi’s work. Choi and I had spoken at length during our first meeting. The passion driven by a newly established art studio surely played a part. That is not to say that conversation unspooled from the start.

The analytically minded critic pressed too hard while the young artist lacking in experience scrambled for suitable words. Then Choi recalled her childhood memory of playing with an older sister in the woods of her hometown. Right before the recollection, I had asked about the keywords “atmosphere,” “breath,” and the ambiance of humidity that came to mind when I saw her paintings.

The meandering conversation soon found its course. Choi poured forth reminiscences, speaking of her asthma and the feeling of a runner’s high gained after running herself out of breath. To Choi, breath was not simply a metaphor required in painting; it was a matter of survival. The wind that swept past as she ran through the woods, the damp odor, and the panting breath let her feel her own, irreplaceable existence.

By painting, she returns to the damp memories of her childhood. Nevertheless, the purpose of her painting does not lie in adapting memories as material for artwork. The endeavor provides “the chance to establish a space-time in painting,” revealing and reviving memories that had lingered in the abstract. Could that be why? The characters in Choi’s early paintings dwell in states of uncertainty, between adolescence and young adulthood.

They seem to be filling their roles dutifully, not unlike reenactors. Not that they appear awkward; they seem to show a deferential attention to a director’s demands.

The characters in her 2014 works Inebriated Plunge(2013) and Air Tent(2015) are engulfed in the anxieties and contradictions of youth, agonized by the unbearable lightness of being. Lacking clearly defined characteristics or settings, these characters represent Choi’s own emotional states at the time against the beautiful backdrop or trap created by the artist.

The characters depicted after 2015 appear to have grown into considerably well-shaped and delineated beings. Although still shy of adulthood, they have outgrown boyhood and girlhood as solidified, assertively active individuals. The aforementioned character resembling Choi finally becomes an independent subject.

Omissions and exaggerated metaphors served as hallmarks of Choi’s early work, which were like diaries written in incomplete sentences. But the leaps had evoked a world beyond reality, thanks to Choi’s characteristic hues and damp textures. Whereas “breath” governed her early work, the Hapjungjigu gallery exhibition of 《Rainbow Breath Studio》(2017) departed from figurations of breath, delving into an imaginary, fictional world responsible for producing such breath.

Since then, Choi emerged from her childhood memories, focusing instead on color, form, texture, and other elements comprising painting. Hitherto undefined characters gained clarity and gazed head-on, appearing as painterly craftspeople adept at handling the elements of painting. The craftsperson bearing the spitting image of Choi will live her own life despite the physical resemblance.

The end remains unknown. I can only hope that the lookalike craftsperson will reappear in the future. I wonder if she can move beyond the absolutely affirmative narrative of growth and survive in the world of painting amid threats mounted against art itself. That is, notwithstanding the fictionality of her existence. For all that is fiction is not fake.

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