Installation view of 《Some dreams don't come and some dreams don't go.》 © Gallery Factory

On a personal level, to record something is to create temporal distance from the present while attempting to hold onto things that are gradually slipping away from us; it is also an act of breathing life back into intimate moments that are fading within the imperfect faculty of memory. Such acts of recording generally take the form of diaries, accumulating into bundles of past time that occupy a corner of a drawer unseen by anyone, or are sealed away altogether.

Dongwan Kook’s records, however, are somewhat different. Resisting oblivion and seeking to preserve moments in memory, the artist repeatedly and methodically records fragments of time from days gone by. She records continuously in order to confront scenes seen in dreams, accidental and unfamiliar moments of everyday life, and events too overwhelming to bear on an individual level.

She then translates and reveals them through her own visual language, hoping that an encounter with the Other might itself become another moment. Rather than sealing away what one might wish to hide in a corner beyond even the reach of one’s own consciousness, Kook places greater value on the moments generated when such records encounter others, hoping that the moment in which something passes from herself to another might itself become an event.

In 《Some Dreams Don’t Come and Some Dreams Don’t Go.》 (2011, Gallery Factory), Kook records dreams from the previous night and, according to a set of rules she established herself, selects and visualizes certain dreams. From the moment one opens one’s eyes, dreams begin to fade little by little, and by the time the day’s routine has begun, what once seemed vivid has often disappeared altogether.

Beginning with the faintest remnants of a dream, the artist records the previous night’s dream in a notebook using the mode most familiar to her, and from these traces gradually constructs a kind of narrative. To begin the story from dreams, a latent realm of the unconscious, and to record them without regard for logic, as though through free association, may at first appear to invite a Symbolist reading from the perspective of psychoanalysis.

Yet such an interpretation remains somewhat unconvincing, since the artist does not seek to derive a single pattern or set of relationships from her records of dreams. Rather, as Kook has remarked of what she records, “Each time I read it, it feels as though I am reading it for the first time, and it is interpreted with a different meaning.” The record, then, can be understood as a preliminary sketch that provides multiple sources of inspiration at the initial stage of interpretation-translation.

Dreams are recorded through verbal descriptions or simple drawings, then translated once again into visual language according to a set of rules devised by the artist. Through this repeated process of translation, the resulting images are further expanded by the perspectives of viewers who “read” (translate) them. Ultimately, what Dongwan Kook draws attention to are the various textures erased in this chain of translation, the diverse sensations that newly fill those absences, and the individual moments in which each viewer encounters them.


Installation view of 《The Automatic Message》 © gallerychosun

The artist’s intimate and deeply personal records, which began with dreams, expand further as she turns her attention to emotions triggered at points of contact with external factors. 《A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall》 (2013, Project Space MO), a two-person exhibition with Kalim Yoon, brings the positions occupied by the two artists within a single space into overlap and intermixture through music, allowing them to embrace or penetrate one another and generate harmonious resonances.

Kook’s records, originating from the individual, respond to external factors encountered within physical space, triggering new emotions that are then drawn back inward, presenting the immediate site not as a single frozen moment but as a continuously fluid space. In her most recent solo exhibition, 《The Automatic Message》 (2016, Gallery Chosun), she observes external factors at a more conscious level and continues her act of recording from that position.

As a member of society, the artist begins to record in response to trauma deeply imprinted on her mind after encountering specific events or phenomena in reality. A reality more unreal than any film must have appeared even more surreal than dreams arising from disguised memories and desires of the unconscious.

Witnessing events unfold in reality, the helplessness of an individual unable to do anything and the despair that follows may have dissolved the boundary between consciousness and the unconscious, bringing reality and dream into close contact until they became one. Under such circumstances, the minimum responsibility she could assume as an artist may simply have been to face those events in silence over a prolonged period and leave behind records of the fleeting emotions of each moment.

Translated once again into visual language, as before, the images embroidered across the picture plane become an accumulation of days past that the artist struggled to preserve against oblivion, while at the same time becoming a living present that is continuously reanimated before the eyes of others.

In this way, intimate records originating in individual emotion become moments narrated as one through the overlapping and interconnection of distinct affects. The dream from the previous night; unfamiliar mental images encountered while trying to recall that dream; particular emotions felt upon arriving at a certain place; external factors beyond one’s control and the undecidability of events; and sensations that arise impulsively between the unconscious and consciousness—all are recorded and accumulated through the process of confronting and repeatedly revisiting them.

These records are then transformed into various forms: picture planes composed harmoniously of delicate lines and colors, books containing rearranged records, images and objects reduced to their outlines so that their contents remain difficult to discern, and picture books completed only through the touch of others. The emotions that disappear between these acts of translation and transition continually reappear within newly established relationships.

Somewhere between consciousness and the unconscious, between written language and creative works translated into visual language, between one medium and another, and further still between the artist and others, they repeatedly vanish and come into being. In this way, the recorded moment is translated into another moment through its relationship with the Other, becoming an event animated by newly generated sensations.

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