Installation view of 《Whereabouts》 © Show and Tell

There are times when I think I am drawing innocent things.

I draw what remains in the place after something has disappeared, what is before my eyes but will soon disappear, what may be disappearing somewhere even now, or what has already disappeared and no longer exists. An empty, dried-up plant, eggshells piled in a corner of the kitchen, snowflakes that fill the world but will be nowhere by tomorrow, polar icebergs, and the last form of an imaginary cloud.

I have long spoken about experiences of loss, but among the things I have actually drawn, there has been no direct object of loss. Because I could not draw it, I did not draw it. What was drawn were things I saw while wandering around the periphery of loss, things that for some reason lingered before my eyes. Innocent things. Things that were chosen by momentary intuition, but stayed beside me for a long time until they became paintings.

There was a time when I repeatedly thought and waited until the belief came to me that what I had chosen was meaningful. Now I simply draw. I no longer trust very much the thoughts that come before drawing. Have I not felt, every time I make the first stroke, that the things that arise while drawing are truly thoughts about painting?

In a way, the meaning of a painting may be found not in the motive for its creation or in the subject drawn, but rather only within the very time of drawing it—faintly, yet clearly. Sometimes a painting I have made feels strangely like someone else’s. The painting remains, but its meaning is obscure.

Loss is the act of gaining a certain expression that did not exist before, and of losing another expression forever. I think painting is the same. When I see a new painting that seems to have the same face as a previous painting, yet bears a slightly different expression, I think that some paintings can now never be drawn again forever.

Several times, I have seen a person’s clear face. A face cleared and bright, like transparent water rising above things that have slowly settled over a long time. Such a face was, without exception, the last face of that person that I saw. Could I someday draw a painting like such a face?

It is unknowable. Therefore, I draw.

Installation view of 《Whereabouts》 © Show and Tell

The process of drawing a painting is a process of constantly taking away rather than adding something. Color is removed, and the contrast of light and shade is reduced. Volume and weight decrease, and the texture of the object recedes behind the texture of the surface. When drawing a world made only of such small differences, a particular delicacy is required.

Because delicacy contains slowness within it, it may be fitting to call paintings drawn in this way “thin and slow paintings.” In recent years, I seem to have been pursuing a certain sensation that can only be revealed through carefully constructed, low-density surfaces.

Some paintings are drawn twice. Translating something already drawn into another material and scale means moving one step farther away from the original subject, and placing two different periods of time on top of one another on a single surface.

Above all, it is a way of living through a certain kind of time. A time of replay and review, in which everything derived from a moment of uncertain choice is embraced as inevitable, and one ceaselessly wanders within it.

Paintings drawn dryly, with similar attention given to every part of the surface, appear ambiguous precisely because of their calmness. Paintings that seem visible yet not graspable, paintings that face viewers yet do not seem to look at them, show a world that resembles reality but is somehow different.

Depending on the nature of that difference, the paintings create various senses of distance. This is connected to the psychological distance I feel from the world, and to the various emotions that distance brings about.

Artist’s Note_Jaehyoung Im

References