Statement:
There’s an old Korean saying: “Hearing something a hundred times is not as good as seeing it once.” And I believe that beyond seeing, to touch something even once brings us closer to its true nature. Like the thrill and wave of energy felt when first holding hands with a romantic partner, the works presented in this exhibition are object-based and appeal directly to perception through the five senses.
The materials featured—aluminum (containers), acrylic glass, brass (purchased), copper (purchased), and more—interact with me and one another. Through these interactions, they transcend their original properties and are reborn into a metaphorical, transcendent realm.
As art critic Richard Vine noted, these works breathe new life into materials such as discarded aluminum, seemingly worthless, elevating them to a higher level—the spiritual elevation. This aligns with the fundamental function of art, and he was the one who suggested the title “The Eye of Transcendence.”
My works develop through multi-faceted, multi-layered, and multi-dimensional perspectives. They form and disperse, respond and influence each other, exchanging contrasting qualities of light. Sometimes they cast shadows, and at other times, they glow. The acrylic cubes subtly interact with each color, with light leaking and soaking through the semi-transparent surfaces.
Depending on the viewer’s movement, the objects may appear to shift or remain still. The materials suggest vibrations and resonances, communicating silently the sense of a boundless echo expanding outward.
These visual impressions may resemble aerial views of cities, land surfaces, or starlit skies. But depending on one’s emotional state, they may appear differently. Objects that seem physical up close may shift into a spiritual dimension when viewed from afar. They invite contemplation, meditation, and quiet observation.
From a distance, cities can appear lonely and desolate, though seemingly vibrant and abundant. In truth, however, they exist within an inescapable structure, each part confined within its own rectangular frame and limited form.
As Charlie Chaplin said, “Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.” Likewise, in this vast, seemingly empty universe, we still haven’t discovered another place with conditions like our Earth. And this realization brings a renewed appreciation for the strange, beautiful place in which we
live.
My creative process involves many stages, including repetitive labor. During these repetitive tasks, I often feel a peace and stillness akin to the spiritual calm monks find in their rituals—striking wooden blocks or reciting prayers with rosaries. This reminds me again to feel affection for the objects and materials that surround
me.
As a child growing up in hard times, I was always drawn to materials around me, making things endlessly. I’d be sad when the sun went down and we had to conserve electricity in the evenings, eagerly waiting for sunrise to resume creating. Without proper tools, I even bent wire with my teeth, leaving my current chipped and cracked teeth as
evidence.
My process of creation does not follow a single method. Sometimes I envision the entire composition first and fill in the details, or other times I work inductively, letting the details guide the whole. I allow for flexibility and responsiveness to change.
While working, I try to step back and observe myself from a distance. In this fast-moving cosmos, spinning and revolving, I wonder: where am I now, and where am I headed? In this surreal yet real existence, I imagine myself navigating, like following a path on a GPS system, trying to find my way.
Human reawakening, compared to other animals, may stem from our ability to observe, touch, and think deeply. Our ancestors, the primates, stood upright, allowing for a broad view and the use of hands and tools. Through this process of observation and adaptation, Homo sapiens evolved.
Ultimately, how we see becomes how we envision. There is a saying: “Return to objects, return to nature itself.” Though seen as anti-modern, this aligns with the East’s long tradition of monism (unity of subject and object), which stands in contrast to Western dualism. In the West, nature and objects have long been treated as “others,” judged through subjective human values leading to scientific and cultural advances, but also to distortion, destruction, and conquest.
Despite being part of nature (except for our spirit), humans have wrought much destruction—denying or rejecting what is different in race or thought, often to the point of erasure.
But in modern times, structuralism and phenomenology have echoed ideas present in Eastern philosophies like Taoism and Korean naturalist monism, despite logical
differences.
In my creative practice, I engage in a relationship of mutual adaptation with the materials. When my nature and the nature of the materials align, something new is born. When I focus deeply on the process, I lose myself, and the boundary between the object and myself dissolves—we become one. Perception and recognition arise from the meeting of physical matter and my senses.
This connects with Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception, which explores the unity of body and mind. I am reminded of the thick, tactile brushstrokes of the Impressionist painters, who celebrated the very clumps of paint as beautiful—my sensibility echoes theirs.
My works blur the line between sculpture and painting, mixing materiality with illusion. By merging reality with fantasy, fact with abstraction, I aim to evoke the spirit of traditional Korean sa-ui (painting the essence).
Thus, I would describe my work as a perceptual form of cognition—an attempt to dream of unity with objects and the natural order.
April 2025
Yoon Kyung-ryul