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무겁게 피어오르는 연기,
날카로운 깃털,
가시 돋친 매끈한 나무,
날지 않는 천사들.
어제 아름답다고 생각한 것이 오늘 그 어떤 것보다 공포스럽게 다가온 날이 있다. 언젠가부터 지나치게 평화 로운 것을 보고 있으면 어딘가 모를 위태로움이 느껴지곤 했다. 이제껏 자연스레 상상했던 장면들이 실은 무 의식중에 학습된 것임을 깨달은 순간이 있다. 나는 이러한 경험들에 예민하게 반응했고, 그러한 예민함은 나의 작업 전반에 흐르는 일관된 감각이 되었다.
오래전부터 아름답고 낭만적인 것으로 여겨져 왔던 것이 한순간에 뒤바뀔 때에 위반의 매력을 느낀다. 그렇기에 암묵적으로 통용되어 굳어진 것에 가느다란 금을 내고 싶었다. 그리고 그 가느다란 금은 은연중에 불안을 느끼게 한다고 생각한다. 이미 깨져버린 화병이 아닌 언제 깨질지 모르는 금이 간 화병처럼 위태로운 가능성을 머금은 아름다운 화면을 만들고자 한다. 위반과 모순의 알레고리로서 나는 자주 ‘천사’나 ‘말’과 같이 연상되는 이미지가 강한 재료들을 빌려왔다. 그들의 껍데기는 내 허구의 세상에서 정해진 레시피 없이 빚어진다. 예컨대 천사는 ‘선’의 상징으로 흔히 인간의 형상에 날개가 달린 모습으로 그려져 왔다. 그러나 그 날개가 그들을 인간의 잣대에서 벗어나게 하기도 갇히게 만들기도 한다. ‘자유’를 상징하는 날개가 그다지 ‘자유’롭지 못한 점은 내가 상징의 소재를 가져와 흉내 내는 이유이기도 하다.
한편으로 그런 유희들이 어디까지나 허구이며 이 세계는 존재하지 않는 환상이라는 것을 계속해서 주지시키기 위해 노력한다. 물과 호분(조개껍질 가루로 만든 전통안료)을 사용해 물감의 농도와 채도를 조절하여 얇은 광목천에 부드럽게 스미는 기법은 아무리 여러 번 겹쳐 올려도 그 두께가 유지된다. 그렇게 만든 안정감있는 환영은 때때로 구겨지고 흘러내리고 그러다 실오라기기와 함께 해체되며 보잘것 없는 천의 연약함에 무너진다. 어쩌면 그러한 물성을 전면에 드러내는 것이 한껏 몰입시켜 놓은 평평한 환상에 위태로운 입체감을 보태줄지도 모른다고 생각한다.
최근의 그림들에선 더욱이 존재할 수 없는 것들을 부단히 존재하게 한다. 본 적 없는 것을 본 것처럼 그려내거나 사물의 본래의 속성에 반하게 표현하는 모순적인 행위에서 나는 창조자의 놀음과도 같은 쾌감을 느낀다. 과거도 미래도 아닌 시공간 속에서 누구보다 가까이서 대상을 묘사하며, 관념적인 표현과 현실적인 표현이 한데 뒤섞으니 점점 더 묘한 기시감이 생긴다. 미시감과 기시감의 사이, 쾌와 불쾌의 사이, 낭만과 공포의 사이. 상반되는 것들은 서로 등을 대고 있는, 그러니 오히려 누구보다 가까운, 그러나 한 끗 차이로 갈라져 멀어져 버린 것이 아닐까. 나는 계속해서 그 간극을 예민하게 감각하며, 내가 만든 세계를 집요하게 관찰한다.
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김영현
Artist’s Statement, 2024
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Thick smoke rising heavily,
sharp feathers,
smooth wood bristling with thorns,
angels that do not fly.
There are days when something I found beautiful yesterday suddenly feels terrifying today. At some point, I began to sense a quiet unease when faced with things that appeared overly peaceful. I realized that the images I had so naturally imagined were in fact unconsciously learned. I have become sensitive to such moments, and that sensitivity has become a consistent tone running through my practice.
I am drawn to the allure of transgression that occurs when something long regarded as beautiful or romantic suddenly turns over. I want to make a fine crack in what has solidified through silent convention, believing that such a fragile fissure can quietly stir anxiety. Rather than depicting a vase that has already shattered, I wish to create an image that holds the precarious beauty of a vase with a thin crack, something that might break at any moment. As allegories of contradiction and resistance, I often borrow materials with strong associative images, such as angels or horses. Their shells are shaped in my fictional world without any fixed formula. Angels, for instance, are often depicted as human figures with wings, symbols of goodness. Yet those same wings both liberate and confine them within human perception. The fact that the wings symbolizing freedom are not truly free is one of the reasons I borrow and mimic symbolic forms.
At the same time, I try to remind myself that such acts of play belong entirely to fiction, that this world exists only as illusion. Using water and ho-bun (a traditional pigment made from crushed seashells), I adjust the density and saturation of the paint, allowing it to soak softly into thin cotton fabric. No matter how many layers are applied, the surface remains delicate and light. The stable illusion thus created sometimes wrinkles, drips, or collapses, exposing the fragile materiality of the cloth itself. Perhaps such exposure adds a subtle dimensionality to the flat illusion, making it tremble on the verge of collapse.
In my recent paintings, I persistently make impossible things exist. I find a peculiar pleasure, almost like that of a creator, in depicting what I have never seen as if I have, or in rendering things against their natural order. Within a time and space belonging to neither past nor future, I depict subjects from close proximity, where conceptual and realistic expressions merge into one. Then a strange sense of déjà vu begins to emerge. Between the familiar and the unfamiliar, pleasure and discomfort, romance and fear. Opposing things seem to stand back to back, perhaps closer than anything else, yet separated by a fine line. I continue to sense that distance delicately and to observe, with persistence, the world I have made.
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Thick smoke rising heavily,
sharp feathers,
smooth wood bristling with thorns,
angels that do not fly.
There are days when something I found beautiful yesterday suddenly feels terrifying today. At some point, I began to sense a quiet unease when faced with things that appeared overly peaceful. I realized that the images I had so naturally imagined were in fact unconsciously learned. I have become sensitive to such moments, and that sensitivity has become a consistent tone running through my practice.
I am drawn to the allure of transgression that occurs when something long regarded as beautiful or romantic suddenly turns over. I want to make a fine crack in what has solidified through silent convention, believing that such a fragile fissure can quietly stir anxiety. Rather than depicting a vase that has already shattered, I wish to create an image that holds the precarious beauty of a vase with a thin crack, something that might break at any moment. As allegories of contradiction and resistance, I often borrow materials with strong associative images, such as angels or horses. Their shells are shaped in my fictional world without any fixed formula. Angels, for instance, are often depicted as human figures with wings, symbols of goodness. Yet those same wings both liberate and confine them within human perception. The fact that the wings symbolizing freedom are not truly free is one of the reasons I borrow and mimic symbolic forms.
At the same time, I try to remind myself that such acts of play belong entirely to fiction, that this world exists only as illusion. Using water and ho-bun (a traditional pigment made from crushed seashells), I adjust the density and saturation of the paint, allowing it to soak softly into thin cotton fabric. No matter how many layers are applied, the surface remains delicate and light. The stable illusion thus created sometimes wrinkles, drips, or collapses, exposing the fragile materiality of the cloth itself. Perhaps such exposure adds a subtle dimensionality to the flat illusion, making it tremble on the verge of collapse.
In my recent paintings, I persistently make impossible things exist. I find a peculiar pleasure, almost like that of a creator, in depicting what I have never seen as if I have, or in rendering things against their natural order. Within a time and space belonging to neither past nor future, I depict subjects from close proximity, where conceptual and realistic expressions merge into one. Then a strange sense of déjà vu begins to emerge. Between the familiar and the unfamiliar, pleasure and discomfort, romance and fear. Opposing things seem to stand back to back, perhaps closer than anything else, yet separated by a fine line. I continue to sense that distance delicately and to observe, with persistence, the world I have made.
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Younghyun