The Efforts of a Deep Heart;
Tradition and Modernity in the Art of Kwang-Young Chun

Grady T. Turner

When I've spoken with Kwang-Young Chun, the artist invariably apologizes that his English is not better. Almost instinctively, I commend his English (which is quite good) and regret my own ignorance of Korean (as I can hardly get past greetings).

But I know we are talking about issues of translation that are more cultural than linguistic. For my part, I am apologizing for my superficial knowledge of Korean culture and traditions. Americans are notoriously ethnocentric, and despite my good intentions I remain largely ignorant of the nuances of Korea's rich history.

Aware that its culture is poorly known outside the peninsula-even those versed in Chinese, Japanese or East Asian art tend to be less aware of traditional Korean art -Chun assumes that most Western viewers may share my ignorance. In professing his difficulty in communicating in English, he is more concerned with how well his art communicates across cultures. Chun's art is deeply immersed in the traditions and history of his homeland. How will his art be understood elsewhere, he wonders, if his references are so specific to his culture?

Regularly exhibited in Seoul and elsewhere, Chun's work is included in numerous international collections, including several in New York. Yet he had not exhibited his work in New York for nearly twenty years when he was recently featured in an exhibition of contemporary Korean art at Kim Foster Gallery. In my first exposure to the work of this mature artist, I was not immediately concerned with its deep engagement with Korean culture. Rather, I was drawn to its understated dialogue with Minimalism, which Chun seemed to regard as a structural principle even as he subtly subverted its tenets.

The basic structural unit of Chun's recent work is the triangle. Hundreds of tiny triangles are incorporated into each piece. About two centimeters thick, the triangles are carefully wrapped in mulberry paper and tied with string. In Chun's compositions, the wrapped triangles are tightly grouped together, often arranged in formal geometric patterns most often based on grids or rectangles. When set flat against one another, the individually wrapped triangles create an even surface that is nevertheless as irregular and unique as a microscopic view of skin.

In each composition, Chun works with new forms. In one recent large work, the wrapped triangles are arranged in concentric circles that suggest a target. Sometimes the patterns dissolve at the edges as the triangles break free of the surface of the work to protrude into space. In other cases there is no suggestion of a pattern, as masses of triangles seem to write within the snug confines of the work's hard edges. The blunt ends of the triangles are tightly placed if unevenly organized, creating an organic texture of bumps and dips. The protruding triangles have an organic, chaotic energy, especially when contrasted with flatly placed triangle.

Chun entitles these works Aggregations, a word referring to a single body or mass composed of many distinct parts. Implied in the word is the act of collecting and bringing together these parts to from a whole. Looking closely at Chun's work, one is impressed by the laborious process involved in arranging its components. Each wrapped triangle is placed into a pattern by hand, never repeating the same system of placement.

An Aggregation might have ten long rectangular rows, each filled with dozens of triangles, yet no two rows are alike. Each time Chun places a triangle, he solves the problem of creating a straight edge in a new way. Continuously discovering the infinite possibilities of working with a finite set of shapes. Chun has defined a project that in itself distinguishes him as a master of post-Minimalist formal structure.

Yet if he is a formalist, Chun's work is enriched by its material content. Chun describes his working process as a "religious attitude that is intimately connected to the objects with which he works. It is this attitude and dedication to craft that reveals Chun's connection with Korean culture. The sculptural wrapped triangles that are the basis of Chun's structures are themselves unique objects with rich associations.

The mulberry paper that covers each triangle is mad by hand, as is the mulberry paper string that binds them. The paper is covered in minute script wishing good health to the reader. Tactile and soft in texture, the paper contrasts with the hard edges that define the edges of Chun's Aggregation, creating a tension between material and composition in the work.

Although long prized as a drawing medium, mulberry paper is not regards simply as an artists material within Korean culture. It was once a central feature of traditional homes, translucent enough to cover doors, walls and windows yet resilient enough to carpet floors. Like Japan, Korea developed papers so ubiquitous that they come to have profound cultural significance. Korea's mulberry paper was so valued for its quality throughout Asia that it became a symbol of Korean nationality.

Like others of his generation, Chun was intimately familiar with mulberry paper in his childhood. "This paper is so special for me," he says, "because it contains the history of our lives. It describes the sorrows and joys of our runtimes. In Chun's case, the paper has other personal meanings with resonance for his contemporaries.

The wrapped triangles with which he works are evocative of herbal medicine bundles that were a feature of daily life before the advent of modern medicine in the years after the Korean War. As a child, Chun often visited the traditional hospital operated by a close relative who was a herbal doctor. Medicines hung in clusters from the ceiling, wrapped in mulberry paper inscribed with invocations for good health. The medicine bundles that once crowded the ceiling of his relative's hospital are the spiritual ancestors if the wrapped triangles that are now so meticulously placed in Chun's Aggregations.

While there are still traditional healers in Korea (and cities like New York or Los Angeles with large populations of elderly Koreans), herbal medicine is a dying art. "I regret that we hardly see the old style of wrapped herbal medicines these days due to the modernization of medicine," Chun says. "The wrapped medicine in my memories was not simply medicine: it also represented the efforts of a deep heart. These days, people don't have feelings about herbal medicine or mulberry wrapping paper, but most people of my generation remember them."

A man in his mid-fifties, Chun has witnessed the radical transformation of his homeland. Today, most young people in Seoul are as unfamiliar with the cultural references in his art as uninitiated Westerners, if only because Korea is now so integrated with international culture. At a time when identity is a loosely used term in art discourse, Chun attributes deep meaning to the unique heritage of Koreans. Chun cherishes Korean culture and regrets the passing of traditions that were routine just a few decades ago.

Yet he is no reactionary; indeed, he urges young Korean artists to "find their own characters and identities." His advice is derived from his own dual influences. Chun says he discovered his unique identity as an artist after returning to Seoul. Yet even as a student in the 1970s. Chun enjoyed early success in New York in a solo show at the pioneering Holly Solomon Gallery. Even today, his work reveals the profound influence of Frank Stella and Jasper Johns, suggesting the lasting impact of that intellectual strand of Minimalism on the young artist.

Thoroughly modern in form, Chun's art is rooted in tradition. If the viewer is drawn in by its beauty, structural clarity, and unassailable presence, one is left deeply affected by its evocation of Korean culture. His art can be appreciated purely for its visual and formal qualities. If we appreciate its cultural references, this is a tribute to the power of his art.