Somatic Landscapes / 2024.06.25 / Luna Kim

Unlike in the past, we now live surrounded by countless images. Manipulated and manufactured visuals have become so familiar that they feel like an integral part of how we perceive the world—almost as natural as nature itself. It no longer seems appropriate to say that virtual representations are of lower quality than real ones, because in our daily lives, the real and the virtual are so intricately intertwined. Can painting truly claim to be more vital or alive than other images? Can we honestly say that the flood of images around us holds no power? Painting originates from the artist’s desire to reproduce the world as they perceive it. A painter is someone who physically translates what they feel through their senses onto the canvas. To see something, to feel its energy, and to draw—it is a deeply human, natural act.

To me, both abstract and figurative works are expressions that reproduce the world I have sensed. My abstract works are based on drawings inspired by a random collection of virtual and real images. Through this process, I came to feel that modern people are paradoxically exhausted by the very world they have created. By turning these intuitive drawings—born of bodily movement—into paintings, I sought to feel alive, not alienated, at least during the act of painting.

Meanwhile, my more figurative works, which are based on nature I experienced during my travels, are distorted in the process of being painted. This is because I do not attempt to depict a single landscape from a fixed viewpoint, but rather try to reconstruct nature as I experienced it through movement and physical presence. While painting, I recapture fleeting images and anchor them back into solid reality.

In an age where mutual distrust prevails, expressionism has become a somewhat outdated term in the art world. Today, the surface of expressionist painting is often viewed more as materiality than as the direct result of the painter’s emotions. Even so, people still choose to believe in the image before them—despite knowing it could be a lie. During a period when I stopped working and traveled the world, I began to understand why. There are millions of photos of famous landmarks available, yet people still strive to visit them in person. The memory of one's own body being there is more important than any image. No matter how advanced the technology for creating fakes becomes, technology to detect those fakes evolves alongside it. A memory of what one saw while alive will outlast any photograph.

Even in an age where the boundary between virtual and real seems increasingly blurred, humans unconsciously strive to turn the virtual into something real. Perhaps that is why, when we are depleted, it is nature—something that has long coexisted with humanity—that heals us. The instinctive human act of drawing also belongs to nature.

Painting, on the other hand, is closer to an artificial construct. Of course, artificial things have their own merits. Humans cannot live without civilization. But those worn out by civilization must shed the ego to find healing. No one can escape the foundation of reality in which they were born and raised. Detaching from that reality turns one into a spiritual drifter. It was through traveling—through clashing with people and nature in the real world—that I rediscovered the importance of physical presence. That’s why I was able to return to painting. In that sense, my landscape series holds deep meaning for me.