Light That Pours in From Outside the Canvas

I think the first time I came into contact with Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s works was about 15 years ago. At that time, the context was that we would be obtaining some of his works at the Bijutsu Sekai Art Gallery, which was at Ginza 7-chome. The works I was shown were two small pieces, and they portrayed a “Scene of the Bottom of the Water.” Not the surface of the water, but the bottom of the water. The artist had gazed intently from a fixed point into a babbling brook created by crystal-clear, melted snow water and portrayed the bottom of the water. There was a water bird painted in the picture, but there was no suggestion of movement at all. And on the bottom of the brook there was light diffusing in a scattered way that I became strangely curious about.
That is not to say that I fell in love with the piece, but that light intrigued me, so I took a peek into a collection of the artist’s past works. What I found there were dry landscape paintings in the style of Andrew Wyeth, along with damp-looking figure paintings that conflicted with that dryness. These resided alternatively within one collection. Therein lay the figure of an artist who was struggling to get a grip on his subject. And yet, although in small quantities, that peculiar light was there, too. Even though Kim was attempting to cut out the subject in a realistic way, the subject did not call attention to its own presence. Instead, the perspective of someone other than the artist, a third party from above and beyond, was motionlessly creeping in. Over time, that light had been subtly sharpened and was now penetrating the surface of the brook without fail and illuminating the bottom of the water.
Yes, that enigmatic light was lurking even in Kim’s early works. I didn’t even understand what that light was, but nevertheless it was burned in the back of my mind, until without even realizing so, I forgot about it, right along with the burst of Japan’s economic bubble. The next thing I knew, Kim Kyong-Yeoul had become an artist who drew “trees,” and he had made a vastly bigger name for himself. Then in 2003 when he held a solo exhibition, I was deeply impressed by that light once again. And again in 2006, the silhouette of that light has surfaced in a very real and conspicuous way.

Kim Kyong-Yeoul descends from a separated family, as his father was born in the North and succeeded in fleeing to the south during the Korean War. Kim’s mother was a Korean living in Japan, born in Toyohashi, Japan. His father, lonely and never able to return to his homeland of North Korea, bestowed upon his son the name of his best friend in North Korea. That name was Kim Kyong-Yeoul. Kim’s father gave himself over to alcohol and died an untimely death when Kim was in his first year at university. Having become the primary breadwinner for his family during his student years, Kim had no choice but to keep working alongside his pursuit of art. He distinguished himself as a full-fledged member of the American group Society of Illustrators and went so far as to be placed in charge of a major portion of the influential Penthouse magazine. However, the company where he was working went bankrupt, and illustrating work dropped off sharply. He took this occasion to forge ahead into the pristine art he had seen all along as his divine summons. But at the same time he was forced to weep bitter tears as he worked to overcome poverty so extreme that he was unable to buy milk for his child. He kept painting. He painted and painted and painted some more. Before he realized it, he had completed several palettes, each piled a dozen or so centimeters thick. It was in this way that Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s art amassed, and he became a “tree” artist.

“Trees” cannot move. It is impossible for a tree to choose the land where it will be planted. That is true no matter how impoverished the land that gives live to that tree. But people can move. If they do not like the place where they were born, they can move somewhere better. And yet, even among people, there are some who, bearing the weight of their destiny, must live their lives unable even to move. Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s trees personify the life of that kind of person and tell us the person’s story.
Nevertheless, despite being in those kinds of adverse circumstances, Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s trees keep their heads high. With perfect composure, they refuse to budge. One would expect a twisted tree to rue the vast expanse of poor, barren wasteland where it had the misfortune of growing. The tree has probably felt bitterness over and over again about coming into existence. And yet at some time, there comes a turning point for that tree. The tree suddenly takes note of the gentle light pouring in upon it. It is not alone. That’s right – it was never alone in the first place. It came into being here, and even when it was grieving and mourning, there was a presence steadily watching over it. When the tree realizes that, it knows the joy of living for the first time. And it discovers the value of life. What that tree does is to tell us about a person.
In the works being shown in this exhibition, there are trees with flowers blooming on them. “I think flowers that endure the cold winter to bloom are beautiful. Flowers that bloom like that are flowers that signify blessings. I paint flowers that serve as the embodiment of patience.” In these words by Kim, there is clearly a presence that transcends the sensibilities of the trees themselves. In addition to trees, Kim Kyong-Yeoul also paints cloud. He says cloud represents hope. It goes without saying that hope is better when it is within grasping distance. That is why, he says, he paints cloud near enough to grasp. Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s unique perspective is condensed right here. A light that surpasses time and space permeates that perspective. This is not intentional surrealism, and neither is it realism, which is merely the act of cutting out a piece of nature. Instead, there is the clear presence of an unequivocal perspective, drawn in by a sensibility that lies submerged deep within Kim Kyong-Yeoul.

So what of that enigmatic light at the bottom of the brook 15 years ago? In all likelihood, that was the light that Kim Kyong-Yeoul himself felt but had not yet clearly grasped. But by innocently painting that light over and over, it transcended the artist’s will and developed an ever stronger presence. That may just be a light that comes from beyond the equinox. And that very light is a light that can only be known to someone who has passed through the darkness. For someone who has only known life inside that inundating light, the faint light may be impossible for them to even detect. Kim Kyong-Yeoul took hold of that light. He paints “trees.” But in reality, what he paints is the light that illuminates trees. No, it may be better to call it the light that watches over trees. A light that cannot be contained within the canvas; one that pours in from outside the canvas. That is the heart and soul of Kim Kyong-Yeoul’s art.

(GALLERY-BS Chief Curator)