“People around me say that this solo exhibition is a gift for my 80th birthday and 51st anniversary as a painter, but personally, I’m glad for the opportunity to be picked apart.”
Artist Lee Kang-So speaks to Marie Claire in his studio ahead of his solo exhibition at the MMCA in October.
It was 30 years ago that Lee set up his studio here in Anseong, Gyeonggi-do. Returning from his study abroad in New York, he and his colleagues settled in the area with the vision of forming an artists’ village, but after his colleagues left one by one due to inescapable circumstances, Lee is now alone here, immersed in his work. Designed and built by the artist himself, each of the buildings that make up his studio can be seen as works of sculpture. With a separate Hanok (Korean traditional house) built to accommodate his leisure time, the estate could rightfully be called the “Lee Kang-So Museum of Art.” Even today, the 80-year-old sculptor continues to tolerantly tend to work in his remote and secluded studio. The place has poor heating and cooling systems, but even this much is no obstacle for the ever-dreaming artist. He still wants to produce so many more works that he has no time to age.
You recently held a solo exhibition at Tokyo Gallery. What was that like?
It was my first solo exhibition at the gallery in 20 years. My last solo exhibitions there were in 1990 and 2000, and this year’s marked the third. I became acquainted with the gallery in 1984 through <Human Documenta 84/85>, a group exhibition organized by Tokyo Gallery in which I participated along with a few other Korean artists. The owner’s principle in running the gallery was to feature Korean, Chinese, and Japanese art. He had a particular love for Korean art. Starting out as a clerk at an antique store, he became a major figure in the Japanese gallery scene. I identified with his goals and enjoyed doing exhibitions with him. The owner has now passed away, and his son is currently running the gallery, having inherited his father’s love of the three East Asian countries and his dedication to introducing artists originating there. At this exhibition, I presented several sculptures and paintings—including color works. I’ve mostly painted in black and white but have recently been attempting color paintings.
I heard you gave a wonderful speech at the opening of the exhibition.
The Tokyo Gallery staff and I were greeting each other at the opening when they asked me to give a congratulatory speech. So, I brought up the story of my first solo exhibition held at Myeongdong Gallery in Seoul in 1973—a fun show where I set up a tavern inside the gallery instead of hanging paintings. The exhibition was titled “Disappearance”—a title that sounded cool in my young mind but is quite sloppy now that I think about it. I said, “I no longer remember the moments of that exhibition, but I’ll treasure this moment when I’m meeting and greeting you today,” to applause. What matters is this very moment, and every fleeting moment is beautiful.
You must have never expected that the tavern project at your first solo exhibition would remain such a significant event in Korean art history. This project was reiterated as part of your 2018 and 2019 solo exhibitions at Gallery Hyundai and National Gallery Singapore, and I’m glad to hear that it will be featured again in your solo exhibition at the MMCA this year.
That’s right. I was a young man with little knowledge of art when I titled the Myeongdong Gallery exhibition <Disappearance>. I once visited an older artist’s studio, after which we had lunch and drank makgeolli (Korean rice wine) at a food stall. The table there, made of discarded wood from the US military base, had scorched pot marks and cigarette burns on it, but the owner had wiped it so clean that the surface was shiny. As I was looking at my company from across the table, it suddenly occurred to me that I could not see myself while he could. We were there together, yet we weren’t seeing reality under identical conditions. I was taken aback by the fact that he was having a different experience and that both of our experiences were real. So, I asked the owner of the food stall to sell me one of the chairs and brought it back to my studio. As I stared at the chair, it began to feel like an ancient work of art, worthy of belonging in a museum, so I went back and purchased all of the chairs and tables there. I never intended to turn them into an artwork; I simply liked them. The owner of Myeongdong Gallery had been in the transportation business before opening the gallery. At the time, the gallery was the only one in Seoul dedicated to contemporary art. It initially opened inside the Royal Hotel then moved to the basement of the Girl Scouts Korea building in Anguk-dong, which is where I held my first solo exhibition.
Were you always interested in art, even as a child?
My grandfather, who lived in Seoul, enjoyed calligraphy. He fled to Daegu and moved in with us in the wake of the Korean War. My father and uncle learned calligraphy from him, and my father practiced the art his whole life. My grandfather also collected antique books. All I did was sit around and watch. We lived in a Hanok and had a collection of old calligraphy samples. I grew up watching my family sit around whenever they had time, making woodblocks, shaping them with knives, carving words on plaques, and attaching them to pillars. I was just a child, and all I did was watch, but perhaps the family atmosphere is reflected in my works.
Perhaps your decision to write a thesis on tradition had something to do with such childhood experiences.
When asked to write a graduation thesis as a senior in art school, I chose tradition as my topic. I think it was probably around that time that I started to contemplate the subject in depth. From a young age, I was influenced by Western impressionism, fauvism, and surrealism, and near graduation I saw my seniors attempting action painting. I had tried it myself as a junior in college. Korean painting at the time was evolving by imitating Western trends, and I remember worrying about what would happen if we carried on this way, because, after all, we weren’t Western people. And it wasn’t just me; many of my peers empathized with me. This is why I decided to step out of academic and regional circles after graduation and work as part of artist groups.
And that’s how the artist groups that would hugely impact Korean contemporary art such as the New System and AG (Korean Avant Garde Association) were formed.
Yes. Even before actually founding the groups, we would meet once a month to exchange opinions and information. As these meetings progressed, we realized that we were too caught up with European and Japanese art trends, missing out on the currents of our native ideologies and traditions in our pursuit of Western-oriented art. My generation’s reflective thinking as young artists in 1969 served as the impetus behind the robust group activities to follow. Artist Lee Kun-yong joined the group Space and Time (ST), while I joined the groups Sincheje and Korean Avant Garde Association (AG). Out of competition and the desire to create a more substantial movement, I quit my job as a teacher and went down to Daegu to curate exhibitions. The president of the Daegu Department Store at the time was a fellow alumnus from my high school. He built a gallery to accommodate all our ideas. There, in that small gallery, we hosted exhibitions of experimental artists and regularly exhibited the likes of Park Seobo, Lee Ufan, Yun Hyongkeun, and Chung Changsup. Working hand in glove, we were able to make a difference in the art scene, and this led to the launching of the Daegu Contemporary Art Festival in 1974. I participated in my first group exhibition at the art museum at Keimyung University with Park Hyunki and Choi Byungso.
Could we define the 1974 Daegu Contemporary Art Festival as the new beginning of Korean contemporary art?
Yes, indeed. I started using the term “experimental artist” at the Seoul Biennale organized by AG in 1974. I felt that the term “avant-garde,” which began to be used in the American art scene following World War II, wasn’t quite appropriate for me, so I decided to call myself an “experimental artist.” We held another feature exhibition that year at the Daegu Department Store, which we daringly titled the “Invitational Exhibition of Korean Experimental Artists”. The movement we as young artists sought to create at the time was a shift from modern to contemporary art, and we curated numerous exhibitions to gather a diverse pool of artists.
We didn’t prioritize a certain trend, which is why our activities involved a mix of minjung (Korean grassroots art), expressionist, and avant-garde artists. Compared to Seoul, where these artists would compete, Daegu was an art hub where artists could work together and mingle. Then came the Busan Contemporary Art Festival in 1976 and the Jeollabuk-do Contemporary Art Festival in 1978. 1974 was the starting point. The Daegu Contemporary Art Festival motivated Park Seobo to establish Ecole de Seoul and Ha Chonghyun to enter the contemporary art scene through AG. It was an important moment when the current of contemporary art was formed.
Contrary to my belief that I’d be able to make a living after graduating from art college, I found myself penniless and desolate. My parents were disappointed that I ended up an art major instead of a judge or lawyer. I believed that Korean artists could compete with overseas artists without ever having studied abroad. The reason I started an art movement was because of a sense of pride in Korean art; I wanted to elevate it to a point where it could compete with overseas art. I poured my all into the 1970s, and it changed my life. I’m overwhelmed to be living in an era when international art fairs such as Kiaf and Frieze are held in Seoul.
The reed installation and rooster performance remain legendary among your works. These works, groundbreaking even by today’s standards, were recently showcased at the Guggenheim.
<Void>, the reed field installation, was first presented in 1971 as part of AG’s second group exhibition at the MMCA. There were many reed fields along the Nakdonggang River in Daegu, where I grew up. Every time I went to visit my maternal grandmother, I saw these lush fields of reed. In the summer, suntanned children would run around in the fields, and in the fall and winter, the reeds would make rustling sounds in the wind. <Void> was reviewed as a work epitomizing the circularity and recursiveness of time. I participated in the Paris Biennale in 1975, and the art world at the time was still lingering in modernity. Paris was an old city, but the biennale consisted of works by emerging artists under the age of 35 and featured diverse genres. I presented a work in which I tied a live rooster to a stake and sprinkled white chalk dust on the floor. Every time the rooster moved, it would make footprints, which would eventually form a large, white circle. The work can’t be repeated today as it’s considered animal abuse, but what’s important is the idea of a rooster in our minds. America had already moved on to contemporary art, and I knew that, in time, all of this would become history. In 1977, I rented a studio with Daegu-based artists including Park Hyunki, and we each produced a video work. It felt nostalgic to see a few of these works featured at the exhibition <Only the Young: Experimental Art in Korea 1960s–1970s> that toured around the MMCA, Guggenheim Museum, and Hammer Museum.
Co-organized by the MMCA and the Guggenheim Museum, the exhibition <Only the Young: Experimental Art in Korea, 1960s–1970s> toured the Guggenheim Museum in New York and closed at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles. It must have been a special experience visiting the United States and seeing the exhibition in person.
The more I think about it, the more I’m moved. It’s meaningful because I was born in 1943, and people my age are the first generation of Koreans to receive public education since the country’s founding. I entered elementary school in 1949 and studied using textbooks compiled by the government. Then, in 1950, the Korean War broke out, and, for a while thereafter, we had to study outdoors in the woods. I’ve been interested in art since elementary school, and I liked to read books and magazines like <Life>, which were available at the post-exchange on the US military base. I remember seeing Willem de Kooning’s action paintings in the magazine. Being fluent in Japanese, the generation of Korean artists before us interacted with Japanese artists after the contemporary art movement. Our generation spoke a little English, so we were more familiar with Western information. Many of our seniors had studied abroad in Japan. As Japan was heavily influenced by the West, Japanese art tended to reinterpret Western art in its own way. Korea also had its own indigenous style of art, but I wanted us to produce works that speak to Koreans rather than blindly imitating Western art. It was interesting to see the Korean style of contemporary art materialized by the first generation of artists exposed to Western art being highlighted by such world-class art museums.
Your first solo exhibition was in 1973, so last year marked the 50th anniversary of your artistic career. What were your thoughts?
Yes, 2023 marked my 50th anniversary as an artist. My seniors and colleagues have taught me a lot, and I’ve also tried to learn for myself. Looking back, much has changed: the realm of art has diversified and expanded; what was once classified largely as “Eastern painting” as opposed to “Western painting” has been specified as “Korean painting.” The departments of Eastern painting in art schools are now collectively deciding to change their names to “Department of Korean Painting” to reflect the spirit and identity of Korean artists, which is a change. In the past, the realm of art consisted only of Eastern painting, Western painting, and sculpture, whereas it has now greatly expanded to cover everything from events, happenings, video art, and photography and breed diverse artists and genres. I’ve always wanted to experience everything beyond the boundaries. Even in developing new styles, I can’t help but refer to the conventional style in my mind. With the aim of reinterpreting painting, I’ve conducted various experiments like sewing the canvas, deliberating how I, as a Korean artist, could visualize things outside the traditions of Eastern and Western painting. I also produced sculptures in the 1970s as part of the art movement. One day, as I was drinking, I started thinking about why I had to make sculptures and whether the act of cutting something apart could possibly result in a sculpture. This was when I was teaching at an art college, and there happened to be a pile of clay in the next room, with which I began to conduct sculptural experiments, kneading it, whipping it, cutting it with a knife, and so on.
<The Wind Blows: About the Sculpture>, your first sculpture exhibition held at the Leeahn Gallery in Seoul last year was remarkable.
Sculptures can largely be divided into a few types. There are religious sculptures produced between the Middle Ages and modern times, such as statues of Jesus and the Madonna. During modernity, the era of René Descartes and Isaac Newton, the gaze of sculptors turned to human subjects. Self-expression became key in both painting and sculpture; Auguste Rodin and Antoine Bourdelle’s sculptures belong in this category. Painting has developed in a similar way. Informel and action painting were expressions of an egocentric world.
When I was a freshman in college, my calligraphy professor said, “When you pick up a brush, you have the brush tip, the paper, and the desk. Calligraphy is practiced when the brush, the arm holding the brush, and the body are grounded with a sense of unity.” Moving in sync with the universe is the basic principle behind calligraphy. I asked myself, if sculpture has taken an expressive turn through modern times, wouldn’t it be possible for the art to autogenerate itself? So, I tried throwing clay. When you throw the dough as you would wield a brush, it takes on a certain voluntary form according to its density and the applied force. It becomes charged with all the energy. Sculpting in this manner has always been a possibility, so why hasn’t anyone done it yet? It’s such an easy method that even a child could use it, so why doesn’t anyone do it? [laug
hs] I’m still a beginner when it comes to sculpting, but the more I try throwing clay, the more I can evolve. People do all sorts of unexpected things with a brush. Likewise, throwing clay could also beget all sorts of unexpected results. I’m thinking about trying something crazy again come fall or winter.
The global art world is anticipating your solo exhibition to be held at the MMCA in October.
Preparing for this exhibition feels different from preparing for my past museum exhibitions. I think the MMCA has also changed, for the better. The curators and other staff are more committed to academic research, and they are more professional than those of my generation, which is why I showed them my works and left them in total charge of the organization. It feels good and refreshing to completely leave everything up to them. It feels like I’m learning about myself all over again; this experience alone makes it a good opportunity. I am excited to see how others view my works and how they would organize the exhibition. I don’t necessarily have to adhere to my way of doing things; it’s also good for my work to take this kind of turn. If this leads to my works and exhibition being presented in a whole new format, I couldn’t ask for more.
Will the upcoming exhibition at the MMCA take the form of a retrospective?
Yes. We’re still discussing the details, but it will be closer to a retrospective. Part 2 of the exhibition will be held at the Daegu Art Museum in the fall of 2025. I didn’t intend on dividing the exhibition into two parts, but since it summarizes my half-century-long career, I naturally came to meld the propositions of the two museums. I won’t be directly involved in the organization of either; I believe the museum staff will do their due diligence. This is the way I live my life and how the art world progresses. The staff are asking for my opinions on issues like what to call the exhibition, but I plan to just trust them with it. People around me say that this solo exhibition is a gift for my 80th birthday and 51st anniversary as a painter, but personally I’m just glad for the opportunity to be picked apart. It will be closer to a retrospective, but I’ll also be presenting new works.
I look forward to seeing your new works. You said you’ve been working with color lately.
The new works might have to be unveiled separately from the museum exhibition. I’ve shown color paintings little by little, but, yes, I’m continuing to work with color. These days, I’m trying to figure out why I’m afraid to use color and challenging myself to use as much color as I want without reservation. Of course, I’m trying out methods that are unfamiliar to me, as I always do. Painting is no fun when it goes according to plan—it’s fun only when things don’t turn out as expected. I’ve recently produced some more color paintings, and I realized that using colors of my preference makes the works subjective. The day I master color painting in my mind is the day I’m able to use unexpected colors.
In order to refrain from subjective conventions, you must keep producing works and messing up. Failing to do things the way you want is the way to escape subjectivity. It’s when you’ve messed up the right way that good works are produced. If you’re thinking about the arrangement and the overall composition from all sorts of traditional perspectives, you’re already starting out wrong. This has been my belief since quite a long time ago. I view conventional thinking negatively. I also consider common sense to be conventional and focus on how I can naturally break the ground.
Most people associate the name Lee Kang-So with paintings and installations, but you’ve also presented sculptures, not to mention photographs.
I also produce sound works and videos. There’s a sound work displayed outside this very studio. Do you hear the water? I keep ruminating on ways to produce works of new formats, but it’s not easy. I also enjoy taking photographs. I was fascinated with machines when I was young, but with age, I find it difficult to work with complex machinery. I even keep my camera on the standard setting when I take pictures. The camera is such an intriguing device. What’s amazing about it is that it allows us to see the world through someone else’s eyes—well, the eyes of a machine. But how cool is it for humans to be able to see things through the eyes of an Other? That’s the true benefit of the camera. If you look at the history of photography, the focus has always been on the subject, meaning, the interest of those taking photographs has also been on the subject. The camera, on the other hand, is a device that captures the light reflected on the subject. So, I tend to imagine that looking at the world through a camera might allow us to capture the currents of air and other aspects imperceptible to our eyes in addition to the subject.
I deliberately take pictures of obscure places or those previously long inhabited by people to capture the peculiar atmosphere. Rather than the subject’s image, my photographs focuses on the light in the air. I’ve held photo exhibitions at the likes of Gallery Yeh in Seoul and the Asian Arts Museum in Nice, France. My French isn’t so good, but I visit France a lot. I’ve held exhibitions at several museums and galleries across the country.
Was there a moment of crisis over the years?
Crisis doesn’t find you when you’re buried in your studio and away from human contact [laughs]. My view of the world changed in the early 1970s; before then, I was young and naïve, convinced that the world would always be green and beautiful. I thought I had a bright future ahead of me. As I moved up the grade ladder and grew older, I realized that life wasn’t so easy. My idealism took a nihilistic turn, and as I began to hold group exhibitions with my colleagues and produce works, I felt the need to rethink a lot of issues. By the time I was involved in the contemporary art festivals, I had a fantasy about my older self as a successful painter, taking leisurely walks on the beach at dusk, wearing a beret and holding a cane. Now, I live in the mountains instead of on the shores, but I prefer it because the coast is too humid. Breathing in the gentle breeze through pine trees on my way to and from my studio feels quite good. My life is stable, dealing with relatively few difficult and cumbersome tasks.
Tell us about your future plans.
I have so much to do at the moment that I don’t have the time to think about tomorrow. I’m mostly concerned about whether I’ll be able to achieve the kind of color paintings that are free from subjective conventions in a smooth and natural way. I also want to finish off my sculpture. I recently replaced my gas kiln with an electric one, and I’m planning to start working on a new sculpture this winter. I expect some changes to come from this. A firewood kiln may be difficult to work with, but working with a gas kiln was excruciating because I would have to stay awake for two to three days straight. I still want to produce so many more works, but there is not enough time. If I had time, I would also like to learn photography. I’ve also been wanting to produce more videos but haven’t had the time. Maybe, if I had a talented assistant, I’d be able to make some more videos. The act of making artworks is fun for me. I may be out in the mountains, but I’m losing my mind here with so much to do.
