20241121, Preface of my solo exhibition, Paik Philgyun

Air Tree

A Letter to Heya in 2024

Paik Philgyun (Independent Curator, Co-founder of Sohyunmun)

The Room Where Monstera Lives :

Already, the eyes graze over the Monstera pot, tenderly tracing its edges. Leaves sway in languid gestures, awaiting the first light of early morning, drinking in the warmth of soft air and a faint, drowsy glimmer. It is a Sunday when a familiar presence is addressed by an unfamiliar name. In this motionless room, why do the blades of grass quiver of their own accord? Here remains a faint clue of movement—a relic of a former lover’s indifferent gestures, overlaid with tranquil sunlight.

Layered Paintings :

Heya delves into paintings, revisiting scenes from past encounters with those seated across from her, deciphering unspoken gestures and their unvoiced language. From her early Wordless series to later portraits, Heya retraces memory-laden fragments, gathering movements from arbitrarily chosen models and layering them with the physicality of paint. Her fading hatching techniques blur specific traits of her figures, rendering them anonymous. This interplay transforms emotions in her multilayered works into signs one wishes to “read again,” fostering a space for complex emotional dialogues rather than binary affirmations or negations. Her process becomes a meditation, not on memorizing what’s already known but on uncovering what lies beyond. Heya focuses not only on the emotions expressed by her subjects but also on her own state as she absorbs and processes these within the space of her canvas. The title Wordless applies not just to the figures depicted but to every element constructing the painting, paradoxically revealing a non-verbal means of communication.

In her On My Way Home drawing series, Heya captures children, chicks, marbles, and game characters encountered during walks home through her neighborhood. Carefully rendering each marble or chick, she fills the canvas while simultaneously reflecting on the empty spaces within herself, all within the bounds of everyday life’s gentle provocations. Describing cracks in roadside concrete, weeds sprouting from damp sewer mud, gimbap or churros resting on a table—subjects that pass fleetingly through her gaze—Heya paints their smallness, fragility, and seeming insignificance. Her accompanying notes, which describe them as “delicate,” “trivial,” or “somewhat dull,” transform into paintings that layer intention and unintended contradiction. The ambiguity of her visual language effortlessly traverses the boundary between jest and sincerity. Since 2020, her Playing With Hands series has depicted gestures such as placing artificial tears into an eye, propping up a chin, or holding another’s hand. The metaphorical resonance of “hands” within her work hints at a collision of memory: gestures from specific events overlaid with seemingly unrelated scenes. It may also suggest an extraordinary meaning concealed within the mundane, or even a grand leap toward capturing every painting as a gesture wrought by moving hands.

The Will to Live:

Last summer, Heya made a deliberate choice to observe Monstera plants, channeling this into her work. Examining the vitality of a small potted plant, she began painting Monstera—on the first day, the fourth, the twelfth, and continuing through the forty-ninth, sixty-first, and seventy-sixth days. By the time the works reached their destination at an autumn exhibition, her resolve had sharpened into clarity. These days, spent encountering sameness yet difference, reveal a will that manifests in a respectful relationship with the plant. Monstera’s image transforms into an embodiment of her determination. Beyond the pictorial space lies an unseen force—an imagined motion akin to branches stretching skyward or roots burrowing deep. Heya rests upon the visible air and the invisible green, letting them call her by name. Her gaze, attentive to the interplay between perception and body, ripens into soft light cast upon white fibers. In this place where rain, roots, and grace descend, my heart inclines toward the shadow of your silent presence—a haven for repose. That single plant, kissed by a red glow, feels no less than the entirety of the universe.*

*Gaston Bachelard, The Air and the Dreams (translated by Jung Yeong-ran, Ihaksa, 2024). Originally published as L’air et les songes ― essai sur l’imagination du mouvement, Librairie José Corti, 1943.

*Translated by Heya