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This interview took place at the Sylvia Wald and Po Kim Gallery in New York City on November 16, 2023, as a component of the public program accompanying the solo exhibition Young Sup Han: Infinite Relation. Han (b. 1941) immigrated to the US in 2021 at eighty years of age to witness a resurgence of interest in his oeuvre and career. The interview provides a brief overview of Han’s life, from his childhood as a refugee during the Korean War (1950–1953) to his time as a college professor and his recent arrival in the US. The conversation discusses career highlights that include early experimentation with hanji (Korean mulberry paper) and takbon (rubbing technique), the reception of his work in Japan, and natural phenomena as inspiration for his artistic practice. The interview was conducted in Korean and simultaneously interpreted into English by Chan K.P. Gillham. It has been edited for length and clarity. Young Sup Han: Infinite Relation continues until February 10, 2024.
Thank you for inviting me to this artist talk, and congratulations on your solo exhibition at the Sylvia Wald and Po Kim Gallery. Also, big congratulations on your work being included in the current exhibition at the Guggenheim Museum, Only the Young: Experimental Art in Korea, 1960s–1970s. What an exciting time for you! And I just learned that your work is included in the Korean Abstract Painting Exhibition at the National Contemporary Museum in Korea that just opened today. So, again, big congratulations!
I understand that it was only recently that you immigrated to the US. When did you arrive in the US, and what was the reason you decided to come at the advanced age of an octogenarian? Shouldn’t you be comfortably enjoying your success in your homeland? I'm also wondering why you chose New York as your new home.
Hello, I’m Han Young Sup from Korea. It has been a year-and-a-half since I moved here. I thought about moving here four or five years ago, but at that time, the US consulate in Seoul was not taking new applications. The motivation for immigrating to the US came in 2014, when I saw half of the American continent on a two-months long trip. My work had been focused on nature—not the form, but the phenomena. Through my art process, I tried to describe the phenomena of nature rather than depict its form. Nature is grand, it’s huge, and it almost gives a shock to humans. But most artists try to deliver the form of a nature. My point, the focus in my work, is to deliver the grandness of nature to people who see my work, so my work tends to be large scale.
If you have a chance to go to the fifth floor of this gallery, there is a work titled Evening on the Baltic Sea (2007), and it’s quite big and it is mostly black-and-white. I got the idea when I was traveling in Scandinavia, in Sweden and Finland. The scenery I saw at night was black-and-white and very shiny. The works here on the second floor are mainly depicted by lines, but that piece upstairs uses lines and surfaces, and I used collage technique for that one.
You were born in Gaecheon, Pyeongannam-do in North Korea, but your family ended up living in South Korea during the Korean War, when Chinese forces entered the war. What were your living circumstances? Do you have any memories of war time? I imagine the economic conditions as a refugee family were not easy. From that point in life, how did you get into studying art?
In Korea, we call it “6/25” (the Korean War began on June 25, 1950). I was ten years old in the old Korean way (he was nine in US terms). After the war, I became a refugee. I went to all the way to Busan, which is the southern-most city of the peninsula. I moved back to Seoul in sixth grade, and I finished elementary school in Seoul. Actually, at the time, people who fled North Korea and moved to the South were not well-to-do at all. In middle school, I guess I was pretty talented at drawing and art. During middle school and high school, I did pretty well. I joined the painting club, but by the time I had matured enough to go to the college, we didn’t have enough money, so I went to a commercial high school instead.
I understand that your artistic talent was recognized during your senior year of high school, when you were accepted to the National Art Competition in 1959. Then you entered Hong-ik University to study fine arts. Many of your fellow students from this period are included in the current exhibition, Only the Young: Experimental Art in Korea, 1960s–1970s, at the Guggenheim Museum. Would you tell us a little bit about the milieu of that time? What was art education like at Hong-Ik University?
It was in 1960, in my senior year of high school, that I entered the national exhibition, actually an exhibition /competition. My brother—I had only my mother and him; my father wasn’t around—my brother said, “You should go to an art college.” And in freshman year in college, again I entered the national competition, and I got a special award for watercolor. I understand that it was the first time a watercolor piece won that big. My professor also entered the national exhibition, so it was a little uncomfortable between the teacher and me. (Audience laughs.) At one point, I got into sculpture as well, but I can’t really elaborate, as there were some problems with the national exhibition, so I changed my direction to Abstract art. The work displayed at the Guggenheim Museum is what I worked on in 1969. It is one of the works that I displayed in my first solo exhibition.
Actually, that was my next question. Let’s talk about Dancheong and Concrete, from 1969, which is included in the Guggenheim show in the section called Inverting Tradition on the 4th floor of the tower gallery. Included in Infinite Relation there is another version of the work with the same title. These oil paintings show a juxtaposition of elements of dancheong (literally, ‘cinnabar and blue-green’), decorative multicolor elements from Korean royal and religious architecture and concrete. These two contrasting elements in tension, one representing tradition, the other modern, are put together on a flat biomorphic shape. Can you tell us more about the experiment?
In my junior year in college, there were a couple of mentors who told me, “You know, you should learn about Korean tradition, traditional things.” At that time, my medium was oil. I didn’t really see traditional Korean-ness in Contemporary art, but in architecture I saw dancheong, the Korean way of colorful paint. It is painted on wooden buildings to protect the wood, but it is also beautiful. The decorative paint on traditional buildings in China and Japan is quite different—they are quite simple compared to Korean dancheong. So for me, dancheong was really a traditional Korean thing that appealed to me. In the 1960s, there was a building boom in Korea. As you know, concrete came from outside, from the West. It is the basic material of modern buildings. I thought, dancheong is very colorful, while concrete is quite drab. How to contrast it, how to mix them together? That was my challenge. I am probably the first artist to have an exhibition with this theme or subject.
From making oil paintings in Abstract style with some residual figurative elements, you have transitioned completely to using a traditional material, hanji, Korean mulberry paper, and have also employed the rubbing technique takbon. I understand that your experiments with takbon began in 1973, and that you adopted hanji three years later, in 1976. Would you explain how this transition came about, and why you chose these techniques and materials?
Young Sup Han: At that time, Korean art education was actually imported from Japan. So, for me, Western style art, when I thought about it, I thought, “What is mine?” I began to think about it. I ended up choosing hanji, the Korean mulberry paper and rubbing (frottage). In East Asia— China, Japan, and Korea—they each have their own paper, like mulberry paper, and on that paper they write calligraphy, and they make drawings on it. One day, I had an opportunity to visit a hanji factory. After visiting the factory, I got very interested. I was beginning to think about the properties and characteristics of hanji, not only the traditional way, but also I was beginning to think, “What can I do with it?” At one point, I made it (the paper) myself, and at other times, I ordered them from the maker. Not only writing calligraphy or brush painting on that Korean paper, I was trying to think, “Is there anyway I can express myself using hanji?”
Rubbing is usually done on stone tablets or something that has highs and lows. That is one way of printmaking in Korea. Before rubbing, around 1974, I used a dyeing technique of hanji. I was getting a little close to rubbing by that. Ever since I found the characteristics or properties of hanji, I went beyond the limit. So when I work, I rarely use a brush. Let me explain how I use the rubbing technique. I start with a huge piece of granite that’s not smooth. It has highs and lows on the surface of the granite. I use sesame or perilla stems. On top of that, I lay hanji, then, I use a cotton blotter with ink. I get very anxious once everything is laid out. I have this cotton pad, the ink, and I am going to start rubbing, but I don’t know what the result will be.
Earlier we talked about the tension between Modern and traditional. Even though these works are monochromatic, you seem to have retained a sense of tension in all of your paintings. How do you keep it interesting? How do you know when to finish?
When an artist is working, usually he concentrates on his work. Some things you plan ahead, but definitely, and frankly, there are things that happen unintentionally. I mean, at art college we studied the principles of form and form-making, so sometimes I draw those lines intentionally. One representative work is Evening on the Baltic Sea. In 2003, I took a cruise between Sweden and Finland. At dawn, or perhaps it was late evening, I depicted the sea under the moonlight. I used cornstalks for this work, which are thicker than sesame or perilla stalks. The work that used perilla stems has only the elements of lines (pointing to the painting behind the artist, Relation No. 9150, 1991), but Evening on the Baltic Sea (2007) has the elements of planes or surfaces as well, due to the use of the cornstalks. I rubbed the paper and I cut it out, then I used collage technique. If you haven’t seen it yet, I strongly recommend you go upstairs and have a look. When you look at that piece, try to go up close and imagine you are right in front of the sea and you can feel it. Because I want people looking at my work to feel the phenomena of nature that I felt, so my work is usually very large. In Korea, the way they count describes the size of the canvas. Those two paintings next to each other after this white one are 100 ho size (162.2 cm x 130.3 cm), and if you draw a huge mountain on that size canvas, you can’t really depict the entire grandness of it. So my work tends to be very large. As I said, I try to describe the phenomena of the nature. In the work over there (Forest, 2015), I wanted to depict weeds after the snow had toppled them.
Obviously, nature is the primary inspiration for you. But, you have immigrated to the US. You chose to live near New York City, the center of the art world. Do you ever get inspired by what the city has to offer, such as traffic lights or skyscrapers? I wonder if you may have made works that are inspired by the city or cityscape.
I had been to New York two or three times before I decided to move here. To me, Manhattan looks like nature made by human beings, and when I look down at the city from an airplane, to me it looks like an alternative nature. The sculpture over there, (Hwashin No.2, 2019), I got impressions of buildings in Manhattan. That piece over there, (Hwashin No.1, 2019), I got inspiration from Bryce Canyon when I travelled and it had snow on top of it. As I said, I like sculpture. But, in Korea, if you are a painter, they want you to paint, not to sculpt. They even say that you are “having an affair” and should stick to your medium. But here I have the feeling that others don’t really care.
Your art was especially well received by the Japanese art world. You won the Osaka Triennale in Japan in 1990, 1993, and 1996, and the Hyogo International Painting Competition in 2005. Tell us a bit about why you think the Japanese art world responds so positively to your work.
In 1990, the Osaka Foundation invited me to enter the Osaka Triennale International competition. I submitted a work made of hanji. First, they reviewed all the contestants’ slides over a week. More than 25,000 slides were submitted from over eighty countries. They chose 123 works to show, and I got a bronze medal. My prize amount was third, and it wasn’t bad at all. Most works entered were oil painting, but mine was hanji with takbon (frottage), a different medium. I am sure that stood out. I guess through those occasions, I became known in Japan. So I ended up having seven solo exhibitions. At that time, I was really into hanji art. I think my own works from this period are the best I have made. In 2005, there was a competition commemorating a tenth anniversary of the Kobe earthquake. Two art works were selected, mine and another one, and the other one got the grand prize. The grand prizewinner was from the Republic of South Africa. His work had a theme that went with the competition. And mine had not—it lacked the theme of earthquake, although the quality of my painting was superb. Out of five judges, three Japanese judges went for his work, and the UK judge and the Korean judge went for mine. So 3:2, I lost.
You have devoted part of your life to serving as an art educator. You were a teacher at Dongdaemun Middle School, followed by Sangmyung University (formerly Sangmyung Women’s University). I met your former student from Dongdaemun School the other day—the artist Il Lee, who is in the audience tonight. You founded the Cartoon and Animation Department at Sangmyung. Could you tell us a little bit about your career as a teacher?
Il Lee is one of my middle school students. I was his senior at Hong-ik University. In the 1960s and ‘70s, Korea was very poor. In order to become an artist you had to decide whether you would eat or live as an artist. Coming out of that are those who want to teach. I was a teacher at a middle school and a high school for about ten years. The dream of an artist at that time was to become a college professor. After I went to graduate school, I gave up teaching at the high school. It was actually a safe and solid job, but I quit when I became an instructor, and because I didn’t have a tenure, my work at the college was teaching foundational courses. While I was teaching, I came to conclusion that I wanted to do something different or creative, so that is why I started the Cartoon and Animation Department. Until I retired, that is one of the things that I really did earnestly with all my effort.
I heard it is a very competitive department to get into! It is almost the time. We used up one hour already. If the audience has questions, we will take a few of them.
Sungho Choi (audience member): I went to the same college and I am junior to Mr. Han. I had an opportunity to visit him at his home, so these works are not new to me. But, I just thought, if somebody walked in to see these works for the first time, what kind of questions would they have? If somebody saw Evening on the Baltic Sea upstairs—Mr. Han said there is form and there is phenomenon—to this novice, how would you explain which is form and which is phenomenon?
Form would be something that you look at. Look at it and there is form, but phenomena, for instance, it’s sunlight coming through the leaves, it will look different and it will feel different in the morning, at midday, and in the evening. So you try to describe the feeling of it, not only the leaves, dark leaves, light leaves, red leaves, not that, but somehow you describe the sunlight that is coming through. I noticed in the US that there are quite a few dead trees in the forest. In Korea, for some reason, they clear them, so they don’t exist. Sometimes when I see the dead branches, sometimes they are horizontal, or angled, all different shapes. When you look at my work, you can see, it’s not really bark or leaves or branches or anything like that, but overall feelings that are expressed.
Sungho Choi (audience member): If somebody, again, who doesn’t know anything about art, sees Mr. Han’s work, it is sort of uniformly one color, and also dansaekhwa (단색화), which is monochromatic painting or art. How would you explain to the person the difference between dansaekhwa and this work?
Dansaekhwa (monochromatic painting) has became well known because there is a group of people who worked hard, including the media and everybody, and it’s kind of very well known even outside Korea. One day, an art critic told me, “Your work looks like dansaek, but it’s really not.” And I told him, “I really can’t accept your characterization of my work. Shouldn’t dansaek be a single-color painting? Let’s talk about it. Are the representative artists of Dansaekhwa really presenting single-color? I do not see their work as Dansaekhwa.” Even though Dansaekhwa earned international fame through the promotion of an elite group of artists, critics, and media, to this date, I still do not see their work as Dansaekhwa.
Soojung Hyun (audience member): That is not true. Dansaekhwa, we can’t translate it as just ‘monochrome’. Dansaekhwa is not just defined by color, as there is a broader meaning, it is a cultural phenomenon of 1960s Korean artists. It was attitude. It’s not just one color itself!
Dansaekhwa could be seen as analogous to Minimal art internationally. In Japan, Mono-ha was pioneered by Ufan Lee, the Korean immigrant. Both Minimal art and Mono-ha have Dansaekhwa as their basis, part of their practice, but our Korean Dansaekhwa, strictly speaking, was deliberately created by a powerful elite group. The Dansaekhwa artists are all close friends of mine: Park Seo-bo, Ha Chong-Hyun, Suh Seung-won, Choi Myungyoung.
