Visual art history and visual art appreciation is plagued by a serious problem, which we might call the “specialist problem”. The “specialist problem” is that of interpreting and appreciating a visual artwork that, at least upon its immediate reception, confounds viewers: what is the meaning of a minimalist, blanche-white work by Choong Sup Lim, for instance? The “specialist problem” is particularly rife in works like Sherrie Levine’s and Richard Prince’s re-photography, as well as much of abstraction, minimalism, and conceptual art. Occasionally, such works may be visually pleasing to non-specialist audiences and elicit genuine interest but it is also the case that, without the art historical context of twentieth century appropriation (as inaugurated by Duchamp), re-appropriation, and art theory, many of these works are robbed of their due complexities. What is then left is, on the one hand, representational realism, the likes of those photorealist bastions who elicit high praise for their technical vim. On the other hand are artists whose works could, as the overwrought platitude goes, have just as easily been “constructed by my child.” The “specialist problem” is thus also of a piece with myriad questions concerning populism in the arts—are these conceptually-stoked and often inaccessible artworks made exclusively for the intelligentsia? If so, we risk the dilemma of painting losing its place amongst the masses and therein relegated to academia while more popular forms of entertainment like cinema and music take its place. In fact, I have long maintained that if we were to ask a randomly selected rider from the subway what their favorite work of painting or sculpture is, they very well may not have a response; nevertheless, if we were to ask the same subway rider what their favorite movie or song is, they very likely would have a response (and likely could even substantiate their choice with reasons pertaining to the movie/song).

That the visual arts—i.e., painting and sculpture—have fallen out of populist favor is by no means the fault of the masses. Nor is it necessarily a fault that we can ascribe to artists like Mel Bochner, Sherrie Levine, or Mike Bidlo, who implore conceptual questions worth thinking through. The fault lies in myriad directions that are, in the last instance, circumscribed by the machinations of so-called “contemporary capitalism,” where an increasingly autonomized working class is poised contra the “art historically educated” collector/academic art history class. How, then, do we respond to this quandary? Do we simply accept that painting and sculpture have been largely outpouched, relegated to the same specialist fate as Shakespeare and classical music? And if we do not want to accept this fate, what, then, can artists themselves do to relieve this unfortunate trajectory? Heemin Moon's art practice, imbricated in the aesthetics of familiarity and innovation, provides one possible answer, charting a veritable path for culling non-specialist audiences into art appreciators.

Heemin Moon is a three-dimensional artist whose work makes use of innovative technological approaches to sculpture. His work dovetails sculpture with architecture, as Moon's works proffer designs derived from his surroundings (e.g., animals). However, these characters are simultaneously steeped in the patterns and forms of digitality. Thus, although Moon's subjects—often dogs, but also reindeer, birds, and other such wild animals—are plucked from the wilderness, they are composed with boxy plating and patterns. Stygian and gray stripes may coat the chest plating of a perched dog whose eyes are patterned a cerulean gingham. The legs of one of Moon's archetypal deer are heavyset and blockish. An eagle reveals the inside of their outspread wings: a patch of cobalt blue outpouring into cyan pointed triangles. These are not animals of the so-called "natural world" but digital creatures typified by sharp angles. Yet what makes them accessible to non-specialist art viewers, and thus truly unique, is their delicate balance of familiarity. Indeed, we know at once that Moon’s sculptures are animals but also recognize that what they achieve is distinct from that which photorealist painting and precise sculptural recreations could accomplish. As Moon has noted elsewhere, his art practice is guided by the belief that art must retain elements that reflect "the essence of life and familiarity that everyone can approach easily". This approachability is much needed in a contemporary art sphere that has increasingly come to alienate popular audiences. Furthermore, we desperately need an approach to art-making that does not simply replicate the aesthetics of pop art while retaining its guiding ethos. Moon achieves this with great dexterity.

I would be remiss if I did not underscore that Moon’s works are, simply put, charming. Moon's dogs, in particular, invoke a curious mix between childhood memories of Neopets and robot toy puppies with high art: the shadowy bulldog, one of Moon's smaller works, invokes a futuristic design that is characteristically charismatic. The lion, one of Moon’s more gargantuan sculptures, towers at a height of 54 inches, its leafy-lush mane cast in a verdant blaze. Moon's most extensive series are sculpture of dogs, with the Pollock-esque Dalmatian’s pattern being one of my personal favorites. Notably, the animals are stripped of their orifices and, instead, what remains is their form. However, this "form" is translated from smooth surfaces into geometric vectors: squares, hexagons, and trapezoids abound. These unique pieces, on display at Kate Oh Gallery for viewers to enjoy, will undoubtedly appeal to audiences interested in novel approaches to sculpture and non-specialists, alike. This is, indeed, a noteworthy undertaking.

(Text by Ekin Erkan)