Living in the City – Sweet and Savage 

By Woo Jin-young, Art Columnist 

Is it because he said so? Or, is it because it remains in my memory? When Han Byung-chul’s new book was published, Joonhong Min’s paintings featuring the city came to mind. “I deeply resonated with the theme of contemporary people's fatigue addressed in his philosophy book, Müdigkeitsgesellschaft, and this profoundly influenced my later work.” Joonhong Min often spoke about it. You realize it when you stand before his work – how much he sympathizes with Han’s thoughts. 

It was in the city, or more accurately, in the heart of downtown. I came into a gallery in Myeong-dong. It was a fall day in 2021, four years ago. A group exhibition of artists who studied abroad was being held. Amidst dark and muted–tone pieces, a painting stood out, bursting with vivid and intense hues. I was drawn to its energy. Buildings seemed to be flying without border. As I got closer, I began to feel dizzy. The structures appeared chaotic, and a sense of anxiety crept into my mind. Scattered rectangular frames moved erratically in the space. The pressure intensified. Nudes were floating next to a perfectly straight building, which allowed for no deviations at all. They hid their faces. I quickly glanced at the caption. It was titled Utopian Complex (2021). Was it a utopia? Was the title ironic? I was completely baffled. Next to it, in Urban Methodology (2021), there was no one. A sense of emptiness washed over me. It was my first encounter with Joonhong Min. 

As the days went by, his paintings began to fill my thoughts. On one particularly hectic day, the images of buildings floating in the air played through my mind like a looping refrain. Then, just as depicted in his artwork, someone appeared with their face sealed inside a large square box. This unusual encounter left me uneasy and fueled my growing doubts. Min's approach to the city, with his heart hidden in fragmented patterns, raises the question: is it cynicism or fear? I often took out his paintings and looked at them. There was something pathetic beneath the vibrant colors. The back of a person standing unsteadily, leaving the sofa and chair empty. 

Whenever difficult times stretched on, his paintings inevitably came to mind. The urban spaces he depicted, along with the long-unsolved dilemmas, left a lasting impression on me. That’s why I was curious about his artistic world. I chased him over a straight line distance of 9,093 kilometers. Since beginning his studies abroad in 2014, he has been working in London.

I wonder what emotion you will first feel at his solo exhibition, And Yet, the Windmill Turns, to be held at 2GIL29 Gallery. When I saw the Consternation Lifestyle (2023) series in person, I unexpectedly fell into sadness. I directly encountered the new pieces I had seen on his social media sites. His recent works, such as the Consternation Life Style (2024) series and the Fancy Limbo (2024) series seemed similar to, yet distinct from, Utopian Complex and Urban Methodology. The intense colors were still there, emitting a dazzling light like neon signs. These colors have become more lively and cheerful, carrying a sense of rhythm. I am momentarily exhilarated by this vibrancy, but soon feel a sense of anxiety. Is it because the canvas has become smaller? I barely summon the courage to face the figures in a narrowly confined space. 

It has changed. Alone now. Just one person remains isolated. Only three or four years ago, in Joonhong Min’s paintings, people were still together, though distantly apart and never touching. But now, they have erased each other’s presence. It feels truly cold-hearted. The once rigid and standardized structure has become even more elaborate and detailed. The patterns have fragmented into finer divisions. People have taken their places, adhering to order. 

That smoothness burns inside. My heart feels split apart like an increasingly fractured vanishing point. Joonhong Min tells the characters who are alone to endure their loneliness. The lines of the strange, repetitive patterns feel coldhearted. They have become distorted. They were definitely circles. I have been inert. I can’t grasp his true intention. Why? Suddenly, I realized. The production years from 2021 to 2023 were a hint. He confessed, “I was forcibly confined to my studio due to COVID-19. The pressure felt suffocating.” The brighter primary colors, repetitively segmented patterns, and people who seem trapped and alone were the reasons for change. 

The Debris from the Future Past and Future’s Present are his installation projects from 2018 to 2020. The appearance of the pieces is strikingly clear –they depict urban landscapes. However, their titles seem ambiguous. The Debris from the Future Past (2020) was displayed at his result report exhibition of the residency in UK. From a step back, the straightly constructed structures seem to flaunt the grandeur of the city. Maybe, that’s why it feels like a tribute to the orderly grandeur of the city that connects his past and present and where he grew up and worked. Even viewers are drawn back to the city. The symmetrical balance between the towering skyscrapers and the dense forest of buildings feels strikingly real. Living in the city, you might find yourself murmuring, “This feels familiar.”

Desire has awakened. I watched his video Real Time Purgatory, which was displayed at the Korean Cultural Center exhibition in Paris in 2023, on YouTube. It transferred an ever-expanding and sprawling megacity to the video screen. Projected across the three walls of the exhibition space, the video images unfold a floating day in the city, ceaselessly looping, expanding, and stretching further. It seems to implicitly yet vividly flaunt an awareness of refined sensibility and structure. Min subtly yet distinctly captures the complex sense of superiority felt by contemporary city dwellers.

The Sleek Altar (2024) series is another collection of works featured in this exhibition. While the title might suggest a literal interpretation, its meaning remains elusive. The figures in the pieces stand upright, rigid, and unwavering. They are joined and connected in an orderly manner, and filled with a spectrum of colors ranging from achromatic tones to bold primary hues. In an instant, a sense of suffocation sets in. That’s the point. Min subtly distorts the pristine, polished image of the city, insisting that its modern and refined façade is not the whole truth.

We know it all too well. Every day, we face the cold, unyielding nature of the city. We are exhausted, weighed down by relentless competition. We sigh, entangled in the web of human relationships where we constantly monitor and guard against each other. Now, I believe I understand. The meaning of Sleek Altar can shift from a literal interpretation to a more nuanced one. Within the neatly structured forms and orderly figures, Min has embedded strange patterns and shapes. As the meticulous strokes of the pen fill the space, a single phrase echoes: “Don’t turn away. Think again.”

I keep repeating to myself, "It’s strange." The patterns Min engraves in his works are refined and never deliberately abstruse or bizarre, unlike much of contemporary art. The figures and patterns, quietly arranged in his installations like the Sleek Altar series, soon transition onto flat surfaces. In the pieces titled Part 2, Part 3, and Part 5, their presence distinctly unfolds on wooden panels. A single wrinkled hand appears. It is likely to be cut. Beside it, two hands rest gently atop one another, evoking a sense of prayer. They look like flowers or game characters. The composition grows more complex and agitated. The pathological and twisted relationships that permeate urban space come to mind. My head aches. 

When I engage with each of Min’s works, I am reminded of Thomas Hirschhorn, a Swiss installation artist known for critiquing the evils and contradictions of contemporary society. His works from the early 2000s particularly come to mind. Hirschhorn created art using objects from real life, incorporating materials that can be found anywhere in the world, such as used and discarded reference materials, paper boxes, and items that have lost their purpose. These familiar objects, while still recognizable, are no longer in use. He referred to his archival work as the “capitalist garbage bucket," which serves as a provocative and direct statement. Through his approach, Hirschhorn unilaterally provides guidelines and encourages the audience to follow them.

Joonhong Min approaches his work in a unique way. Rather than following a straight path, he takes detours. He constructs his pieces and presents them simply. Five years ago, he began creating structures using discarded furniture, waste paper, and everyday items collected from his surroundings. As we take our time to observe the space he has designed, we reflect on the items that have been abandoned and discarded in the city.

Feeling bewildered—that is my honest reaction to The Retinal Chain Reaction (2024). The piece can be described. In a café tagged with #moderncityvibes, a cat gazes at us, raising its big eyes. It’s so cute that I almost want to meet its eyes. Nearby, heart-shaped and smiling face emoticons, ones we drop into chat rooms countless times a day, appear. But if you shift your gaze even slightly, everything changes. It explodes and scatters. Smoke rises, but where did it start? I don’t know. The thought lingers. Bluetooth earphones drift in midair, while sharp, precisely angled shapes lie scattered. I feel anxious. The high buildings quietly reveal themselves. Min does not allow viewers to remain fixed on just one emotion. He mixes and disrupts them all. 

One of the comments on Joonhong Min’s Instagram was: “I just thought it was modern, but with the addition of Eastern patterns, it’s quite refreshing.” This comment was about The Retinal Chain Reaction (2024) series. I agree with this statement. It has indeed changed. Last year, Min showcased his work The Retinal Chain Reaction at the Focus Art Fair 2024 held at the Saatchi Gallery in London. I confirmed that his urban world is expanding. The blend of Eastern patterns, French, and English phrases creates a unique fusion. Are they representations of deities or beings from superstition? The Eastern motifs are placed alongside statues reminiscent of the Virgin Mary. 

Amazingly, these images overlap with the scenes of Seoul I encounter on the way to work. I have to pass by a famous temple and a large church to arrive at my workplace located between Gwanghwamun and Anguk Station. Although Min created these paintings in London, they depict life in the city of Seoul. I asked him about his true feelings regarding Seoul. He responded as follows:

“My experiences, memories, relationships, and impressions of Seoul are deeply rooted and extensive in my unconscious. I draw a lot of inspiration from them. The process is not always a happy one. Seoul is a familiar place where I was born and raised, but it is also a place fraught with unpleasant and repulsive vestiges.” 

I experience fluctuating emotions. Is it trembling or excitement? Am I reacting this way because I agree with his answer, or have I become completely immersed in his work? It’s challenging to define these feelings with just one word. It’s similar to the motifs in his canvases, where I can’t tell if it's a ghost or a guardian deity. Min recently wrote in his notes, “My focus on the physical spaces surrounding the city has gradually shifted to the people, attributes, and objects within them.” A few years ago, he built a city with a forest of buildings using discarded objects. It was covered in achromatic colors as if mourning something abandoned. Humans with hidden faces move as if lost within the canvas of dazzling colors. I feel a burning sensation inside.

Min does not stay in one place: he explores freely. Now, he painfully digs into the online worlds intertwined with contemporary capitalism and asks, “Is your daily life as orderly as the city you live in?” The subject matter of his work has been updated. His recent video work brings about a sense of dizziness. The scenes change incessantly. Phrases like “50-minute collection of only legends,” “sold-out bag as soon as it was released,” and “layoff notice” pop up and vanish. Scenes like this, seen numerous times, have become familiar. These seem to be metaphors for Shorts and TikTok. After its growth during the pandemic, the online world has finally taken the throne in contemporary society. It makes me feel nauseous. Have you ever posted a slightly, or rather heavily, edited selfie? Min’s work makes us confront the raw self of contemporary humans, the fragile portrait of contemporary people. I feel ashamed.

His paintings, used as the background of the video, look different. An elegant quality has vanished. Intellectual patterns appear disordered, and vibrant colors overwhelm the scene. This disruption challenges the order typically found on a flat surface. In this video, he has abandoned all notions of decency; I recognize it as chaotic. We are all trapped in a vast sea of algorithms, choosing content that we believe reflects our preferences, but it’s an illusion. We open social media and YouTube apps, clicking on various Shorts videos we come across. Helplessly, we are dragged around in this endless cycle.

I realized why the overlapping and layered images created by Joonhong Min feel particularly unsettling in his videos. It is a warning to confront your addiction before losing yourself. He says that “In the past, I captured the actual appearance of buildings, but I now depict images that are rarely found in reality.” He also experienced how an individual can be consumed by the online world through his time studying abroad and the COVID-19 pandemic. 

It is difficult to define his work in terms of a single art-historical tendency or movement. Or rather, I don’t want to specify it. Defining it as abstraction may not be apropos because a narrative emerges between his intersecting straight lines. Calling it realism (representation of the real) is not suitable for his work as its images appear vague and unclear. The city’s possibilities and anxieties intersect between precisely measured polygons. It guides us into a pure artistic world, revealing emotions hidden beneath. It's like day and night in a city with different expressions.

The term "geometric" alone is insufficient. Contemporary individuals often experience fear when confronted with precise structures characterized by horizontal and vertical lines, prominent angles, and a variety of shapes, including straight, diagonal, and zigzag patterns. The series Algorithm Chronology Episode (2024) presents an aggressive approach. The geometric shapes convey a message: "Experience and memory? You only focus on temporary pleasures and superficial versions." These are lines he has embedded in his paintings. The distorted images are speaking while hiding their faces. Honest reflections reside within the patterns. They achieve a geometric balance, releasing narratives. 

After reflecting on the familiar yet unfamiliar images in his canvas, the Deleuze’s concept of ‘isolation and form’ came to mind. He moved away from merely representing objects as they are. The motifs gradually became distorted and detached. The center of a takeout coffee cup split open. Strangely, without notice, polyhedrons are inserted. If they are associated with the ‘autonomy’ defined by Deleuze, would that be an excessive interpretation? Min’s artistic world is this multifaceted. 

When reflecting on the key themes of his work over the past decade, one could say it is "everything about the city." He grew up in Seoul. He graduated with a bachelor's and master's degree from the Department of Western Painting of the College of Fine Arts at Seoul National University. He also completed a master’s degree in media art at Slade School of Fine Art at University College London, with honors. He moved his artistic base from Seoul, where he was born and raised, to Berlin, New York, and London. Standing in front of his work, we realize how we harbor dual emotions about the city. “It’s interesting how the fragments of each person’s life come together and intertwine.” He works in a wide range of genres from painting to installation and video, referring to himself as an artist. 

In his world, urban dwellers trudge along. The skyscrapers of New York rise high, showing off their splendor and grandeur. London is hazy. Its fog is both vivid and pitiful. The cityscapes unfold like a panorama, and we find ourselves standing at the margins. Some days, we proudly reach out, flaunting our identity as city dwellers. On other days, we shed tears at the city’s coldness. We turn away and hide our faces like the anonymous urbanites in his paintings. 

For a windmill to turn, the wind must blow. I imagine a clear and refreshing breeze blowing through the neat and imposing buildings in the cities of his paintings. The figures on the canvas shed their heavy cubes. I can breathe easier. I am willing to enter the space built by Joonhong Min in And Yet, the Windmill Turns. We live in the city, both sweet and savage.