New Currents in 1980s Art —Beyond the Art of the 1970s

Won Dong suk Professor, Mokpo National University New Currents in 1980s Art —Beyond the Art of the 1970s 1 The currents of Korean art in the 1980s emerged from a movement that sought to understand life in its totality, and from this foundation they generated a powerful and far-reaching impact. Although the leaders of this artistic movement are primarily drawn from the younger generation and still consist largely of Western-style painters, it is anticipated that their influence will gradually extend across multiple genres. This shift is expected to open new perspectives on artistic appreciation, broaden the base of audiences, and ultimately bring transformative changes to the sphere of art education as well. The reason for this lies in the fact that if all artistic and cultural practices are, fundamentally, unfolding processes of a zeitgeist, then art, too, is inevitably joining the current of national consciousness shaped through the collective efforts of the people, who have sought to understand and act upon the realities of their time. That the integration of art occurred later—chronologically speaking—than in other fields, particularly literature, can be attributed to a number of internal factors within the artistic sphere. One might be tempted to attribute this delay to a kind of spiritual impoverishment among artists—a lack of historical consciousness or sensitivity to contemporary realities. Yet this would be an oversimplification, for the intellectual and emotional capacities of artists are in no way fundamentally deficient. Their everyday awareness is as finely attuned to reality as that of the broader public. Rather, it was the long-held assumption that an artist’s daily consciousness and the function of art were distinct that produced various forms of artistic practice separated from lived experience. Although such practices may have yielded aesthetic achievements, they simultaneously contributed to a weakening of the zeitgeist. Moreover, when examined sociologically, the tendencies within the art world to assert one’s existence through art detached from life—whether consciously or unconsciously—fostered a climate that ultimately served the class interests embedded in institutional culture. This preconceived separation between artistic function and everyday awareness, in fact, reveals itself to be a historical construct—one that has distorted the essential role of art. Another contributing factor lies in the difference between artistic modes of expression and everyday language. Because the mediating forms of art diverge from common linguistic communication, there emerged a fixed value paradigm that mistook the development of these mediating forms for the entirety of art’s function. This misconception ultimately shaped cultural patterns of transmission, taste, and reception. As a mode of artistic existence, the visual form of art—and its means of transmission—differs fundamentally from the linguistic tools through which literature can readily articulate everyday consciousness. Because language itself possesses a universality in communicating life and culture, literary practice has long benefited from an advantageous position in conveying the zeitgeist. By contrast, even art criticism must rely on language in order to interpret and diagnose artistic phenomena. For this reason, the expression of everyday consciousness through visual means has never been as simple as it is through language. Moreover, because visual artistic language relies on sensory codes that are already established, altering the habitual structures of visual perception entails a profound shift in consciousness—one that is not easily achieved. If traditional Korean painting reflects a relatively conservative artistic mindset due to the slow pace of change inherent in its long-standing visual system, the visual language of modernism, by contrast, prides itself on the avant-gardism and experimental spirit produced by rapid formal transformation. Yet despite these differences, neither has succeeded in developing or generating a new visual language capable of communicating effectively with contemporary consciousness. Instead, the problem has remained confined to an internal struggle over the functions of artistic media within the art world itself. 2 The shifts in the 1980s entailed a fundamental critique and reassessment of all these issues within the field of art, seeking not only to recover and reestablish its original functions but also to transform modes of living themselves—thus taking on the characteristics of a broader cultural movement. Consequently, these internal changes in art directed their force toward altering patterns of consciousness and behavior, aspiring to, and at times realizing, a powerful capacity for social reinvestment. By contrast, the trajectory of earlier modern Korean art had remained detached from the consciousness and ideology of the nation’s historical experience, functioning instead as an ornamental aspect of elite or colonial culture. To briefly outline the context: the period in which a modern national consciousness emerged—grounded in the subjectivity of the people (minjung) and the ideals of democracy—may be traced, setting aside debates over precise starting points, to the Silhak (Practical Learning) movement of the late Joseon dynasty. The internal reform principles of gyeongse chiyong (經世致用, statecraft for practical governance) and iyong husaeng (利用厚生, enhancing the welfare of the people), together with the economic rise of the jungin (middle-class people) and commoner classes, led to the flourishing of popular arts such as pansori (musical storytelling), talchum (mask dance), and folk painting. Alongside true-view landscape painting (jingyeong sansu) and genre painting, these developments established and advanced a realist orientation within Korean national art. However, as the contradictions within the socio-economic structure of the Joseon dynasty remained unresolved, peasant rebellions erupted, and the imperialist drive for colonial expansion accelerated the collapse of the feudal ruling class. With Japan’s annexation of Korea, the minjung were subjected to an even more severe period of repression and suffering. In this context, the realism of minjung arts—which lacked institutional protection—could offer only sporadic acts of resistance. As these forms failed to revive or reflect the lived realities of the people, they gradually declined. What followed was a distorted cultural phenomenon: the uneven and coercive “colonial modernity” imposed under Japanese rule. In essence, this system functioned by fundamentally suppressing the colonized population’s political consciousness and their capacity for economic and social recovery, while simultaneously constructing a cultural mechanism that encouraged accommodation to the colonial order. In other words, by compelling the acceptance of a modern culture stripped of its political core, the colonial regime cultivated an administrative culture designed to regulate and sustain its rule. As a result, the colonial subject was transformed into a cultural technician—a functional worker shaped through ideological indoctrination to become suitable for the management of colonial governance. It is well known that the institutional mechanism for controlling the arts during the colonial period was the Joseon Art Exhibition (Joseon misul jeollamhoe) system. The regulation specifying that participating artists were prohibited from submitting works that might “threaten public order or morality” makes this abundantly clear. In an era when the colonial authorities’ notions of “order” and “morality” scarcely required explanation, artists working within the Joseon Art Exhibition framework inevitably came to assume that aesthetic function—severed from everyday consciousness—constituted the essence of modern art. It is hardly surprising, then, that such habits of thought solidified into fixed assumptions. European modern art—whether in naturalism, realism, or impressionism—arose from artists’ assertion of independence as they challenged academism and official salons, which had served as instruments of monarchical control. Their consciousness of reality—whether grounded in bourgeois ideology or positioned against it—and their belief in artistic freedom as an inviolable right emerged from the broader intellectual history of modernity. Even the art-for-art’s-sake attitude, often criticized today, was a historical product of that context: it presupposed a social foundation in which political liberty was possible and expressed a desire to deepen the autonomous aesthetic sphere that developed alongside the differentiation of bourgeois civic culture. However, when these European artistic modes were transplanted into the cultural apparatus of Japanese colonial rule, the freedom that had grounded their original formal languages was stripped away. What was modernized instead was a detached aesthetic formalism—a contemplative mode severed from its ideological foundations—which helped disseminate distortions and prejudices shaped by Japan’s outward-looking imperial gaze. This transformed, contemplative formalism, operating under the guise of establishing an eternal and universal aesthetic realm, was mobilized within the Joseon Art Exhibition system to regulate and mediate between two stylistic poles according to purely formal criteria. In adopting a traditional and conservative mode of mediation, Eastern painting turned toward a one-point linear-perspective system as a means of incorporating a “modern” visual outlook. This shift relied upon the purportedly rational and scientific visuality developed in European Renaissance art. Modernized Eastern painting produced through this one-point perspective was promoted as an advancement, yet it did so by eliminating the multi-perspectival spatial development characteristic of the traditional “Three Distances” (三遠法, the high, deep, and level distances) and the use of reverse perspective. In doing so, it dispensed with the fluid sense of natural generation, relative ways of seeing, and the symbolic potential of imaginative space and empty margins. In other words, it represented a transformation of aesthetic stasis, narrowing imagination under a single, unified optical regime. In this context, the repetition of conservative motifs lacked persuasive power, as it amounted merely to a retrograde taste. Thus, only those who selected local (hyangto) subjects could be regarded as belonging to the ranks of modern artists. Meanwhile, within the camp that regarded the mere adoption of Western artistic modes as synonymous with modernity, artists easily aligned themselves with styles fashionable in Japan and thereby secured a position of advantage within colonial art. Whether situated within derivative strands of naturalist impressionism or aligned with Japan’s liberal avant-garde groups, these artists adopted a static aesthetic that maintained a deliberate distance from lived reality—an approach grounded in a shared East Asian ecological sensibility. This perspective found expression in the art of the Joseon Art Exhibition as a world aestheticized through “local lyricism.” Although some today interpret the use of local subject matter during this period as an early indication of national aesthetic consciousness, such readings overlook the fact that these choices were deeply inflected by the tastes of the colonial administration. Regional motifs—whether antiquities and architectural remnants, depictions of rustic farmhouses, or scenes of traditional customs—may indeed have served as objects of affectionate attention for artists. Yet these subjects were ultimately maintained within a gaze of deliberate distance, treated as ecologically immutable objects and contemplated as aesthetic forms in which any sense of contemporary reality was effectively excluded. Thus, while these motifs remained as residual, retrogressive markers of Korean history—seemingly fixed in place for eternity—they also functioned as evidence disconnected from actual social change, thereby allowing the purported achievements of Japan’s modernization to stand out in relative contrast. To put it kindly, for Korean artists such subjects signaled a form of diminished self-consciousness; yet the fact that Japanese artists in the Joseon Art Exhibition likewise favored Korean scenery from this vantage point reveals its affinity with the exotic tastes of the ruling class, to which both groups ultimately belonged. Korean artists, too, sometimes earned distinction in government-organized exhibitions by depicting Japanese scenery and customs; yet the difference lay in the lively manifestations of modernized daily life that these subjects conveyed. Their genre images of contemporary life amounted to little more than reflections of a self-satisfied realism—one that celebrated the purported accomplishments of Japan’s colonial “modernization.” Accordingly, it is unsurprising that pro-Japanese painting styles—captivated by Japanese forms and chromatic sensibilities—became the dominant tendency within the art world of the time. Nor is it surprising that the artists who rose to prominence under this influence voluntarily participated in war-support art (銃後美術) during the Pacific War, thereby assuming roles that directly served the coercive political functions of the colonial state. In other words, the contemplative aesthetic loudly proclaimed as the “pure function” of art was itself part of the structural apparatus of colonial domination—a political subtext embedded within its very form. 3 It is widely understood that the National Art Exhibition (Gukjeon), established after Liberation without a clear recognition of these historical conditions, simply inherited the structure of the Joseon Art Exhibition, altering only the administrative title. This continuity owed much to the dominance exerted by artists who had risen through the Joseon Art Exhibition system. More fundamentally, however, the post-Liberation government, confronted with national division, the devastation of fratricidal war, and ideological fragmentation, politically incorporated remnants of pro-Japanese forces, thereby obstructing the development of democratic capacity. The institutional authoritarianism and bureaucratic residues of the colonial system suppressed the full range of expressive freedoms essential to a democratic social culture—freedoms that would otherwise have emerged from the people’s own spontaneous creativity. Although the post-Liberation era underwent enormous material transformations—driven by political contradictions and factionalism, rapid economic expansion, persistent income inequality, conflicts and alienation among social classes, the rise of a commercialized mass culture, and the proliferation of foreign influences—the structure of cultural consciousness experienced little corresponding renewal. In pursuing material modernization without achieving its spiritual or intellectual counterpart, the period gave rise to a sense that, rather than breaking from the colonial past, aspects of colonial cultural patterns were being reproduced in new forms. Amid these broader social transformations, the function of art continued to reveal the residual structures of colonial-era practice—carried over from the Joseon Art Exhibition into the National Art Exhibition—which further entrenched prevailing aesthetic ideologies. Even though many artists had lived through the Korean War and the April 19 Revolution, their historical consciousness remained atrophied or numb. At the same time, a bureaucratic sense of authority came to shape the distribution of power within the art world and exerted a profound influence on art education. The movement that challenged this situation emerged with the postwar generation of artists who pursued abstract art, particularly Informel, from the late 1950s into the 1960s. Responding sensitively to developments in post-war contemporary Western art, they introduced an international perspective that confronted the sensibilities of the older generation and the outdated frameworks of art. Through participation in international exhibitions and active exchange, they helped transplant modernism into Korea and gradually set in motion a reorganization of the artistic field. By the 1970s, these pioneers of modernism had come to occupy leading positions, cultivating successors who followed their direction and thereby establishing themselves as dominant figures in shaping contemporary artistic currents. However, these modernists, too, failed to respond to the vigorous movement of the 1970s, in which writers criticized the Western-oriented tendencies of literary modernism and sought to establish a distinctly national literature. As a result, they came to be seen as socially disengaged practitioners of aesthetic play, their historical consciousness dulled and unresponsive. Critic Kim Yoon-Soo points out this issue as follows. “Although they lived through the period spanning the Liberal Party dictatorship, the April 19 Revolution, the May 16 coup, and the ensuing Republican government, they made no effort to embody these historical realities, their suffering, or their ideals within their art. In choosing the latter—the modernist position of abstract art—over the spirit of April 19, they effectively betrayed the former. From this contradiction, Korean modern art proceeded through the 1960s and 1970s by turning away from the political and social realities of the time and distancing itself from the democratization movement.” — “A New Stage of Korean Art,” in The Present Stage of Korean Literature II [in Korean] (1983), 370. Thus, the modernist evasion of reality and the absence of historical consciousness were, in fact, intrinsic to the very logic of its aesthetic structure. Although I will refrain from repeating these points in detail, as numerous critics besides myself have already articulated them with great precision, it is worth remembering that the form of modernism known through their analyses represents only a small fraction of the broader currents within contemporary international art. Within the broader field of international artistic diversity, the strand of modernism they practiced reflected a bourgeois worldview that affirmed an “absolute self” within art. The array of terms mobilized to explain their pursuit of experimentation—objectification, neutralization, de-imaging, flatness, displacement, continuity and fragmentation, magnification and minimization (minimalism), among others—constituted a formal vocabulary deployed to articulate and legitimize an elaborate system of aesthetic play. Although it is often claimed that such practices yield a logic of thought or conceptual depth, they amount, in the end, to a closed circuit of proliferating notions—expressions of a self-sufficient satisfaction grounded in rules and systems of play. From the outset, their artistic world erected barriers of difficulty that shut out the broader public, resulting in a self-enclosed mode of practice in which mutual reinforcement among like-minded adherents served only to deepen a kind of self-referential gratification. Furthermore, the critical discourse that offers auxiliary support to this practice amounts largely to an exercise in ornate rhetoric. Because the everyday language of criticism cannot genuinely communicate with the formal vocabulary employed by these artists, critics may cloak their writing in convoluted modifiers in an attempt to appear aligned, yet no real communication takes place. In a domain premised on the exclusion of everyday consciousness and imagery—one that ostensibly requires no linguistic elucidation—the very act of criticism borrowing ordinary language is itself contradictory. Forced explanations inevitably result in a proliferation of tautological statements, resembling esoteric incantations that not even the artists themselves can fully comprehend. It is therefore unsurprising that such criticism finds little genuine audience. In the end, it remains unclear what these modernists ultimately aim to pursue or achieve. Even if they claim that their work is anchored in a point of departure and in the continual examination of that very starting point, their destination proves elusive—resembling, in effect, the peeling of an onion. This is because their artistic world neither speaks of life nor seeks to draw it in. As long as they continue to proclaim the existence of an art departed from lived experience, their false consciousness becomes a logical confirmation of their own predicament: an anxiety rooted in the absence of the human, a symptom of crisis that exposes the self-contradiction of their position. For this reason, the later phases of European modernism, beginning in the 1970s, recognized that the closed logic of internal experimentation amounted only to a demonstration of art’s own existential emptiness and bore no relation to the transformations taking place in the world outside. This is why these movements shifted toward Neo-figuration, Neo-realism, and Neo-expressionism. In fact, the narrowness of the information we possessed about international art is clearly revealed by the tendencies displayed in exhibitions such as Nouvelles Figurations en France (1982) at the Musée de Seoul in the early 1980s and Contemporary Art of Germany, held at the National Museum of Modern Art (now MMCA) in November 1983. What these examples demonstrate is that domestic modernism had ceased to function as an avant-garde or cutting edge; it had already become an outdated fashion. 4 Of course, the artists of the 1980s did not begin from a heightened sensitivity to international trends; nevertheless, their underlying consciousness differed markedly from that of the generation that emerged in the 1960s. Their work developed from an awareness shaped by accumulated experiences of political upheaval, structural contradictions within industrial capitalism, intensifying social conflict, and the mass manipulation inherent in consumer culture. Grounded in this consciousness—and in a collective sense of solidarity formed through the people’s determination to confront historical realities and overcome the alienation of everyday life—these artists forged an autonomous point of departure. Accordingly, the function of their art lies in its capacity to communicate with life and to work toward its recovery: it embodies an ethical sensibility that calls forth the practice of social reinvestment and manifests concrete expressions of truth. Because this movement arose from shared experiences of life itself, the question of who initiated it, which group played a leading role, or where its point of origin lay holds little meaning—and indeed cannot be determined. Such inquiries stem from a dominant mode of thinking that privileges elite agency within historical development, a fundamentally anti-minjung perspective. In this regard, the art of the 1980s marks yet another break from the colonial mindset imposed by foreign powers. In short, it emerged autonomously from the soil of the people. If there is a common thread in the emergence of these autonomous artistic movements, it is that they arose from voluntary initiatives—whether by individuals or collectives—that challenged the illusory system of artist production sustained by the National Art Exhibition and other juried exhibitions, both large and small. Since juried systems operate on the authority of established tastes, filtering art through the dominant logic of those already in power, the growing tendency toward independent exhibitions and group exhibitions represents a declaration of artistic independence and a refusal of such frameworks. Although these initiatives may still be small in number, the assertion of a confident, self-determined artistic stance will undoubtedly surpass and outpace the careerist pursuit of recognition through juried competitions. Of course, artist collectives had existed prior to this period. Yet whereas earlier groups were often gatherings shaped by academic ties, factional alliances, or alumni networks—circles that largely showcased the prestige associated with success in juried exhibitions—the new collectives of the 1980s were ideologically distinct. Their cohesion stemmed from a theoretical as well as practical rejection of the very premise of the juried system and of the illusions it sustained. Examples of such collective exhibitions, recalled here from memory, include Reality and Utterance, Imsulnyeon (The Year Imsul), The Third Group Exhibition, December Exhibit, Young Minds, Hoengdan, ’83 Humanity, Fact and Reality, The Silcheon Group, Dureong, and, in Gwangju, The Year 2000 Exhibition. Notable solo exhibitions of the period include Lee Manik (1977), Oh Kyunghwan (1978), Lee Sang-guk (1979), Noh Wonhee (1980), Kwun Suncheol (1980), Hong Sungdam (1980, Gwangju), Shim Jungsoo (1981), Lim Oksang (1981), Kim Kyoungin (1981), Park Hanjin (1981), Son Jangsup (1981), Lee Chulsoo (1981), Lee Chungwoon (1981), Oh Hae Chang (1982), Shin Hakchul (1982), Park Bouchan (1982), Min Joungki (1983), and Son Sangki (1983). Some of these artists were also affiliated with the collectives mentioned above, and in several cases the names of their groups overlapped. Altogether, however, more than one hundred artists were actively engaged during this period. What is most distinctive about Reality and Utterance is that, from its inception, young critics participated as members of the collective. Traditionally, critics occupied positions either preceding or following the work of artists, offering judgments before or after artistic production. Breaking with this convention, these critics sought to establish a new mode of criticism—one characterized by a collaborative or companionate relationship with artists, through which all artistic questions could be explored jointly. Their stance is not one of advocating for any particular group of artists; rather, it reflects a commitment to cultivating a shared ground of experience encompassing art and reality as a whole. From this foundation, they aim to achieve productive commonality through reciprocal critique and mutual supplementation. For this reason, the collective continually seeks to refine its methods through sustained discussion and reflection, creating open channels of dialogue with newly emerging groups as well as individual artists. Beyond their published statements, they have broadened their theoretical scope by compiling writings by members and editing the anthology Art and Industrial Society (published by Yeolhwadang), which has come to serve as an important precedent for collective activities in the 1980s. Over the course of four exhibitions, artists such as Son Jangsup, Shim Jungsoo, and Lee Chungwoon departed, while new younger members joined, allowing the group to maintain a steady sense of vitality. The artistic practices within these collectives vary widely, each shaped by the strong and distinctive voices of individual artists, making it difficult to characterize them in uniform terms. The ways in which these artists articulate their thematic concerns range widely—at times rough, at times measured, humorous, satirical, somber, or even sly—creating, in their tumultuous diversity, an atmosphere reminiscent of a bustling night market. Their modes of mediation are equally varied: they paste, cut, peel away, and reveal layers of comics, photographs, advertisements, posters, newspapers, printed text, hanji, and toys, while also employing oil, acrylic, industrial paint, and ink, producing a vivid sense of material immediacy akin to that of Pop Art. Among them, artists who have held solo exhibitions—such as Lim Oksang, Noh Wonhee, Min Joungki, Son Jangsup, Lee Chungwoon, and Shim Jungsoo (sculpture)—have tended to forgo extensive material experimentation, instead cultivating highly individualized worlds of their own. Even outside the collective context, they established themselves as notable figures of the 1980s art scene. Meanwhile, although they have not yet held solo exhibitions, the distinctive satire of Oh Yoon and Kim Jungheun, the inventive originality of Kang Yobae and Ahn Changhong, the humor of Joo Jaehwan, and the unabashed candor of Kim Yongtae will, without doubt, lead each of them to demonstrate their full artistic force in time. Meanwhile, the collective Imsulnyeon, From 98,992, founded in 1982 and responsible for two exhibitions, adopted the symbolic name “From Here and Now” and consisted of artists of roughly the same generation. Their work is characterized by an almost hyperrealist technique through which they dramatize either the cold, objective aspects of reality or its allegorical and symbolic dimensions. With their own emotions held in reserve, the images they render reveal a world permeated by anxiety, crisis, and fear of global despair. In this regard, a certain conceptual tendency can be discerned, insofar as the realities depicted are not fully embodied on an individual level; nevertheless, the compressed intensity of their expression is striking, and their working attitude is earnest. Grounding their practice in hyperrealism while reflecting aspects of contemporary urban-industrial society, these artists are likely to continue drawing attention within the art world. (A more detailed discussion appears in the December 1983 issue of Madang.) In contrast, the collectives Young Minds, Hoengdan, and The Silcheon Group exhibit markedly different dispositions. Although some members overlap with one another and with the earlier collectives—and with a few exceptions in individual artistic approaches—the prevailing tendency among these groups is characterized by an intense, distinctly anti-artistic fervor. Rather than articulating their concerns through conventional forms or established compositional systems, these artists release an outpouring of consciousness saturated with mockery, derision, satire, contempt, humor, and playful irreverence—an impulse directed toward the wholesale dismantling of such systems altogether. In their work, the artist’s own actions and gestural interventions take precedence over the artwork. This anarchic attitude gives the impression of a Korean variant of European Dadaism. For them, no sacred realm of art exists, nor do they recognize any rituals of officiation within the artistic “sanctuary.” Even their catalogues ignore customary practices, such as including photographic reproductions of works or providing biographical notes. Instead, they openly flaunt an unruly denunciation of established art, and, as if retaliating against the habits instilled through academic training, they lay bare—and even celebrate—their own vulnerabilities. By casting off the divisions that separate art from life and pulling “high art” down to the level of an impromptu scrawl on a tavern wall or the illicit erotic drawings found in public restrooms, these artists seek not a crude, recreational vulgarity but rather a rediscovery of genuine selfhood within the muddy turbulence of lived experience. For this reason, although individual works may at times appear impulsive or unruly, one senses the vivid heat of creative birth—the raw trace of life itself—felt outside the conventional frameworks of art, in the sense that the creation starts from destruction. To attain an understanding of life itself, the fixed consciousness of art must first be shattered. In this respect, their stance is fundamentally different from the Informel movement of the 1960s, which expressed itself through debates over stylistic form. However, it must also be recognized that this anti-artistic fervor, when presented within the conventional format of the gallery exhibition, risks failing to communicate with life outside the art world and instead remaining an insular, self-referential exchange among its participants. If the task of life is to discover the struggles with reality, then failing to challenge the conventions of exhibition practice risks remaining within a fragile state of consciousness—one that shirks the hazards of genuine experimentation and circles instead around the complaints of a discontented reveler behind closed doors. Small-scale vendors who lack the means to maintain a proper storefront set up makeshift stalls in busy markets or on crowded street corners, fleeing and hiding when enforcement officers approach, only to resume their business again. Their persistence illustrates a tenacious capacity for renewal. Likewise, spaces for exhibition can be found anywhere, at any time. If the aim is to expand conditions in which new artistic cultures can truly communicate with life, then it is only fitting that such practices emerge in sites outside commercial galleries—within the spaces of lived reality itself. To remain confined within the art world while raising a banner of resistance is fundamentally at odds with the character of their work. The Third Group Exhibition had long attracted attention as a collective committed to exploring a vein of Korean sensibility in which non-figurative and figurative modes coexisted. However, due to external pressures and internal aesthetic divergences, the group has since ceased its activities. Among the artists who passed through this collective, Lee Manik made significant contributions in the 1970s with his discovery of a figurative sensibility grounded in literary narratives, yet his work of the 1980s shows little sign of transformation, leaving a sense of disappointment. Kim Kyungin, who began his artistic career relatively late, in his forties, rose to prominence with themes that depicted the situational terror of human existence. Kwun Suncheol achieved notable success with his expressionist treatment of ordinary faces, revealing glimpses of everyday life and earning him considerable popularity within the gallery scene. Lee Sang-guk, whose vigorous brushwork once brought vitality to socially conscious themes—and who, together with Oh Kyunghwan, generated significant discussion early on—has not sustained this momentum. Oh Kyunghwan, after studying in France, has not held exhibitions in Korea, and Lee’s second solo exhibition in 1983 revealed the weakness of an insufficiently developed thematic inquiry, suggesting that his work has not yet moved beyond a state of stagnation. Founded in 1978, Fact and Reality focused primarily on the aesthetics of figuration, raising questions about the apprehension of neutral objects within the lineage of photorealism. Yet it remains uncertain whether this approach will generate developments that connect meaningfully with the artistic consciousness of the 1980s, for their notion of “neutral reality” is stripped of any historical perspective. The ’83 Humanity Exhibition, now in its second iteration, possesses a notably distinctive character. Centered around two artists—Chung Munkyu and Hwang Yooyup—whose work offers striking perspectives on the human figure, the exhibition identifies significant emerging artists, presents their work collectively, dissolves afterward, and then reconstitutes itself with a new group the following year. The intention is to avoid the factionalism often associated with artist collectives and to preserve the individual independence of each participating artist. Nevertheless, although some artists affiliated with other collectives are included, the sensibilities expressed here are more supple, and the perspectives more varied, reflecting an awareness attuned to the realities of the 1980s. Particularly noteworthy in sculpture are the works of Park Bouchan, Hong Soonmo, and Kim Youngwon, whose forms demonstrate significant depth of transformation, while the electrifying world presented by emerging artist Park Jeongae constitutes a bold and provocative intervention. Just as Shim Jungsoo’s 1981 solo exhibition in sculpture struck a decisive blow against the prevailing falsehoods of abstraction—by presenting forceful thematic intensity and a recovered imagery grounded in the concrete realities of human experience—so too is it likely that, in the 1980s, the perspectives of the new generation of sculptors will inevitably bring about a transformation in the field. If the collective activities discussed above arose primarily in Seoul and thus reflected the continuing centralization of the Korean art world, the Year 2000 Exhibition—a collective movement that emerged in Gwangju—once drew extraordinary attention from the capital. Although it has since ceased operations for a variety of reasons, its cultural significance remains considerable: it represented an autonomous, regionally grounded initiative shaped by the artists’ shared experience of the May 1980 Gwangju Democratization Movement and their search for an artistic mode of sublimation. The art of southern provinces (namdo) possesses a distinct local character and requires closer scrutiny. Compared with other regions, the peculiar tendencies of the southern provinces art scene stem largely from the distribution of artists aligned with the National Art Exhibition system, whose influence reinforced entrenched conservative styles in Gwangju and elsewhere. This conservatism had become chronic and resistant to change. Moreover, Gwangju’s Provincial Art Exhibition (Domijeon), effectively a miniature version of the National Art Exhibition, stifled the creative freedom of younger artists. Even modest collective initiatives were forced to navigate the authority and preferences of established local figures who functioned as de facto arbiters of the regional art world. Within this climate, the Year 2000 Exhibition, which began in 1980, was a whirlwind arising from the difficult conditions of a provincial environment—far more challenging than those in Seoul—yet it eventually lost momentum under pressures external to art itself. As a result, young artists in Gwangju have often endured misunderstandings and a persistent sense of unjust scrutiny from outside the region. Even so, through this collective exhibition, Lim Oksang and Shin Kyoungho—though also members of Reality and Utterance—found renewed vitality while living and working in the provinces. The emergence of Lee Geunpyo, Hong Sungdam, and Choi Youl further opened a door to new formal possibilities. In particular, Hong Sungdam, whose 1980 solo exhibition foregrounded experiential testimony to the emotions of the minjung, drew significant attention from the Seoul art world. Choi Youl, for his part, played an equally vital role—not through painting alone, but through his incisive criticism, which positioned him as an intellectual companion within the movement. Other artists who, though not affiliated with the aforementioned collectives, have risen through individual activity include Shin Hakchul and Son Sangki. In his 1982 solo exhibition, Shin appropriated contemporary techniques such as photomontage and collage to depict fragments of modern history and industrial reality through a demonic imagination marked by the grotesque, fear, and brutality—sending shockwaves through the art world. That same year, he was selected as Artist of the Year by art journalists. Although his incorporation of consumer products from industrial society as direct objects can at times feel unfamiliar or diffuse, his experimental pursuit of an urban sensibility points toward the expanding scope of his practice. Son Sangki, who first distinguished himself in the figurative division of juried exhibitions, presented his Artificial City series in his 1983 solo exhibition. In these works, he overcame the pain and haunting memories associated with his own physical disability, shifting his gaze toward the realities of marginalized neighbors and rendering the harsh spaces of urban life with expressionistic intensity. His ability to transform personal misfortune into compelling visual language suggests that his work will continue to resonate ever more deeply. With a few exceptions in their forties, the artists discussed above are largely in their thirties and belong to the petit bourgeois class—individuals who, whether salaried workers, small studio owners, or unemployed, cannot make a living solely from the sale of their work. Among them is Hwang Jaihyoung, who closed his studio and, supporting a family, moved to a mining town. There, living and working as a miner, he has translated the immediacy of lived realities into his art, embodying a rare and genuine integrity of life and practice. In this way, the artists’ effort to narrow the distance between life and art constitutes one of the defining characteristics of the 1980s. Even beyond their artistic practice, they share a common ethical integrity that informs their approach to life itself. 5 If the function of art has begun to find its path as a means of restoring the totality of life, this cannot be confined to an awareness limited to the artist’s own existence. Once the gaze shifts from the self toward one’s neighbors, and further toward the conditions of life as a whole, it becomes inevitable that the lives of marginalized regions and marginalized classes—the minjung—must be addressed. At this stage, extended cultural debates over the concept of the minjung—what it signifies and what its concrete substance might be—are an unnecessary distraction. The minjung is neither an abstract construct nor a mythic invention; rather, it may be understood simply as the people themselves, seeking to reclaim their human rights from the lived experience of marginalization. Accordingly, it can no longer be overlooked that today’s minjung remains alienated from established art and deceived by the mechanisms of consumerism and mass culture. Moreover, the professionalized division of labor in industrial society has institutionally severed the minjung from their own creative cultural roles—from autonomous development, reception, and ownership. For this reason, the movement for Minjung art, as an integral component of national culture, constitutes a natural and necessary manifestation of historical consciousness. However, up to this point, Minjung art had largely been a top-down movement advanced from the standpoint of intellectuals and artists—an effort “for the people” rather than one emerging organically from within. This framework revealed a limitation in which enlightened cultural elites continued to regard the minjung as objects rather than as agents. In other words, it had not yet reached the stage of a “movement of the minjung by the minjung,” wherein the minjung themselves rise from below and become autonomous subjects seeking a unity of subject and object. In this context, professional artists faced a dual task: restoring the function of art while also determining how to achieve a sense of reconciliation and unity with self-sustaining forms of Minjung art. Such an effort first emerged not in Seoul but in the regional cultural sphere of Gwangju, where, in 1983, Hong Sungdam, Choi Youl, and other members of the local Minjung art team initiated what they called the “Citizens’ Art School.” Although the program began as a commission from the Gwangju Catholic Church, it was fundamentally different from conventional “art practice courses”; rather than offering technical training, it sought to awaken citizens’ own desire for creative expression—an opening toward Minjung art grounded in voluntary, collective participation. The significance of the Citizens’ Art School is as follows: “We no longer live in an era where only poets may write poetry and only painters may make pictures. The art that is needed today must arise from an attitude of humility toward the lived experiences of others—a willingness to receive and share them together… From now on, the question is not one of skill or professional specialization. Art must become a site in which the total life of an era is expressed.” Thus, participants in the Citizens’ Art School consisted not of art majors but of ordinary citizens—students, repeat exam-takers, office workers, and homemakers. Divided into several teams, they engaged in collective discussions and expressed the thematic concerns of their lives through printmaking techniques. The initial choice of printmaking was explained as follows: “Anyone can draw, carve, cut, and print, and in doing so communicate their joys and sorrows to others and receive theirs in return. The very act of printing and sharing impressions signifies that the public can acquire its own messages independently.” In other words, by overcoming their sense of alienation from art through their own non-professional interests—and by realizing an active desire to express their own lives—the people can form a genuine sense of solidarity grounded in the creation and shared enjoyment of culture. This, in turn, becomes a pathway toward securing a more active mode of life and toward freedom itself. Through such processes, the minjung can transform from passive consumers into productive agents. In fact, minjung art movements across the Third World exhibit notable similarities in their overall character. From the perspective of the major powers or centers of “high culture,” such practices may be dismissed as crude or naïvely impulsive. Yet externally, they constitute foundational efforts to free national culture from the sphere of imperial cultural influence, and internally, they express a legitimate desire to break free from hierarchical structures of domination and to create a communal culture. Accordingly, the advancement of national culture lies in the enhancement of life grounded in Minjung art. Yet Minjung art remains in its early stages and continues to face various forms of misunderstanding and external pressure. These difficulties stem both from the lingering remnants of colonial rule—which long sought to erase national culture under Japanese occupation—and from ongoing political prejudices. At the same time, those who lack even the leisure afforded by labor often regard their own potential for artistic creation with skepticism or even ridicule. Although the erosion of rural culture and the absence of labor culture today have been shaped in large part by external forces, they also persist to the extent that people are unable to overcome the conditions of their own lives—signs of an internal vitality left unrealized. Culture is the force that reveals the value of survival itself, rather than the abandonment of it. Through the force that awakens, recovers, and reveals the value of our collective survival, both artists and the minjung come to recognize the meaning of their own existence and to sustain an unwavering commitment to creative work. It is this fervor—this continual drive to contribute to creation—that will ultimately shape the direction of art in the 1980s.