Seuk, Yong Jin



Seuk, Yong Jin
 

 Graduated art school, college of education at Yeoungnam university. Awarded the Grand Prix at the first Korea Calligraphy Competition. Special award at the first Seoul Calligraphy Biennale (Seoul, Gongpyung Art Center) Invitation artist of Korea Calligraphy Competition and Daegu Calligraphy Competition. Member of calligraphy group 'Mulpa' Organized Hongilmugyeon Meeting, Taebak Group, and Yeonchil Group. 

 

Jeremiad

Isn't it said that the feeling is stronger than the language? We have to express the legend or myth which is hidden in our deep place and the orignal form of unconsciousness through returning to the pure image of before language.

Time to time, lots of my works start from a question about the reason of existence. They look like becoming something which goes beyond the simple meaning of existence when they are drown on an object.

We can steal a glance the desire for the eternity of old people when we see the expressed words of old bronze or a rubbed copy of an inscription. However, these desires are laid in front of us with a name of a tomb rusting blue or worn. Aren't our desires the same? I think of words called name and carving with the wind that passes.

It is shaking. It is always at stake as the tender branches are shaking by the wind. We comfort ourselves that every living think is the same, but the endless fantasy and agony are reflected to works and are became beautify the capricious and scared tender nature in secret to the name of the heartless exchange.

I always dream like Gaston Bachelard. The ambiguous guy called SELF which is added the specialized experience on the programmed DNA basement, raises more ambiguous ones ironically. They show up in the sun appearing like a mirage and disappear like a burning fog. Some of the granules are openly wondering around the world in the name of art works.

Noja said that the heaven and the earth are one. It think it is so heartless word before thinking about the other side of the content. These days, I think that the life is a kind of heartless game. Whether my works are letters or paintings, maybe, are they all scribing the moon reflected on the heart?

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