The Third Chapter : Interview with PIRO (English ver.)
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Q. Thank you for joining us. To begin our conversation, we are curious to know how you define your identity as an artist at this moment and what central theme most occupies your thoughts.
A. Hello, I’m Piro. I make films and paint. I think defining who you are as an artist is a lifelong assignment—one you may never truly complete. So I tend to leave that up to the people around me and let them decide how they want to describe me. In film, I’m a director; in painting and exhibitions, I’m an artist. The themes of my work are not all the same. They simply tend to begin from a similar kind of thought: “a certain point in the world that interests me.”
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야타! Ride on Time |
Q. This chapter is titled The Core Message. If you were to describe the “anchor” or the central idea that runs through your practice, what would it be?
A. A world that can never be completely understood. I think my interest lies in my fellow human beings—people around me, language, neighbors, lovers, family, and even the person we think of as “I.” Usually, when we talk about a “message,” we assume there is a clearly defined sender and receiver, and that the message contains some kind of information. But the kind of message I choose to send is more like a code densely packed with signs and images. In a word, it’s like spam with absolutely no function. I feel as though I’m constantly throwing tangled threads out into the world. I love all the ways people interact with them—whether they slowly unravel them, kick them away, keep them, or stretch them out as far as they can.
Q.Is there a specific piece among your works that you feel most clearly embodies this "core message"? We would love to hear the story behind that work and why it holds such a special place in your heart.
A. If I had to choose an example from my solo exhibition 21st Century Muzzle this year, it would probably be Ya Ta! Ride on Time. It combines a geometric schematic, a simple palette of red and blue, and a seatbelt. There was no particular logic behind any of these choices or combinations. I found a wooden board that wasn’t rectangular, wanted to incorporate a car part, and came up with a title that had a sense of movement. Even without explaining anything, I think the title Ya Ta! and the work itself create a kind of synergy that speaks for itself. Interestingly, it was also the most popular piece in the exhibition. I guess people really do think alike after all.
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야타! Ride on Time |
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야타! Ride on Time |
Q. Sometimes, the most important messages are felt rather than seen. Is there a "whisper" or a subtle atmosphere in your work that you hope the audience will sense, even if it’s hard to put into words?
A. Since we’ve started talking about Ya Ta!(Ride on Time), that naturally brings me to another thing: I place a great deal of importance on titles. If the physical artwork is a plain cake base, then the title, for me, is like decorating the cake with all kinds of fruit and embellishments. The title becomes a focal point of the work and, in a way, can also help obscure it. I also tend to make the Korean and English titles quite different from each other. I don’t want the English title to simply translate the Korean one. Korean and English are also the only two languages I can work with closely enough to search for the precise nuance that feels right for each piece. I think Ya Ta! is a combination of syllables that only a Korean speaker can immediately catch. For the English title, I play with it in a similar way, twisting Right on Time into Ride on Time. My life is basically full of wordplay.
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| perfect sync |
Q. Artists often find themselves returning to a certain inquiry. What is the persistent question you find yourself asking through your art, regardless of how your style may change?
A. For me, making art is an act of asking, “Is this really right?” about even the smallest things in the world. Is what you’re seeing really right? Is what you thought really right? Was your judgment really right? Was it right to just let it slide? Was it right to be angry? Was it right to feel defeated? Was it right to be filled with joy? Asking someone these kinds of questions might seem exhausting, or even pointless. As I said earlier, the questions I send out into the world are basically spam messages. There’s no real content or information in them. So the people who encounter my work—including myself—can simply reply to those questions however they like, according to their own circumstances and sensibilities.
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내비도 Let her leave |
Q. In an era of rapidly changing trends, how do you maintain your own pace and stay focused on the voice that matters most to you?
A. My inner voice… Actually, I think not being particularly interested in my inner world is itself part of my methodology and motivation as an artist. Rather than thinking about who I am, I seem to be much more occupied with laying out, on a flat surface, the things I’ve sensed in the course of everyday life. Maybe that’s why I don’t really know what the trends are. Saying that you’ve missed a trend only makes sense if you were trying to keep up with it in the first place. Some time ago, a senior artist whose work I admire looked at my work and said, “A 23-year-old kid is evoking a sense of modernism. I don’t mean that the work is going against its time; Yuseon’s work simply has no clearly defined era.” I still don’t completely understand what those words mean, but there’s no doubt that they have become an important sentence in my life. If you follow the flow of your time too vaguely, your work is bound to become dated. But if you’re a whole century out of sync, you can work with a much greater sense of freedom.
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| 지극히 반복되는 낯섦 Haven't we met before? |
Q. During the creative process, is there a specific moment or a sensation of "rightness" that tells you a piece has successfully captured your intended message?
A. There is a certain pattern that repeats itself over and over whenever I work. At first, a particular impression comes to me, and it is incredibly clear. But as I begin to turn it into something through the physical process of making, that concrete and vivid impression falls apart. It’s sad. It is precisely at that moment that I have to endure the frustration. Only by getting through it can I eventually reach the moment when that initial impression and the work as it exists in reality come together again. I think that is the magic of painting. I experience something very similar when I work in film. There is an image in my mind; it dies once in the screenplay, comes back to life a little on set, and is finally resurrected in the editing room. Of course, this kind of rebirth in film takes incomparably longer and is far more varied and exhilarating than in painting. Film simply can’t be made alone.
Q. Beyond the final result, what part of the "act of creating" itself do you find most precious or aligned with your personal values?
A. The act of creating itself is closer to instinct than to a set of values. My values reveal themselves in the works that come out of following that instinct. Creating isn’t really such a grand thing. If someone filmed me working in my studio with a surveillance camera, they would probably wonder, “What on earth is she doing?” I scribble things down at my desk, make sweeping marks across the canvas, lie down and look for images, put pieces of wood together, dance while listening to music. I think everyone has some desire for what I would call “meaningless activity.” It’s different from simply playing. The activity has to be completely useless, and you have to keep moving. Perhaps artists are people who need this kind of activity in their lives.
Q. Looking back, was there a specific experience that shifted your focus beyond purely aesthetic concerns and led you to think more deeply about what you wanted to convey through your work?
A. Looking at the trajectory of my work over the past five years or so, I think it has gradually become simpler and clearer. I’m slowly—really, very slowly—learning that the more I want to convey, the more I need to embrace silence. To be honest, painting has been with me for such a long time that it’s almost like a married couple who have been together for twenty years. It’s familiar, and I love it, but I used to think there wasn’t much new left to discover. Then, after experiencing the silence within painting, making paintings began to feel different again. I can relate this to my experience with filmmaking as well. My first film as a director, 21st Century Belief, which I’m currently working to complete, originally had narration, but I removed all of it. Too much explanation in art is like carrying a heavy backpack. I want to lighten that weight so that both I and the work can run around and play freely.
For me, too. And for my work!
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| 위계 Hierarchy |
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| 재발 Please |
Q. What kind of internal conversation do you hope a viewer has with themselves when they spend time with your work? What is the "echo" you hope stays with them?
A. I don’t want you to feel that you have to find something, or that you have to come up with some heavy, overly earnest interpretation. Even if your response is simple, that’s perfectly fine. Just feel it. Besides, my work doesn’t really belong to that familiar grammar of contemporary art where “this is right, and that is also right; it’s this, but it’s also not this.” There may be no single correct answer when it comes to interpreting a work, but there are still wrong answers. What makes me happiest, though, is when someone shares an impression that has stayed with them—when they look at my work and say that it feels as though contradictory things have somehow come together as one: “I like it, but I don’t,” “It’s sad, but it’s funny,” “It’s warm, but it’s cold,” and so on. I don’t know why, but that kind of response makes me happiest.
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| 21세기권총 21C Pistol |
Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, is there a final thought or a quiet sincerity you would like to share with those who will encounter your work?
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| PIRO |
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