1. Introduction: What Must Art Reveal?
What must art reveal? Over the past five years, I have been consumed by this question, constantly breaking forms and expanding mediums. People often ask why I refuse to settle into a single style, choosing instead to embark on continuous visual experiments. My answer is clear: there is still so much I wish to explore through painting, and I do not want to define myself by one static aesthetic. Just as my values and thoughts evolve each year, I believe my work must naturally follow that trajectory.
The refined aesthetic of traditional two-dimensional painting is beautiful in its own right. However, I have long felt a thirst to transcend the "flatness" of the canvas to better capture the dynamic energy of life. As Maurice Merleau-Ponty emphasized in Phenomenology of Perception, I believe art should go beyond mere "seeing" to become a "physical event of experience." By breaking the frame of the canvas and erecting the skeletal structures of life directly into physical space, I continue an inevitable journey of experimentation to narrow the gap between art and existence.
2. The Observer’s Gaze: Attempting to Visualize Structure (The Pattern Series)
My first experiment began from a third-person, observer’s perspective, as if viewing society from a "Sky-view." The "checkered patterns," where vertical and horizontal lines intersect from different directions, symbolized the solid, rigid structures of a society formed by individuals.
In this, I drew deep inspiration from the design philosophy of the Bauhaus. Like their tenet that "form follows function," I sought to translate the complex phenomena of social relations into the most concise and clear visual language possible. Referencing the restrained aesthetics of Piet Mondrian’s Neo-Plasticism, I composed the canvas using no more than three colors. This was a process of intense self-discipline, aiming to reduce the social order I observed to its purest visual essence.
While Mondrian sought absolute peace and utopia within that order, I focused on the individual energy pulsating within those stable grids. Society is not as fixed as a checkered pattern; it is constantly agitated by the desires of individuals who dream of change and escape. I wanted to infuse the static nature of the pattern with a more intense, dynamic human life force—a visual manifestation of the tension between order and the longing for freedom.
3. The Liberation of Lines: The Energy of Curves Blooming Within the Grid (Expansion of Flat Experiments)
If the Pattern series was about observing the grand order of society, the next step was to directly vent that "individual energy" onto the canvas. While maintaining the structural framework of society, I began to intervene with my own unique lines. The introduction of the "curve" became a crucial turning point in my work.
I began to symbolize and imbue these lines with distinct energies. Much like Wassily Kandinsky, who defined the line as a "force at work" in his book Point and Line to Plane, imbuing it with musical and spiritual rhythm, for me, the line became a vital life energy—a wave itself. These lines connect point to point, symbolizing the trajectory of human life from birth to death. Within the restrained aesthetics of a three-color palette, these curves became a message of personal will, cutting across the system of the grid.
Yet, the two-dimensional space was insufficient to contain this intense energy. As beings living in a three-dimensional world, I believed these lines—these symbols of life and energy—needed to exist physically in space. I pulled the drawing forms out of the flat surface and evolved them into three-dimensional reliefs. Just as Lucio Fontana slashed the canvas to embrace the infinite space beyond, I erected these messages of energy in a "semi-relief" form. These lines are no longer mere images on a surface; they are actual forces occupying the viewer’s space. This expansion was not just a change in technique, but an inevitable leap to convey the rhythm of life more directly and powerfully.
4. Happy Hell: The Confession of Inner Self and the Motivation of Gratitude
Once the visualization of energy through semi-relief became a cry toward space, my gaze turned entirely inward. I was no longer a third-party observer but a confessional artist projecting my own values and inner thoughts into the work. In this process, I encountered the paradoxical sensation of "Happy Hell."
My daily life, racing toward a dream amidst waves of emptiness and loneliness, was sometimes like a hell that left me breathless. Why do I endure and persevere through such exhaustion? The answer lay in the people beside me. The presence of those who believe in and support me became the only warm light sustaining me in the cold void. The mere fact of their existence, and the fact that I am running for the sake of others, filled my life with a gratitude beyond words.
Friedrich Nietzsche advocated for Amor Fati (love of fate), transforming suffering into the pinnacle of life. To me, "Happy Hell" is the visual language of that very philosophy. Despite the heavy weight of a lonely and fierce reality, my heart is infinitely rich and warm because of the gratitude I feel for those beside me. My work is no longer a catalog of pain, but a record of existential survival—extracting gratitude from the very heart of the hellish furnace.
5. The Act of Unfolding: Pure Drawings on Crinkled Paper
Amidst the contradictions of "Happy Hell," I faced the alienation and helplessness of modern life. During this time, the novels of Haruki Murakami became a profound inspiration. Observing the mundane loneliness and the raw reality hidden beneath the surface of his writing, I confronted the substance of our era's emptiness.
To be honest, there was a time I lost my way as an artist. I was obsessed with how I should appear to others or which works might be more "valuable" in the market, rather than focusing on what I truly wanted to express. But as Murakami’s stories suggest, even in the deepest despair, what we must grasp is the pure, lost emotion of our inner selves. I found that state of purity in the eyes and hearts of children.
I decided to return to the perspective of a child. I let go of the obsession to "draw well," choosing instead to doodle, to scribble, and to express exactly what I felt. The act of "unfolding crinkled paper" carries a vital symbolism: it is a ritual of reminding—picking up the fragments of my pure self or lost dreams that I had abandoned under the weight of reality, and gently smoothing them out to look upon them once more.
On that crinkled paper lie the free and bold drawings of our childhood. Instead of placing polished art on a rigid canvas, I chose the object of "crinkled paper," which bears the traces of life's hardships. Just as a protagonist in a Murakami novel might find hope in a scrap of paper, I hope viewers encounter their own forgotten inner purity through my work. These drawings are not about technical perfection; they are a gesture of warmth, hoping to console the alienated hearts of the world with the simple, pure heat of humanity.
6. The Aesthetic of Restoration: The Paper Garden Blooming from Fragments
In my journey, "crinkled paper" was never merely a structural device; it was the symbol of the wounds incurred while enduring the weight of the world, and of the purity I had lost as an adult. However, I did not leave those scars as mere traces of pain. By carefully collecting those crumpled fragments and joining them together, I began to build a new life force. This is the "Paper Garden," the culmination of my artistic philosophy.
As Gaston Bachelard explored the "intimate space" of the soul in The Poetics of Space, for me, the garden is not a physical place where flowers grow. The Paper Garden is a "garden of emotions" that I cultivate deep within, tending to the precious and pure feelings I had once lost.
The process of gathering wounded fragments into a garden is a ritual of creating a "space of restoration." By smoothing out the crinkles and adding drawings, my act becomes a form of meditation—healing the torn inner self and blooming positive energy in its place. We are all fragile beings, easily crumpled by the pressures of the world. But just as tending a garden requires patience, when we take care to reconnect our own pure emotions, we gain the resilience to bloom again. My Paper Garden is a site of the most peaceful and intense restoration, proving that even the traces of destruction can be transformed into beautiful, living vitality.
7. To Those Who Have Joined Me: The Perfect Witnesses of This Trajectory
The experiments of the past five years have not been a solitary struggle. The collectors who have stayed by my side at every turning point are the witnesses to my artistic journey.
Walter Benjamin spoke of the "Aura" of an artwork arising from the traces of a unique, unrepeatable existence. The works you possess are the existential traces left by my ever-evolving thoughts. From the observation of patterns and the inner confessions of relief drawings, to the restoration of purity through crinkled canvases—this entire process has become the most solid pillar supporting the artist "Daniel Shin," bolstered by your discerning eyes.
8. Epilogue: The Consolidation of Process, and the Present
My past five years have not been a aimless wandering, but a record of inevitable evolution to reach the truth within me. Following the Avant-garde spirit, I have constantly deconstructed and reconstructed my mediums.
From lines to curves, from observation to confession, from the flat surface to three-dimensional relief and warm objects, and finally to the garden of restoration—this journey is the philosophical foundation that will permeate all my future work. I take pride in the fact that all my past visual experiments were the best possible results necessary to complete the artist I am today. My art will not stop; even if it is crumpled daily, it will continue to move forward toward the affirmation of existence that blooms again.