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Seungtaik Jang

Eric Suchere

Still monochrome. The century is full of monochrome, so much so that we must one day consider it as a genre in itself, just as the still life of flowers, landscapes and animal paintings which, admittedly, would destroy much of the mysticism attached to it (la chose). The viewer unfamiliar with this genre will tend to believe that everything blends into the identical, the semblance of sameness; monochrome seems to show so little. Between one gray painting and another, what is the difference reside? For the spectator, the difference generally lies in its meaning or sense (sens). Klein's mysticism seems to have nothing to do with the irony of Richter who, we know, has nothing to do with the phenomenological enterprise of Ryman. Farewell to mere resemblance and long live the meaning that justifies and enables the identification of true artistic intentionality!

Let us return to the analogy between pictorial genres and compare them a little. If we were to take the still life of flowers, for example, it is not that the difference between them and the others resides in their meaning, but within the painting itself. Surely, we know that a flower in Redon’s work does not have the same meaning as another in Fautrier’s, if only to take two recent examples. But the point is that the difference resides in the painting itself. A flower, even by Mondrian, is (perhaps) less interesting than another by Redon. It is a question of attitude, evidently, but also a question of the painting.

Let us return now to our subject. Whosoever may say that a monochrome Aubertin is less interesting than that of Klein, it is nonetheless a question of painting: a question of what is in view (donnée à voir). Let us set aside some of monochromists who only deal with meaning and look only to those who are involved in the visible, thereby continuing the discussion. If a flower by Redon is interesting, it is in its subject, as well as its symbolic and literary evocations, but also because it is a question of painting. In this regard, Seungtaik Jang makes monochromes, but the monochrome is only a proposition, one which permits him to speak about something else, but speak of what? Precisely what is in the visible domain, what happens when you look. Perhaps monochrome is more appropriate for speaking about this looking (cette chose), avoiding the dispersal of our gaze and attention.

In addition, with each design, Jang made colored resins, which have the form of the mold in which they were made, slightly rounded edges that curve toward the wall. This is not a painting, but a material colored from the inside; one which is frozen, petrified. A color that is never brilliant or bright, but always beige and gray, for color without a pretext is a means to talk about the light. The light which passes through this petrified color and which bounces off the white walls of the painting’s borders illuminates, from the inside, this translucent material. This is an odd reversal of the stained-glass window: the monochromes, the canvas—which becomes sculpture—the wall, all of a sudden, they enframe the work from the inside.

We might recall that Matisse attempted to Collioure, to give the impression that it was not the sun that illuminated the canvas but that its brilliance emanated from the painting itself. This term, “emanation,” is perhaps the most appropriate for understanding what transpires when we find ourselves before a painting by Seungtaik Jang. The light which emanates from it enraputres the spectator, soon becoming not unlike the effect of the head of Medusa. It hypnotizes us into an endless contemplation, comparable to the immersion one feels before the works of Rothko, but perhaps with a little more light.