The Artistic Journey of Cheom-Cheom, 1973–2026 (Present)

Cheom-Cheom 첨첨 ; Adding and Adding

_ Carrying Stories of Art Through Cheom-Cheom 

At six months old, I lost my auditory nerve due to side effects during medical treatment. Growing up, I felt the limits and difficulties of communicating with others. However, as time went by, I came to believe that being able to share meaningful conversations—rather than unnecessary chatter—was more than enough, and I have lived confidently with that conviction.

Looking back, however, I wasn’t able to talk fully about my work with every visitor at each exhibition. Although I introduced my practice through lectures in various places, some people only heard about it without seeing the actual artworks, which always remained a point of regret for me.

Starting from this regret, I wanted to gather the stories behind my work so far and convey them through the medium of this pamphlet. At present, I believe this is the most complete way to share my practice.

Of course, as I reflect on when, where, and how my work began, tracing its flow and connections, my artistic inclination reveals itself a bit more naturally. Yet, this single booklet cannot fully capture all the stories, influences, and evolving thoughts surrounding my work. Anything left out will continue to be supplemented and added in the future.

This pamphlet is a first record organized to the best of my ability at this point, and it marks the beginning of the ongoing story of my art.

_ Introducing My Family

In the center is my mother, on the left is my older brother, and on the right is me. The person who took the photo is my father.

This photograph was taken in my father’s company office when I was about 12 months old. At the time, I hadn't yet recovered enough to wear a hanbok, nor could we host a first-birthday party for me. This shows how I looked after being discharged from Severance Hospital, where I had been treated after suffering from a severe high fever for several months starting at six months old.

_ Losing My Hearing

At around six months old, I was hospitalized at Severance Hospital due to a sudden high fever and found myself in a life-threatening situation with meningitis. To treat meningitis at the time, receiving streptomycin injections was unavoidable. While this medication was a life-saving treatment, it had the side effect of damaging the auditory nerve, which could lead to hearing loss.

After a very difficult and painful decision, my parents chose that treatment to save my life. As a result, I lost my hearing, but I was able to escape the life crisis. I heard that if they had made a different choice, the aftereffects of meningitis would have left severe disabilities in my physical development and caused issues with my esophageal function, making normal nutrition, growth, and life itself extremely difficult.

Even around twelve months old, when other children started taking their first steps, I could not walk. Until I turned three, I crawled around quickly on all fours and spent much of my time sitting alone in a corner against the wall.

Then one day, placing my hands against the wall and pushing strength into my legs, I raised myself up bit by bit and stood up alone for the first time. Upon discovering this, my mother was deeply surprised, yet above all, overjoyed. She remembers that moment as a great blessing. Although my adaptation began much later than other children, I gradually grew while adapting to the world.

My mother and family spent that time praying earnestly for me and enduring each day. Thanks to their love and dedication, I was able to overcome the difficulties and grow up safely.

Now, I have become a father raising a child myself. Living while caring for my child, I often think of my mother, who must have endured times many times harder than other parents because of me. In particular, the hardship and sacrifice she bore during the first three years of my life remain beyond measure even now. Having become a parent, I feel even more deeply how great that love was, and I hold an inexpressible gratitude in my heart.

_ Training to Produce Speech Sounds Without Hearing

Around age six, to learn how to speak, I attended Seoul Oral School for two years instead of kindergarten.

There, I learned how to produce speech sounds and underwent various adaptive training. While other children naturally learn pronunciation by listening to sounds, I learned by having my teacher hold my hand against her throat and nose so I could tactilely feel and grasp how nasal sounds and various pronunciations were formed.

This experience led to a habit of focusing more intensely on my eyes, hands, scent, and bodily senses, serving as the foundation for sensitively utilizing various senses even today.

Regarding my hearing, when I wore a hearing aid, all sounds were heard as a single uniform tone like "uh… uh… uh…", and when I took it off, I was in a state where I could hear almost nothing.

Nevertheless, my mother had a strong determination not to raise me differently from other children. Thus, rather than having me learn sign language, she hoped I would grow up living alongside my peers, and sent me to a regular elementary school. Although there were challenges at first, I got along well with my friends, adapted to school life, and safely spent my elementary school years.

_ Between Blank Space and Truth

During a Korean language class in second grade of elementary school, there was a dictation test. Because I could not hear the teacher’s voice, I focused intently on reading her lip shapes to write down the words.

That day, a particularly difficult word appeared. No matter how much I tried to read her lips, I couldn’t figure out what the word was. The teacher showed me her lip movements slowly and more clearly for my sake, but in the end, I could not recognize or "read" it.

Until the test ended, I kept agonizing over whether to write down any random word even if I got the unknown word wrong, or to leave it as a blank space to the end. In my tension, the test ended without me writing anything.

The bell rang, and my friends got up from their seats to enjoy recess.

I stared at that blank space for a while before asking the friend next to me what that word was.

That word was "Ontong" (meaning "entirely" or "wholly").

Even today, I cannot forget the word "Ontong."

That day, I thought about the "space of a blank page and truth" for the first time.

Between pretending to know something by writing it down versus leaving it blank without writing anything, I pondered the meaning of truth for the first time. The tension I felt before the blank page was not merely the anxiety of taking a test. It was the moment I became conscious of space and truth for the first time.

Looking back, that experience was the starting point of my art. The oldest beginning of the practice I continue to this day might have already begun in front of that blank page during the dictation test.

_ Adapting to School Life, and the Start of My Career Path

From elementary school through high school, the times I looked forward to and enjoyed the most were math and art classes. For other subjects, unable to hear the teachers' explanations, I spent a lot of time sitting quietly like a robot just enduring the class. On the other hand, in math, I could follow and understand the calculation process written on the blackboard visually, and in art, since it was a class of directly observing and expressing rather than words, I naturally found it fun. After school, I hung out and ran around with friends, spending an ordinary school life.

My mother worried about my career path early on. She thought that due to hearing limitations, I would face difficulties communicating with people in society or living within an organization, and chose art as a path I could continue on my own for a lifetime.

To focus seriously on art during middle and high school, we moved to Yeonnam-dong, close to Hongdae where there were many art entrance exam academies. Starting from the 5th grade of elementary school, I walked every day after school with my mother to the art academy in front of Hongdae.

That academy was originally a place attended by high school students preparing for university entrance exams. However, even as a young elementary student, I learned painting alongside them.

I promised my mother to attend only until the autumn of 6th grade, intensively mastering painting for two years. Looking back, the training during that period was extremely fierce, a time that solidly laid down the fundamentals of painting.

During that time, I gained experience representing my elementary school in numerous national sketching contests, and built confidence by achieving good results in math competitions as well.

Based on those experiences, I entered Yewon School.

_ A Small Mandarin Orange

I really disliked being "confined."

Rather than staying inside a frame, I was a child who looked outside it, imagining "what kind of freedom exists over there." I was more interested in possibilities beyond what was given than conforming to it.

It happened when I was in the 2nd grade of middle school.

There was a practical exam in watercolor still-life painting. It was a test to observe and paint given still-life objects.

While setting up the composition, one side of the canvas looked empty, and I felt the desire to balance the overall color tone. Therefore, I included a small mandarin orange—which was not part of the practical exam topic—into the composition and painted it together. At the time, I did not properly realize the rule that one must strictly paint only the given still-life objects in exams.

Two days later, I was called to the art teachers' office. The head art teacher pulled out my painting and asked, "Why did you put in an orange?" I explained that I did so for the balance of color and composition on the canvas, but the teacher said, "You shouldn't do things as you please like that."

Without explaining further, I quietly left the office.

A few days later, when I received my report card, C+ was written on it. It was an unexpected result, but I didn't care much. I didn't bother showing it to my mother either.

Looking back, that choice was not a simple mistake. It was a moment when my disposition—wanting to add what I personally thought was necessary rather than blindly following a set framework—naturally revealed itself.

Perhaps that day, rather than breaking a rule, I was following my own standard. Thinking about it now, that experience was also a starting point leading to my current work.

_ Beyond High School, Towards a New Path

Afterward, I entered Seoul Arts High School and spent time learning various fields of art.

In a sculpture practical exam during my 1st year, the assignment was to observe a plaster bust and reproduce it as realistically as possible. As the work was near completion, while looking at the plaster bust, a thought suddenly crossed my mind: 'What is this figure thinking right now?'

I felt an inexpressible pain and frustration from its expression, and I wanted to sculpturally express that emotion.

So, I intentionally roughened the surface that was supposed to be smoothly finished, expressing it so that traces remained. As expected, the result did not receive a good grade.

A few days later, my sculpture teacher looked at my piece and asked, "Why did you finish it so roughly?" I explained the intent behind the work, and the teacher advised, "In foreign countries, this kind of sensibility might be accepted more. However, right now you must meet the domestic entrance exam standards." Even then, I had not clearly recognized the required scope of exams and the boundaries of expression.

As I entered my 2nd year of high school, I began preparing in earnest for university entrance exams.

After experiencing various fields during my 1st year, I felt that Oriental painting suited me best. In Oriental painting, watching the subtle shifts from the moment the brush touches the paper, as the ink bleeds and seeps, until the moment the spreading stops, was deeply intriguing. That natural flow felt like a living organism, and I was deeply fascinated by that sensation.

However, at the time, I heard a lot that Western painting was more advantageous for career paths and entrance exams than Oriental painting. In the end, I chose realistic practicality over the field I wanted, selecting Western painting.

However, I failed the university entrance exam, and even after retrying a second year, I did not get the desired result.

Looking back, that period was a time when the framework surrounding me felt more suffocating than the limitations of my hearing.

From then on, rather than remaining inside the frame enclosing me, I decided to personally seek out a free and new path that suited me.

_ A Blessing in Disguise

There was a time like a cold winter where my dreams, meetings with friends, and connection to the world all seemed frozen. During that time, I thought deeply about what was surrounding me and why it felt so suffocating.

Eventually, I felt a desire to temporarily leave Korean society and familiar environments to step out into a wider world, and I decided to study abroad. At first, my parents worried greatly and opposed it. However, believing that staying in my current environment would make it hard to find a path right for me, I strongly conveyed my need for change. After long persuasion, my parents ultimately trusted my choice and allowed me to study abroad.

I agonized for a long time over which country to go to. To decide between Europe and the United States, I tried to understand the culture and art of each country. I searched for various videos, including Hong Kong films, French, and European cinema, encountering their cultural sensibilities.

Among them, unlike American films, French films deeply impressed me by capturing the genuine aspects of life and sincere human emotions with a unique touch rather than fancy embellishments. I felt the story, structure, and cultural depth of the works aligned well with my sensibility, and I gradually grew interested in European culture and art.

Many people around me recommended studying in the United States, citing the great diversity and growth potential of American contemporary art. Also, several artists and teachers recommended Germany, which has a strong philosophy of contemporary art. However, considering economic realities, my heart leaned more toward Europe than the US.

In the midst of this, I reopened a book titled <World - Country Culture Edition France> that had been sitting on our home bookshelf for a long time. The European culture I encountered through that book felt familiar rather than foreign, and I became particularly interested in France, often called the country of art.

Yet, I still couldn't easily decide which country to go to. Then one day, sitting with my mother, we wrote the names of several countries—such as France, Germany, the United States, and Japan—on slips of paper, folded them up, and decided to draw lots. When we opened the drawn paper, the country that came out was France.

It seemed like a coincidence, but in that moment, I felt it wasn't just a simple coincidence. I realized that the cultural intuition and artistic interest I had felt were already pointing toward France. Looking back, the French language I learned during high school also had a big impact. Compared to English with its varied pronunciations, French, which reads in a way similar to Korean, felt more comfortable and familiar, giving me confidence in the language.

Thus, I began preparing my journey to France. My mother also supported my choice with faith, saying, "The Lord will guide you." And so, my new artistic journey began toward France.

_ March 1993, France, Beginning of a New Journey

In France, with the help of a specialized study-abroad agency, I decided that it would be safer to start by living and adapting in a small city rather than beginning in a large city right away. Therefore, I decided to stay in Aix-en-Provence, a small city in southern France, for six months to learn French and prepare for my art studies.

Passing through Paris and arriving in Aix-en-Provence was the beginning of a new journey toward my future.

Aix-en-Provence was a quiet and beautiful southern city. It was the hometown of Paul Cézanne, a master of Post-Impressionism, and traces of various artists who changed the course of 20th-century modern art remained in the surrounding region. From Matisse in Nice, Van Gogh in Arles, to Picasso who was active across southern France, this area was a place where one could naturally receive artistic inspiration.

I visited various museums to view artworks in person, learned French, and strove to grasp the fundamental mindset of modern art. Looking back now, the time spent in Aix-en-Provence was the first crucial turning point in my life.

The quiet environment and artistic atmosphere provided a space where I, having struggled for a long time, could catch a new breath.

However, while preparing for drawing classes at the École Supérieure d'Art d'Aix-en-Provence to begin my art studies in earnest, I had an unexpected experience.

The French teacher could not easily accept my drawings. At first, I was deeply shocked.

One teacher asked me:

"What is it that you truly want to express? Where are your thoughts and inner self? Why do you paint?"

Faced with those questions, I could not answer anything.

Until then, I had been accustomed to 'drawing well' and 'expressing accurately.'

Learning technology and final outcomes as important aspects within the art education up to high school, I had never deeply pondered the questions of why I paint or what I want to express.

From that day on, I began to ask myself:

'Why do I paint?'

'What do I want to express?'

'What is true expression to me?'

After long contemplation, I reached a conclusion:

"If I don't know why I paint, it is better not to paint at all."

That statement did not mean giving up on painting. It meant that without a truthful reason within me, the act of holding a brush itself was meaningless.

Looking back, that confusion and pause were not a simple slump. It was an internal change seeking to break away from conventional painting methods, and the first movement leading toward my current work.

From then on, I began to let go, one by one, of the art methods I had learned through high school.

Breaking away from the techniques and habits repeatedly practiced in Korea, I wanted to rediscover my own senses.

So, instead of my accustomed right hand, I started drawing with my untrained left hand.

My right hand held pre-learned techniques and rules. However, those techniques sometimes confined me within a certain framework. On the other hand, my awkward left hand was slower and incomplete, but allowed for honest and spontaneous expressions to that same extent.

Through my left hand, I began to rediscover my inner senses and free expression.

When I first visited an art supply store in France, I learned that art materials were extremely expensive. At that moment, another thought occurred to me:

'Do I really have to use only specified materials?'

Afterward, I began to view various things around me as new materials. Instead of drawing paper, I used paper towels and tissues, and instead of pencils or brushes, I utilized gathered tree branches.

As long as it could express, anything could become a material.

I immersed myself in the process of combining materials, altering them, and observing the results formed when different elements met. Through this experience, I gained confidence in expressing my thoughts without being bound by a single material or method.

Gradually, I realized that an experimental approach—exploring the relationships, changes, and reactions between materials—suited me far better than literary stories or personal emotional expressions.

Living in Aix-en-Provence, I naturally encountered the artistic traditions of the region.

In particular, Cézanne's practice had a profound impact on me. Rather than simply reproducing nature, he explored the relationships of form and structure, interpreting them with a new perspective. This mindset broadened my perspective on looking at objects.

Picasso viewed objects and figures from multiple viewpoints, creating a new formal language through deconstruction and reconstruction. His free-thinking approach made me reconsider the possibilities of expression.

Matisse created a deep sense of space and vitality through intense colors and simple forms. His work made me look anew at the power held by color and form.

And Van Gogh, who worked fiercely in Arles, expressed nature and emotion through intense brushstrokes and colors. His artwork, capturing an energy that felt alive across the canvas, resonated deeply with me.

Encountering their works up close, I gradually came to realize that in art, how one observes, thinks, and expresses is far more important than what one paints.

_ Decision Toward Quimper School of Art (École des Beaux-Art)

While preparing for admission to French art schools, I built a portfolio gathering works that I felt genuinely interested in and capable of doing well.

Because various art schools in France possessed different philosophies and educational directions, I traveled directly to schools even in small cities to take tests. Taking essay exams and interviews, and sometimes facing rejection, that very process became a time for personal growth.

Among them, the place that remained most memorable was the École Supérieure d'Art de Quimper.

A professor majoring in philosophy there showed a deep interest in my practice and attitude.

He recommended me saying, "You must definitely join our school," and personally introduced me to the director. Furthermore, he mentioned that they would accommodate the difficulties arising from my hearing impairment.

I was deeply moved by the professor's open mind and sincere attitude.

Although a new environment was intimidating, I gained faith that in that place, I could grow in my own way.

Thus, with a grateful heart, I decided to enroll in the Quimper School of Art.

_ Artistic Turning Point

One day while staying in Aix-en-Provence, I participated in a small art competition held in a nearby rural village. I painted a landscape there and won first prize.

Looking down from a slightly high hill, the village was filled with red roofs, and a vast landscape stretched beyond. That scene left a strong impression on me. I drew along the outlines of the village roofs, moving from the left edge of the paper to the right.

Then, I suddenly realized something. Above those lines was an endlessly expanding sky. An empty sky with no clouds, birds, or airplanes. However, that emptiness was not a space of nothingness. Rather, it was an object and shape that I needed to look at anew. And beneath it lay another shape: the red roofs.

At that moment, instead of merely drawing objects, I began to observe the relationships between objects and the space beyond them. That is how my "contemplation" began.

Looking back, my time in Aix-en-Provence was not merely a period of preparing to study abroad. It was my first artistic turning point—the moment I began to break away from existing frameworks and discover my own vision and working method.

_ September 1993: Entering the Quimper School of Art (École des Beaux-Art)

After entering the Quimper School of Art, I began my school life in a free atmosphere. Although it was a small art school in a small rural town, the contemporary art education I encountered there for the first time was extremely fresh, and above all, suited my disposition very well. Perhaps due to its geographical proximity to the UK, there was active exchange with British contemporary art, and the classes also placed high value on a way of thinking that deconstructs and analyzes objects.

The most memorable class was drawing. Rather than simply copying an object as it appeared, the approach required me to remain conscious of my own senses while observing the subject, balancing seeing with analyzing. This class had a profound impact on my subsequent working method.

Having loved mathematics since childhood, I was accustomed to handling shapes and spaces. Therefore, I felt great interest in classes dealing with space and architecture, and I discovered my potential particularly in sculpture and installation art classes.

Commuting between school and home, I picked up discarded items from the streets one by one. I continued working on deconstructing them, reassembling them, and applying paint to create new forms. Seeing this work, my professors spared no encouragement, saying, "This is extremely fresh," and "I can see your own unique language."

It was then that I realized for the first time: 'This is the natural inclination of my work.'

The process of deconstructing existing things, reassembling them, and giving them new life was the most natural and enjoyable form of expression for me. Around that time, I began to feel a sense of gratitude toward the discarded objects I picked up from the street.

Then, a thought suddenly crossed my mind:

'Did I discover the object, or did the object discover me?'

'Am I grateful to the object, or is the object thanking me?'

What started as a lighthearted question gradually deepened over time into a query about the relationship between existence and existence. Without the object, I could not have created the work, and without me, the object would not have gained new meaning. From that moment on, I began to feel that the objects and I shared a relationship of mutual necessity. This became a vital starting point for my artistic world, continuing to this day.

In drawing class, we were allowed to freely use the grey paper provided by the school. Since it was paper I could use without burden, I tried to draw as much as possible. However, professional acrylic paints sold at art supply stores were too expensive. So, I began purchasing cheap oil-based house paints used for walls from a nearby large home improvement store.

'Does it really have to be fine art materials?'

That question re-ignited the material experimentation I had started in Aix-en-Provence. Oil paint did not bond well with paper, creating unexpected smudges and oil marks on the surface. However, I accepted even those accidental variations as part of the work. It was a moment that reaffirmed that results and possibilities were more important than prescribed materials.

As I approached the end of my first year, I felt a desire to experience a wider variety of contemporary art in a broader environment. Although Quimper was a warm and wonderful school, the small scale of the city and the institution made me long for new inspiration. While preparing to transfer, I spread out a map of France.

Suddenly, a single line caught my eye.

When I first arrived in France from Korea, I passed through Paris and went straight down to Aix-en-Provence, later moving to Quimper at the western edge of France. Looking at the map, Paris, Aix-en-Provence, and Quimper formed a triangle.

At that moment, a thought struck me:

'Shouldn't the place to conclude my journey in France be Paris?'

I wanted to gain new experiences at the center of a broader contemporary art scene. With that, I resolved to challenge myself to enter an art school in Paris.

_ Challenge Toward the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris

The Paris Art School was one of the most difficult schools to enter in France. For foreigners, it required passing multiple stages, including language exams, ending with an interview where applicants presented their portfolio and actual works in front of ten professors.

I thought bringing actual physical creations would convey more authenticity than simply showing a portfolio folder. So, I carefully dried the drawings I had created at Quimper and brought them to Paris one by one. Those works were created using oil-based architectural paint on paper.

When the interview began and I unfolded the works, the distinct volatile smell remaining from the reaction between the paint and paper spread throughout the evaluation room. At the stronger-than-expected smell, the head of the panel looked at the works with a somewhat displeased expression and asked:

“When did you paint these?”

“I worked on them about six months ago.”

Sniffing the volatile paint smell from the drawings, the head evaluator said incredulously, "It smells as if you just painted them."

At that moment, I gathered my courage, picked up a painting with my own hands, walked up to the head evaluator, and calmly explained:

“Please touch it yourself. It is completely dry.

And this volatile smell—the chemical collision resulting from the reaction between oil paint and paper—

I consider this chemical collision itself to be a pictorial result, and the character of this material to be an integral part of the painting.”

The head evaluator looked at me silently with a slightly flustered expression, conversed briefly in low tones with the other jury members, and immediately decided to grant me unanimous admission. As I came out of the examination room and sat on a bench in the garden in front of the school enjoying the pleasant sunlight, the head evaluator, who was coming out after finishing the exams, saw me and silently gave me a 'thumbs up.' That scene remains vivid in my memory even today.

_ September 1994: A New Journey Begins in Paris

After finishing my first year at the Quimper School of Art, I moved to Paris in the fall of 1994 and re-entered the first-year program at the Paris National School of Fine Arts.

Unlike regional art schools, the Paris Art School operated on a capability-centered, autonomous educational approach rather than a rigid grade system. Students were free to choose their courses, and ample time was given to immerse oneself in solo work. This educational environment suited me very well as a person with hearing impairment. Rather than relying on anyone’s explanations, I was able to explore independently and focus on my creations.

Thanks to this, I came to treat painting like a close friend, naturally mastering my own working methods through a process of endlessly repeating drawings as if playing a game. Looking back, encountering an educational environment that fit me so well was a stroke of great luck and gratitude.

I met a studio professor who suited my working style and was assigned a small personal workspace. There, I was finally able to begin my solo creative work in earnest. As I established my studio environment one piece at a time, I felt once again that the working methods I had experienced in Eastern painting were better attuned to my senses.

I purchased four inexpensive folding tables from a large home improvement store to use as workbenches, and I spread cloth over them instead of paper. To flatten the wrinkled cloth, I applied a thin, even layer of water using a wide brush.

As the cloth absorbed the water, stretched taut, and neared complete drying, I began drawing. I continued working while slowly observing the process of paint bleeding, soaking, and drying; this approach became my core working technique for about three years thereafter.

Then one day, while working as usual, I noticed line-like crease marks where the tables met, created by the damp cloth. Though it was an accidental line, I did not erase or avoid it; instead, I sought a way to coexist with it as I worked. That is how my unique drawing style began.

That crease line divided the canvas into four spaces, and each space formed a unified surface by establishing relationships with one another.

I began expanding these relationships beyond the canvas itself to encompass all elements that made up the work. Looking at each material—the supporting table, cloth, water, paint, and brush—as equal entities without hierarchy, I allowed them to communicate and relate to one another. This horizontal relationship became the most fundamental principle governing my subsequent artistic work.

Next, I began to view the edge of the cloth as an 'undrawn line.' It was a line that formed the boundary between the inside and outside of the cloth, between the canvas and space. I began exploring how this boundary could meet and relate to the surrounding space and objects.

In this way, I continued working while observing how each individual line connected space and objects. As a result, the drawings and installation works I created came to tell the story of a process in which objects, space, and materials meet within equal relationships to form a single order.

However, starting in my second year, I began to feel that my work leaned closer to architecture than to traditional painting.

Next door to our school was a specialized architecture school where open graduation evaluations were held every semester for anyone to attend freely. I often went there to watch student presentations. However, because the format involved a student presenting followed by a Q&A session with five evaluating professors, it was difficult for me to fully follow the communication process due to my lack of hearing.

Yet, that experience ironically solidified my thinking even further:

'Couldn't a painting also become a form of architecture?'

I began to view objects and spaces through relationships of 'lines,' and the architectural thinking and concept of lines formed in this way became another crucial foundation of my work.

Fortunately, a guest architecture professor visited the school, and I gained the opportunity to work in that atelier.

There were three large empty spaces within the school. I often encountered those spaces while walking through the premises, and at a certain point, they no longer felt like mere empty locations, but rather like supports holding up my work. I was naturally drawn to their structures and sense of space, leading me to execute an installation project hanging large painted canvases in each space.

Connecting three spaces into a single work in this way became my first architectural project. Whereas I had previously worked within a single surface, in this project the entire space became the canvas. I experienced firsthand that as scale expands, the framework of thought expands with it; it was then that I truly came to understand the concept of a 'project' through my body.

I recalled the moment I first accidentally encountered those three spaces. It was both a moment of me discovering the space, and a moment of the space discovering me. I came to think of this relationship as 'discovering–being discovered,' which subsequently became an important starting point for my project works.

At the beginning of my third year, I completed all required credits and qualified to apply for the graduation exam. My heart felt lighter with the thought that I could now fully concentrate on my individual work.

However, the unexpected IMF financial crisis struck. Wanting to relieve even a small portion of the financial burden on my parents, I decided to graduate as quickly as possible and return to Korea rather than take a leave of absence.

The professors advised me that it would be better to take the graduation exam after solidifying the foundation of my work a bit more. Nevertheless, I applied for the graduation exam hastily and began preparing for it alone.

For the graduation exhibition, I further expanded the work I had been pursuing since my Quimper days. The practice of picking up discarded objects from the streets and bestowing new meaning upon them continued.

In Paris, I happened to find a discarded chair with all four legs missing. I brought the chair in, painted it, and installed it on paper. The chair was no longer a piece of furniture for sitting, but became another medium communicating with the work, just like the brushes, cloth, and tables. Through the process of a discarded object transforming into a new form and being placed in an exhibition space, I began to solidify the concepts of 'object-like painting' or 'painterly object.'

I believed that painting and objects were not separated from each other, but could expand while embodying the character of one another. Subsequently, my drawings and paintings began to be reinterpreted within this concept.

Objet is the French word for 'thing' or 'item.' However, an objet in art is not a simple everyday object. When an ordinary item acquires a different meaning within a new context and relationship, it becomes an artwork and an objet. In my practice, I view not only the finished object as an objet, but also the very process through which an object transforms and relates to other materials to create new meaning.

In addition to this, I picked up other discarded items—such as large cylindrical cable drums and large cardboard boxes—transformed them into new objets, and exhibited them together. I also took stones picked up near the school, painted them, and placed them on cloth as if throwing dice.

What was important in this work was not 'drawing' the stone, but the act of placing it and the relationship established by its placement. Neither the painted stone nor the cloth acted as the central focus; instead, they supported each other to form a relationship. I viewed that relationship itself as a painting.

The entire process—from the moment of first discovering the stone, to picking it up, applying color, and placing it on the cloth—was part of the work. That is, I began to understand an objet not merely as a finished physical item, but as the entire process through which it transforms, moves, and forms relationships.

This line of thought gradually expanded to the transformation processes of materials themselves:

The process of crumpled raw cloth absorbing water to swell, and stretching flat again as it dries;

The process of colorless paper and raw cloth acquiring color to transform into a new state;

The process of paint penetrating and transferring through the cloth;

The process of one color transforming into another using cloth as a medium.

All of these were not mere material changes, but objets acquiring new meaning through relationships. To me, an objet no longer meant just a physical thing. It became an entity encompassing objects, materials, actions, time, and the process of change itself.

After finishing the graduation exam and before returning to Korea, I pondered how I could capture the final moment with the wooden table I had shared so much time with as a work of art. I wrapped the entire wooden table in a large painting cloth and secured the back with staples, erecting it as a single objet. This work originated from the relationship of 'covering–being covered.'

This experience subsequently became an important opportunity for me to reconsider why I use canvas panels. I came to realize that each support—the table, cloth, and paint—did not exist as independent materials, but existed within a relationship of supporting and being supported by one another.

My work always begins at the moment where materials and materials, space and objects, and actions and processes meet to form relationships. In the creative process, I tried to accept the given materials and situations as they were, and return the meaning created by that encounter back into the work.

Through these experiences, reciprocal relationships such as 'connecting–being connected,' 'achieving–being achieved,' 'becoming–being made into,' 'stacking–being stacked,' and 'overlapping–being overlapped' became core underlying themes running through my work.

Ultimately, my art was closer to contemplating the very process in which objects, materials, space, and actions meet, form relationships, and transform, rather than focusing on a finished result. That became the most vital starting point explaining the work I have pursued to this day.

_ March 1998: Concluding the Journey in Paris

Before leaving the atelier, I cleared out all my works and received my graduation certificate from the school office. Gathering all my belongings, I left the school, completing my studies three years and five months after entering the Paris National School of Fine Arts. At the end of March 1998, I returned to Korea. It was a return home after exactly five years since leaving for France.

Looking back, those five years were not merely a period of studying abroad. Thanks to the wholehearted support of my parents, good friends, the guidance of professors, and the cultural and artistic environment of France, I learned and experienced a great deal. All of that time became the most precious foundation forming my work today.

_ The Journey Continued After Returning to My Homeland

Even after returning home, the economic situation did not easily recover due to the impact of the IMF financial crisis, and my family's financial situation was also difficult. Finding it hard to secure a separate studio, I set up a work area in a corner of our modestly decorated living room. Wanting to make up for the five years we could not spend together while I was in France, I began a fresh start, carrying on my daily life and artistic work alongside my mother.

For a year after returning, I prepared my portfolio and visited various galleries, but at the time, my artistic world was perceived as unfamiliar and not easily recognized. However, a gallery in Cheongdam-dong evaluated my work highly, saying, "The gallery's direction and the orientation of your work harmonize well." Thanks to that connection, I gained a precious opportunity to hold my first solo exhibition.

In preparing for my first solo show, my immediate concern was materials. Since products similar to the large-home-center paints I used in France were unavailable domestically, I purchased colorants and mixing agents from local paint specialty stores to experiment with material properties directly. I repeatedly observed how paint bled, soaked, and transformed on cloth and paper, coming to accept the properties of the material as an integral part of my work.

To continue the methodology from my Paris graduation exhibition, I used cylindrical cable drums and pallets as support structures, covering them with raw cloth. I purchased raw cloth long enough to drape from ceiling to floor at Dongdaemun Market, and bought large three-ply Xuan paper from an art store in Insadong to carry on further experiments.

The works submitted to my first solo exhibition were all configured around the concept of 'object-like painting'—or in other words, 'painterly object.' It was my first exhibition expanding the artistic vision formed in France within Korean architectural materials and urban environments.

At that time, on my commutes between Ilsan and Seoul, discarded waste frequently caught my eye. Cement slates for roofs, car hoods and trunks, and various industrial waste materials naturally became materials for my work, almost as if they had been waiting for me. I brought them to my workspace, covered them with raw cloth, and used the physical properties of domestic paint to draw lines from one edge to the other, creating new surfaces.

Car hoods and trunks, in particular, were reinterpreted as new painterly objets transcending traditional flat painting. Gallery representatives who saw these works showed great interest, leading to proposals for new exhibitions. However, due to the weight of the pieces and storage difficulties, I gradually scaled back such large-scale works thereafter.

A discarded sink also became an important material for my work. I poured waterproof paint into the empty space of the sink and observed the process of the paint altering according to depth and structure. To me, the changing process itself was an objet, not just the completed form.

Around that time, my father brought home a discarded cylindrical storage container from his company, saying, "Couldn't you use this in your work as well?" Intrigued by its unique cylindrical structure, I attempted to cover it with raw cloth and draw lines across it. Viewing each cylinder as an independent objet, I installed several of them side by side on a wall, developing them into a spatial work. This was my first small-scale project attempted in Korea, which later led to various project works utilizing straight lines and curves.

Starting with my first solo exhibition in 1999, I steadily continued exhibitions and projects for about five years. During this period, I experimented with cutting wooden plywood into pieces using a chainsaw as if drawing, covering the pieces with cloth, and reassembling them. These semi-three-dimensional, relief-like works traversing the boundary between flat plane and three-dimensional space left a fresh impression on viewers.

Afterward, I held a solo exhibition in London, UK, and exhibited works in New York and Singapore as well. Overseas exhibitions were meaningful experiences, but the weight of the three-dimensional works placed a heavy burden on shipping costs. Difficulties also arose during coordination with galleries regarding transportation, ultimately leading me to pause the semi-three-dimensional work I had pursued for several years and return to flat painting. That period allowed me to explore the essence of painting even more deeply.

_ The Genesis of 'Cheom-Cheom'

The work title 'Cheom-Cheom' (添添) was born through this process. Initially, I released all my works as 'Untitled' without giving them titles. However, as exhibitions and international activities increased, I needed names to distinguish the works. One day, I accidentally came across the word 'Cheom-Cheom' in an article. At first, I thought it was a typo for 'Jeomjeom' (gradually), but upon searching, I found it meant 'adding and being added upon.' I felt that meaning fit my working methodology exceptionally well.

When working, I do not simply add unconditionally; depending on the situation, I add, subtract, or sometimes pause. Because all these processes ultimately constitute an 'act of adding,' I felt the term 'Cheom-Cheom' best represented my way of working.

To me, 'Cheom-Cheom' signifies the entire process—from the moment of first encountering an object, drawing architectural lines along boundary edges, and repeating and varying those lines to create new forms of objets. As the bodily acts of adding and subtracting accumulate, a world of 'object-like painting, painterly object' is completed where architecture and painting meet as one.

Initially, I used the name 'Cheom-Cheom-sa-i' (Between Cheom-Cheom), but later simplified it to 'Cheom-Cheom-[Number]', and currently use the English notation 'Cheom-Cheom-[Number]' for international activities.

_ Evolution and Open Lines

Afterward, receiving collaboration proposals from various companies, I carried out a range of collaborative projects. Through these collaborations, I learned to accept others' thoughts and achieve harmony, making my working approach even more flexible. Recently, I have been broadening the scope of my work, naturally traversing still lifes, landscapes, and everyday objects.

Since 2023, another shift has arrived in my work. While helping with my father's design work, I taught myself CAD, and as I participated in actual fabrication and assembly, I internalized the sense of drawing straight lines using a T-square. The T-square imperceptibly became an indispensable tool for me, and I naturally developed an affection for it.

Subsequently, I brought the T-square—which I had become so accustomed to—over my existing curved works. Aligning the T-square with the edge, or boundary line, of the canvas, I began drawing straight lines to the opposite edge. Thus began the process of instilling a straight-line order into work that had been pursued in a curved manner—a process of 're-opening' straight lines over curves.

To me, boundary lines, starting lines, and connecting lines are not lines that block space, but lines that open up new possibilities. These are not lines meant to reveal personal subjectivity, but collective lines created jointly by space, body, and material—and I view them as always-open 'Open Lines.'

Recently, I have been working freely across curvature, linear structure, and figurative representation. As an artist, the happiest moment is when I draw the first line at the edge of the canvas—because that single line opens a new space and creates another plane of creation.

I accept everything I encounter—still lifes, human bodies, moving objects, and various media including social networks—as a singular subject. Deconstructing them, re-establishing relationships, and restoring them into new forms is my work. That process itself is the most enjoyable and happiest time for me.

My interest continues to lead into works exploring the human body.

HEO WOOK (b 1973)

The artist has progressed in the method of <Cheom-Cheom> since his study in Paris and has developed into diverse results. He has expressed his own way of seeing the world and his visual language through the visual arts. In critiques the work is highly appreciated. The artist’s unique and perfect combination of colors, lines, and sides positions it favorably within the contemporary art scene. Since 1997, he has opened several solo exhibitions and participated in various projects, group exhibitions and art fairs. Art markets in New York, Tokyo, Hiroshima, London, Sydney, Beijing, Hong Kong, and Singapore have continuously appreciated his work. The representative projects were from the National Museum of Contemporary Art, Young Eun Museum of Contemporary Art, Clay Art Kimhae Art Museum, Marronnier Museum of Art, Aram Art Center, and Hoban Atrium in South Korea. He recently participated in a corporate collaboration by <McCallan Whisky>, <the Absolute Korea First Bottle Package>, <I WAS PLASTIC>. There he endeavored to enter unto the fields of art and business while expanding his breadth as an installation artist who crosses between architectural painting and public art. He graduated from Yewon School, Seoul Art High School, and Ecole National Superieure des Beaux-Arts (ENSBA) in Paris, France (DNSAP)