Shimmering Cracks That Mend a Fragmented World
Jihyung Park | Curator of ThisWeekendRoom
Delicate solidity. Faint clarity. Adjectives that seem incompatible mysteriously settle simultaneously in the work of Sungmi Lee. The exhibition, Blue Hour, refers to the time when dusk cools the earth or when darkness subtly recedes, allowing dawn to emerge. For years, she has revealed the wounds and pains embedded in personal memories through the layering and connections of small images. However, this exhibition demonstrates the gradual expansion of her gaze to embrace the lives of many who pass through the same time and space. This approach resembles the tender light of new greenery, as though a kernel, once shriveled, slowly rises above the surface to shine upon its surroundings. The paradoxical characteristics of her work—drawing broad possibilities from the small, finding firm structures within the trembling—resonate with the multilayered meanings inherent in the blue hour, gradually taking shape.
Fragments of broken objects, remnants of what once was, and thin, transparent hues are recurring motifs that shape her work. Confronted with the debris encountered at the fringes of daily life, Lee reflects on things she has either directly experienced or indirectly come across at some point. The act of gathering these scattered pieces and layering them or creating new cracks in thin surfaces can be seen as a process of filling gaps in memory and purifying emotions. A soft-edged fragment of a dream, the cool fog of a morning, or the fleeting movement of smoke do not vanish; instead, they circulate within her art, gradually acquiring unique forms. Scenes she wishes to cherish and moments she wishes to erase are intertwined, becoming tactile realities. In short, each work is a kind of retrospective testimony and a refined result of bodily sensations that connect to the present. Now, let’s carefully follow her works and observe how her sculptural language expands into a shared narrative.
The first thing one is likely to notice in the exhibition space is an installation suspended from the high ceiling, casting a faint blue light downward. Cloud (Cloud Nine) is a piece created by casting the barbed wire from the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) in transparent resin, with each part carefully suspended to form an amorphous shape resembling a cloud. From afar, it appears as though a veil of subtle color has been draped over the empty space. Yet, on closer inspection, it reveals a cluster of modules of varying lengths and sizes, delicately overlapping and interwoven. The light scattered through the gaps between the pieces moves and sways along with the viewer’s gaze. The sculpture, hovering without fully occupying or disappearing from the space, feels like the shadow of something that has already vanished. The original function of the object, which once solidified the boundaries between two geographical regions, symbolically dissolves among the fragments suspended in midair.
Meanwhile, Drawing of Mass: Sculpture drawing 3 and The Practice of Becoming a Rock, are works where painterly techniques intersect with sculptural approaches. Each object is built upon layers of materials with diverse textures, such as barbed wire, gauze, urethane, and plaster, creating irregular structures. Pigment is applied or sprayed onto the uneven surfaces, leaving traces of chance, while delicate silver foil is draped over and then scraped or rubbed off in a laborious drawing process. The relief-like masses, substantial in thickness and scale, protrude forward or form recessed walls, while relatively smaller sections are scattered across the space like debris from an erupting volcano. These clustered elements fully reveal the meditative, almost ritualistic, nature of her sculptural experiments.
Alongside her three-dimensional works, one should pay close attention to the drawings, which form the foundation of her imagination. Lee’s studio is filled with countless drawings that have never been shown to the public. Like the act of waking up and moving one’s body each day, living today as a continuation of yesterday, each image subtly varies, continuing from the cracks in her everyday life. A particularly prominent shape in her drawings is the circle. The circle, a symbol representing the most ideal state, takes on various forms, sometimes overlapping to resemble clouds as in The Meditation in Paris, or morphing into amorphous, rounded shapes, as seen in the Morning Practice series. Upon closer inspection, one can easily notice that these are meticulously composed of thin lines of color and diluted pigments. Just like in her other works, small individual elements add strength in subtly different ways, moving toward a greater dimension. Additionally, the opaque paper that intermittently covers the surface of the drawings conceals or reveals what is drawn underneath, depending on the surrounding light. This evokes a sense of recalling what has been forgotten or erased in life, surfacing unexpectedly.
The seemingly unbreakable nature of reality shows its cracks all too easily when confronted with invisible system malfunctions, such as the spread of a virus or network errors. Fragmented selves, drifting like ghosts through the flow of time, struggle to find places to settle or communities with which to connect. The artist is aware that this sense of dislocation is not hers alone, but a shared experience felt by many within a broader community. Embracing the cold darkness that lacks the warmth of life, she fills the waiting for the future with art. In this sense, her work embodies an attitude toward the world we dream of. It is the slow, deliberate movement of the body that mends the torn and perforated gaps. The eyes and ears strain to grasp the blurred presence that slips away. Sungmi Lee immerses herself in the silent aspects of a chaotic world, repeatedly calling out to them. Her art, completed within the network of reciprocal relationships among small particles, continues to quietly shimmer, weaving knots of healing.