Yva Jung

Travelling by Jonathan Watkins

Interview with Fatos Ustek

A Response by Mathelinda Nabugodi

Monday Morning by Emily Watkins

This is an excerpt taken from a text written by Jonathan Watkins, Director of Ikon Gallery. It was published in full in Yva Jung’s catalogue entitled “Mooning Monday” on the occasion of her solo show at KCCUK.


Travelling
Jonathan Watkins
Director of Ikon Gallery

I travel a lot, and so does Yva Jung.

I am in a hotel room as I write this, in far north of Norway, where four years ago Jung was part of group of artists, writers and musicians selected by The Arctic Circle Residency. It is an ideal place to think about travelling and what it means, for this is Sami country, a place suffused with nomadic culture.

The hotel has a small library including a book of Sami proverbs, Time Is A Ship That Never Casts Anchor. I am leafing through the pages and quickly find some un-home-spun inspiration, such as “It is better to be on a journey than to stay put at one place” and “A flying bird will always find something, a bird that only stays home will find nothing.”

As a preface to The Arctic is Not Too Far From Her(e), a book published as a result of her northern adventure, Jung quotes Jesus’ instructions to his twelve disciples from Luke, chapter 9: “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor money; and do not have two tunics.” More recently, she starts a letter, published here, in the same vein:

You are on your journey; you are on your way.

You move, come and go but never arrive.
You don’t want to.
You move and look.


This is part of a transcript of a conversation between Yva Jung and Fatos Ustek – Fig-2 curator, currently Director of DRAF. It was published in full in Yva Jung’s catalogue entitled “Mooning Monday” on the occasion of her solo show at KCCUK.


FATOS: Would you perhaps start describing what were your intentions in bringing such an exhibition together? The way in which you have included new works with existing works [becomes] almost like a group show of your various productions within one solo manifestation. Can we start with what was the underlying thinking of the show?

YVA: The primary idea for choosing the works for the show was how to compose an exhibition, not as a collection of the works that I have made before but more so, how to treat the exhibition as a work. So when I thought about the works that could be included in the show and also the order of the works and the space between works, I was thinking about them as one piece, rather than a collection or jumble of pieces. (…) it was really important to bring these fragmented pieces into one narrative.

A lot of my practice is based on journeys that I have been doing. I wanted to create a sense of journey for the audience when they move from one work to the next.


This is the full text written by Mathelinda Nabugodi, Research Associate at Newcastle University, in response to Yva Jung’s solo show at the KCCUK. It was published in Yva Jung’s catalogue entitled “Mooning Monday” on the occasion of her solo show at KCCUK.


A Response
Mathelinda Nabugodi
Research Associate, Newcastle University

At the entry a map is waiting for you. It is beautiful, but slightly too big to handle comfortably. It is two-sided. On the one side photographs of the artworks, on the other their titles. You consider how it would look on your kitchen wall (or maybe behind the bedroom door?), but you are not certain of how to transport it home. It takes a bit of awkward turning the sheet back and forth before you realise that the map does not map the exhibition space in front of you. The mapmaker has played a joke on you. The map is an entry point: not to the room you stand in, but to an imaginary space slightly askew off the Korean Culture Centre’s exhibition room. You can enter the show at any work, and at every work you enter it anew. No work stands alone here, rather the works echo one another, repeating images, motifs, shapes, trajectories. These interrelations turn the exhibition as a whole into a singular work of art. The map shows you one way in which the works come together – composed and juxtaposed – but your journey through the exhibition space is your own way of collecting the various artworks into one work of art. Map in hand, you are ready to get underway.

The first thing many will notice is a video with a rotating spoon. The projection is oval, bringing a keyhole to mind. The spoon is so clean that it reflects like a mirror, but unlike a usual mirror that reflects the viewer back at herself this spoon reflects an image of the artist holding a camera. As it alternatingly turns its concave and convex sides towards you, the mirror image is stretched out, turned upside down, then right side up, then upside down again. The eye of the camera remains firmly anchored in the middle of these alternating reflections. This is the camera that records the spoon. But it is also the camera that records the video with mum, the camera that is placed in the Arctic, the camera that hides in an elevator while Jung wanders around a library or a shopping mall with her yellow suitcase. While we only catch a glimpse of it in the video with a spoon, the camera is present as the voyeuristic gazer in most of the works. It is the camera that allows us to see the art that Jung has performed elsewhere.

As you meet the camera-eye’s gaze in the rotating spoon, you hear a thump. To the left of you a video is beginning. A knife cuts a bun. This is the first and last you will see of this bun as the view soon shifts to a bedroom scene. On the bed you see Jung, dressed in comfy clothes, and her mother. The scene is private. They sit facing each other. They are about to do art. Yes, art. One should not be seduced by the casual intimacy of the moment, as Jung’s mother momentarily is when she giggles and asks whether this really is Jung’s work. The mother’s question alerts us to the everyday nature of Jung’s practice: Jung does not use pretentious materials or high-flown rhetoric. She records a spoon. She blows up a balloon with her mother. She balances on a slope in the Arctic with an apple on her head. She throws the apple into a toilet. Yet the banality of her chosen objects is also their mystery – the mystery of all art perhaps. At the end of the video, mother and daughter confusedly look at one another, not knowing what happens next. You may giggle and wonder together with Jung’s mother: is this really art? But maybe it is precisely that which makes us ask this question that teaches us what art is.

Moving on. On the other side of the projection screen you encounter suitcases. On your left a stack of five suitcases; on your right, at the end of the passage formed by the large windows and a plaster wall, you see a single suitcase on the floor. This suitcase is the first in a series of four. Four suitcases suspended in mid-air. All these are not suitcases that can be used. They are wooden replicas of a yellow suitcase that Jung carried around the world. For her journey she filled it with artworks by other artists, but the suitcase itself was an artwork. (Just like this exhibition consists of many artworks whose composition becomes an other artwork.) In ‘Private View of the Organic Openings’ Jung divulges the suitcase’s secret – by letting it accidentally fly open, she lets art loose upon unsuspecting strangers. But this is not your usual vernissage, with sour wine and dry canapés. This staged accidental exhibition gives the audience a glimpse into what is usually hidden: the contents of someone’s bag. By scattering them over a staircase or an escalator, Jung offers the passers-by a glimpse of her transportable gallery. The ones who are kind enough to stop and help are rewarded by becoming part of the work they have just unknowingly beheld. They are also caught by her camera’s gaze.

‘A Cache of Monday’ is a leftover work. It is created from scraps of footage Jung discarded when creating the other works on display. In this sense ‘A Cache of Monday’ is found in-between them, pulled out of the crevices of Mooning Monday. Cache is a form of memory storage, here the memories are caught, stored, and restored in a new story. Any artist that works with memory uses time as her medium. Time rather than a canvas or a slab of marble. The remembered is carried through time, from past to present. Simultaneously, the challenge of preserving the artwork through time arises. How to make its remembered time persist. How to document it. The document points backwards in time, the artwork is here in the now. Mooning Monday has it both ways; it both documents something past and presents something new. The exhibition consists of videos and objects: the videos document earlier performances, the objects appear as if flown out of these videos. But these objects are here, now, with us in the room: the wooden suitcases, the apple that rolls through panes of Perspex glass not only repeat motifs, they remember what we have seen.

The objects that Jung records are remarkably ordinary: grass, a spoon, an apple, a balloon. Merely by pausing, Jung releases their inner poetry. Her composed attention turns them into works of art. With her camera she captures an object in a moment in time and allows us to return to the object and so also to that moment. We are in-between present and past. More precisely, we are in-between present and multiple pasts as the same object remembers itself in different works. Obviously it was not the same apple that was used in the scene in the Arctic, as was dropped into a toilet, as was imprinted into a Perspex pane. But in an important sense it is the same apple. It is an apple that has fallen out of the everyday world and into Jung’s artistic practice. It travels through the different materials that she works in: plastic, wood, video. At times it has even appeared as an apple – as the real, organic, crunchy, edible thing. But the apple that falls through the works in this exhibition also echoes the apple that fell on Newton’s head and revealed to him the secret of gravity. Just like gravity keeps the planets in check, so the objects of Mooning Monday are held together by the gravitational force of Jung’s imagination.

Mother and daughter are blowing up the same balloon. A balloon that also makes its way to the Arctic. Whereas an apple falls, a balloon swells. Another balloon that Jung once made had two mouthpieces. The balloon is a receptacle for breath. Its filling and emptying out is a cycle that mirrors the most fundamental cycle, that of life. Nor is it coincidental that the pale-white sphere of Jung’s balloon resembles the moon, a shape also emerging in the woody surface of the four suitcases that hang suspended at the end of the passage. Walking towards the suitcases you pass by an over-size photograph mounted on what resembles a giant ‘To Let’-Board. The vast vista of the Arctic shown on the photograph distracts from the outline of the board it is placed on. By putting the board in the gallery, Jung emphasises not the commercial message it sells (‘Premises To Let’) but its shape: it looks like a book so widely open that its spine is bent backwards. The board is another everyday object turned into art. And since it carries the same photograph on both its sides, this wide-open bookboard is also a mirror turned inside out. It is another mirroring surface where you find not yourself, but the artist reflected back at you.

A flight of stairs is a staircase; here we find the staircase next to a flight of suitcases. The two pieces are visual rhymes. And so it is with the words of this exhibition – they are as intricately linked through their sounds as through their recurring motifs. Spoon, balloon, moon. Jung assures me that she does not chose objects because they rhyme. She begins with the concrete, visual thing. The rhymes are found later, after the object has travelled through the artistic idea and into language. Jung approaches the English language like an explorer. She sounds its depths for words that sound the same, that sound differently, that mean similar things or several things at once. It is no coincidence that the staircase is called ‘Two Story from the Last Century,’ echoing a two story structure that Jung erected at the Beijing Biennale. That artwork told two stories over two storeys: ‘One Room Blow’ and ‘The Arctic isn’t Too Far from Her(e).’
Both of these are also told in the Mooning Monday exhibition, however, here they mean something new. Each retelling turns the same story into different stories.

Monday is etymologically a Moon-day. A Monday that moons is a day that acts out the origin of its name. But by calling her exhibition Mooning Monday, Jung also locates the visual rhyme hidden within the Monday. In the short story ‘Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,’ Jorge Luis Borges conjures up a planet called Tlön. The remarkable thing about its language is that it has no nouns. Hence ‘there is no word corresponding to the noun moon, but there is a verb to moon or to moondle.’ This verbalised use of the word moon offers a way of reading the exhibition’s title: its mooning is synonymous with moondling. Jung’s white balloon moondles as it fills with air. The flight of suitcases moondles as the round sphere emerges out of them. While the cycles of the moon are said to regulate the female cycle and make women moody, here moondling is a mood that devotes attention to the poetic hidden in the everyday. This journey consists of moondling around. A mood in which you go to the Arctic to play with apples and balloons. A mood in which you spin a spoon to capture your reflection in it. A mood that spurs you to pluck the hairs off a raspberry, one by one. The pincers that pull the hairs off the raspberry also prick us with the subtle touch of Jung’s humour. This is present in all of the works on display: in its puns and rhymes, in her mother’s giggle, in the absurd jottings of the atheist old man, or the yellow suitcase that not-so-accidentally flies open in the middle of a shopping centre.

Falling suitcases, falling apples, rotating spoons, rising balloons, jumps into the air, falls onto the floor: this exhibition is in motion. Not simply ascent or descent. Neither circulation nor spiralling. It is a motion around its own axis, but an axis that is continually shifted by the very motion which describes it. Once Jung pointed out to me that the constellations in the sky do not simply consist of the stars’ positions relative to one another – we also need our perspective from planet Earth in order to perceive the relations between the stars. Earthbound as we are, we are also a constitutive element of the starry constellations. In this constellation of works, we the viewers provide the perspective from which we can spot the relations between them. The astronomer orders the heavens by arranging the scatter of stars into constellations; this exhibition presents an array of works which the viewer has to arrange into a story.

The story Mooning Monday tells is the story you see as you explore the exhibition. It is the story of you. But who is this ‘you’ whom we are here apostrophising? Is it you? Or me? Is it the young woman we see in the artworks, the young woman who is the artist herself (in other words, the Jung woman)? Repeatedly we come face to face with a young woman on a journey. She is often alone. She does not appear to have a destination, but neither does she seem to be running from her point of origin. There is no nostalgia, no longing: neither for a goal nor for home. Yva Jung is a Korean artist working in the UK, but her imaginary journeys do not map onto her biographical journey from Seoul to London – via New York, Montreal, and the Arctic. Instead her art explores the state of journeying itself, being in-between. Such journeys are not aimless but they have no aim: they are undertaken not to arrive but for the sake of journeying itself. The stories they tell are not those of any particular you, nor of any particular me. They may be the stories of the young woman we see in the films, but her story is the story of every traveller. This is a journey, you have been given a map – now it is time to get underway.


Jorge Luis Borges, ‘Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius’ in Ficciones (New York: Grove Press, 1962)
transl. by Anthony Kerrigan.

This is the full version of the text written by Emily Watkins, who is an independent arts writer based in London, in response to Yva Jung’s solo show entitled “Monday Morning” at the Storefront/Departure Lounge in Luton, 2019. It was available at the exhibition in both printed word and audio formats.


Monday Morning On Yva Jung
Emily Watkins

Spoon rhymes with moon. Moon, incidentally, is cognate with the Mon of Monday – we start each week with the moon’s day. Meanwhile: mourning; morning. Mooning, nooning. Playful homophones, half-rhymes and double meanings swing through the practice of artist Yva Jung with their own logic, as malleable and (in)consistent as the lunar cycles which inspire it. A pleasure, for a writer as much as her audience, narrative lines coalesce and disintegrate only to be picked up between pieces; an exhibition of Jung’s work is a story. To begin at the recurring beginning, here is Monday Morning.

Jung’s survey, Monday Morning at Departure Lounge in Luton, runs elegant rings around its walls. The eponymous work, lending the exhibition its title and central conceit, is characteristically palimpsestic – drawn from a year-long performance, via drawing and story-telling, ‘Monday Morning’ is a video work charting the artist’s project ‘Morning Dew’. Each Monday, for one calendar year, Jung rose early to collect dew from nearby grass. Its receptacles are various; pistachio shells, contact lenses, syringes and envelopes all proved ready recipients for her quarry. The documentation of Jung’s dew collection process is methodical; ‘Monday Morning’ sees the harvest filmed from the same angle (close: her hand in the frame is as our own) again and again – a kind of highlights reel, birthed from a quiet labour. What is dew for? What does one do with it? Well, one might exchange it – for stories, and those stories for drawings. In advance of this exhibition, Jung bartered her hard-won dew for tales, songs, and personal accounts with the public in Luton’s town mall. The transactions have been translated into a series of new works on paper: ‘Morning Stories’, name incarnate. Their pinning to a gallery wall sees the cycle of exchange take concrete form; the display of ‘Story Records’ – a desk worn during Jung’s performance and now occupying the gallery floor – compounds the work’s ghostly drift, concept to object and vice versa.

Cycles – mundane and mythic both – recur throughout Jung’s oeuvre. ‘Half Moon Piece’, arcing soft as any space landing, takes the moon’s dependable trajectory as generative constraint for an installation composed of vials; rain; menisci. Here is a kind of translation – from lunar language to water, the waxing and waning of our starring satellite charted with the delicate accuracy of a pipette and glass tubes. Their fullnesses, and emptinesses, correspond to the moon’s – over those 52 Mondays, and while Jung was collecting dew, the heavens had their own agenda. We count a different way: in its simplest terms, Jung’s ‘Half Moon Piece’ is a bid to reconcile our rigid seven-day system with the moon’s ancient rhythm. Whether you’re Camp Astrology or Team Gregorian, the impulse to count our days down – to divide them into equal parts, find ways to measure the profoundly experiential – is hard to shake. Birthdays; holidays; anniversaries. Seasons: slippery.

‘First Day of Spring’ was created, fittingly, on March 20th 2019. Again leaning into the hard-and-fast rules of a cruel calendar to carve space for the essential human, this video work animates the ritualistic excising of lines from obituaries. Once a month, for one year, Jung scoured newspapers for resonant extracts. This practice grew without a work of film in mind; on the contrary, Jung’s dive into death records began following her own father’s passing. Each snippet represents one month further, another 30-or-so days beyond, the incident itself. It is comforting, in moments of deep grief, to look to the collective human experience. It is true that the most universal feelings are expressed most clearly in their specificities. June 20th: ‘Mary loved’. July 20th: ‘always, everyday.’ August 20th: ‘and needlepointing.’ September 20th: ‘lingers on.’ She does, doesn’t she? The video holds its text shifting-central, layered above the hands which bring each surface down upon the last. As there is strange common ground in grief, so the slippage of one life sits on top of the other. What would you write about someone, and how different would it be to how you felt? What is the gap between the deceased and The Deceased – between idea and mediated reality? October 20th: ‘William was’. November 20th: ‘Our beloved’. Some turns of phrase are par for the course: he will be missed. ‘years old.’ can be applied to anyone past their first birthday. Other excerpts are heart-breaking in their pointed specificity, ‘Spring. Dad.’, or significant for their call-back to a shared understanding: ‘on Monday’. After the papers comes the snow; December, ice from the sky – what was that about new life, and hope? After the snow comes the papers, more coherent now: a new year, and full circle. March 20th: ‘George died after a brief battle with cancer. He was 88 years old.’ Flipping, 2009 to 2008: ‘Snow on the First Day of Spring. Dad.’

Bids to grasp the ungraspable, define the indefinable, connect Jung’s dew work with her obituary project and with strands of her practice more widely. Monday morning is an idea, but dew – early, wet, cold-ankled and en-route – is tangible. Manifest anew each day, it disappears as sunrise melts into afternoon: reappearing like clockwork, dew’s here-and-gone-again ticks as reliably as any timekeeper. ‘Morning Dew’ is to Monday morning as relief is to a Friday night – of, not in. Jung’s practice verges on poetry, in this crux of itself: the quiet transmutation of what ought to be ineffable into artefact. A magic trick, or synaesthesia. We know (and we do not know) how grief feels – but, manifest, how does it look?

‘Two Buoys Two Void’, a c-print photograph, stages a simple proposition in answer to that impossible question. Jung and her mother are pictured from behind, facing away from the camera and leaning on each other via two buoys. They both hold the women up and separate them: two voids. Wrangling again with Jung’s loss of her father, his absence here is at once filled and underscored by the spheres. Lunar in their stillness and size, the top buoy’s position between two heads implies a third whilst highlighting its not-there-ness. Grief is delicate; grief is self-compounding. It relies on external structures, independent forces and occurrences, to flourish. By its very nature, grief is inside and outside at once; just as the buoys are held by bodies, so they hold those bodies in place and apart. We can see these objects, and via their physical properties the metaphysical presence of a much larger idea is summoned. ‘Two Buoys Two Void’ is a photograph of what we cannot see: the invisible translated into visible language.

This careful doubling, more sketch study than blueprint, extends beyond individual works to the investigation of their ideas across mediums. Many of Jung’s ‘Monday Morning’ pieces have a sibling, either part of the exhibition or in her wider practice. Conceits are revisited, as though from different angles, and their themes considered anew: ‘Spooning the Moon’, a video from Jung’s Florence Trust residency, unites the family tree. Part of the ‘moon clan’ (see ‘Half Moon’, ‘Two Buoys Two Void’ and the monthly rhythm of ‘First Day of Spring’), ‘Spooning’ is likewise a child of Jung’s concern with language and translation. It springs from a line of Eudora Welty’s: “The word ‘moon,’ came into my mouth as though fed to me out of a silver spoon. Held in my mouth the moon became a word.”

Twist to wane and back to wax. Jung’s film sees a series of spoons held in front of the moon, allowing its light into the frame to lesser or greater extents as holes in their surfaces appear and disappear. Spoon rhymes with moon, sure – but the rhymes here are as visual and conceptual as they are linguistic. The silver disc of spoon above-below the moon’s orb, and a roundness in the words themselves, conspire to materialise Welty’s hallucinatory prose. Moving from word to object and back again, the oral primacy of eating and speaking push recipe into poetry, communication into nourishment; the impossibility of translation expands beyond languages and encompasses the passing of ideas through syllables. Jung’s writing on a version of this slippage, moving from her native Korean to English, sheds some (moon)light: “The experience of being in between places and being exposed to possible misunderstanding (via speaking the second language) led me to be conscious of the element of language in my work, in particular, naming the artwork.” In her PhD thesis, the artist explains how, “just as foreigners speak with a particular accent, which is an audible overlap between the native and foreign language, [she] explore[s] the misplaced and overlapped perceptions through art.”

If artwork has an accent, Jung’s is barely audible. In those overlaps, inter-ideas and between works, are hints of a student working on their conjugation: take ‘Two Buoys Two Void’ and ‘First Day of Spring’, which share a kind of conceptual suffix. The artist’s loss of her father is approached for a third time in the blind embossing ‘Monday Mourning’ – call it a second-person exercise in the same verb table. Its writing is almost invisible, suggesting itself from one side of its paper to the other, but the shared aesthetics of font and its textual medium rhyme with the obituaries in ‘First Day of Spring’. The moon hovers in the paper’s texture, crater shadows cast in its embossing. Thematic sibilance abounds in the thread of personal loss, held tight as Jung’s linguistic trompe l’oeil, Mourning/Morning.

Last in Jung’s Monday Morning story – and fittingly, most quiet – are her wooden ‘suitcases’. ‘Brief Pause’ and ‘Mooning Monday’, both from a series, are displayed in the gallery’s storefront window and alongside ‘Story Records’ respectively. On first inspection, they look a lot like their moniker might imply: roughly the right size and shape, sturdy and in context, the structures encapsulate Jung’s generous sleight of hand with characteristic insouciance. Bulging from one side, each case implies its impossible contents. A pregnant belly – nine months, forty Mondays – or something bigger? It’s one thing to have stars in your eyes, or the world at your feet – but here’s a new idiom. Here’s the moon in your suitcase. Jung’s practice hinges on a subtle staging of her works almost as physical synonyms for their titles – and yet, in this simplest of conceits, layers of meaning stack rather than fall away. Each piece, a deliberately incomplete answer to its implied question, what is a moon? Dew? Grief? Via a kind of idea-echolocation, Jung tests bounce-backs to eliminate one false certainty after another: truth, by process of elimination. What we’re privy to is the process.


Emily Watkins is an independent arts writer, based in London. Her articles and interviews have featured in international publications including Apollo and Harper’s Bazaar Art.