CHA Hyeonwook (b. 1987) has continued a distinctive painting practice that explores the themes of memory, temporality, and personal identity through the acts of collecting and reconstructing. CHA collects personal experiences and memories—both direct and indirect—through constant interaction with the surrounding world, reconstructing them into visual images. For him, memory does not restore events as they were, but rather reappears distorted and condensed according to emotional and circumstantial filters, and is reborn on the surface of his paintings. These fragments of memory accumulate in his works like layers of sediment, forming landscapes. In particular, recurring motifs such as trees and clouds serve as symbols of memory and emotion, reflecting the artist’s sense of being an outsider shaped by his movements across different regions. Memory is not simply a mechanism for preserving the past, but a living fragment that connects the past and present while constructing new futures. Grounded in the materials and techniques of traditional Korean color painting, CHA experiments freely across the boundaries of Eastern and Western painting, developing his own visual language. His work skillfully merges linear expressions derived from the rules of traditional Korean landscape painting with the spontaneity and unpredictability often found in Western painting. By repeatedly layering dry brushstrokes on hanji (traditional Korean paper), he creates surfaces where colors accumulate, leaving behind mark-like traces, while intentionally preventing deep absorption of moisture. Utilizing anchae (water-based pigment made by mixing mineral powders with glue and natural starch) and hobun (white pigment derived from crushed seashells or lime), both traditional Korean painting materials, the artist nevertheless embraces a free and experimental approach in the arrangement of colors and forms. Through this unique method, CHA blurs the boundaries between Korean landscape painting and Western landscape traditions, establishing a painterly language in which landscapes become containers for memory.

CHA Hyeonwook studied Korean painting at Kyungpook National University and completed his M.F.A. at Korea National University of Arts. His major solo exhibitions include Arario Gallery Seoul (Seoul, Korea, 2024), Gallery Playlist (Busan, Korea, 2023), Art Space Euisikju (Seoul, Korea, 2022), Daegu Culture and Arts Center (Daegu, Korea, 2018), and Cheongju Art Studio (Cheongju, Korea, 2015). He has participated in numerous group exhibitions at Kumho Museum of Art (Seoul, Korea, 2022), Daegu Art Factory (Daegu, Korea, 2020), Jeonnam International Ink Biennale (Jeonnam, Korea, 2018), Daegu Art Museum (Daegu, Korea, 2017), among others. He received the “Young Artist of the Year Award” (Daegu Culture and Arts Center, 2018) and the Excellence Award in the “4th Gwangju Hwaru: 10 Artists” (Gwangju Bank, 2020). His works are included in the collections of the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Korea; Daegu Art Museum; Seoul National University Museum of Art; and others.

Can you tell us about your background and how you started your artistic journey?

I was born in Busan, a port city in South Korea. However, I didn’t grow up near the sea. In the neighborhood where I was raised, there was the wide Nakdong River instead of the ocean, and since the area hadn’t been heavily urbanized at the time, it was surrounded by beautiful natural scenery. I lived there with my father, who was an artist, and my warm and loving mother. My father’s studio and his fellow artist colleagues exposed me naturally to art, and for me, drawing became a part of everyday life—almost like a favorite game.

In that way, drawing became my most enjoyable pastime and a daily habit. However, in my late teens, there was a period when I lost interest in drawing. This was largely due to the college entrance exam preparation process for art school, during which drawing came to feel like a mere “means to an end.” I developed a sense of resistance, as it felt like my drawings were being used as tools for a specific purpose.

Then one day, I happened to visit a studio for traditional East Asian painting and encountered sumuk-danchehwa (ink-and-light-color traditional Korean painting), which introduced me to an entirely new way of drawing. That moment led me to decide to major in Korean traditional painting, and I began drawing once again.

After entering university, I studied traditional ink painting and color painting. Among these, I found myself especially drawn to sumukhwa (traditional ink painting), particularly sansuhwa (traditional landscape painting). What fascinated me was that it wasn’t merely about depicting nature—it was also about how people viewed nature, and more broadly, how people in the past understood and represented the world they lived in.

After completing my military service and returning to school, I went through a period of doubt about my future as an artist, primarily due to the practical need to make a living after graduation. I began studying traditional architecture with the goal of obtaining a certification as a cultural heritage restoration technician. Though I found architecture study engaging, what intrigued me even more was learning how people in the past embraced and utilized what we now call “tradition.” Rather than simply adhering to established styles, they constantly experimented and sought innovation in their architectural practices.

It was during this process that I thought back to ink landscape painting. I didn’t want to merely imitate historical styles and stay confined within them—I wanted to depict the world I live in and experience, using my own visual language

How do you stay inspired and motivated to create new work?

I find motivation through the stories of people who, like me, observe and explore the world. I’m deeply inspired by the working methods and attitudes of novelists, poets, and painters—their unique ways of seeing the world resonate with me and leave a lasting impression.

Lately, I’ve also been drawn to the ways of thinking found in Buddhism, the humanities, and the sciences. At the intersection of these disciplines, I find a common focus on the human experience. Listening to the diverse ways in which people explore the world makes me feel as though I am part of an ongoing conversation—as if I’m piecing together fragments of their stories with fragments of my own memory. This process becomes a joyful time of imagination and reflection for me. Even when I haven’t lived through their experiences directly, I feel my own life naturally interwoven with their stories, especially since they often touch on people and nature.

Recently, I happen to hear about a self-reflective writing by a former humanities scholar and former politician who began studying science later in life. I was deeply impressed by this because for me, connecting pieces of someone else’s story with my own memories is a form of solidarity—it’s a communal act and a way of understanding both the world and myself. Through this ongoing process, I continuously encounter new questions, which I express through my paintings.

How has your artistic style evolved over time?

In the early stages of my career after graduating from university, I focused on sumukhwa (ink painting). In 2013, my early works depicted fragments of natural landscapes. Rather than pursuing realistic representation, I expressed the emotions evoked by nature through abstract lines and forms.

However, around 2017, while living in an environment increasingly removed from nature, I began to question whether continuing this approach was still meaningful. In response, I turned my attention to the events and places in my immediate surroundings and began depicting them through sumukhwa. What intrigued me most was portraying nighttime scenes—not the daylight filled with brightness, but the “night roads” I walked after finishing work and heading home. In the darkness, I experienced deeper emotions and, through expressing unseen shadows, I rediscovered the freedom of drawing.

As I continued to follow the theme of darkness, I eventually began observing the night sky beyond Earth’s atmosphere through a telescope. What fascinated me was that the images emerging from this darkness were often rooted in my past memories.

After my solo exhibition in 2018, I decided to pursue graduate studies and moved to Seoul. Having worked alone since completing my undergraduate degree, I had begun to feel a sense of limitation, and I wanted to gain a new perspective through study before it was too late. At that time, I made a conscious decision: “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a traditional Korean painting program—what matters is finding a place where I can seek answers to my questions.” This naturally narrowed down my options within Korea, and I was drawn to the Painting Department at Korea National University of Arts.

Another reason I chose to enter the painting program was that I wanted to find my own answers to a few recurring questions I had been asked since the beginning of my practice: “How long will I continue painting in ink?” “Why don’t I use color?” “Why do I insist on using hanji (traditional Korean paper)?” For me, the tonal gradations of ink already contained a richness of color, and the material qualities of hanji and ink—precisely because they don’t overtly emphasize physicality—were more compelling. So I had always dismissed these questions as self-evident. However, one question lingered: “If I were to use colors beyond those found in ink, how can these be applied as an artist?”

I also wanted to directly engage with the theoretical discourse happening in the contemporary art scene. Through that engagement, I began to reconsider traditional East Asian painting within the context of contemporary painting. In this era where the boundaries between East and West are increasingly blurred, I believe that understanding and reinterpreting each other’s modes of expression remains a highly relevant and infinitely promising area. This belief also aligns with my personal approach to life: rather than being bound by convention, I aim to persuade myself through my own vision and language.

Through this process, I began to step away from ink painting and experiment with color painting. In terms of technique, I started building multiple layers while ensuring the physical thickness of the paint remained invisible. I also explored ways of impressing marks into hanji using pressure rather than paint alone. Gradually, I came to the realization that “memory”—in all its imperfect uniqueness—can collapse the boundaries between past, present, and future. I continue this practice today, one that brings tradition into the present while simultaneously reaching toward the future.

In what ways do you see your practice as a dialogue between Eastern and Western painting traditions?

My work unfolds at the intersection of traditional elements and contemporary sensibilities. It reflects a pursuit of greater freedom from formal conventions, influenced in part by Western art, while simultaneously retaining aspects of East Asian painting—particularly in the way I depict subjects through specific landscape forms and emphasize distinctive lines found within them.

This dual tendency constantly interacts within my practice, transforming and overlapping to generate new forms. Through this ongoing process, I aim to explore and express how we understand and relate to the present moment. As a result, I see my work as resembling the landscape of Korea itself—a space where tradition and modernity coexist, producing both harmony and dissonance, always poised on the boundary between the two.

What challenges have you faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

Living as an artist can sometimes feel like knocking on a massive stone wall. Society’s values and systems are not designed with the artist at their core. The art world is no exception, and it took me a long time to fully grasp and accept that reality.

Perhaps because of my inherently individualistic nature, I’ve also sometimes struggled with human relationships, both significant and minor. At times, I’ve found myself unsure whether these challenges stemmed from my profession as an artist or from my own personality. Maybe that’s why I feel drawn to nature, why I seek it out and observe it so closely.

Nature doesn’t offer answers to my worries or cries, nor does it demand anything from me. It simply, quietly—like the sound of the wind—reminds me to “listen to your own voice.” And so I often return to it, carrying those landscapes within me, and finding courage there.

There is also someone who always helps me reflect on myself: my spouse. The conversations we share, and her gentle attention, are like both a mirror and a safe haven for me. Through her, I’m able to see my own thoughts and emotions more clearly.

Lastly, the unconditional love and support I’ve received from my parents has given me the strength to face the many hardships that come with being an artist—without wavering, and with quiet resolve. The presence of my family, the silence of nature, and the time shared with the person I love are my greatest sources of comfort and resilience.

What advice would you give to emerging artists trying to establish themselves?

I’m not sure I’m in a position to offer advice, knowing full well the dedication and intensity of their efforts. But these are words I continue to remind myself of even now, so I’d like to share them.

It’s important to stay attuned to the currents of the times. Admiring and aspiring to be like the artists who receive attention is perfectly natural. However, at the center of that precious time—marked by inevitable trial and error—I hope you always place your own voice. Critique yourself, praise yourself, and observe with care and affection how you grow and change over time.

Text & photo courtesy of CHA Hyeonwook and Arario Gallery

Website: https://www.chahyeonwook.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/huc_works/