There Is No Such Thing as a Red Pepper Dragonfly in the World
세상에 고추잠자리는 없다: 박천
Original text by Cheon Park
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
It is curious that, as autumn deepens, things that are tricky to name begin to catch my eye. My childhood memory—whether it was homework or play, I can no longer recall clearly—of catching dragonflies by the stream is also connected to one of such examples. Back then, we knew nothing of taxonomy, and the language of scientific names had yet to exist in our world. What mattered more was what to call the insect in our hands right away, and so we invented names based on appearance and immediate impression. If the tail was red, it became a “red pepper dragonfly”; if it had a bluish hue, a “water dragonfly”; if it was particularly slender, a “thread dragonfly”. We neither questioned nor justified these names. The form before our eyes came first, and the name, when needed, followed loosely in a haphazard way, yet our world functioned perfectly well. Looking back, names were not all that important. The dragonfly was in my hand, and nothing changed regardless of what we called it. For some reason, encountering the work of Mitchell Pérez Polo evokes a similar feeling. Perhaps it is because we encounter his work now in autumn or because the material he uses as a reference is children’s clay. I doubt whether it is even necessary to recall the image’s original form, rather than simply relying on what it appears to resemble. The image seems to hold that time when the world required no naming to be understood, whatever it may be.
Polo explains that his work is formed through a process that moves from model, through photograph, to painting. As can be seen in his pieces, the forms resemble less a reproduction of nature and more clay figures that anyone might have shaped in childhood. A model is assembled with clay and the byproducts of the making process. It reminds us of a “tree”, yet it is somewhat distant from the form of an actual tree. It is not just an officially imposed interpretation either. A mysterious shape that feels somehow recognizable yet precisely unidentifiable—it is just like most of the trees we used to draw when we were children. Thus, his work lets us simply accept the image itself without any name, rather than trying to determine what the work “actually is”. If it looks like a tree, it is received as a tree; if the word “Un otoño” (An autumn) from the caption appears within the form, then the image is perceived as text. Even without a name to explain it, the image remains there, while language is just hovering before it.
Polo explains that his work is formed through a process that moves from model, through photograph, to painting. As can be seen in his pieces, the forms resemble less a reproduction of nature and more clay figures that anyone might have shaped in childhood. A model is assembled with clay and the byproducts of the making process. It reminds us of a “tree”, yet it is somewhat distant from the form of an actual tree. It is not just an officially imposed interpretation either. A mysterious shape that feels somehow recognizable yet precisely unidentifiable—it is just like most of the trees we used to draw when we were children. Thus, his work lets us simply accept the image itself without any name, rather than trying to determine what the work “actually is”. If it looks like a tree, it is received as a tree; if the word “Un otoño” (An autumn) from the caption appears within the form, then the image is perceived as text. Even without a name to explain it, the image remains there, while language is just hovering before it.
In this way, Polo’s paintings seem to deliberately leave a gap between form and language. The images on the canvas do not lean fully toward either side, but remain somewhere in between. Form comes first and words follow belatedly, yet there is no real need to assign a name. In fact, when names are left empty, the image lingers longer and holds other possibilities. Jean-Henri Fabre, encountered in a biography we had read in childhood, observed the lives of insects more closely than anyone else, yet did not assign any name to them. We cannot know whether this was because he was wholly absorbed in observation or because he simply lacked the opportunity. Anyway, his attitude leaned more toward keeping the meaning open than simply defining existence. Polo’s work resides in a similar context. Forms are presented, but their explanation and interpretation hover around them. We need not forcibly close that gap. The directions an image can hold grow in number only when it is left unexplained. Perhaps that is what makes his paintings linger in our gaze for so long.
2026.5. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. May. 2026. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.
There Is No Such Thing as a Red Pepper Dragonfly in the World
세상에 고추잠자리는 없다: 박천
Original text by Cheon Park
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
It is curious that, as autumn deepens, things that are tricky to name begin to catch my eye. My childhood memory—whether it was homework or play, I can no longer recall clearly—of catching dragonflies by the stream is also connected to one of such examples. Back then, we knew nothing of taxonomy, and the language of scientific names had yet to exist in our world. What mattered more was what to call the insect in our hands right away, and so we invented names based on appearance and immediate impression. If the tail was red, it became a “red pepper dragonfly”; if it had a bluish hue, a “water dragonfly”; if it was particularly slender, a “thread dragonfly”. We neither questioned nor justified these names. The form before our eyes came first, and the name, when needed, followed loosely in a haphazard way, yet our world functioned perfectly well. Looking back, names were not all that important. The dragonfly was in my hand, and nothing changed regardless of what we called it. For some reason, encountering the work of Mitchell Pérez Polo evokes a similar feeling. Perhaps it is because we encounter his work now in autumn or because the material he uses as a reference is children’s clay. I doubt whether it is even necessary to recall the image’s original form, rather than simply relying on what it appears to resemble. The image seems to hold that time when the world required no naming to be understood, whatever it may be.
Polo explains that his work is formed through a process that moves from model, through photograph, to painting. As can be seen in his pieces, the forms resemble less a reproduction of nature and more clay figures that anyone might have shaped in childhood. A model is assembled with clay and the byproducts of the making process. It reminds us of a “tree”, yet it is somewhat distant from the form of an actual tree. It is not just an officially imposed interpretation either. A mysterious shape that feels somehow recognizable yet precisely unidentifiable—it is just like most of the trees we used to draw when we were children. Thus, his work lets us simply accept the image itself without any name, rather than trying to determine what the work “actually is”. If it looks like a tree, it is received as a tree; if the word “Un otoño” (An autumn) from the caption appears within the form, then the image is perceived as text. Even without a name to explain it, the image remains there, while language is just hovering before it.
Polo explains that his work is formed through a process that moves from model, through photograph, to painting. As can be seen in his pieces, the forms resemble less a reproduction of nature and more clay figures that anyone might have shaped in childhood. A model is assembled with clay and the byproducts of the making process. It reminds us of a “tree”, yet it is somewhat distant from the form of an actual tree. It is not just an officially imposed interpretation either. A mysterious shape that feels somehow recognizable yet precisely unidentifiable—it is just like most of the trees we used to draw when we were children. Thus, his work lets us simply accept the image itself without any name, rather than trying to determine what the work “actually is”. If it looks like a tree, it is received as a tree; if the word “Un otoño” (An autumn) from the caption appears within the form, then the image is perceived as text. Even without a name to explain it, the image remains there, while language is just hovering before it.
In this way, Polo’s paintings seem to deliberately leave a gap between form and language. The images on the canvas do not lean fully toward either side, but remain somewhere in between. Form comes first and words follow belatedly, yet there is no real need to assign a name. In fact, when names are left empty, the image lingers longer and holds other possibilities. Jean-Henri Fabre, encountered in a biography we had read in childhood, observed the lives of insects more closely than anyone else, yet did not assign any name to them. We cannot know whether this was because he was wholly absorbed in observation or because he simply lacked the opportunity. Anyway, his attitude leaned more toward keeping the meaning open than simply defining existence. Polo’s work resides in a similar context. Forms are presented, but their explanation and interpretation hover around them. We need not forcibly close that gap. The directions an image can hold grow in number only when it is left unexplained. Perhaps that is what makes his paintings linger in our gaze for so long.
2026.5. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. May. 2026. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.