A Daily Spectator of An Exhibition
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
한 전시를 매일 보는 사람 #1: 정희라
Edited by Hee Ra, Jung
Prologue
The delicate scent of lilac from the museum garden drifted into the window of the curator’s room on the second floor. Late spring was passing by. Act One had ended and another window―and another scent―was waiting for a new person. In May 2024, J resigned from her job where the air was infused with the fragrance of flowers. It was only a few months after she had been promoted to chief curator, following seven years at a private art museum―not quite large, yet not small either―marked by repeated resignation and re-entries. Her colleagues in other departments were curious about the reason she quit. They were expecting a certain answer. J simply said she wanted to be happy. But someone who had once talked with her intimately said to stop talking nonsense and grilled her for the real reason, playfully shaking her arm. Outside of work, J vented to acquaintances and tried to justify her decision. But she soon lost the will to keep explaining, realizing the futility of it all. Eventually, she ended the conversation with a few vague pleasantries. She worried about what to do with her fragmented career―despite its surface appeal as a twelve-year work history. Yet soon, setting aside the idea of doing something with her labeled work experience, she decided to focus on the substance rather than the label. Moreover, she began to think that being a happy unemployed person could be a valid choices, especially as the future might well be an era of unemployment in various forms. In reflecting on her past experiences, she recalled how the influence of “petit” capital in the art sector often made people in the field seem somewhat unnatural. She understood that such dissonance was perhaps inevitable―since art in a capitalist society is, in many ways, a fantasy entangled in complex interests. She repeated to herself that her assumption might indeed be right. By the way, what should I do now? J was not yet aware of the true meaning of being a happy unemployed person. The day after her resignation, she began visiting the library near her home. While going to work, she had always felt short on time whenever she wrote critiques upon external request. Now, she saw this as an opportunity to dive into the research she had long postponed. In her previous role―when planning exhibitions or writing about artists―she had often relied on intuition, later shaping her insights into coherent writing. But J couldn’t shake the feeling that her critiques, often written over just a few days she could barely carve out, were superficial―merely scratching the surface. By the end of each exhibition, after facing the artworks day after day, she often felt she had only just begun to understand the messages they held.
20 Percent of Exhibition
J once had a vague ideal of what a curator should be. But she had long since come to realize that this ideal was just a delusion born in the workplace. The art industry was too fluid to be manualized. Still, there was one absolute rule in the field: the exhibition must open on the scheduled date. Having performed this absolute order around thirty times, J came to realization: exhibitions are strictly born out of relationships, and any specific exhibition is composed of roughly 80 percent external influences and 20 percent internal study. J typically focused on the 20 percent―the part she could fully control. But when she faced the situation that she found herself unable to manage even that 20 percent, or unsure of how to proceed, the anxiety ran deeper. There were exceptions, though―cases where the ratio seemed to be reversed. One such case was an exhibition that explored a publisher’s history of collaboration with artists. The publisher was also the parent company of the art museum. J sought to present the achievements of this corporate body as a public artistic subject, delving thoroughly into the context of these collaborations to highlight what could be told from a macro perspective. She studied books on publishing design from other publishers and took notes on shared messages. She also requested from the publishing staffs who were in charge of the collaboration, all available data and all the mails exchanged between them and the artists. She collected them all. Which parts of the collaboration should be highlighted? How should the material be categorized to form a cohesive subject? How should it be visualized? All her agonizing effort was all about the study. At that time, her employer had low expectations for the exhibition, which ironically granted her unusual freedom to study as much as she liked. The challenge, instead, was the budget. Lower expectations meant less funding. To cut costs, she had to run on foot and make things by hand. Under normal circumstances, this would be exactly the kind of situation curators tried to avoid by securing a sufficient budget in advance. Yet, the exhibition―nurtured by her tireless effort and meticulous care―was a success without any major promotional campaign. Number of group visitors from corporates and educational institutions increased by several multiples. One head of an organization recommended the exhibition to his trainees and visited several times with them. In addition, a personal review, written by a journalist who attended as an ordinary visitor, was later cited in official news articles in the mainstream media. Afterwards, the exhibition was invited to a university library and an arts organization in another region. J still believes this outcome was made possible by the power of study and careful planning. In contrast, when exhibitions were not grounded in study, few staff paid attention to that 20 percent during preparation. Some exhibitions could rely solely on a plausible theme, a trendy topic that is enough to gather visitors, or an artist with public profile and marketability. In such cases, only the curator carried the burden of that missing 20 percent. In J’s experience, it was good for her to receive any expectation on such 20 percent part. Usually, she believed there were many types of exhibitions: some led by the artist, the host institution, the planning concept, or public attention; and another type of them―a marvelous exhibition that were harmonious blends of all those elements. Still, at the center of them all, she believed, were the artworks. The convincing connectivity between the overall theme of an exhibition and its detailed subject comes from the artworks themselves. Movement arises from the conversation between the artworks put in delicate places under the spatial context. J often curated exhibitions where that subtle 20 percent part was not noticeable. But she always felt grateful when someone noticed it sometimes―like finding a hidden candy in a treasure hunt. One day, after finishing an exhibition that had nearly defeated her―where that elusive 20 percent had seemed impossible to achieve―she met a critic. He described in detail how he had recognized her intended themes, the exhibition’s flow, and its context. She felt she could finally breathe again. In that evening, she bumped into another acquaintance.
“I enjoyed the exhibition!”
“Thank you for coming. The artworks are great! What did you think about the other parts?”
“It was an exhibition introducing three artists, wasn’t it? Was there something else to it?”
2025.06. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. June. 2025. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.
A Daily Spectator of An Exhibition
번역: 김미혜
Translated by Mihye Kim
한 전시를 매일 보는 사람 #1: 정희라
Edited by Hee Ra, Jung
Prologue
The delicate scent of lilac from the museum garden drifted into the window of the curator’s room on the second floor. Late spring was passing by. Act One had ended and another window―and another scent―was waiting for a new person. In May 2024, J resigned from her job where the air was infused with the fragrance of flowers. It was only a few months after she had been promoted to chief curator, following seven years at a private art museum―not quite large, yet not small either―marked by repeated resignation and re-entries. Her colleagues in other departments were curious about the reason she quit. They were expecting a certain answer. J simply said she wanted to be happy. But someone who had once talked with her intimately said to stop talking nonsense and grilled her for the real reason, playfully shaking her arm. Outside of work, J vented to acquaintances and tried to justify her decision. But she soon lost the will to keep explaining, realizing the futility of it all. Eventually, she ended the conversation with a few vague pleasantries. She worried about what to do with her fragmented career―despite its surface appeal as a twelve-year work history. Yet soon, setting aside the idea of doing something with her labeled work experience, she decided to focus on the substance rather than the label. Moreover, she began to think that being a happy unemployed person could be a valid choices, especially as the future might well be an era of unemployment in various forms. In reflecting on her past experiences, she recalled how the influence of “petit” capital in the art sector often made people in the field seem somewhat unnatural. She understood that such dissonance was perhaps inevitable―since art in a capitalist society is, in many ways, a fantasy entangled in complex interests. She repeated to herself that her assumption might indeed be right. By the way, what should I do now? J was not yet aware of the true meaning of being a happy unemployed person. The day after her resignation, she began visiting the library near her home. While going to work, she had always felt short on time whenever she wrote critiques upon external request. Now, she saw this as an opportunity to dive into the research she had long postponed. In her previous role―when planning exhibitions or writing about artists―she had often relied on intuition, later shaping her insights into coherent writing. But J couldn’t shake the feeling that her critiques, often written over just a few days she could barely carve out, were superficial―merely scratching the surface. By the end of each exhibition, after facing the artworks day after day, she often felt she had only just begun to understand the messages they held.
20 Percent of Exhibition
J once had a vague ideal of what a curator should be. But she had long since come to realize that this ideal was just a delusion born in the workplace. The art industry was too fluid to be manualized. Still, there was one absolute rule in the field: the exhibition must open on the scheduled date. Having performed this absolute order around thirty times, J came to realization: exhibitions are strictly born out of relationships, and any specific exhibition is composed of roughly 80 percent external influences and 20 percent internal study. J typically focused on the 20 percent―the part she could fully control. But when she faced the situation that she found herself unable to manage even that 20 percent, or unsure of how to proceed, the anxiety ran deeper. There were exceptions, though―cases where the ratio seemed to be reversed. One such case was an exhibition that explored a publisher’s history of collaboration with artists. The publisher was also the parent company of the art museum. J sought to present the achievements of this corporate body as a public artistic subject, delving thoroughly into the context of these collaborations to highlight what could be told from a macro perspective. She studied books on publishing design from other publishers and took notes on shared messages. She also requested from the publishing staffs who were in charge of the collaboration, all available data and all the mails exchanged between them and the artists. She collected them all. Which parts of the collaboration should be highlighted? How should the material be categorized to form a cohesive subject? How should it be visualized? All her agonizing effort was all about the study. At that time, her employer had low expectations for the exhibition, which ironically granted her unusual freedom to study as much as she liked. The challenge, instead, was the budget. Lower expectations meant less funding. To cut costs, she had to run on foot and make things by hand. Under normal circumstances, this would be exactly the kind of situation curators tried to avoid by securing a sufficient budget in advance. Yet, the exhibition―nurtured by her tireless effort and meticulous care―was a success without any major promotional campaign. Number of group visitors from corporates and educational institutions increased by several multiples. One head of an organization recommended the exhibition to his trainees and visited several times with them. In addition, a personal review, written by a journalist who attended as an ordinary visitor, was later cited in official news articles in the mainstream media. Afterwards, the exhibition was invited to a university library and an arts organization in another region. J still believes this outcome was made possible by the power of study and careful planning. In contrast, when exhibitions were not grounded in study, few staff paid attention to that 20 percent during preparation. Some exhibitions could rely solely on a plausible theme, a trendy topic that is enough to gather visitors, or an artist with public profile and marketability. In such cases, only the curator carried the burden of that missing 20 percent. In J’s experience, it was good for her to receive any expectation on such 20 percent part. Usually, she believed there were many types of exhibitions: some led by the artist, the host institution, the planning concept, or public attention; and another type of them―a marvelous exhibition that were harmonious blends of all those elements. Still, at the center of them all, she believed, were the artworks. The convincing connectivity between the overall theme of an exhibition and its detailed subject comes from the artworks themselves. Movement arises from the conversation between the artworks put in delicate places under the spatial context. J often curated exhibitions where that subtle 20 percent part was not noticeable. But she always felt grateful when someone noticed it sometimes―like finding a hidden candy in a treasure hunt. One day, after finishing an exhibition that had nearly defeated her―where that elusive 20 percent had seemed impossible to achieve―she met a critic. He described in detail how he had recognized her intended themes, the exhibition’s flow, and its context. She felt she could finally breathe again. In that evening, she bumped into another acquaintance.
“I enjoyed the exhibition!”
“Thank you for coming. The artworks are great! What did you think about the other parts?”
“It was an exhibition introducing three artists, wasn’t it? Was there something else to it?”
2025.06. ACK 발행. ACK (artcritickorea) 글의 저작권은 필자에게 있습니다. June. 2025. Published by ACK. The copyright of the article published by ACK is owned by its author.