Minah Kim’s solo exhibition, Parallax, is the culmination of a three year-long residency at The Clay Studio. During this time, Kim dedicated herself to nourishing her ceramic practice and her artistic interests regarding the human condition–investigating and questioning the emotional undercurrents to our experiences as living, social creatures seeing and being seen by others. During the residency, Kim took research trips to Warsaw, Poland and Gwangju, South Korea, where she spoke with survivors of political conflicts and cultivated a deeper, emotional understanding of what remains at stake, within the periphery of, below and above the surface in moments of loss, turmoil, and conflict. Parallax is thematically grounded in the psychic and emotional conditions of our human experiences: grief, sorrow, trauma, and loss. Assuming a natural empathy for others, the show investigates our inclinations to see and recognize another person’s lived experiences despite the inability to truly realize their perspectives and experience their subjectivities.
Parallax is defined as the “effect whereby the position or direction of an object appears to differ when viewed from different positions.” The effect is reimagined in Kim’s exhibition; ceramic sculptures are positioned on either side of the titular piece, a white 3D-printed screen, where the viewer must look through the holes of a literal obstructive force that prohibits a clear view of the other side. As the viewer, we are the outsider perceiving the sculptures experiencing their isolated acts of grief and loss on the opposite side of the screen–figures that represent the other that we can not fully know. The Parallax screen is a tangible manifestation of the inability to understand the other holistically–an imaginary partition that physically separates us from the other and evokes the distance felt when we try to see the other’s perspective while not being able to experience the event ourselves. While Kim has relied on real accounts from her research trips and conversations with survivors of political violence, she does not depict specific people of specific events. The pieces are observed and created through Kim’s perspective, serving as emotional and psychic reifications of grief and loss. They are suggestive of the ongoing inability to see the other clearly on account of the parallax produced by the Parallax partition. Consequently, the ceramic sculptures appear ambiguous and unfamiliar–stripped down to the most raw and basic evocations of the human experience–fueling the narrative of the outsider and the radical difference, separation, and isolation from the other in this highly tense and tumultuous moments of conflict, grief, loss, and sorrow.
Kim utilizes colors, body gestures, textures, and makes stylistic choices to create bodies of work that essentially function as vessels of the human experience–an embodiment of the human condition and the unavoidable events of loss and conflict that persistently occur. The sculptures are further covered in ceramic petal-like pieces; a visual motif in Kim’s work that she creates by pinching the clay between her thumb and fingers, allowing the material to retain the thumbprints that are left behind. Much of Kim’s ceramic work is composed of a visual array of these ceramical petals formed in different shapes, and often serves as a point of visual stimulation for the viewers. They attract our attention and dictate the direction in which our gaze is supposed to move, controlling the amount of time spent observing a certain section of an object, or the entire piece. Kim notes that the act of covering the figures in these ceramic petals felt as though she was in direct conversation with the figures–as if she was touching the other in this intimate and private act of sculpting, making, and feeling. The visual elements add textures and nuances to the sculptures in this greater dialogue between ourselves and the sculptures. The pieces appear organic and alive, as though it is their natural state that compels us to continue looking. As the petals grasp our attention and draw our eyes along the pieces, we are reminded of our inclinations to stay and see the other in parallax.
Our encounter with Kim’s show instantly feels intentional. Framed by the rectangular hallway leading up to the gallery space, a small ceramic figure closely stands in front of a large white screen. A ceramic sculpture of a child titled I, stares intently at the titular piece, Parallax, a white 3D-printed screen. I is no older than an 8-year-old child standing quietly and stoically atop a black platform with glossy, acrylic patterns on the surface drawn from the positive space of the structural patterns of the Parallax screen. I is painted entirely in solid black, has ceramic petal-like pieces all across its body, and has colors of vibrant reds and oranges blooming across its torso and face. The figure’s persevering gaze seemingly directs our own, suggesting that there’s something more to be seen. We are urged to stand next to the figure and inquire what observations can be made through this parallel act of looking. Yet it is not parallel, this is the first situation where we encounter instead a parallax. We are taller than the child, giving us an inherently altered view of what they see.
The Parallax screen is composed of consecutively 3D-printed plastic tiles; each tile is of a generally radial shape and made up of identical irregular patterns. Lines and shapes are moving, curving, and melting into each other at different angles–3D-scanned from a pattern that Kim created with the same ceramic petals that cover I and other ceramic sculptures in the show. In constructing this piece, Kim decided to utilize plastic–a cheap but contemporary material that can be mass-produced and replicated instantaneously. A section of the pattern was printed 4 times, and Kim attached these quadrants together at different angles to create one large version of the 3D-printed patterns–resulting in a screen that appears both arbitrarily formed yet intentionally designed. In doing so, the screen is reminiscent of how our proximity and distance to others is seemingly fixed but is actually evolving, changing, and taking different forms depending on the circumstances and our own perceptions. Our proximity to the screen itself corporealizes the parallax effect–obscuring or revealing the details of the screen depending on our positioning. The Parallax screen functions as a tangible, visual, and emotional obstruction between ourselves and others; how we interact with the screen reflects the choices we make in empathizing with the other.
Kim physically dictates the parallax by placing the three ceramic sculptures–I am gone / you are not alone, My first death, and Writer– behind the screen. The viewer must walk around a second wall to fully observe the figures that had been obscured by the Parallax partition initially, actively realizing the effects in physically changing perspectives. From across the screen, the figures appear strictly ambiguous and unknowable–confined in a space, obscured by a partition, and unreachable by the distance. As Kim directs the viewer to access the other side of the screen–we enter a reimagined space that permits a more intimate and vulnerable involvement with the other. Ceramic figures engage in private acts of grief and sorrow, and we become more ingrained in this dialogue about perceiving the other in the midst of emotional turmoil brought upon by loss. As we instinctively respond to the figures and their circumstances, our own observations, inquiries, and emotional responses are employed in the narrative. We experience the conditions of parallax–becoming both the onlooker and the other–understanding the nuances and varying perspectives suggested by the ceramic sculptures in the show.
I am gone / You are not alone is the first ceramic sculpture that we encounter behind the Parallax screen. This sculpture depicts a grieving parent from the torso up, holding a bundle of fabric covered in Kim’s ceramic petals. The parent is gazing down at this bundle, carrying it by the forearms while the palms of the hands are face-up and their fingers curl in–suggesting that the parent is exerting little energy in their limbs. The stillness of their posture is reminiscent of a deeply fatigued body that is exhausted by the emotional, psychological, and physical strain of a visceral grief. The way in which the bundle is depicted and being carried by the figure indicates the recent passing of an infant. Still young, small, and gentle enough to be carried, the child is wrapped in a blanket-like fabric and is being held by the forearms. Kim’s petals are organized in an array–like that of a net–wrapping around the child, informing the crux of the sorrow and grief palpable in this piece. The life of an infant lost is a harrowing reminder that children are no exception to conflict and loss. Without facial expressions and other affirmations that might provide more clarity on what they are feeling, the parent figure’s gestures illustrate the ways in which they are grieving. Their body moves toward the infant in every which way: their neck cranes downwards, their gaze is fixed upon the child, and their shoulders hunch over. Their gestures seemingly direct our own gaze and body language towards the child, to which we stand alongside the figure, observing the child with the same sense of stillness that the figure conveys. Looking down at the child reminds us of our own proximity to the event–whether or not we are a parent to a child–recalling moments and other experiences that lead us to be fixed in the same fatigued and slumped posture.
In observing My first death, we witness a physical expression of grief different from that of I am gone / you are not alone. My first death is of a parent figure on their knees and leaning over a long, wooden, rectangular box that has been charred. Their torso is completely horizontal–resting one side of their face and their folded arms atop of the surface of the box–kneeling up from the floor. Ceramic petal-like pieces are scattered all across the top of the parent’s head, back, and legs–directing our gaze to the parent figure who is likely experiencing a profound loss and sorrow. Their posture and closeness to the box implies that they are grieving atop of a coffin containing their deceased child–likely a person who has reached adulthood considering the length and width of the coffin. Unable to hold their child physically, they are limited in how they can express their grief. The box becomes an extension of the child’s body physically and emotionally, informing the parents’ gestures of sorrow and grief. The figure embraces the box with their entire body–physically moving as close as possible to their child. They can not see their loved one due to the confinement of the coffin so their gaze follows along the surface instead–staring forwards rather than at the box directly. They press their ears to the top of the coffin as though they are searching for the sound or movements of their loved one who may be inside. By using a black, plain, wooden box to reference coffins and death–Kim provides the space to instinctively react and interpret the piece from the viewer’s perspective. As the ceramic petals are laid upon the grieving parent figure as opposed to the box, our gaze is further directed at the other–imagining our own proximity to this event. Without providing the specifics of who is depicted in this piece, Kim provides a scene that engages our instinctive responses–emotionally and perceptually–to the conflict, loss, and sorrow.
Writer is distinctive from that of I am gone / you are not alone and My first death. Writer is painted entirely in shades of pink, green, and white as ceramic petal-like pieces lie atop of its head and gather around its hands and feet, suggesting a sense of youth and new life like that of a budding flower. The ceramic sculpture sits upon a black platform with glossy, reflective acrylic pieces reproduced from the negative space of the Parallax patterns of the screen. Despite the visual aesthetics of the piece, however, there is an undeniable sense of loneliness and isolation implied by its body language. Writer appears solemn and weary as they sit atop of a concrete-like slab; their body curls inwards, their shoulders are hunched, and their arms are nestled in between their legs–assuming a defensive and passive position.With their head down, Writer gazes at their reflection amongst the pieces of glossy acrylic on the surface on the platform–suggesting an act of private contemplation. Without signs of loss or conflict, as seen in I am gone / you are not alone or my first death, the child seems to be more privately engaged with themselves–rather than about another being–and likely ruminating upon their lived experiences–circumstances and conflicts that we are not actively witnessing or understanding. The colors, body language, and contexts of this piece do not indicate a straightforward interpretation. Instead, the ceramic petals illustrate a sense of play, dialogue, and introspection as they are abundant around their arms and legs. The petals seem as though they are cascading down or crawling up, consuming the child from top down or bottom up, respectively, in some way. Our gaze is directed by the movement of the petals, looking at the child from a higher angle and fathoming how young and small this figure is–looking for questions incidental to witnessing an isolated child; where are their parents? Why are they alone? The parallax asks the viewer to recognize both the sorrow and joy that seemingly intermingles in this piece, suggesting the irrevocable relationship between despair and hope in this dialogue about conflict, grief, and loss.
Similar in frame, height, and age, the sculptures, Writer and I, are the sole pieces depicting children in Parallax. They both stand atop a black platform with patterns of the Parallax screen cut out in acrylic pieces. Writer stands atop the inverse patterns of Parallax–reflective, glossy acrylic pieces cut out from the negative space of the pattern–while I stands upon acrylic pieces of the positive space of the Parallax pattern. Kim connects the two pieces directly, contrasting the two figures who exist on either side of the screen and are actively experiencing different conditions as seen through the color, body language, and perspective. Through I, Kim channels her own self–recalling the moment when she first recognized the subjectivities and individuality of her mother at a young age, and gained the awareness of the other outside of her own self. I embodies both Kim and the idea of the outsider–an onlooker who watches from a distance, observes through an obstacle, and is uninvolved in the acts of grief and loss occurring on the other side. The blooming colors of vibrant reds and oranges appearing on I are visceral reactions made visible–emotions of anger, sadness, and sorrow rising to the surface when observing the scenes before them. However, I remains shrouded in ambiguity–unknowable and mysterious like that of Writer. While I is representative of the outsider, we cannot fully inhabit the mind and body of I either. I is painted fully in black, juxtaposing the shades of pink, green, and white that reference youth and innocence in Writer. As another isolated, lonely, and stoic child–I is another individual worth seeing–even if they are not on the side experiencing conflict. The color black implies a sense of loss and sorrow that I may have experienced at a young age–collapsing the notions of time, age, and circumstance between I and Writer, as well as between I and ourselves as the outsiders. As a result of our own subjectivities, the parallax created from the various positions we can take shows us that this act of looking at the other is persistent and ongoing.
Drawn from the patterns of the Parallax screen, the petals are intentionally organized in an array and placed on specific areas of the body for every ceramic figure in the show: atop the head of Writer, all across the child in I am gone / you are not alone, or climbing up from the feet to their face of I. The proliferation of the patterns across the exhibition thematically reinforces the idea of crossing over a distance or seeing through an obstructive screen to connect with the other. The array of petals and patterns similar to the patterns of the Parallax screen move and appear all across the exhibition, suggestive of the ways in which we connect with one another in the same arbitrary yet deliberate manner. The ceramic petals are seemingly corporealized traces of this act of looking; it’s every conversation we have with the other–a glance, a shared interest, an embrace, or a relatable experience. We are collectively linked together by these exchanges and seemingly transitory encounters. Parallax comes to show that we are tethered by an urge and a will to see each other’s pains and experiences in spite of distances too great to cross or partitions too austere to see through–recognizing the other as another living body that is navigating the same human condition.
Regardless of what we are compelled by, we remain still in this space in hopes to relay more than just a sympathetic look. We can make a choice in whether or not we stay in the same space, and see the other in their moment of distress, or to turn away from our fellow humans’ suffering. Parallax is simultaneously an instinctual response to the events before us, but there is also room to act upon our empathy, the inability to inhabit the other, and the radical differences in our lived experiences as human beings in separate bodies. In viewing the conflicts and events separately, our differing perspectives and subjectivities can provide more clarity and reinforcement to the person actively experiencing the event. Our inherent nearness and distance from the experience may define our understanding of the situation, but our intrinsic empathy for others’ and the will to connect surpasses the gap between us and the other. I am gone / you are not alone, My first death, Writer, and I, are images and representations of grief, loss, conflict, and sorrow that can be understood emotionally and perceptually regardless of who, when, and where. They are vessels of stories of people found across time, encapsulating the dualities of the human experience: hope and despair, and life and death. Parallax is more than just the effects produced by the different perspectives taken, but a dialogue between us and the other–an attempt to see and understand each other all as actors of the human condition.
By Julia Yun, IDEAL Summer Intern, Decorative Arts Trust
