The Power of the Dog: Hyunjin Park on mythology, identity markers, and the relationship between humans and non-human beings
Will Hunick (Artist, Director of Artistic Programming, Director of Artistic Programming at the Wassaic Project)
There are multiple connections to dogs in Hyunjin Park’s work. Park’s mixed media sculptures of headless creatures have the general look and feel of medium-sized dogs, positioned in, well, typical dog positions. Some figures appear to be on all fours, while others are either resting, going on a slow walk, laying down, or tilting their necks upwards as if waiting for a treat. Created using taxidermy forms, and with surfaces that are covered in heaps of broken terracotta oozing with beeswax clearly pieced together tenderly by the artist’s hand, these dogs would be super cute if they weren’t so weird.
Park’s pack of headless dogs is complemented by a single AIBO robot dog whose internal camera captures and displays information in real time. This dog would be charming if your every movement weren’t being tracked. Add in some traditional Korean folklore about a spiritual dog, as well as the narrative around Park’s late pet dog, (not to mention actual dog’s skulls used in another sculptural series referencing Cerberus, the multi-headed dog guarding the Underworld) we’re swimming in dogs and dog-ness throughout Park’s practice and studio. For Park, the dog is a symbol of “in between-ness”, guarding the space between human and non-human, the space between this life and the after life; or, at least, this life and whatever else there is. In Park’s thoughtful hands, we are guided into sensitive and provocative meditations on the past and the present, on life and death.
In addition to a fixation on dogs, Park also uses other objects and symbols in her work as markers of identity: terracotta pots, Impatiens flowers, fingernails, airplanes, rings, and yes, airplane rings. For Park, the airplane has multiple metaphors and connotations: it is an object symbolizing longing for her home; it represents the connection to Park’s partner who is still based in Seoul; and the airplane is a collaboration with the artist’s Dad, who worked in the metal industry in Korea. The airplane figures prominently in Park’s new work which is a series of close-up photos of the artist’s back, while her hands (one hand wearing a ring that has a small airplane affixed to the top of it, ie, “airplane ring”) are attempting to touch one another. This physical feat is easier said than done, as Park contorts her body so that her arms (and hands) are situated rather awkwardly behind her back. The palms of her hands are so close to touching one another in a pray-like position. The image is framed to reveal only parts of Park’s back and her hands. This close-up angle, and emphasis on a single gesture, allows Park’s image to relinquish strict associations with the body. The artist’s body is no longer hers.
Slowly, Park’s body is transformed into a landscape. Her back into delicate, rolling hills. The airplane appears to be hovering in mid air, which opens up multiple reads of the action. The airplane might be perceived as travelling to a new destination. Are we also travelling, in time and or in space? Are we optimistic about the destination? Is the airplane possibly stuck in place? How dystopic are we getting? Stuck somewhere in between locations, realities, cultures and identities, I’m glad we have Park’s exacting control, and her best friends, to help lead the way.
Will Hunick (Artist, Director of Artistic Programming, Director of Artistic Programming at the Wassaic Project)
There are multiple connections to dogs in Hyunjin Park’s work. Park’s mixed media sculptures of headless creatures have the general look and feel of medium-sized dogs, positioned in, well, typical dog positions. Some figures appear to be on all fours, while others are either resting, going on a slow walk, laying down, or tilting their necks upwards as if waiting for a treat. Created using taxidermy forms, and with surfaces that are covered in heaps of broken terracotta oozing with beeswax clearly pieced together tenderly by the artist’s hand, these dogs would be super cute if they weren’t so weird.
Park’s pack of headless dogs is complemented by a single AIBO robot dog whose internal camera captures and displays information in real time. This dog would be charming if your every movement weren’t being tracked. Add in some traditional Korean folklore about a spiritual dog, as well as the narrative around Park’s late pet dog, (not to mention actual dog’s skulls used in another sculptural series referencing Cerberus, the multi-headed dog guarding the Underworld) we’re swimming in dogs and dog-ness throughout Park’s practice and studio. For Park, the dog is a symbol of “in between-ness”, guarding the space between human and non-human, the space between this life and the after life; or, at least, this life and whatever else there is. In Park’s thoughtful hands, we are guided into sensitive and provocative meditations on the past and the present, on life and death.
In addition to a fixation on dogs, Park also uses other objects and symbols in her work as markers of identity: terracotta pots, Impatiens flowers, fingernails, airplanes, rings, and yes, airplane rings. For Park, the airplane has multiple metaphors and connotations: it is an object symbolizing longing for her home; it represents the connection to Park’s partner who is still based in Seoul; and the airplane is a collaboration with the artist’s Dad, who worked in the metal industry in Korea. The airplane figures prominently in Park’s new work which is a series of close-up photos of the artist’s back, while her hands (one hand wearing a ring that has a small airplane affixed to the top of it, ie, “airplane ring”) are attempting to touch one another. This physical feat is easier said than done, as Park contorts her body so that her arms (and hands) are situated rather awkwardly behind her back. The palms of her hands are so close to touching one another in a pray-like position. The image is framed to reveal only parts of Park’s back and her hands. This close-up angle, and emphasis on a single gesture, allows Park’s image to relinquish strict associations with the body. The artist’s body is no longer hers.
Slowly, Park’s body is transformed into a landscape. Her back into delicate, rolling hills. The airplane appears to be hovering in mid air, which opens up multiple reads of the action. The airplane might be perceived as travelling to a new destination. Are we also travelling, in time and or in space? Are we optimistic about the destination? Is the airplane possibly stuck in place? How dystopic are we getting? Stuck somewhere in between locations, realities, cultures and identities, I’m glad we have Park’s exacting control, and her best friends, to help lead the way.