Jan 07, 2025

Interview with Gowoon Lee by Dario Lüdi

Words, not Sentences

Meet Gowoon Lee. The artist talks about her transformative ability to turn a deeply personal struggle with communication into a universal visual language that transcends cultural and linguistic barriers.

Her use of cartoons as a medium to evoke nostalgia, warmth, and inclusivity—paired with her unique process of completing paintings in one sitting to preserve the immediacy of inspiration—sets her apart. The combination of personal history and universal resonance makes her work accessible to a diverse audience, while her steadfast commitment to the enduring tradition of painting challenges the rapid, fleeting nature of digital media.

How do the themes of memory and nostalgia in your work connect to your personal experiences or childhood?

My life has always been about struggling to communicate, understand my words, or understanding others. I was often in environments where I had to pick up a new language or adapt to societal norms in a very short period of time. My interest in cartoons started when I was about 11 when I first moved to New Zealand. At school, I did not understand a word because no one spoke Korean or could help me translate. So, when I came home, I was too tired to watch anything with a lot of dialogue. That is why I gravitated towards cartoons like Tom and Jerry and Mickey Mouse. You can understand the entire narrative just by looking at the facial expressions or the actions shown in the cartoon. What I found fascinating was how things could be communicated without words so succinctly and without borders. That is the very reason I started exploring this theme. I chose these cartoons because of their universality.

What specific feelings or thoughts do you hope viewers experience when engaging with your art?

I think I want my viewers—I mean, I cannot force it—but I want my viewers to feel a sense of warmth because my art references comics of the past. This immediately sparks a sense of nostalgia. Warmth and joy are things I wish people to see in my works. The feeling of being in the same group or understanding each other is fundamental. So, this universality itself is very inclusive. And inclusiveness is very warm.

Building on the theme of nostalgia, let’s explore your studio practice. What does a typical day in your studio look like? Do you follow a structured routine, or is your process more spontaneous?

When I wake up, I kind of get this feeling about whether today is a day for painting. If it's not the perfect day to paint, I prepare canvases. So whenever I feel like painting—when I have this feeling—I can just start painting. On days like these, I always try to wake up early because I paint in one sitting. It's hard to explain, but on some days, there is this feeling in my shoulder that tells me I can paint. There are no habits or mindsets, it's just given to me.

Finishing a piece in one sitting is a very unique approach. What does that intense focus bring out in you as an artist that might not come out with a different method?

Right, it's a lot about the energy. The speed or this intense focus forces me to stick to the original or the very first inspiration or idea, whether it be a color, a form, or how soft or hard the edge would be.

I think forcing myself to paint a piece in one go keeps me consistent with my initial ideas because I've often realized that when I come back the next day—sometimes I used to give up because it was so hard—I'd end up just getting rid of the painting. It's so difficult to get into the same flow as the day before, and the idea just doesn't seem as fresh to me anymore. So, it's more about keeping myself interested in the painting.

How do you approach exhibitions? Is your selection based on a specific narrative, or how do these exhibitions come together from your point of view?

When Henri mentioned that he wanted to show works from my graduation show because he had the portfolio for it. I had no idea what he had in mind or how we would put it together. But my paintings are offsprings of each other. After I paint the diamond, I think of the hand. Everything comes one after another. I know how they connect and why I wanted to paint them. So, it was easy to base my decisions on Henri's ideas, combining paintings according to his selection. I also created some works based on this selection. For example, I produced How to Fly and Silassardash because they would be a good addition to the selection.

Your singular process of completing a painting in one sitting ensures immediacy in your work. How do you feel when a viewer interprets your work in an unexpected way or misunderstands it? Does this ever inspire new perspectives for future exhibitions or projects?

After seeing my work many people didn't guess that I was the artist. They would come up to ask me about the artist and where he was—and the "he" came up very often. One day, I asked, "But why do you think it's a he?" and many people simply said, "It just feels like a guy would have painted it." I enjoyed that. It wasn't a misinterpretation of my works, but I liked the fact that I'm not so visible in the way I paint. And about misinterpretation—I'm really open to how people react or think about my paintings. That is actually my intention. I want them to be as free-standing as possible.

When I first started studying and painting at the academy, one of the professors criticized that my paintings were like words, not sentences. He said they were just "one-offs," floating like satellites, and didn't say anything. This comment was essential in building my own language. It made me stand by my own ideas because, at first, it broke me. But then I decided, no, he's not right. I feel that one absurd word on its own can be so poetic—maybe even more poetic than a polished sentence. So, I think the singularity of my works opens up the viewer's interpretation, and that's how I like to think of it.

Reflecting on how viewers connect with your work, how do you see the role of art in today’s world of fleeting impressions, where everything comes and goes so quickly?

There is a certain value in painting something because it's so tedious. The preparations are so annoying, and it takes a lot of energy from me to deliver the exact color I have in mind. Because I am so aware of this process, it's also the reason why I admire paintings so much. And this is why I believe that painting will never be over.

Sometimes, I feel that what I do is absurd—that I paint because it's such an old tradition. Still, stretching canvas, stretching fabric on a wooden frame, grounding it with gesso, and using paint that hasn't evolved much. But I feel like there's so much dedication involved, and I see this with other painters as well.

The compression of time is also really important. Although a painting might look flat, smooth and streamlined, as if it's done in one coat or layer, I know how much time and stress I've had to go through to achieve that outcome. I feel that this certain quietness that painting has is because of the compression of time. It's something that no other medium can mimic.