[Gallery Walk] Those Who Have Worked with Wood for a Long Time Eventually Come to Think Like a Tree

Hoam Art Museum "Kim Yoonshin: Hapihapil Buni Bunil"
175 Sculptures Retaining Chainsaw Marks, Knots, and Bark
Meeting Argentina's Giant Trees: Sculptures That Grew Larger and Stronger

The tree ultimately refused to surrender its surface.

Exhibition view of "Kim Yoonshin: Hapihapil Bunibunil". Photo by Hoam Museum of Art

When standing in front of the log sculptures at the Hoam Art Museum, what first catches the eye is not their form, but their skin. Deep grooves left by chainsaws, overlapping marks from chisels, and the imprints of hammers are all visible. The bark has not been completely peeled away, and the knots have steadfastly held their place. Though the surfaces have been carved, they remain incomplete. Even if someone were to call these works finished, these trees still seem closer to the process of growing than to completion.

Opening on March 17, the Hoam Art Museum's "Kim Yoonshin: Hapihapil Buni Bunil" is a retrospective exhibition that brings together approximately 70 years of work by sculptor Kim Yoonshin. The gallery features 175 works, including sculptures, prints, drawings, and paintings. While the number is substantial, the overall impression the exhibition leaves is surprisingly simple: the time spent by a person who has long worked with wood. That single thread of time slowly spreads out across the gallery floor.

Kim Yoonshin's words have often been consumed as philosophy before her work itself. "Hapihapil Buni Bunil"—meaning two become one, and through division, one is formed again. However, upon entering the exhibition space, those words descend from abstract philosophy to the realm of tactile sensation. The notion that artist and material become one is not a grand declaration, but rather, as these sculptures suggest, an act of aligning one's body to prevent the saw blade from slipping.

At a press conference on March 11, Kim Yoonshin said, "The tree is me." In the exhibition, this metaphor does not sound like mere analogy. It's not that people and trees are inherently alike, but that, through long interaction, their grains have come to resemble each other. She added, "When my mind is clear and empty while holding the saw, that’s when I begin to see space." She does not plan her works in advance, and indeed, her sculptures do not allow for a single fixed perspective. From one angle, they soar straight upward; a few steps later, the interior opens up, revealing empty spaces. The rough exterior and luminous core alternate. Rather than carving away, it feels more like opening up.

A large-scale retrospective of Korea's first-generation female sculptor Kim Yoonsin, titled "Kim Yoonsin: Hapihapil Bunibunil," will be held at Hoam Art Museum in Yongin, Gyeonggi Province, from the 17th to June 28. Photo by Kim Yoonsin, Hoam Art Museum, Yonhap News.

The early works at the entrance of the exhibition reveal that her hands did not always treat wood this way. In her "Accumulating Origins" series from the 1970s, as well as the prints and drawings from her time studying in Paris, her interest in building, dividing, and emptying forms is already evident. However, her exploration during this period remains subdued—thought seems to lead, and the hand follows. After moving to Argentina, her sculpture changed. The works became larger, sturdier, and more bodily. Perhaps, in meeting bigger trees, resistance took precedence over ideas in her sculptural process.

At the center of that period stands the piece "Hapihapil Buni Bunil 1987-88," now part of the Guggenheim Museum collection. Shown for the first time in this exhibition, the sculpture rises upward while embracing an interior space. From a distance, it appears as a single mass, but up close, its insides split open, creating new spaces. Although made of solid wood, it feels somehow alive. This is why the description of "the sturdy bones of a tree" or "the pulsation of nature" does not feel like an exaggeration. One can sense, even without hearing her explanation, why Kim Yoonshin held this work in such high regard.

Speaking about the trees in Argentina, she said, "I had to become one with the saw." In the exhibition, this too is no exaggeration. The surfaces of contemporary art are often overly smooth, erasing the traces of the hand and pushing aside the marks of creation. Kim Yoonshin's sculpture moves in the opposite direction. She does not hide the sawing or hammering, nor does she erase the cracks and bark. Whether this attitude is a refusal to completely subdue her materials, or a confession that she could never fully do so, remains ambiguous. Thus, in front of these sculptures, the process becomes more visible than the form. Rather than finished works, they feel like cross-sections of time, showing how artist and material have endured each other.

Yoonshin Kim, Heuihapil Bunibunil (合二合一分二分一), 1979. Photo by Hoam Art Museum

Since the 1990s, the gestures of her sculptures have changed. The forms that once soared vertically began to stretch their arms out horizontally. The upright sculptures have started to interact with the space around them. It was around this time that stone sculpture also appeared in her work. She noted that the color of stone is revealed only after it is cut. While wood shows time through its grain, stone reveals inner light through its cut surfaces. The introduction of color into Kim Yoonshin’s work was not sudden; rather, as she changed materials, she naturally came to discover color.

On the second floor, this color becomes even more pronounced. Sculptures that absorb the color sensibilities of the Mapuche people, works created during the pandemic in which color is added or attached to wood and discarded materials, and her recent pieces that she herself calls "painting-sculpture" are all on display. "I couldn't go outside. I picked up wood scraps and worked with them. Like the games I often played as a child, I glued and drew on wood," she said. For the later work of a master, her words sound almost overly modest. But it is precisely this modesty that makes her words linger. Rather than experimental attempts to cross genres, it feels as though these hands that have long worked with wood have finally begun to touch color as well.

Yoonshin Kim, Singing Tree 2013-16V1, 2025. Photo by Hoam Museum of Art

Placed at the end of the exhibition, "Singing Tree 2013-16V1" demonstrates how far these changes have come. Completed in 2025, this work adds acrylic paint to aluminum casting. Though made of metal, from a distance it resembles a landscape, while up close it looks like a tree stretching its arms. It is a sculpture that resembles a painting, and a painting that returns to being a mass. The exhibition’s title resurfaces here: two become one, and through division, one is formed again. Kim Yoonshin has spent her life repeating this process through wood, stone, and color.

At the press conference, she expressed, "I hope the work I have done throughout my life will have a positive influence on future generations, that it will be of help." While these words may sound like a customary greeting, after walking through the exhibition, they linger in a different way. What does it mean to be of help? It is not about teaching how to carve better. Rather, it may refer to an attitude that resists becoming easily polished, to hands that do not try to dominate the material entirely, or to a spirit that always leaves a bit of bark intact.

The trees standing in the exhibition bear the faces of those who have endured for a long time. Standing before them, one feels that it is more apt to say the trees have shaped people over time, rather than people having carved the trees. The exhibition runs through June 28.

This content was produced with the assistance of AI translation services.