Beyond Boundaries: Thoughts on Vertical and Horizontal Gaze in Painting
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The concept of a horizontal gaze has taken on new relevance for me in recent years, especially after moving to London in 2023 and now living in the US. This shift in geography has not only introduced a new language—English—but also a new way of seeing. I vividly remember gazing at the horizon in a park here. The horizon appeared vast, even, and fine, which struck me as profoundly different from the landscapes I am familiar with in Korea. Korean landscapes are shaped by mountains, and the view often leads upward, a sensation ingrained in me from childhood. Here, the horizon stretches infinitely, seamlessly connecting everything in its view. This experience led me to think about the idea of a "common landscape"—my hope that all women, regardless of their backgrounds, can connect through shared experiences and identities, much like the desire Adrienne Rich expresses in The Dream of a Common Language. In this context, I dream not just of a common language, but a common landscape, where the horizontal gaze becomes a metaphor for unity, equality, and shared vision. The verticality of Korean culture, rooted in its mountainous geography, contrasts sharply with the horizontal gaze I now experience. This horizontal view invites me to imagine a world of equality, where boundaries are less rigid—though I still feel something is missing, as this vision remains incomplete.
This horizontal gaze resonates deeply with me in my art practice. It represents my longing for a more interconnected and equal world, and it influences not just the physical layout of my paintings, but also how I conceive of the narratives and elements within my work. Yet, I find myself yearning for the vertical gaze as well. Even as I encounter the horizontal land, there is still something missing. These two perspectives must interrogate and engage with each other. On canvas, I aim to integrate both horizontal and vertical compositional approaches, allowing their interplay to reflect the duality of my experience. The horizontal gaze transcends limitations, offering freedom and possibility, while the vertical evokes a sense of groundedness, tradition, and aspiration.
I am also reminded of my favorite painter, Amy Sillman, whose work has had a profound influence on me. Sillman, influenced by Japanese calligraphy, frequently discusses the role of calligraphy in her drawings. Like Sillman, I integrate elements of calligraphy into my art to connect with my cultural heritage. Her reflections on how mark-making and drawing are intertwined with personal identity inspire me to consider how my own artistic practice bridges my personal history with broader, universal themes.
While my reflections on the vertical and horizontal gaze are deeply personal, they also offer broader resonance for others navigating cultural dualities or diasporic experiences. The themes of longing for what is lost, yearning for unity, and the tension between rootedness and expansiveness are universal. Many people experience these conflicts, whether through the movement between cultures or through personal reflections on their own lives. My work speaks to this shared human experience—of reconciling personal histories and identities with the desire to imagine and create a more egalitarian, connected world.
As someone born and raised in South Korea, I’ve always felt an inexplicable longing when looking at vertical landscapes in art, a sentiment deeply tied to the geographical relationship between north and south on the Korean peninsula.
My family name, Pungcheon Im clan (任), originates from the Pungcheon area in South Hwanghae Province, which is now part of North Korea. During the Japanese colonial period, my grandparents relocated to a remote region in South Korea to escape the turmoil of war. They settled in Chungcheongbuk-do, an inland area that was considered relatively safe. This region, lacking ports or major military roads, was not a strategic site for battles or large-scale military operations, making it a haven for many seeking refuge.
Unlike many families separated by war, my grandparents were fortunate to keep their family intact. However, they lived under Japanese rule for decades, during which they were forced to adopt Japanese names and suppress their Korean identity. Even now, both my grandparents can speak Japanese fluently, a testament to the lasting impact of that era.
I recall a moment from my childhood when my grandfather asked me to fetch something from the kitchen. His request was peppered with Japanese words—scissors, cup, knives, floor—and I struggled to understand him. Despite this linguistic legacy, my grandparents often reminded me and my brother Subin never to marry a Japanese spouse. My grandfather would firmly say, “You can marry someone of any color, but not Japanese or bbalgangyi (a term for communists).”
My grandfather, proud of our family’s lineage, would often spread out our family jokbo (genealogy record) and recount stories of our ancestors. He spoke of the family’s origins in China, their migration to the north, and their eventual contributions to Korean history. While I rarely paid full attention to these stories, I loved the idea that our family were immigrants. To my younger self, being a mix of cultural roots felt far more fascinating than being “original.”
This mix of pride in our roots and the scars of history left my grandparents with a dual legacy: a deep resentment toward Japan and a profound yearning for the northern land. This longing for the north, where our family originated, seems to have influenced me too. I’ve always felt drawn to the idea of going “up” rather than “sideways” — toward the place where our roots began. A land that exists just above me, yet remains forever out of reach.
This sense of longing extends to my art. Traditional Korean paintings often favor vertical compositions over horizontal ones, a reflection of Korea’s mountainous geography, where 70% of the land consists of mountains and hills. When I’m in Korea, most of the photos I take are vertical. The landscapes stretch upwards, small but reaching for the sky. Perhaps unconsciously, I find myself naturally expressing this verticality in my strokes when I paint. My body gravitates toward vertical compositions, as if responding to an ingrained longing for upward motion.
This tendency also stems from my calligraphy (seoye) practice, which I began alongside my grandfather. Traditional Korean calligraphy is written vertically, a format that mirrors the way most Korean books and journals were written before modernization. My grandfather, with his meticulous brushstrokes, instilled in me a deep appreciation for this vertical flow. Practicing calligraphy with him was more than an artistic exercise; it was an embodied connection to our shared history and a reminder of how deeply verticality is rooted in Korean culture.
If painting originates from the body, then before the body moves, there is the gaze. The gaze carries a horizontal flow — a connection, a continuity. It moves beyond the confines of the canvas, creating an expansive sense of freedom within the frame’s limitations. Traditional Korean painting formats like folding books (hwachup) or folding screens (byungpung) allow the gaze to flow endlessly. These extended formats contrast with the personal, intimate narratives embedded in my vertical strokes, creating a dialogue between the horizontal and vertical in my work.
Through this interplay, I realize that my artistic practice is deeply tied to both physical and emotional landscapes. The vertical strokes carry a sense of personal longing, while the horizontal flow offers a sense of liberation. Together, they reflect the tension between rootedness and expansiveness, between longing for what is lost and embracing the freedom to imagine.
