Foreigners, Strangers, and Other-Than-Humans
국문 버전은 한화 ‘LIFEPLUS TRIBES’ 앱을 통해 읽어볼 수 있습니다
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February 28, 2024
By Summer Jimin Park
Dan Lie: 36 Months of Loss
Art Sonje Center, Seoul
February 16 – May 12, 2024
The 60th Venice Biennale casts a spotlight on the universal truth that we are all foreigners somewhere. Curator Adriano Pedrosa introduces Foreigners Everywhere, the theme of the upcoming event, with dual significance: literally, there are foreigners across the globe, and figuratively, we all are "always, truly, and deep down inside, a foreigner." Pedrosa emphasized that the event will focus on artists who are foreigners, immigrants, exiles, refugees, and those at the margins of the art world.
Reflecting on both the personal and artistic trajectory of Dan Lie (b. 1988), whose solo exhibition 36 Months of Loss is currently on view at the Art Sonje Center in Seoul, I’m drawn back to the Venice Biennale’s upcoming theme. There is certainly no need to contextualize this exhibition, which speaks volumes on its own, within the framework of a Western art extravaganza. Yet, it does provide an important insight into why Lie deserves our attention right now, whose story goes beyond being an artist of Indonesian-Brazilian descendant based in Berlin.
Lie is an artist making waves by working with “other-than-humans,” such as fungi, enzymes, and plants—organisms often “otherized” by humans. Stressing that their work is an ongoing “dialogue,” they have once again invited soil, mushroom seeds, rice, yeast, buds, and chrysanthemums as key collaborators in their first exhibition in Korea.
36 Months of Grieving
The exhibition title, 36 Months of Loss, marks the period since the artist's father passed away in 2021 due to COVID-19, while referring to the traditional Korean three-year mourning (samnyeonsang), a major inspiration for the new work. In preparation for the exhibition, the artist made two trips to Korea last year, immersing themselves in the country's traditional culture. During these visits, they engaged with “guardians and activists” committed to preserving vanishing traditions, including a curator at the National Folk Museum of Korea, straw artisans in the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), and the Buddhist monk Jeong Kwan at Baekyangsa Temple in Jangseong, Jeollanam-do.
Before exhibiting in a new region, Lie examines tools, objects, and artifacts distinct to each culture. Through a meticulous study of their uses, crafting techniques, and the artisans involved, Lie identifies shared characteristics between these unfamiliar tools and those of their own, highlighting the thread of universality that runs through humanity, irrespective of geographical, cultural, or temporal divides.
Upon entering the museum's Ground, fabrics dyed yellow with turmeric surround the space. At its center lies a miniature ecosystem: heaps of soil sprouting with buds and mushrooms, hanging structures made of chrysanthemums and sambe, and onggis fermenting yeast and rice.
Inside the Hanok in the courtyard, an installation comprising straw ropes, chrysanthemums, and onggis descends from the ceiling. For this installation, the artist took inspiration from the taboo ropes traditionally hung to ward off negativity in Korean folk beliefs. Unlike their original purpose of keeping out evil spirits and outsiders, Lie's straw ropes boldly traverse the space, inviting visitors to thoroughly explore the floor and connect with the space through sight and smell.
Audience
as Witness to Change
In Lie's work, nothing stands still—fruits and plants decay, fabric colors fade, fungi and bacteria multiply, and structures crumble. Referring to their work, which is a fleeting witness to evolution and deterioration, the artist describes it as something “that exists only at this time and space, and can never be created again.”
36 Months of Loss brings the cycle of life: the chrysanthemums will gradually wilt, the yellow fabric will fade in the sun, and the yeast in the onggis will either ferment into makgeolli (rice wine) or rot, emitting a pungent smell. Each visitor becomes a part of the ever-turning wheel of real-time transformation in an endless cycle of microorganisms, fungi, bacteria, and “other-than-humans” involved in the process of decay and fermentation.
The day after the opening, Lie gave a two-hour talk in the museum’s Art Hall on their new exhibition and overall practice. Following the event, I had the opportunity to discuss with the artist in the silence of an empty auditorium about their approach to mourning, exploration of cultural heritage, and the inherent unpredictability of their work.
Interview With Artist Dan Lie
During their artist talk, Lie elaborated on how every piece they create is a “descendant” of their earlier works. Hence, it became clear that any discussion of the current exhibition would be incomplete without acknowledging their holistic body of work created over the years. Together, we revisited Lie's artistic and research projects, as well as past interviews from recent years, to understand how the new exhibition aligns with their artistic journey.
Summer (hereafter S): Your exploration and approach to your cultural heritage—born to a Brazilian mother and an Indonesian immigrant father—is truly fascinating. Since there was no substantial Indonesian diaspora you could connect with in Brazil, you’ve had to explore your Indonesian roots on your own, immersing yourself in its language and customs. How has such a personal and speculative approach to exploration of your family’s history of migration shaped the way you create art?
Dan Lie (hereafter DL): As with all forms of art, storytelling is very present in my work, and how I've traced my family's history is deeply intertwined with this. Upon encountering my parents' stories, I felt an ‘urgency’ to dedicate time to them. A lot of it started with me interviewing my aunts from both my parents’ sides, piecing together our story through their feminine perspectives on how my family ended up where we are today.
Now, in Europe, where I currently live and work, my work tends to be perceived through an “exotic” lens, although I've been living in Germany for about three years now and in the United States during my late teens. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever have the same access to the rights owned by artists from the global north who aren't defined by their roots.
At the same time, honoring my cultural legacy through my work is very important to me. It has allowed me to discover more about my family and culture, clarifying and even correcting some stories. So, in a way, I felt a sense of duty, but more than anything else, my journey is driven by a sense of urgency—a deep desire to learn more about my own heritage. I'm curious to learn how my personal story connects to the larger framework of this world—how the micro can extend to the macro.
S: Your family and personal background play an important role in your art, with many of your previous works paying homage to your family members. How does this latest exhibition distinguish itself from your previous homages to your family, particularly compared to your 2015 exhibition in São Paulo named after your father?
DL: While my earlier works, including the 2015 exhibition, were very personal, in recent years I've been contemplating how this personal element can be expanded to the communal. For example, at the São Paulo Biennial just last year, I didn’t openly share my personal grieving story, as grieving is often a taboo topic. Nevertheless, the work elicited a very emotional response among the visitors. Through this, I discovered that my art could provide a space for grieving without explicitly saying so, presenting the various ways we experience loss.
This led me to question further how my art can “serve” others. Not only can it provide a space for mourning, but it can also help us humans acknowledge the existence of “other-than-humans” such as fungi and enzymes and develop respect for them.
S: When I read your conversation with Wong Binghao and Madeline Murphy Turner, I was amazed by your perspective on the decomposing process of organic matter as being “full of life,” with all sorts of tiny living organisms like fungi, bacteria, and insects. How does this outlook on decay relate to the way you cope with the loss of your loved ones?
DL: Well, turning these concepts into practice is hard. I've discussed life and death, as well as the relationship between humans and non-humans, with many spiritual leaders, scientists, mycologists, and others. However, being raised and educated in a capitalist society that focuses mostly on the individual makes it challenging to fully adopt these views. It’s something I'm going to have to work on for many years to come.
S: What is it like to not have full control of your work as an artist? I ask because you seem to be an extremely organized person who puts so much thought and time into research and meticulous planning.
DL: Indeed, organizing and planning are key to creating an exhibition, mainly because my work is physically demanding and I try to keep my body in good condition.
But something unexpected happened at the 2017 Yogyakarta Biennale in Indonesia that changed my perspective and made me realize it's okay if everything doesn't go as planned. I intended to use fungi and fermented rice to gradually fill the space with a pleasant aroma, but what happened was the exact opposite: the space was filled with a very stinky odor. It was almost as if the fungi were telling me, “We're gonna do what we’ve gotta do.”
This experience of having my plans fall apart was paradoxically a big turning point for me because I started to recognize the agency of these other-than-humans. People's reactions were also very interesting; while looking perplexed, they continued to explore the space and take selfies. Since then, I've come to embrace and welcome these unforeseen errors because they are a powerful learning tool that leads to richer experiences that are far more interesting than sticking strictly to my agenda.
S: How do you expect this lack of control will influence this new show?
DL: There's always an element of mystery at play. Different elements will engage in direct conversation with each other, so we'll only know at the end of the show.
S: It smells pretty good in the hanok at the moment.
DL: We'll see. You never know. The onggis contain ingredients for making makgeolli, but since I didn't follow the traditional recipe for human consumption, I don't know if the yeast will ferment or rot. Depending on this interaction, the results (odors) could vary significantly.
Over three months, the chrysanthemums will gradually wilt, the yellow fabric will lose its color, and the space will be permeated by a scent that even its creator cannot quite pin down. 36 Months of Loss serves as the artist’s final stage of homage to their father, turning a page from mourning to a dawn of renewal. As Lie once said, death and decay are "full of life."
Dan Lie: 36 Months of Loss
February 16 – May 12, 2024
The Ground & Hanok, Art Sonje Center
Curated by Sunjung Kim (Art Director, Art Sonje Center), Jina Kim (Project Director, Space for Contemporary Art)
Dan Lie: 36 Months of Loss continues through May 12, 2024, at the Art Sonje Center.