Mt. Geumgang

Mt. Geumgang — Vitality

1999 · 728×227 cm · Korean Paper, Acrylic on Canvas

Keywords #Mt. Geumgang#Vitality

Image size 3.9 MB

Exhibitions

2001 〈Meditation — Mt. Geumgang〉 · Kookmin University Art Gallery, Seoul and 1 more (Solo exhibition)

Citation

Shin Jang-sik 〈Meditation — Mt. Geumgang〉 — Installation Views (2001)

Installation views of Shin Jang-sik's solo exhibition 〈Meditation — Mt. Geumgang〉, which opened as the inaugural show of Kookmin University Art Gallery in September 2001 and continued at Wooduk Gallery. The set includes views of the eight-canvas 〈Mt. Geumgang Manmulsang — 1998.11.21〉, 〈Mt. Geumgang from Sangpaldam〉 (681×181 cm), the eleven seated 〈Meditation〉 figures, and exhibition-related materials (including the Monthly Art Magazine advertisement preserved by the artist).

View all →

Related materials for this work

Text Review 2001-08-01 · Kang Tae-seong

"Mt. Geumgang, 'para-doxa'" — Kang Tae-seong review (2001)

Outside the room where I am now staying, between spaces of modern Baroque and Neoclassical style — at once austere and ornately decorated — several very narrow paths thread along. Like chimneys, the narrowly opened passages assail one's nose with the acrid exhaust of cars. What I feel here is the parallel coexistence of past splendor and present "smoke." Such parallel coexistences appear together with historical relics — the current G8 summit in Italy and the killing of one who took part in the anti-globalisation movement — and make legible a structure in which several axes of meaning coexist. This coexistent and paradoxical structure is visible in the works to be shown at Shin Jang-sik's forthcoming solo exhibition, and the parallelism now made visible lets us think of his multilayered structure all the more meaningfully.
The works to be presented in this exhibition take as their subject. For us, Mt. Geumgang carries more than the meaning of a famous mountain. It is at once our famous mountain, a fact of division, and yet another demilitarized zone (?). It is a space where the limited freedom of visiting is felt as tragic, and at the same time a "paradoxical" place felt as beautiful. That is, it is the place where countless circumstances and histories of our modern era are interwoven, and a symbol of the sharp and intricate political situation now unfolding between South and North Korea and across Northeast Asia.
Such a subject is further emphasized in contrast with its meaning as history — with the temporal axis to the past. The artist began to paint "Mt. Geumgang" from the time when we could not go there. was a "nature" to be recovered — that is, Korea's nature — a space holding our hopes and our circumstances, while at the same time being the "empty space" we could not visit. The contents of such a subject appear in the exhibition through various works. The beautiful form of Mt. Geumgang appears in painting; the various critical, meditative, and reflective meanings — as varied situations — appear in the three-dimensional works.
His work 〈Mt. Geumgang Manmulsang — November 21, 1998〉 is divided into several panels, with landscape and figures partially overlapping. The figures are South Koreans who accompanied the artist, linked to meanings outside the painting — the political, economic, and natural-environmental context. The work, while wholly the same in overlapping space, is staged through a "set-apart," severed character that shows a different face from the present condition between South and North. The set-apart space, the severed surface, lets the viewer infer a more fragmented circumstance and brings us to recognize the present condition: a place that is at once our land and not — one that cannot be visited and yet has come to be visitable.
This artist holds a vision different from past Korean modernist art. As one sees in his "meditation" and (traditional blue-and-red silk lantern) subjects, his work begins from a relation with the contexte (con-text) — that which lies outside the painting. That is, his work links historical character with sociality and other contemporary traits (con-temporary). Here, too, we may "consider" together the "con" of contemporaneity and context. I take the "con" (cum), meaning "with," to think of the "other thing or person" as something simultaneously relational, and I read Levinas's other "self" (alter ego) as a relational comprehension of the other. The other is not only an independent absolute unit but a being that, while another self, is at the same time mutually relational and contextual. The relationship of beings — humans, and the others to be with — within a new context, the possibility of harmony, can be spoken of in his painting. Such an understanding and reflection upon context gives his work a structure of discourse spoken together with the context outside the painting, distinct from a wholly self-referential modernism.
What draws still further interest here is that the context presented in the work is offered paradoxically rather than serving the merely referential function of pointing to the "present reality" outright. As one example, the theme and subject of "meditation," together with the figures in the installations, juxtaposes facts from different time-axes. The parallelism in his work may be read as a still more parallel opinion (para-doxa). In the works he made while observing and painting during his several visits, one can grasp the parallel character of Korea — the meaning of South and North — and the very unnatural space separated within that parallel condition. And yet, because Mt. Geumgang is the beautiful mountain that is the pride of our people, in its many contextual meanings it is also a paradoxical (paradoxe) space.
His painting, within this parallel space, shows two frames: "present reality / negation." The reality may be seen as the representation the subject carries, and through the parallel display it acquires the meaning of negation. The parallel revealed in this juxtaposition is the state in which two distinguished units are kept just as they are. That is, parallelism is the maintaining of several units unmixed — carrying meanings of "distinction," "severance," "rupture." In his series of paintings, there is a fundamental difference between the acts of "painting" and "flinging" lines, and this emphasizes the parallelism.
The flung lines repeatedly form a sparse space tangled in varied colors — yellows, reds. Seen from afar these colors appear richly varied, but up close one finds, alongside the colors, countless needles thrust through the surface, arriving with a meaning utterly different from that of the distant view.
His paradoxical, parallel space is dually constituted along the distance between close and far points of view. The earlier painted layer and the later layer in his paintings can likewise be understood through this same duality. This duality is "paradox," carrying negation. In this case, the two distinct characters carry expressive heterogeneity while presenting the character of negation. Such negativity contrasts in mode of expression — the painted line and the flung line, the intentional line and the line in which the unconscious and chance partake — and presents a multilayered consciousness. This space of multiple meaning and expression paradoxically emphasizes a "double-layered narrative structure."
The figural casts taken from the artist himself are arrayed in parallel within the exhibition space. In their beautiful yet somewhat dreadful appearance one finds his paradoxical character (autumn leaves — bruise), and the plurality of meaning can be grasped through parallel viewing. The dual character of far and near — the painted mountain and the flung paint layer atop it — can be read as a dual structure.
That is, the relation between the first painted layer (A) and the later flung layer (B) yields two parallel meaning-relations — the same dual character as that of close and far in the cast figures. Here, importantly, an order of meaning arises. His priority is the side that appears first — the view from afar; the structure read afterward becomes the latter narrative. These two distinct structures read before and after do not seem to be the kind of subject in which one chooses between them selectively. Rather than an "a or b" meaning-structure (a selective structure that is true if either a or b alone is true), it is an "a and b" structure. This is the coexistence of "a and b" — what Plato termed the meaning of "negation," "alteration," the structure that "others" things. His work, in that sense, can be called a difference between two things — a difference in distance, a difference on the surface.
The identity and repetition discovered in the repeated presentation of multiple identical figures — figural casts of the artist arrayed across the exhibition space in heterogeneous variety — compose a complex meaning-space. Seen from afar, the sculptures shimmering like fish-scales of actual needles (the scale-needle structure) and the autumn-leaf — bruise (colors that appear, from afar, as beautiful as autumn leaves and, up close, like the impression of bruised blood) — these dual-structured sculptures are shown in parallel. That is, they convey "stacked sounds" of varied meanings, or accumulated significations. Such works open a space of negation and paradox — "stacked sounds" — distinct from the "stillness" the theme of "meditation" implies. His parallelism and paradox can be read as carrying a most significant meaning in the present unfolding of art.
— Kang Tae-seong, August 1, 2001

Open archive page →
Text Review 2001-10-01 · Yang Jeong-mu

"Shin Jang-sik Exhibition" — Yang Jeong-mu review (2001)

Some ten years have passed since Shin Jang-sik first drew — forgotten since the division — back out of 〈Painting Collection of the Nation〉 and set to work on it. Is it the weight of those years that has turned his Mt. Geumgang from an object of mystical worship toward an object of his own emotional expression? Shin Jang-sik's 〈Meditation — Mt. Geumgang〉 exhibition is the eighth game he has played on the theme of Mt. Geumgang. In this exhibition too, the peaks of his Mt. Geumgang remained blue, and the dripping and dotting continued. But the brushstroke conventions (junbeop) of eighteenth-century Joseon masters that he had been borrowing, and the segmented sense of form of nineteenth-century , have receded considerably; in their place have come realistic composition, light and shadow, and clearly defined ridges. In a word, his Mt. Geumgang is now concrete.
Until now, his statements about were in fact indirect. As proved by the dripping that flooded the surface as if to negate the finished picture, Mt. Geumgang was for him an object of veneration not to be approached easily. The immediate cause of the change was, no doubt, the trips to Mt. Geumgang made possible by the sea route opened under the "Sunshine Policy." Yet his transformation cannot be dismissed as a mere "aftereffect of the field trip."
Among the works in this exhibition, I single out 〈Mt. Geumgang Manmulsang — November 21, 1998〉. Here Shin Jang-sik broke the unfolding before his eyes down across eight canvases, shattering it into pieces. The mystery had begun to break. The tone of that breaking is low, as if in keeping with the artist's temperament. In the air of the exhibition space float eleven (mulberry paper) sculptures cast from the artist's own body. These replicated, cross-legged figures of the painter — seeming to face and meditate upon the picture-planes that occupy each wall of the gallery — tell us that the deeper subject of this exhibition is the artist himself. Having walked and felt, with his own feet, the days and nights of Mt. Geumgang beyond the wire fence, he came to gaze deeply into himself rather than into the mountain, and that feeling is inscribed, without concealment, on the surface of the sculptures.
If the slight dissonance one feels among the eleven sculptures can be resolved (the simple, repetitive coloring on the surface of some seems somewhat removed from the formal vocabulary he has carried until now), his work will stand as a clear example that can be resurrected — not as an object of longing and worship but, as it has long been, as a wellspring of inspiration for the self-expression of Korean artists.
— Yang Jeong-mu, Professor, Korea National University of Arts

Open archive page →
Text Review 2005-07-01 · Yoo Si-min

"The Joy of Having a Painter Friend, Shin Jang-sik, the Aesthetics of His Communication" — Yoo Si-min Critique (2005)

By a widely held preconception, the artist is, in one way or another, different from ordinary people. Among them, the painter is regarded as a particularly "difficult eccentric." How far this preconception matches the truth I cannot say, but from my personal experience it does not seem an entirely groundless prejudice.
First, there is the matter of the work-space. The studio of a poet or novelist evokes an old-fashioned bookcase packed with books and a desk strewn with manuscript paper. A pianist's practice space is bound up with images of a glossy instrument, sweet sound, and long elegant fingerwork. A painter's working space, however, resembles those tiny back-alley "machikoba" (small workshops) in Mullae-dong that deal in metal building materials. Canvases and tools lie scattered everywhere, and the unfamiliar visitor hesitates to step in. If the master of the studio loves drink, empty bottles with cigarette butts inside take their share. If he is a poor "anonymous painter," instant-noodle cups with dried residue at the bottom will surely roll about. Unlike the works hung in galleries, encountering "the scent of art" in a painter's studio is not easy. At least, that is what every painter's working space I have known has been like.
The painter himself is no different from his studio. As a student I once saw, in the school art-room corridor, a teacher who had stayed up all summer night working — bare-chested, holding a Bacchus bottle in his mouth, stretching. In today's parlance, it was indeed "eopgi (bizarre)." Each in his way, the "people who do painting" I have known were absorbed in some "matter" I could not understand; what that matter was, despite all my eavesdropping, I never could grasp.
Things being made by "such people" in "such studios," works too are no easy thing. From the days when I first peeked into exhibition halls to gather pamphlets for vacation homework until now, I have become a "hypocrite who keeps up appearances" before art works. There was a work, for instance, that I thought depicted "a fly on a wide wall," while a friend with me insisted it was "watermelon seeds spit out on the floor." Grumbling to myself "what sort of painting is this!" I still stood for at least two minutes with my eyes lightly closed before the work. Rather than immersing myself in the work, I was on edge, careful that the others in the same space not catch on to the fact that I am a philistine who knows little about art. Ah, the way of the cultivated person is indeed an arduous one!
This is not, in truth, a matter to be borne by me alone. Having spent days and nights wrestling with calculus formulas and statistical numbers under the pretense of studying economics, my chances to smell the scent of art were few; but if painters had been more diligent in speaking out — if a broad, everyday communication had existed between artists inside the art world and ordinary people glancing over the fence — surely even I would not now be so timid about stepping into the space where an art exhibition is held.
By that "widely held prejudice," Shin Jang-sik is certainly an exception. At least, he is for me. Among many reasons, the most decisive is that he ceaselessly speaks to those living outside the world of his profession. Even when I do not entirely follow him in logical terms, I can, through the work and his expression and tone, "in my own way" surmise the aesthetic sense and message he is trying to send across the fence. This is because Shin Jang-sik is, contrary to "the widely held prejudice about painters," "ordinary, all too ordinary." Whether holding a "common aesthetic code" that lets him communicate without trouble with "outsiders to the art world" is a great strength or a fatal weakness, I do not know — but to tell the truth, that is how he is.
I dare say it: Shin Jang-sik is an artist of extraordinary "communicative ability." He showed this gift early on, from his student days. The friends who attended a Daegu high school with the curious name Simin (心印) in the mid-1970s will, every one, have bought a sheet or two of the bizarre New Year's cards Shin Jang-sik made. The "Shin Jang-sik-brand New Year's cards" — featuring the Hahoe mask, dragons, lotus patterns, thatched cottages, and children mimicking Lee Jung-seop — enjoyed enormous popularity, supported by their low price and high "artistic dignity," and thanks to this "popularization of art," he secured pocket funds for creative activity every winter vacation.
Not having been blessed with wealthy parents, the New Year's card business was for Shin Jang-sik a crucial "supply route." With these funds he procured what he needed for oil painting. Possessing both artistic talent and material infrastructure, Shin Jang-sik became the only one among some five hundred classmates of his year to paint in oil. If memory serves, it was the winter vacation of his second year. Too young to qualify as an exhibitor, he submitted his oil painting under his older brother's name to the Gyeongbuk Provincial Art Exhibition. Though no major prize, it nonetheless took an award. He "communicated" this secret quietly, and the friends caught in that secret network ran in a pack to the exhibition hall. As I recall, it was a painting in which porcelain ware, an apple, and a quince lay on a table.
Shin Jang-sik had countless "communications" with "outsiders to the art world," and the most decisive in his life was carried out in the corridor of a reading room somewhere in central Daegu in the spring of 1977. The problem was the family's opposition to his entering art college. By many indications, had he given up art school, his likely destination would have been the College of Commerce at Kyungpook National University. With the strong support and encouragement of his friends, Shin Jang-sik convinced his parents and went on to art college. Of the friends who, with no doubt that he would succeed as a painter, urged him to set his will, not one is now in an art-related occupation. They became accountants, lawyers, office workers, university professors, freelance commentators. They held that conviction because of his "communicative ability." Had he chosen otherwise, Shin Jang-sik might now be sitting at a desk in a bank branch, stamping seals on newly issued large-denomination checks, regretting the choice he made twenty-five years ago. Meeting good friends — even in an artist's life, this is one of the great fortunes!
From around 1988, Shin Jang-sik painted flags, , lotus patterns, and various other traditional motifs — things resembling what he had seen long ago at the village shrine of his maternal hometown — and later printed the same as woodblock prints. Then he painted Bukhansan and Gwanghwamun. For the past several years he has painted only . "What is ours," "tradition," "historicity" … art critics seem to analyze and ascribe meaning to his work through such concepts. But knowing well that Shin Jang-sik is no nationalist who especially venerates national tradition, I do not think those concepts alone sufficiently explain why he paints such subjects. Traditional motifs, the cheongsachorong, Gyeongbokgung, Bukhansan, Mt. Geumgang — these, in my view, are no more than tools of his attempted "sotong (communication)."
Shin Jang-sik is an ordinary father with one son and one daughter, and a most diligent husband who keeps house with the woman with whom he dated almost daily — who, surely, also painted. He is "a thoroughly normal middle-aged man" with no peculiar political leanings or eccentric habits. He weaves the life of an artist and the daily life of a man without any noise. Among friends he balances well the moments to listen quietly with the moments to make his case. He commits neither the folly of subordinating art to something else, nor the opposite error of severing it from history altogether. In a word, Shin Jang-sik is a "sound citizen" of the Republic of Korea, a painter pursuing "broad aesthetic and emotional communication" with his contemporaries.
A truly outstanding artist creates "something" that has not existed. The new "something" can be conceived through eccentricity beyond imagining or through the absolute solitude of facing the wall (myeon-byeok), but it can also be the product of incessant communication (sotong) with others. Because Shin Jang-sik is not suited to eccentricity or wall-facing — a "sound, all too sound citizen" — I believe that the works he has made and will make are all the products of the deep and wide "communication" he has shared with family and friends, with neighbors and contemporaries, and with history.
This belief brings the joy that only the believer can know. Before Shin Jang-sik's works, I look for traces. Somewhere in the new paintings, too, there must surely be traces of the "communication" we have shared together. The joy of feeling those traces in the heart — this is the inalienable privilege of one who counts as a friend an artist who fattens his soul through "communication with others."

Open archive page →
Mixed Artist's Note 1999-05 · Shin Jang-sik

Munhwa Ilbo, "Mt. Geumgang Essay — Majestic Form, Canvas Falls Short" — Shin Jang-sik Artist Essay (1999)

Last November I took the first ship to , and my longing and thirst for the mountain were somewhat eased; but after that journey, like one in a fever, I felt a new thirst rise. Leaving behind that Mt. Geumgang I had so longed for and boarding the night ship back, I saw the lights of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) lying along the great spine of the .
The night-watch lamps along the DMZ ran in a long line that followed the contours of the mountains. South of those lights, points of light continued; north of them, dark stillness. Within that darkness and stillness, lay. Seeing the condition of our country's division in such concrete, visual terms, I could not shake a tangled heart. Returning home and going through the sketches and slides I had made, contrary to my expectation that I would paint Mt. Geumgang in a fury, I could not paint. Why? Mt. Geumgang itself was too beautiful, too vast to compare with my feeble painting; I was overwhelmed by its qi and could not paint.
Having actually seen the I had painted from old paintings, photographs, materials, and imagination, I was thrown back to painting's fundamental question — the union of content and form. Were the forms of my Mt. Geumgang paintings up to now adequate? Seeing Mt. Geumgang in person, I came to understand why eighteenth-century Gyeomjae had painted as he had. From the standpoint of our day, looking toward the twenty-first century, how can my Mt. Geumgang paintings touch the actuality of Mt. Geumgang with my own temperament and sensibility?
And on what basis can the legitimacy of such expression rest …? I could find no end to that intricate worry. And the longing for a I had seen only hurriedly, as on horseback past blossoms, returned aching. I must go to Mt. Geumgang again. Now it can be visited at any time. The form of my painting, its newness — these will only resolve when I stand there again. Just as kimchi needs time to ripen into its flavor, so too my Mt. Geumgang paintings would naturally ripen in the flow of time, I thought. When will I visit again? I had seen Gaegol (the bare-bone winter form); in spring I would see Geumgang itself, in summer Bongnae, in autumn Pungak. If I could experience all four seasons of Geumgang, perhaps, by good fortune, a new inspiration for the Mt. Geumgang painting would visit my soul. Considering the wistful, unfinished feeling of painting without seeing, if I labored to see as much as I could, something would surely come to hand.
In such a state, when the invitation to participate in the Ilmin Museum of Art's 〈Mt. Geumgang Found Again〉 (Mongyu Geumgang — Three Hundred Years of in Painting) arrived, my joy was beyond words. Not only from personal interest but within the curation of a museum, I could see Geumgang again. To feel Geumgang together with other painters, to debate the new possibilities of our art, to vie and to encourage in painting — a new strength rose within me.
On the evening of April 16th, the ship departed Donghae Port and turned again toward . The grandeur of sunset, joined with the noble form of the , lit anew the beauty of our country. Could I more clearly set the direction of my painting this time, even produce a single drawing? With the hope of receiving the inspiration to render in painting, in harmony, a Mt. Geumgang that is grand, gorgeous, and ten-thousand-changing …
Snatching only the lightest sleep so as not to miss the moment of arrival at Jangjeon Port, I stood at the bow; unlike that winter dawn arrival, in this bright morning sunlight revealed itself as if blessing our reunion. The mountain was still there.
The port arrival and the entry procedures had been streamlined and systematized compared with the first visit. Passing Onjeong-ri, racing along between the pines of Hanhaegye through to Mansangjeong, where the bus arrived, I ran ahead toward Samseonam to meet the full view of . Manmulsang in the breath of spring received us with vigor and freshness. Past Samseonam, Gwimyeonam, Jeolbu-am, Ansim-dae, Mangjangcheon, I climbed straight up to Cheonseon-dae; the breath of spring embraced all of Manmulsang, and the warm sunlight, throughout my sketching, seemed to bless my return. As my hand moved and the drawing formed, I thought: this is not my will but the qi this mountain gives, and I drew dozens of sketches. The next day the miinsongs (beautiful pines) along the Changto pine grove on the way to Okryu-dong received us with the animation of a faintly green wetness, and the limpid waters of Yeonjudam deepened in jade-mystery.
Biryong Falls, soaring as if into the sky, and Guryong Falls, pouring its grand torrent, were swollen with water — unlike their frozen forms of last winter — and their animation was at full peak. The flow of water, its sound, mysterious colors, the scent of spring, the blooming flowers, the trees rising with sap, the great rocks — all of it composed a single symphony of vitality. Mongyu — a dream-journey through Geumgang. What more can be said! Carried away in painting amid that qi, I had no sense of the passing hours when, alas, the tour guide began to hurry us down.
Paintings of are countless — from the Goryeo monk No-yeong's Buddhist 〈Painting of Kṣitigarbha〉, to Gyeomjae Jeong Seon's 〈Geumgang Jeondo〉, the album leaves of Kim Hong-do, the many , and modern works such as Haegang Kim Gyu-jin's 〈Mt. Geumgang〉 and 〈Chongseokjeong〉 (painted after a sketching journey by order of Emperor Sunjong during the colonial period) and Sojeong Byeon Gwan-sik's 〈Samseonam〉. Mt. Geumgang painting, in particular, is a sanctuary in the history of our painting — the place where, from Gyeomjae Jeong Seon onward, our own aesthetics were established by sketching the beauty of our land from the actual scene (silgyeong). The inspiration for our painting in our age, made from our own, must surely be sought here.
And yet since the division, not a single painter in the South has painted . Even from imagination and materials, would it not be good to attempt Mt. Geumgang painting anew at this moment? With this thought I began, and from my 1993 solo exhibition through 1998 I have presented five solo exhibitions on the theme of Mt. Geumgang. In truth, my experience as assistant art director for the opening and closing ceremonies of the 1988 Seoul Olympics gave the initial momentum: from interest in the formal vocabulary hidden in folk subjects — , drums, gongs, flags, Gyeongbokgung — I worked under the theme of 〈Arirang〉. Afterward, expressing the animation and vitality dwelling in our land through subjects such as cockscomb, wild grasses, the pine, and Bukhansan, I came naturally to think: if so, why not paint Mt. Geumgang, the sanctuary of our painting? That simple thought was the beginning of my Mt. Geumgang painting. Painting Mt. Geumgang without having visited carried no small number of regrets. Yet I could not erase from those paintings the hope that one day I might go. Now, having met Geumgang twice, perhaps that animation and shinmyeong (exalted spirit) will seep into my paintings as well. There remain many places I have not directly seen — , Inner Geumgang, Chongseokjeong, Singeumgang — but perhaps the shinmyeong and vitality our people carry are now possible within Mt. Geumgang paintings. Will a time not come, in the future, when the division of our nation is overcome and Mt. Geumgang is reborn as a symbol of the nation? Then I shall see it to my heart's content.
At 〈Mt. Geumgang Found Again〉, I hope that some measure of this shinmyeong and vitality will be expressed in my paintings. I shall settle my impatient heart and build it up little by little.
is my Mt. Geumgang, and our nation's Mt. Geumgang. I hold this hope: that one day, painters from the South and the North together may paint Mt. Geumgang on its very soil, debate our art, and exhibit in Seoul and Pyongyang — would not our symbol thereby be made still more precious? Would it not be possible to meet through the sensibility common to our people? Not meeting an empty mountain devoid of people, but meeting the mountain together with its people — the joy then would be greater still.

Open archive page →
Mixed News 1999-07 · Artist's Blog

Press Coverage — 'Dream Journey to Geumgang: 300 Years of Mt. Geumgang Paintings' at Ilmin Museum of Art (1999)

A collection of newspaper coverage photographs documenting the 1999 group exhibition 'Dream Journey to Geumgang: 300 Years of Paintings' at the Ilmin Museum of Art in July 1999. Shin Jang-sik participated as one of the contributing artists; his work 'Mt. Geumgang — Vitality' (1999, 728×227cm, acrylic and on canvas) is mentioned in the coverage.
Coverage (1)

Artist's Blog 1999-07

Press Coverage — 'Dream Journey to Geumgang: 300 Years of Mt. Geumgang Paintings' at Ilmin Museum of Art (1999)
Open archive page →