Touching Beyond Form—The Quiet Question of Realism
When people hear the word "realism," they likely imagine "painting something to look exactly like the real thing." Accurately capturing every detail, faithfully reproducing the play of light and texture. This is indeed a highly skilled technique, a culmination of the long history of painting.
But for me, as an abstract painter, realism is not merely a technique. It is more like a quiet gateway that confronts us with the question: "What are we seeing?"
The Assumption of Seeing
For example, suppose I paint an apple placed before me. The sheen of its red skin, a slight blemish, the reflection of light. Realism is the endeavor to transfer these elements as faithfully as possible onto the canvas.
Yet, midway through my work, I pause. Am I truly seeing the apple?
I know the word "apple." I know it's a sweet fruit. Hasn't that knowledge already painted over my vision? Haven't preconceptions of roundness and redness fixed its shape?
Perhaps realism isn't about copying what I see, but about unraveling what I believe I see. This feeling grows stronger with each passing year.
I am an abstract painter, yet I treasure the time spent in realistic observation. Before breaking down form, I look thoroughly. Before deconstructing color, I trace the shifting light. In this process, I realize the world is never made solely of outlines.
Outlines are merely lines drawn by thought afterward. In reality, colors bleed, light shimmers, and boundaries are ambiguous.
To depict and to touch
The word "realism" contains the verb "to depict." Yet, as I continued creating, I came to feel the word "to touch" was closer.
When one seeks to touch a subject, breathing naturally becomes regulated. Without haste, without preconceptions, one simply faces what exists there. Realism, too, is perhaps such an attitude.
Pursuing only accuracy makes a painting feel stiff. Yet, when you paint as if quietly listening to the subject's presence, strangely enough, the details tend to emerge naturally.
The same holds true when painting abstractly. I simplify forms, layer colors, and strip away structure. Yet underlying this process lies a foundation of realistic observation. It's not about painting what I see directly, but extracting the very experience of seeing itself. To achieve this, I must first descend deeply into the concrete reality of the subject.
Realism and abstraction are not opposites. Rather, I feel they share the same root: a sincere posture of reaching out to touch the world. That posture results in both meticulous detail and abstract planes of color.
Realism is not about precisely fixing the world; it is about noticing the world's fluctuations. It is the question of how one receives those fluctuations within oneself.
When you stand before a realist painting in a museum, I urge you to imagine not just the details, but the artist's very breath as they faced their subject. There should be a quiet dialogue there, transcending mere reproduction.
For me, realism is both a preparatory exercise for abstraction and a return to the origin. Beyond the form, there remains an aura that cannot yet be put into words. The desire to touch that aura. That, perhaps, is why I still face the canvas today.