Yoon Nam

Bio

Yoon Nam was born and reared in Korea. She holds a Ph.D. in 16-17th century English literature, is a DJ and loves records, and also draws and paints. As a self-taught and multi-disciplinary artist, she writes when she can’t paint, and paints when not writing, though her visions, whether non-literal, conceptual, or verbal, often interact and inform each other. She lived in South Korea for the first two decades of her life, and Korean is her native language. She currently composes works in both English and Korean. Though she finds the exceptional qualities of each language rewarding to explore, she feels writing in—and returning to--her mother tongue is a must in order to fight the increasing cultural alienation she has experienced as an immigrant resident of the United States. She lives in Atlanta with her partner Bobby, a beautiful cat named Reginald, and a sweet cat named Spicy.

Statement

I first discovered the term pentimento while reading the poem “Repentance” by Natasha Trethewey: “Pentimento/ the word for a painter’s change of heart revision/ on canvas means the same as remorse after sin.” A person’s relationship to their memory can be both self-deprecating and self-preserving. As the poet tries to recollect her memory, she makes revisions; the poem at the end becomes the work of pentimento. This approach mirrors my own writing and painting practice. Both texts and images function as a mnemonic device and a pentimento in my works. Nostalgia also plays a large part in my mnemonic inspiration. As the etymological root of the word nostalgia (“nostos,” return, home + “algos,” pain) implies, longing for places or people stirs up both pain and joy. Nostalgia is bifurcated, both painfully meaningful and joyously inspiring. The word for nostalgia in Korean is 향수 (pronounced “hyangsu”), though 향수 (“hyangsu”) also means perfume in Korean. The nostalgia-perfume connection in this Korean homonym makes sense to me. Longing is alluring and captivating, yet nauseating and dispiriting (hence “home-sickness”) at the same time. Home-sickness is often triggered by something being redolent of home—note how “redolent” (“red-,” back, again + “olere,” to smell) suggests a sense of smell that repeatedly returns. As a Korean immigrant in America, having lived in two countries and embracing two cultures and languages, I know the memories and narratives I try to recall and manifest matter, especially the equivocal and liminal ones, because they irrefutably shape my identity. At times I am advised to make a choice for clarity and transparency. I know the cost of such clarity, the consequences of choosing one over the other, to erase, cloak, and even divest one language, memory, or heritage in favor of the other. In my painting, the words and images together don’t always coincide and tell a coherent story; they interrupt, return, repent, revise, or even “paint over,” shading and obscuring any authoritative narrative, one that dominates, becomes familiar, then, even ideal. My paintings tell stories in the vernacular—I speak what I know over and over, neither polished nor substantial in style or tone, yet always faithfully nostalgic. Sometimes I might be struck dumb by nostalgia, unable to take a single step forward, but when the surprise occurs, whether by chance or practice, I am entranced by the wonder and agony of nostalgia, the freedom of being away and the pain of seeking the way back home--and possibly, on the way, following the light of a deeper place.