An Island Made by Swimming
헤엄쳐 만든 섬
In the summer of 2020, while staying in Marseille, France, I visited the island of Frioul before returning to Korea.
Arriving by boat, Frioul appeared as a barren yet beautiful rocky island. I spotted a small beach and went down. Leaving my camera behind under the blazing sun, I entered the water and spent some time there. Eventually, wanting to see more of the island, I got out of the water and followed a path between the rocks that wound around the island. I didn’t encounter a single person—only quiet landscapes met my eyes. Suddenly, I thought of someone who might have discovered this island for the first time, and imagined their moment of arrival.
"That moment must have looked just like this."
An island reached by swimming. Like a bird resting on a rock, I could leisurely feel the time of the island. I became that first person arriving on the island and took photographs. When I looked back while walking, I could see the path I had taken. Faint traces of civilization grew smaller in the distance—a landscape from the time I live in. Then, turning again to face forward, I used up a full roll of film capturing the uninhabited face of the island.
The black-and-white film I used that day had already been soaked in seawater before I even took the photos. At the time, I was drawn to the unpredictable effects that could occur on film—a curiosity about how accidental processes could evoke scenes of blurred memory. I was continuously excavating faint images, and the process became a way for me to soak, retrieve, and re-examine distant time.
It took time for me to speak about the desire to see what is faint. There were things I needed to empty out first. There was a time when the image of water came to me endlessly and repeatedly. If I pieced them all together, I could draw a map of the seashore I walked, looked back on, and swam through. On the day when those swelling images finally filled the space I occupied, I realized that all those watery times I had experienced were necessary passages—acts of purification and baptism. Having passed through them, I was able to arrive at a new point in life. As if I had been retrieved from a time where I thought I might never breathe again.
I began to look again at the film of the island. Everything from my visit there was contained in that one roll. I decided to print the 24 frames in my own way. The printing process mirrored what I had gone through: light was cast, the paper was soaked in chemicals, the image surfaced, and was lifted out. The photo paper where the image settled was washed and dried. The island's landscape took hold in shades of gray. In the soft, faint light appeared dry grass, rocks, sea, and sky. The edges of each scene had become blurred. These elements revealed fragments of distant memories, stripped of sequence or time.
Standing before these images, now overlaid with new traces, I recall a time far removed. While drifting through that time, there are layers of life one must pass through: the moment of swimming toward the island, the brief breathlessness, the moment of arrival, and the moment when the soaked body and clothing dried beneath the hot sun. Touching and passing through each of these, I arrive at a time that unfolds.
Taking photographs, developing film, and returning again to that island through the image—I revisit the swimmer who once reached that place. Reaching a moment of relief, I breathe again, arriving at the island I swam to and made my own.
2023.03.24 - 04.06
<헤엄쳐 만든 섬>
pluripotent art space
https://pluripotentartspace.com/exhibition/30
전시 전경 : 허유
헤엄쳐 만든 섬
In the summer of 2020, while staying in Marseille, France, I visited the island of Frioul before returning to Korea.
Arriving by boat, Frioul appeared as a barren yet beautiful rocky island. I spotted a small beach and went down. Leaving my camera behind under the blazing sun, I entered the water and spent some time there. Eventually, wanting to see more of the island, I got out of the water and followed a path between the rocks that wound around the island. I didn’t encounter a single person—only quiet landscapes met my eyes. Suddenly, I thought of someone who might have discovered this island for the first time, and imagined their moment of arrival.
"That moment must have looked just like this."
An island reached by swimming. Like a bird resting on a rock, I could leisurely feel the time of the island. I became that first person arriving on the island and took photographs. When I looked back while walking, I could see the path I had taken. Faint traces of civilization grew smaller in the distance—a landscape from the time I live in. Then, turning again to face forward, I used up a full roll of film capturing the uninhabited face of the island.
The black-and-white film I used that day had already been soaked in seawater before I even took the photos. At the time, I was drawn to the unpredictable effects that could occur on film—a curiosity about how accidental processes could evoke scenes of blurred memory. I was continuously excavating faint images, and the process became a way for me to soak, retrieve, and re-examine distant time.
It took time for me to speak about the desire to see what is faint. There were things I needed to empty out first. There was a time when the image of water came to me endlessly and repeatedly. If I pieced them all together, I could draw a map of the seashore I walked, looked back on, and swam through. On the day when those swelling images finally filled the space I occupied, I realized that all those watery times I had experienced were necessary passages—acts of purification and baptism. Having passed through them, I was able to arrive at a new point in life. As if I had been retrieved from a time where I thought I might never breathe again.
I began to look again at the film of the island. Everything from my visit there was contained in that one roll. I decided to print the 24 frames in my own way. The printing process mirrored what I had gone through: light was cast, the paper was soaked in chemicals, the image surfaced, and was lifted out. The photo paper where the image settled was washed and dried. The island's landscape took hold in shades of gray. In the soft, faint light appeared dry grass, rocks, sea, and sky. The edges of each scene had become blurred. These elements revealed fragments of distant memories, stripped of sequence or time.
Standing before these images, now overlaid with new traces, I recall a time far removed. While drifting through that time, there are layers of life one must pass through: the moment of swimming toward the island, the brief breathlessness, the moment of arrival, and the moment when the soaked body and clothing dried beneath the hot sun. Touching and passing through each of these, I arrive at a time that unfolds.
Taking photographs, developing film, and returning again to that island through the image—I revisit the swimmer who once reached that place. Reaching a moment of relief, I breathe again, arriving at the island I swam to and made my own.
2023.03.24 - 04.06
<헤엄쳐 만든 섬>
pluripotent art space
https://pluripotentartspace.com/exhibition/30
전시 전경 : 허유