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| Courtesy of Emile Seguin |
By David A. Tizzard
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| David A. Tizzard |
The Korean-born philosopher Han Byung-chul ascribes to this view, believing that true beauty is found in such imperfections. In empty spaces. Korean artists refer to these spaces as "yeobek" (여백/餘白). Not something blank but rather something intentionally left blank. The stark white emptiness we see in such artworks does not signify something negative but rather an infinite possibility. Clarity and abundance. A potentiality of unlimited energy.
This reinforces the importance of yeobek. For if every space is filled, though it might seem efficient, rational even, it is but a one-sided conversation. Meaningless. A bowl that is full cannot be used no matter how pretty or expensive or pretty it might be.
Moreover, the empty space, yeobek, is necessary for the object it surrounds to display its true beauty. The emptiness gives beauty to the object. The negative completes the positive. The relationship is one of harmony and this harmony composes the whole. The blank space of the yeobek signifies the imperceptible power of the Tao ― the source of nature which cannot be seen or heard.
Yeobek asks the viewer to complete the picture. To create a far more vivid, impressive, and real image than the artist might ever be able to manage. This gives birth to a form of aesthetic catharsis. A dialogue is thus created between artist and viewer. For without yeobek we are simply engaged in a one-sided conversation. Displaying proudly an ideology with little room for nuance or engagement. There is no room for the Gestalt theories of perception to work.
The best musicians know this. "Music is the space between the notes," said Claude Debussy and Miles Davis. This space is evident all over traditional Korean music. The rise and fall of the breath give birth to a beautiful emptiness. The sparseness of the pansori gosu (drummer) and singer provide a void in which our minds can find ease and relaxation.
Relationships, art, and humans that allow for the yeobek are richer for the space that is not defined. It allows other people to complete them. To make them whole. But what happens if we erase the empty space, the negativity? What happens if our life becomes one dictated by social media? What consequence is there if all that we see, from photos of friends, to celebrities, to newsreaders bleached white by high-powered lights has edges smoothed by filters?
Our environment is filled with materials. Innumerable words and images fill every inch of our internet experience. Natural spaces in our cities are filled for profit. Our earth's resources are depleted for convenience. Modernity has conquered time and space meaning that cities' nightscapes are a fluorescent neon hum, brighter than the dawn. Where is the room to breathe? What is this society without spaces?
Our environment shapes our personality and nature in a variety of ways. But what happens if our environment becomes perfect? Han fears we're entering a shallow society in which all the negativity that defines us is being slowly erased by computers and a constant focus of becoming commodities of self.
Han sees this as one of the signature afflictions of our age: Depression the sickness of a society suffering from excessive positivity. Humanity willingly erasing the very thing which defines it. The more we embrace the grind, the constant likes, retweets, and hyperactivity, the more we lose the possibility of possibility. Our freedom enslaves us.
These ideas of Han's, bringing with them East Asian philosophy and aesthetics, resonate with me. But I thought they would end there. Finding a willing ear in an old man who enjoys Taoism and a modicum of slow living. Yet as I introduced the thoughts to a new generation of young Korean adults at university, they nodded in a somewhat silent depressed agreement. They too acknowledged the beauty in the void. They learned about a new approach to modern life. An approach so new it's actually very old. And that's the direction society might slowly turn. With retro vibes and analogue devices not just useful for Instagram stories, but for reclaiming ourselves. For avoiding the burnout. For becoming human. Again.
Dr. David A. Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) has a Ph.D. in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social/cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the Korea Deconstructed podcast, which can be found online. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.
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