Hanjironi is a painter whose work lives in the space between memory and invention. Raised in South Korea on a steady diet of imported animation and early internet culture, Hanjironi developed an acute sensitivity to images that feel intimate yet borrowed, familiar yet unverifiable. The paintings that emerged from this experience are layered, fragmented, and deliberately unstable surfaces where digital noise, pixelation, and emotional residue accumulate without resolving. To look at Hanjironi's work is to encounter a feeling you cannot quite place, which is precisely the point.

✧✧✧
How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

I was born in South Korea in the 1990s, at a time when the country was not yet the global media powerhouse it is today. As a child, my daily routine was simple. I went to school, came home, and turned on the television. During daytime hours, children’s programming in Korea largely consisted of Japanese animation and manga that had been imported and dubbed. I believe many people in their twenties and thirties in Korea share this experience of growing up with stories and images that did not originate from our own cultural context, yet became deeply formative during childhood. These narratives shaped not only my imagination but also my emotional memory.

Although the worlds depicted on screen were fictional and geographically distant, they often felt more vivid and emotionally immediate than my everyday surroundings. As I grew older, this exposure expanded beyond television into a much wider ecosystem of comics, games, internet culture, and online imagery. Even into adulthood, I remained deeply immersed in these subcultural worlds. Over time, I began to recognize a subtle but persistent sense of distance between reality and fiction. I felt that my emotional landscape was shaped as much by virtual narratives as by lived experience.
This sense of dissonance became a foundational element of my work. I became particularly interested in a form of nostalgia that is not rooted in personal memory. It is a feeling of longing toward worlds I never truly experienced, yet remember as if I had. I often describe this as a kind of “borrowed memory,” emotions that feel real despite lacking a concrete experiential origin.

In the context of contemporary digital culture, where images are endlessly produced, circulated, and forgotten, this type of nostalgia feels especially present. Old internet images, remnants of early online cultures, and low-resolution digital artifacts carry traces of emotions that continue to linger even after their original contexts have disappeared. My cultural upbringing within imported media and internet subcultures directly informs my visual language. I work with layered imagery, pixelation, glitches, JPG noise, and collage-like compositions as a way of translating this emotional gap into visual form. These fragmented surfaces reflect how different emotional registers, temporal layers, and image sources collide within a single frame. Rather than aiming for visual coherence or narrative clarity, I am drawn to moments when images almost align but ultimately fail to do so. The techniques I use are not simply borrowed from digital aesthetics. They function as metaphors for emotional instability and misalignment. Glitches, pixelation, and visual noise point to moments when systems break down and images reveal their own limits.

For me, these breakdowns mirror emotional states that cannot be fully articulated or resolved. They describe feelings that hover between presence and absence. In this sense, my upbringing shaped both what I depict and how I depict it. Growing up surrounded by imported narratives and virtual worlds taught me to inhabit emotional spaces that exist between reality and fiction. My paintings reflect this condition by constructing images that feel familiar yet unstable, intimate yet distant. Through layering, fragmentation, and visual disruption, I attempt to create spaces where unresolved emotions can momentarily reside without being fully explained or resolved.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

My work rarely begins with a clear concept or narrative. Instead, it usually starts with image gathering. I spend a significant amount of time browsing the web or collecting photographs I have taken myself, treating these images as raw material rather than references. I am not particularly drawn to high-resolution or visually polished images. More often, I find myself collecting images that are low-resolution, blurred, ambiguous, or difficult to identify at first glance. I think this is because images that are too clear feel closed off. They appear complete and leave little room for interpretation or movement. In contrast, vague or distorted images feel open. The more uncertain an image is, the more easily it can connect to other images or emotional states. These images contain gaps, and it is within those gaps that the work begins. At times, I also introduce subcultural or digital motifs, such as fragments of animation character figures or symbolic elements drawn from anime and games. These elements are not used as direct references, but as variations that subtly shift the emotional register of the image.

After gathering a pool of images, I begin to look through them without a predetermined plan. Occasionally, images that seem completely unrelated start to feel as though they could coexist within a single work. There is no strict system governing this selection process. I rely almost entirely on intuition. When I move into digital editing using tools such as Photoshop or Procreate, this intuitive approach continues. The process resembles collage, but instead of assembling images through narrative logic, I allow emotional response to guide each decision. During this stage, I repeatedly cut, layer, erase, distort, and rearrange images. Rather than working toward a sense of completion, I focus on moments when different images, each carrying distinct emotional tones, enter a temporary balance through tension and misalignment.

Through the accumulation of overlaps, transparency adjustments, blurring, and visual disruptions, the digital image takes shape as a space where disparate fragments coexist without fully resolving into a single narrative or unified meaning. I stop editing when the image begins to resonate emotionally, when it feels internally charged yet still unstable. Once this digital process reaches its limit, I transfer the image onto canvas. This marks a significant shift in the work. Although the source materials are digital, the painting process itself is entirely analog. I do not rely on printing, silkscreen, projection, or airbrushing techniques, which transfer or project an image onto the surface through mechanical or reproductive processes. Instead, I translate the image solely through the physical act of painting with a brush. This transition slows the image down and introduces resistance, allowing emotional density to accumulate in a different way.

I often think of this stage as a form of compilation. Fragmented digital images, each carrying different data densities and emotional weights, are woven into a single painted surface. Painting becomes a way of binding these fragments together and granting them a sense of internal coherence or self-mythologizing legitimacy. The aim is not to resolve the tensions between elements, but to allow them to coexist within one material space. For me, the process itself is inseparable from the finished work. Making a painting is a way of adjusting emotional intensity, encountering misalignment, and holding incompatible elements together without forcing them into harmony. The completed work does not offer a clear conclusion. Instead, it records an ongoing process of negotiation between images, emotions, and layers that never fully align, yet remain bound within a single surface.

How has your artistic style transformed over the years? Are there specific influences, experiments, or moments that marked a turning point?

I began focusing seriously on painting during my third year of university. At that time, I was asking myself a fundamental question: what could I speak about as “my work”? More than anything else, I felt compelled to talk about emotion. I was particularly drawn to emotional states that were difficult to articulate in words, and I wanted to see whether painting or writing could hold those feelings in a different way. The concept that emerged during this period was “fake nostalgia.” Nostalgia is typically understood as a longing for real, lived experiences, often tied to childhood memories. However, the emotions I was experiencing did not seem to originate from concrete personal memories. Instead, they felt like an intense longing for something with no clear source. I often experienced a sense of displacement, as if the place I belonged to was somewhere other than my present reality. This persistent gap between myself and the world became the emotional core of my early work. As my practice developed, I began to question why these feelings were so dominant. I felt that understanding their origin was necessary in order to continue working more deeply.

Through this process, I came to suspect that these emotions might be connected to my long-term immersion in subcultural worlds such as comics, animation, and video games. These fictional narratives offered spaces for deep emotional identification. At the same time, there was always a moment when I became aware that these worlds were ultimately fantasies. I began to think of fake nostalgia as a kind of emotional defense mechanism. It seemed to soften the shock that occurs when one realizes that an intensely inhabited fictional world cannot truly be entered or possessed. Around this time, my paintings focused on the visual qualities that emerge from the gap between virtual worlds and reality. I became interested in the specific forms produced by errors, distortions, and schematic representations when fictional systems attempt to mimic the real. Alongside this, I explored my own sense of emotional detachment from reality and translated these sensations onto the surface of the canvas.

Over time, my attention shifted toward the emotional core of this ‘otaku-like’ experience. Beneath desire and immersion, I began to recognize feelings of powerlessness, sadness, emptiness, and melancholy. No matter how strongly one desires an object, it ultimately remains unattainable. This realization led me back to the idea of a gap, not only between virtual and real worlds, but also between desire and possession, presence and absence. This marked an important turning point in my work. Rather than focusing solely on the contrast between reality and fiction, I began to think more broadly about how painting could operate within gaps between opposing or seemingly unrelated concepts. I became interested in how different images, mental states, and layers of the unconscious might intersect or overlap within a single surface. The canvas came to function less as a unified image and more as a site where multiple emotional registers coexist without fully aligning.

In more recent works, this exploration of gaps has expanded toward what I think of as “absent emotions.” Instead of attempting to depict specific feelings, I am increasingly interested in what remains when emotion withdraws or cannot be fully named. Images in my paintings no longer function as complete carriers of meaning, but as traces or residues that suggest something missing. What matters is not the image itself, but the distance between images and the subtle emotional tension that emerges in that space. Through this shift, my paintings have gradually taken on the quality of emotional landscapes rather than representations of particular states. These landscapes are composed of fragments, overlaps, pauses, and gaps where emotions circulate without settling into fixed forms. Although the focus of my work has transformed over time, earlier concerns have not disappeared. Instead, they continue to merge, separate, and reappear in different configurations. My practice now operates as an ongoing process in which emotions, images, and the distances between them remain in motion, forming a field where longing, absence, and misalignment quietly persist.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

When I think about the idea of an “intended message” in my work, I often find myself uncertain. From the beginning of my painting practice, I have not been particularly interested in delivering a clear or fixed message to the viewer. Instead, what has always felt most important to me is the possibility of sharing emotion. More specifically, I am interested in sharing the conditions under which emotion emerges. I do not feel that it is essential for viewers to fully understand my intentions, background, or conceptual framework. It is not especially important to me that someone looks at my work and accurately reconstructs what I was thinking, why I made it, or what theme I was trying to address. For me, such clarity can sometimes feel limiting. Early on, when I first began exhibiting my work, I wrote statements that functioned almost like manuals, attempting to clearly guide the viewer’s interpretation.

Over time, however, I realized that this kind of explicit direction did not align with the emotional qualities I was trying to preserve. As a result,
I gradually moved away from explanatory language. When I write texts to accompany my paintings now, I tend to favor abstract or poetic expressions rather than concrete explanations. I believe there are certain things that disappear the moment they are too clearly described. Emotion, in particular, often loses its intensity or openness when it is fully defined. Ambiguity, for me, is not a lack of intention, but a necessary condition for emotional resonance. Rather than asking viewers to understand a specific message, I hope to offer a space, or a gap, where their own memories and emotions can enter. I think of my work less as something that communicates meaning and more as something that allows different emotional experiences to coexist. The ambiguity in my paintings is intentional in the sense that it keeps the work open. It creates room for personal associations, misunderstandings, and emotional overlaps that I cannot predict or control.

Although I do not actively pursue the clear transmission of an intended message, there is one type of response that consistently feels meaningful to me. When someone tells me that my work feels “sad,” it resonates deeply. I think sadness is one of the emotions with the widest range. It can be quiet or overwhelming, personal or collective. Knowing that a viewer has reached that emotional state through my work feels like a form of connection. It reassures me that there are people who resonate with the emotional frequency I am working within. My practice does not originate from a political, social, or didactic agenda. If I were to retroactively claim that my work carries a clear message, it would feel forced, as if I were fitting it into a framework that does not truly belong to it. At its core, my work began from a much simpler desire: to be understood emotionally. Not to be explained, categorized, or decoded, but to be felt. Ultimately, I hope my work functions not as a vehicle for messages, but as a point of intersection. A place where ambiguity allows emotionally marginal experiences to surface and overlap. In that sense, the value of my work lies not in what it says, but in what it quietly makes possible.

Do academic institutions still play a vital role in shaping artists today, or has self-taught creativity disrupted this tradition?

I have received formal art education since my teenage years, completing both undergraduate and graduate programs in fine art. I am now living as a practicing artist, so academic institutions have undeniably played a role in shaping my path. There are aspects of art school that were clearly effective and meaningful in forming me as an artist. One of the most valuable aspects of art school was the environment of critique. Being surrounded by peers who were all making different kinds of work created a situation where artworks were constantly discussed from multiple perspectives. Through this process, I learned not only how to look at others’ work, but also how to view my own work through someone else’s eyes. This encouraged me to think about my practice within a broader spectrum and to reflect those considerations back into the process of making. Learning how to articulate one’s work clearly and convincingly is also a skill that develops naturally in this environment.

In practical terms, this training becomes especially useful after graduation. Writing, presenting, and explaining one’s work are essential skills when navigating institutional systems such as grants, funding applications, residencies, and other forms of support. Art school makes it easier to produce what might be called “explainable work” within institutional frameworks. This is not necessarily a criticism, but a reality of how systems operate. However, the most significant thing I gained from academic institutions was not technical instruction, but community. While guidance from professors was important, the strongest influence came from peers. In graduate school, where a small group of people with a shared commitment to painting gathered, discussions became deeper and more sustained. Through repeated feedback and conversation, I often experienced moments where new possibilities opened up for me, moments of realizing that there were ways of working I had not previously considered.

There was also a strong sense of not being alone. Watching others struggle, doubt, and persist in making work created a kind of shared momentum. A healthy sense of competition, combined with mutual support, became a powerful source of motivation. The painter community that formed during graduate school remains one of the most valuable outcomes of that period. In this sense, academic institutions still play a vital role, particularly in forming human connections and sustaining artistic communities. At the same time, I feel that the necessity of academic institutions for learning technical skills is steadily diminishing. Access to information, tools, and references is no longer limited to schools. In my own case, having trained for art school entrance exams from a very young age has left me with a lingering reliance on conventional techniques, something I still consider a personal limitation. (This may be a particularly pronounced issue within the Korean education system, though I cannot speak universally.)

In contemporary art, rigid technical proficiency is no longer the primary measure of value. At times, I find myself more drawn to works that operate outside established techniques or academic conventions. There are expressive territories that only become accessible when one is not overly bound by learned habits or institutionalized visual languages. This aligns closely with my broader view on artistic intention, where expression becomes possible precisely when it escapes fixed frameworks. Ultimately, I believe academic institutions are neither obsolete nor essential in a singular way. They do not provide artists with clear directions or answers. Instead, they function as spaces that generate friction. This friction can be productive, challenging, or uncomfortable, but it is often through such resistance that artists come to better understand their own positions. In that sense, academic institutions remain one of many possible environments where an artist can be shaped, though never the only one.

Artificial Intelligence is increasingly infiltrating creative fields. Do you see artificial intelligence as a threat, a tool, or a collaborator in the art world?

I do not personally see artificial intelligence as a threat, a tool, or a collaborator in my artistic practice. Especially when it comes to the core stages of making work, such as developing sketches and constructing images on the canvas, AI feels largely unrelated to what I do. This is not a judgment on how other artists choose to work. Some artists actively incorporate AI into their creative process, while others, particularly in digital illustration, have experienced real harm due to issues such as unauthorized data training. I recognize that these concerns are valid and serious. However, at least for my own practice, I experience AI as operating on a completely different level. The images AI produces and the images I make are fundamentally different in nature. Out of curiosity, I have experimented with AI image generation myself. I wondered whether it might offer visual assistance or unexpected inspiration. What I found was that AI can generate fragmentary scenes or visually convincing moments, but it cannot produce the kind of image I am looking for. My work is not built from isolated visual ideas. It emerges from a long process of emotional accumulation, hesitation, and failure. What matters to me is not simply how an image looks, but how it carries time, uncertainty, and unresolved feeling. AI-generated images, no matter how refined, do not contain this process. They present an outcome without the lived duration that leads to it. For this reason, they fail to represent my emotional states or inner experience in any meaningful way. I cannot predict how far AI technology will advance in the future.

However, at least at this point, I believe that works created entirely by human hands and those generated by AI differ not only in degree, but in kind. This difference becomes apparent when one looks closely. As AI-generated images become increasingly realistic and polished, they move even further away from what I am interested in. My work does not aim to replicate reality or achieve visual perfection. Instead, I am drawn to gaps, errors, and moments where images fail to fully cohere. In this sense, I found the early phase of AI image generation more compelling than its current state. Images from around 2022, when the technology was still unstable, often appeared absurd or humorous. Scenes such as distorted public figures performing mundane actions carried a strange charm. These images revealed AI’s failure to accurately imitate reality, and it was precisely this failure that made them interesting to me. They exposed cracks rather than concealing them. That said, I do occasionally use AI in a limited way. I find it helpful for organizing thoughts, writing, or brainstorming ideas. In this context, AI functions as a support for language rather than for image-making. There is a clear distinction, for me, between assisting thought and producing visual work. Ultimately, I do not consider AI-generated imagery to be an adversary or a collaborator in my practice. It exists elsewhere. My work depends on my own time, memory, physical presence, and material engagement. Without these elements, my paintings would not exist. These are the things I choose to trust, and they remain central to how I understand creation.

How do you reignite creativity during those inevitable periods of self-doubt or stagnation?

Periods of self-doubt and stagnation return to me quite regularly. They are not rare interruptions but recurring states. The reasons vary. Sometimes motivation simply disappears without a clear cause. At other times, it is tied to a sense of nihilism, the thought of “What is the point
of doing this?” Economic anxiety can also play a role. There are many forms of instability that surround the life of an artist, and I have learned to recognize that these emotional fluctuations are part of the rhythm of my practice. In order to maintain productivity during more stable periods, I usually work within a routine. However, when a slump arrives, I try not to force myself to continue painting in the same way. Instead of pushing through the act of making, I temporarily step back from physically producing work. What I do not abandon, though, is the time I have set aside for working. During the hours when I would normally be painting, I redirect that energy toward gathering images.

In fact, during these stagnant periods, I tend to collect images even more obsessively than usual. I search for visual material that might eventually become part of my work, but I also look at a wide range of other artists’ practices. I make an effort to see more exhibitions, especially when I feel uncertain about my own direction. I try to flood myself with images. I allow them to accumulate until they begin to overflow in my mind. At some point, something shifts. After absorbing enough visual material, I start to feel small sparks of desire again. I might think, “If it were me, I would paint it this way,” or “I want to make something of this scale and show it in a space like that.” These thoughts are not dramatic breakthroughs. They are subtle movements, almost like a slow reorientation. Random images I have collected begin to connect with one another in my mind. I feel the urge to translate those internal sketches quickly into digital form and then onto canvas.

Ironically, when I begin to doubt the value of making visual images, the fastest way for me to regain creative energy is through visual images themselves. Filling my mind with imagery acts almost like a form of brainstorming. The more images I encounter, the more my thoughts expand and reorganize. Creativity does not return through abstract reasoning, but through immersion. Occasionally, encouragement from others also plays a role. When someone tells me that they want to see more of my work, it serves as a reminder that what I make does not exist in isolation. Even if my self-doubt has not completely disappeared, there are moments when simply picking up a brush activates a kind of momentum. The act of painting carries its own inertia. Once I begin, the body remembers what to do. In some ways, I suspect that if these periods of doubt did not exist, I might lose vitality more quickly. Stagnation forces me to pause, to question, and to refill. Without that cycle, my work might become too certain or too automatic. Rather than seeing self-doubt as something to overcome entirely, I have come to accept it as part of the process. It is not the opposite of creativity, but one of the conditions that allows it to return.

✦✦✦
What becomes clear through this conversation is that Hanjironi's practice is not built around answers. It is built around the conditions that make certain feelings possible. The images gather, the layers accumulate, the gaps remain open. Painting, for Hanjironi, is less an act of expression than an act of holding keeping incompatible things together on a single surface long enough for something unnameable to settle there. That quiet insistence is what makes the work last.