[Activity Report #3]

Determined to Be Beautiful

There is much to explain. Explanations often seem to belong to those who have been wronged, but I am simply someone restating what has already been exposed—my own inner motives. While attending an art college where one is expected to constantly tinker and make things, I fought with many professors. When told repeatedly to make my work prettier, I answered, “Pretty things are something I want to buy, not make.” When the issue was finish or completeness, I emptied my part-time wages and sent the work off to a factory. This was not rebellion; it was the stubbornness of someone who wanted precisely that much, and no more. I was often advised that aesthetic sensibility only becomes visible when pushed to extremes, and that such extremity makes exhibiting easier. Listening to this, I felt as if everyone had become addicted to spectacle. Not every word, not every aesthetic choice, needs to rush toward a climax. Claiming beauty through a logic of being “bigger” than the person next to you feels pitiable, and an eye trained only to recognize excess is trivial. When faced with the endlessly idling narratives peculiar to spectacle, I began to wonder where imagination had gone. Because I expressed this unease too bluntly as “It’s not pretty,” I often found myself having to explain.

One day, when the phrase “deliberately beautiful” was mostly used as an insult, I realized something. The word beautiful itself was too beautiful to discard; I needed to return it to the things I loved. This realization came when a viewer, after watching interviews featuring my friends, asked what theme my next project would take. I had intended to continue listening carefully to the words of those dear friends. Interviews with gay friends I wanted to stay close to for life seemed, to that viewer, like mere passing content. I disliked that. The so-called task of queer art—or of queer artists—is not to endlessly reinvent oneself, but to remain with subjects that have long been summoned only as anxious and vulnerable, and to protect what one set out to protect. I did not want to keep creating by borrowing the materials of researchers, consuming minority narratives, or sustaining my practice by exhausting both myself and my community in the pursuit of novelty. I came to believe that the phrase “deliberately beautiful” should be returned to those who continually consider what is appropriate and fitting at every stage of a process. Only then did I allow myself to want to be beautiful as well.

Three months have already passed. Since my first day at the Korean Gay Human Rights Group Chingusai on September 6, 2024, my days have been shaped by Jong-geol’s quiet kindness and Gi-yong’s sharp, lively energy. Over lunch, when we talked about films we liked, their descriptions were often richer than the films themselves. Even when encountering dreadful creative works, Gi-yong’s detailed complaints about what felt off were, in themselves, a fiercely beautiful form of critique. Beyond artistic works—when planning events or responding to political situations—Jong-geol and Gi-yong calmly honed words that were appropriate and precise. For a brief moment, I regretted not being able to write like them. Gradually, I accepted that we had learned different things and drew on different resources when forming sentences. Embarrassing as it may sound, I now think that what I am learning is not human rights activism, but beauty.

Many people have asked why I came to work at Chingusai. When asked why I chose to do “good work,” I have thought, a thousand times over, that it is not good work but beautiful work. Even as it marks its 30th anniversary, the organization does not aim for spectacle; instead, it makes room for small, intimate stories. That felt beautiful. The process of creating spaces—however modest—where each LGBTQ+ can stand on their own stage was full of imagination. It was beautiful to see the organization reflect on what remains valid in the histories of gay community building and human rights activism, and what needs to change. When members arrived with rumors—that people do human rights work as a hobby, or that I had fled the art world after causing trouble—I found myself unexpectedly talking about art. I said that just as painting now moves from brushes to iPads, and sculpture embraces all kinds of strange materials, I see no reason why queer art should not step into human rights activism. Fields may be divided for a reason, but I find it beautiful to hold an exhibition when an exhibition is needed, to write when writing is needed, and to step into the public square when the square calls. To return the word beautiful—a word that had long bothered me—to the things I cherish, I needed to live by choices I could accept myself. If asked again why I became a full-time staff member, I will answer: because I was determined to be beautiful.

Writing this, I worry I may sound like a temperamental aesthetic purist. But the three-month probation period was so happy that the word beautiful spilled out on its own. Thanks to the office staff, the members, and the unnis¹, every day felt deeply satisfying. There is still a mountain of things to learn, but if you see me smiling to myself, please assume I am happy—and kindly pretend not to notice.

“Let’s all get along. I’m in.”

LGBTQ+ Activist , Chingusai / Min-young (민영)