Lee Deok Young: Grotto

Chapter II is pleased to announce Lee Deok Young’s solo exhibition, Grotto at its Yeonnam-dong exhibition space from July 18 to August 14, 2026. Lee Deok Young, who has continuously explored the psychological balance between anxiety and solace formed within social relationships and personal experiences, spent his time as a resident of the 2024–2025 Chapter II Residency examining the tensions of the city and observing old buildings and natural elements to find ways to capture the order contained within them. Having discovered rules and patterns within forms that appear complex and disorderly, he unveils an inner landscape where protection and oppression coexist in this exhibition. 

Lee Deok Young (b. 1990) received a BFA in Painting and an MFA in Fine Art from Mokwon University. He has held solo exhibitions at Cheongju Art Studio (2022), ArtSpace128 (2021, 2019), the Lee Ungno Museum (2020), and Wooyeon Gallery (2016). Lee has also participated in group exhibitions at prominent institutions, including Chapter II (2024), the Daejeon Museum of Art (2024, 2023, 2019), the Seoul National University Museum of Art (2022), Gallery Meme (2022), and the Chang Ucchin Museum of Art (2019).

Artist Statement - 'Grotto' (2026)

When I run away from society or personal events, my direction is always toward my private shelter. Sometimes, it turns out to be either a secure hideout or a refuge I can barely escape.

Each of us has our own cave. It may be an internal one, or an artificial one built of concrete. Was I being chased by something? Or did I carry an undefinable malaise? While these ongoing questions lingered, I moved to Seoul and began my project on anxiety and equilibrium in a small studio of about 16 square meters. The place where I spent a year eventually became familiar and comfortable—a stark contrast to my first impression of the unknown—yet it also gave me a sense of suffocation from time to time. For several months, when I virtually locked myself up to focus on my work, it felt as though I were in a tiny cave hidden deep within the city. Away from the hustle and bustle of the streets, I maintained an isolated lifestyle. Whenever the isolation felt too tight, I would go out to take pictures. My first shooting site was the Chungjeong Apartment complex, known as one of the oldest apartment buildings in Korea. I was drawn there during my research by the monotonous and shabby appearance typical of such old structures. When I actually encountered the building, it felt unfamiliar, as if I were facing a massive fossil left on the street. Like many other aging buildings, it stood uncared for and neglected on the wide roadside. The peeling paint falling from the exterior walls, the disorder of untidy electric wires, and the interior stuffed with dust and rubbish made me feel as if I were peering into the chaotic psychological geography of a human being. Furthermore, the structure of the interior corridor—where one end seamlessly loops to connect with the other—evoked an eccentric sensation of being lost in a maze.

While working, an inquiry arose: what would be the purest and most natural forms of structures and natural objects? The purest form of nature I recollect is the environment of the DMZ that I encountered during my military service. Every summer, the lush woods grew far above my height without anyone’s care, creating a vast expanse of grassland that resembled the open sea. When the wind blew, the land swayed as if it were a living organism; when raindrops fell, the land cried out loudly, sounding like rain hitting the surface of the ocean. In the winter, on the other hand, this nature hid its face and disappeared before I knew it. I witnessed the rawest side of nature in a landscape that remained detached and untouched by human hands due to the war. The structure of the Chungjeong Apartment reminds me of the forms of nature I detected at that time. I wondered if the most original and pristine creations might actually be those abandoned and left untouched by human hands. Sometimes, I come across buildings covered in overgrown ivy, having been left neglected for a long time. I unexpectedly find aesthetic elements in these structures, in these fragments of nature left without man-made interference. The ruined façade, which seemed to reject entry, pushing everything away, made me feel as if I were looking at a person who had walked into a cave.

Another place I visited was Haneul Park, which was overgrown with silver grass. In the silver grass field situated at a moderate height, I could see very little structure but the grass and the sky. It was not surprising that I felt the atmosphere of the DMZ I had seen long ago, for a moment, as the silver grass, rising well above my height, formed a massive colony. However, because this place had also been touched by human hands, the plants did not grow completely wild; instead, ropes were lined up along the square edges of each plot to keep the pathways efficient. This neat management was as strict as a system of control. In striking contrast to the chaotic, natural state of the silver grass, the demarcated ropes restricting visitor traffic felt deeply disparate. As if there were an invisible rule forbidding anyone from crossing those ropes, I felt as though I were carefully keeping to the rules on a precarious boundary.

I am always fascinated by the patterns found in the overgrown shapes of silver grass, or the way ivy stretches out aimlessly without a destination. On the other hand, I feel a subtle tension in the aligned, simple surfaces of buildings that expose only their bare concrete frames. I gradually fill the canvas, imposing my own rules onto the intricate and chaotic rhythms of nature. In the plane of the canvas embracing a complex dimension where I cannot discern the beginning or the end, I find a sense of comfort.

At times, when I spent long hours in my studio, I would often imagine that one of the walls had collapsed, allowing the outside nature to encroach inward. Was the wall a social norm, much like the ropes that bound the silver grass, or a tacit agreement understood in silence? Does the person who fled into the cave want someone to pull them out of the shelter? Or perhaps, they might secretly long to break free on their own.