To Charles Esche from Juli Yoon
You have already spoken to global audiences through numerous interviews, lectures, and writings. In the process of studying that content, I hope this interview can capture more personal and nuanced details rather than reaffirming your main arguments or ‘sharp points’. Additionally, I would like to place importance on sharing your current thoughts. I would be grateful if you could consider these aspects.
Thank you for framing this interview with such care and thoughtfulness. I appreciate the opportunity to delve deeper into these themes and share reflections that perhaps haven’t surfaced in my previous discussions.
1. I would like to start by discussing the Gwangju Biennale. In 2002, you presented a very significant exhibition on the theme of “Pause.” The idea of “Pause” rather than movement for problem-solving or the advancement of rights offers a profound insight in today’s era, particularly considering the intensifying climate crisis, geopolitical conflicts, and the growing strength of ultra-rightism. How did you arrive at this theme in 2002? When we reconsider “Pause” in the context of our current times, what does it mean?
The theme of “Pause” for the 2002 Gwangju Biennale emerged from an instinctive need to question the accelerationist tendencies of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. At the time, global discourse was dominated by ideas of perpetual progress, technological advancements, and the rapid movement of capital, people, and ideas. However, these movements often overlooked the critical importance of stopping to reflect—of pausing as a means of both resistance and recalibration.
“Pause” was inspired by the idea that meaningful change isn’t always about momentum; sometimes, it’s about a conscious withdrawal to observe, listen, and rethink. Gwangju, with its complex history of resistance and renewal, felt like the perfect place to engage with this notion.
Fast forward to today, and the relevance of “Pause” has deepened. The climate crisis, for instance, is a direct consequence of our unwillingness to pause—our inability to step back from relentless extraction and exploitation. Similarly, geopolitical tensions and the rise of ultra-right movements often thrive on reactive, unexamined energy. In these contexts, a collective “Pause” can serve as an antidote to thoughtless action, allowing for deeper engagement and the creation of alternative futures.
For me, “Pause” now symbolizes a necessary interlude in our engagement with the world—a time to reflect on how we relate to each other and the planet. It’s not about apathy or avoidance but about recalibrating our priorities and values.
(If I were to reflect on these approaches today, I would say they remain relevant, especially as we grapple with crises that demand collective action and imaginative thinking. Revisiting the principles of “Pause” and decentralization feels more urgent than ever.)
2. The 2002 Gwangju Biennale refrained from using conventional classification methods to distinguish “various arts.” Instead, it focused on local collectives, spontaneous communities, and organically formed networks. This approach has become a significant reference point in early 21st-century contemporary art, influencing various biennales, including Documenta in Kassel. When we reflect on your work, this seems to be a consistent perspective of yours. I am curious about which philosophies, theories, previous activities, or earlier generations’s curatorial practices have influenced you.
The decision to avoid conventional classification methods in the 2002 Biennale wasn’t simply an artistic or curatorial choice—it was an ideological one. The emphasis on local collectives, spontaneous communities, and organically formed networks reflected a belief in decentralization and self-organization as vital forces for cultural production. It was also a critique of rigid institutional frameworks that often suffocate artistic expression.
This perspective was shaped by several influences. Philosophically, I was inspired by the writings of thinkers like Félix Guattari, who explored the concept of “ecosophy”—a merging of ecological, social, and mental systems. His ideas about networks and subjectivities deeply resonated with me, particularly in how they challenged hierarchical structures.
I was also influenced by earlier curatorial practices, such as Harald Szeemann’s groundbreaking work in the 1970s. His approach to exhibitions as spaces of dialogue and experimentation paved the way for more fluid, participatory models. Additionally, working closely with artists in the late 1990s and early 2000s—many of whom were creating socially engaged, process-based work—helped me understand the importance of context and collaboration in curating.
Ultimately, the Gwangju Biennale in 2002 sought to reflect these influences while responding to the unique sociopolitical and cultural dynamics of the time. The exhibition was less about presenting a unified narrative and more about fostering spaces where different voices and perspectives could coexist and evolve.
3. You demonstrated leadership as the director of Van Abbe for 20 years. Although I am not in a position of responsibility like yours, as a chief curator managing a museum’s curatorial team, I understand that what you have achieved is by no means easy. I have read interviews where you emphasized the dedication of the museum’s board and your team. However, I would like to hear your thoughts more specifically. Could you advise on what you believe is the most crucial factor for a museum to achieve its long-term goals?
Leading a museum over two decades taught me that achieving long-term goals requires a balance of vision, adaptability, and collaboration. However, if I were to distill the most crucial factor, it would be building trust—both internally within the team and externally with the community.
Internally, trust begins with the team. As a director or curator, your role is to create an environment where people feel valued, supported, and inspired. This involves not only clear communication and delegation but also empowering individuals to take ownership of their work. A museum thrives when its staff believe in its mission and feel they are contributors to something meaningful.
Externally, trust must be cultivated with the museum’s audience, funders, and broader community. This means being transparent about your goals, engaging honestly with feedback, and remaining committed to accessibility and inclusivity. Long-term trust is built when a museum consistently demonstrates that it is not merely an institution of authority but a platform for dialogue and shared discovery.
Lastly, a museum’s leadership must have the courage to embrace failure as part of the process. Long-term goals often involve risks and experimentation, especially when addressing the changing cultural and societal landscape. Trust allows a museum to take those risks without losing its integrity.
4. Van Abbe is consistently cited as one of the most exemplary models of a contemporary art museum, particularly in comparison to larger museums operated with substantial sponsorships. However, I imagine that there are also limitations to a model like the Van Abbe. I would like to ask you very cautiously. I am curious to know, from your experience, what you felt was lacking in the Van Abbe as an “ideal contemporary art museum”? (Alternatively, what kind of museum do you believe is needed for the future?)
Van Abbe holds a special place in my heart, and I believe it has been a pioneering institution in many ways. Its relatively modest scale enabled us to experiment, respond to challenges quickly, and take bold, unconventional approaches to programming and community engagement. However, every model has its limitations.
One challenge we often faced at Van Abbe was resource constraints. While our independence and agility were assets, they also meant we lacked the financial muscle of larger institutions to support ambitious long-term projects. Fundraising was a constant effort, and balancing the need for sponsorship with maintaining artistic and ethical integrity was always delicate.
Another limitation lay in the museum’s location and scale. Situated in Eindhoven, a city with its own unique strengths and challenges, the museum often struggled to attract the global visibility that larger urban centers naturally command. While this was not necessarily a failure, it was a reminder of how geography influences a museum’s reach and impact.
Looking forward, I believe the “ideal contemporary art museum” of the future must do three things:
— Radically Decenter Power: Museums must move away from centralized, hierarchical structures and instead foster networks of collaboration. This applies to everything from decision-making processes to the way collections are built and shared.
— Embrace Sustainability: Museums must rethink their operations to address the climate crisis, reducing carbon footprints and adopting sustainable practices in exhibitions, acquisitions, and building maintenance. This is not optional; it is essential.
— Be More Fluid: Museums must embrace flexibility, operating as spaces that can adapt to societal changes while remaining accessible. They should be less about the permanence of objects and more about the creation of meaningful experiences and relationships.
I don’t believe in a single “ideal” museum model. Instead, I hope museums continue to evolve, reflecting the diverse needs and aspirations of the communities they serve.
5. Regardless of success or failure, and independent of scale, I would like to ask which project in your career was the most challenging for you.
It’s difficult to choose one project as the most challenging because every project brings its own unique set of difficulties. However, I would point to the 2014 São Paulo Biennale as a particularly testing experience. The theme, “How to (…) things that don’t exist,” pushed us into uncharted territory, both conceptually and practically.
The challenge wasn’t just the scale of the biennale or the logistical complexities involved in working with such a diverse group of artists across global contexts—it was navigating the political and social climate of Brazil at the time. Issues of censorship, political polarization, and the need to represent marginalized voices in a meaningful way made every decision feel weighted with responsibility.
What made it even more complex was balancing the conceptual ambition of the theme with the realities of implementation. We were asking fundamental questions about art’s ability to imagine and create alternative realities, but bringing those ideas into physical space—through installations, performances, and dialogue—tested the limits of what a biennale could achieve.
Reflecting on it now, I see that the challenge lay in embracing the contradictions and tensions inherent in the process. It was a reminder that curating is as much about managing people and expectations as it is about realizing artistic visions.
6. As a curator, you have paved the way for art to have an impact beyond the confines of the museum. However, the work of a curator or a museum may differ from activism that calls for direct action. Recently, many museums have undertaken projects considering so-called ‘ESG missions,’ but when we think about the carbon footprint and waste generated by exhibition, this can seem contradictory. A true activist might say that museums should stop operating immediately. How do the goals of a museum differ from those of an activist?
This question gets to the heart of one of the most contentious debates in the art world today. Museums and curators often walk a fine line between supporting progressive causes and being complicit in structures that perpetuate harm—whether through the carbon footprint of exhibitions or the entanglements with problematic funding sources.
The difference between a museum and activism lies in their primary goals and methods. Activism is, by definition, about direct action and immediate impact. It operates in the realm of urgency, demanding tangible change through protest, disruption, or advocacy. Museums, on the other hand, are slower, more reflective institutions. Their role is not to enact change directly but to create spaces where change can be imagined, discussed, and understood.
That said, this distinction doesn’t absolve museums from responsibility. In fact, museums must increasingly adopt activist strategies without entirely becoming activists themselves. For instance:
— Transparency: Museums must acknowledge their contradictions openly—whether it’s the carbon footprint of exhibitions or the provenance of their funding—and work toward addressing them meaningfully.
— Education and Awareness: Museums can amplify the voices of activists by giving their causes visibility within a broader cultural context. Exhibitions, public programs, and partnerships can become tools for advocacy without losing the reflective nature of the museum.
— Systemic Change: Museums should challenge the structures they operate within. This could mean rethinking the art market, questioning funding models, or advocating for policy changes that address systemic inequities.
A true activist might argue that museums should stop operating altogether, and perhaps they have a point. However, I believe museums can and should exist as platforms for imagining alternative futures. They offer the slower, more contemplative counterpart to the urgency of activism. This relationship isn’t without tension, but it’s in that tension where the potential for real change lies.
The key, for me, is for museums to remain humble, acknowledging their limitations while striving to be part of the solution rather than perpetuating the problem.
7. Today, the issue of “museum accessibility” has been highlighted as an important goal for young curators in Korea. As one example, most museums are being pressured to become “open storage” facilities. I, too, will visit Rotterdam in September to study examples of “open museums.” However, I still have not reached any certainty about this model. You are one of the curators who has most radically expanded the definition and role of the museum. What do you consider to be the most important value in terms of “accessibility”?
The concept of accessibility is indeed at the forefront of contemporary museum practice, but it is also one of the most misunderstood terms. Many initiatives, such as “open storage” or free admission policies, are well-intentioned attempts to address accessibility, yet they often remain surface-level solutions.
For me, the most important value in terms of accessibility is meaningful engagement. Accessibility must go beyond physical access to include intellectual, emotional, and cultural entry points for diverse audiences. It’s not just about allowing people to enter the museum space but about ensuring they feel welcome, represented, and empowered to engage with the art and ideas on display.
This requires museums to ask some fundamental questions:
— Who are we inviting in? Accessibility is not neutral. Museums need to reflect on whose voices, cultures, and histories are being prioritized or excluded.
— How do we create space for dialogue? Accessibility must include opportunities for audiences to contribute their perspectives. This could mean participatory programming, community co-curation, or even rethinking the power dynamics within exhibitions.
— What barriers remain invisible? Accessibility is also about recognizing the less obvious barriers—language, education levels, digital divides, and cultural assumptions—that might prevent people from feeling truly included.
Open storage can be a valuable model, but it risks becoming a hollow gesture if not accompanied by deeper systemic changes. For instance, museums must also rethink how they narrate their collections, challenge historical hierarchies, and provide tools for audiences to critically engage with what they see. Accessibility, in this sense, is less about physical openness and more about creating opportunities for meaningful connection and transformation.
8. The “contemporary museum” that you have strived to realize begins with subverting the imperialistic/colonial nature inherent in the very concept of the museum. This relates to overturning the modernity in which we believe. Approaching this issue requires complex reflection, especially for museums in Seoul and curators who have grown up in Seoul. I often feel my own limitations and simultaneously experience a sense of “double bind” or “double reflection.” What potential do you see in museums in Asia, Korea, or Seoul?
The question of decolonizing the museum is particularly complex in the context of Asia and Korea, where histories of colonialism and imperialism intersect with the broader legacies of global modernity. For curators working in Seoul, this can create what you aptly describe as a “double bind”—a sense of grappling with inherited systems while striving to redefine them.
I see great potential in Asian and Korean museums to contribute uniquely to this global conversation. Here are some areas where that potential might unfold:
— A New Historical Perspective: Korean museums, rooted in a history that includes colonization, rapid modernization, and a distinct cultural identity, are uniquely positioned to offer alternative narratives to the Western-centric art historical canon. This could mean foregrounding regional and local histories while questioning the universal claims of modernity.
— A Fluid Approach to Tradition and Modernity: Museums in Korea have the opportunity to explore the intersections of tradition and contemporary practice in ways that challenge the linear progress narratives of modernism. This could involve embracing the coexistence of multiple temporalities and cultural influences within museum spaces.
— Community-Driven Models: Given the strong community ties in many parts of Asia, museums in Korea could further develop models that prioritize relationality, collaboration, and collective memory. These models might offer alternatives to the institutional structures inherited from Western museum traditions.
— Critical Reflection on the Nation-State: As museums in Korea often operate within or alongside state frameworks, they also have the capacity to critically engage with issues of nationalism, identity, and globalization. This reflective role is crucial in a rapidly changing geopolitical landscape.
Ultimately, the potential of museums in Korea lies in their ability to operate both within and against the frameworks of modernity. By navigating this tension thoughtfully and boldly, curators in Seoul can help reimagine the museum as a space not just for preserving history but for questioning and creating new possibilities for the future.
It’s a challenging path, but one filled with opportunities for innovation, reflection, and connection on a global scale.
9. Since your achievements in Gwangju, an increasing number of biennales have been held. At times, biennales seem like the favorite tourism events of local governments or as battlegrounds that further solidify the rules of the Global Art World. Although this was contrary to your goals, you did not shy away from your role and responsibilities through the biennale. There is much debate today about the validity of biennales. However, biennales will continue, so my question is more practical: What should we focus on when looking at biennales today?
Biennales have undoubtedly become ubiquitous, and with that ubiquity comes both opportunity and risk. On one hand, they remain platforms for artistic experimentation and global dialogue. On the other hand, they are often co-opted as tools for cultural tourism or as symbols of institutional power within the Global Art World. Given this duality, I believe it’s crucial to approach biennales with a clear focus on purpose, process, and participation.
— Purpose: What is the biennale trying to achieve? The most meaningful biennales are those that resist being merely aesthetic spectacles and instead strive to address urgent social, political, or cultural questions. When looking at biennales today, we should ask: Does this event contribute to meaningful discourse, or is it simply reinforcing existing hierarchies?
— Process: How is the biennale organized, and whose voices are amplified? A biennale should not just be a presentation of polished works but an evolving process that includes collaboration, experimentation, and the involvement of local communities. The curation itself should be reflective of these values.
— Participation: Who is included in the conversation? It’s essential for biennales to avoid becoming insular events for the art elite. The best examples are those that engage diverse audiences—locally and globally—while challenging them to think critically about the issues at hand.
In practical terms, when engaging with biennales today, we must also consider their environmental impact, the sustainability of their practices, and their ability to support artists meaningfully rather than exploiting them for spectacle. By holding biennales accountable to these standards, we can ensure they remain relevant and transformative rather than becoming hollow rituals.
10. The Gwangju Biennale is one of the earliest large-scale biennales to be established in Asia, and it has influenced the creation of other biennales in the region. In a previous interview, you mentioned the unique aspects of the Gwangju Biennale and the “Gwangju Spirit.” However, for the younger generation of Koreans, the “Gwangju Spirit” is no longer seen as an urgent topic. For instance, the history of the Gwangju Uprising and the democratization movement feels like an “ideological event” that merely symbolizes the 20th century. There are also opinions that the same identity is emphasized repeatedly at every Gwangju Biennale. What does the Gwangju Biennale mean to you? As of August 29, 2024, I am curious about your “current” thoughts.
The Gwangju Biennale has always had a unique position within the global biennale landscape, and much of this uniqueness comes from its connection to the history of the Gwangju Uprising and the broader democratization movement in Korea. For me, the “Gwangju Spirit” embodies a commitment to justice, resistance, and collective struggle—a legacy that resonates deeply with the very purpose of contemporary art.
That said, I understand the concerns of younger generations in Korea who may feel a distance from this history. It’s natural for the urgency of past events to fade as time passes, and for their meanings to shift in the collective consciousness. However, this does not diminish their relevance; instead, it offers an opportunity to reinterpret and expand what the “Gwangju Spirit” can mean today.
For me, the Gwangju Biennale should not merely reiterate the past but use its legacy as a foundation for addressing contemporary issues. The “Gwangju Spirit” could evolve to include questions about democracy in the digital age, environmental justice, or the precarity faced by younger generations globally. The Biennale should not be a static monument to the past but a dynamic space for rethinking its values in light of new challenges.
As of today, I believe the Gwangju Biennale has the potential to continue being a pioneering force in the biennale ecosystem—provided it remains attuned to the present. Its historical roots give it a depth that many other biennales lack, but it must use that depth to look forward, not just backward. The Biennale can and should be a space where history and contemporary urgency intersect to inspire new forms of resistance, solidarity, and imagination.
This balance—honoring history while embracing the future—is perhaps the most difficult but also the most vital challenge for Gwangju moving forward.