Some paintings demand attention. Others murmur softly, like the last notes of a fading lullaby. Joung Young-ju’s shantytown landscapes belong to the latter—a quiet but persistent echo of places disappearing faster than we can hold onto them. Currently on display at Almine Rech in London, her latest exhibition, Way Back Home, transforms hanji paper into cityscapes that are less about physical structures and more about the ghosts of memory itself.
Born in 1970, Joung Young-ju has spent nearly two decades refining her signature technique—crumpling, layering, and carving traditional hanji paper onto canvas, before painting delicate washes over its textured surface. The result is something between a map and a memory: rooftops sag under time’s weight, alleys fold into themselves, and golden windows flicker like lanterns against the encroaching dark.
In Autumn in Village 1031, light spills from within, illuminating the creases of the paper as if warmth itself had soaked into its fibers. The absence of people in these works is deliberate.
The Light That Lingers
Joung’s paintings are not mere documentation; they are meditations on time and place. In Autumn in Village 1031, golden light spills from modest homes, seeping into the paper’s creases like warmth into skin. The luminosity is not accidental. As the artist reveals, gold symbolizes hope—a beacon amid transience.
The absence of human figures in her work is intentional.
People are like home to me, each house represents the person itself.
– Joung explains.
This concept transforms her cityscapes into intimate psychological portraits. Homes lean into each other, rooftops sag under history, streets curve like well-worn paths of a shared existence.
Hanji: A Medium of Memory
Joung’s meticulous process involves crumpling, cutting, and pasting hanji onto canvas, followed by careful carving and painting. The material, traditionally used in Korean homes for its ability to absorb light and warmth, becomes more than just a surface—it embodies the resilience of the communities she depicts.
Her palette shifts with emotion and seasonality. The Spring Series bursts with the tentative optimism of renewal, while her autumnal works glow with a melancholy warmth.
The colors visually express the emotions I feel in each work.
– She notes, emphasizing the deeply personal nature of her practice.
From Seoul to London: A Universal Story
More than just a medium, hanji is a living material, historically used in Korean homes for its ability to absorb both light and warmth. Joung repurposes it as a vessel for remembrance, allowing the paper’s fibers to hold onto the fleeting textures of childhood streets and forgotten doorways. The cracks, folds, and weathered edges mimic the natural erosion of time, giving her paintings the look of something found rather than created—like relics pulled from a dream.
Her color palette shifts with the emotional tone of each piece. The Spring Series hums with tentative renewal in soft blues and chalk paint colors, while her autumnal works glow in amber and deep umber, suffused with the melancholy warmth of late afternoons. Unlike the precision of oil paints, Joung’s technique invites imperfection, allowing each brushstroke to echo the impermanence she seeks to capture.
A Universal Nostalgia
Though deeply rooted in Korea’s rapidly disappearing old towns, Joung’s paintings resonate far beyond their origins. The quiet devastation of gentrification, the vanishing of familiar landscapes, the slow erosion of personal history—these are wounds felt across continents. In London, where heritage buildings crumble under the weight of redevelopment, her cityscapes feel like a whisper of collective mourning.
Her work is a gentle but urgent protest against forgetting. Unlike the clinical precision of some contemporary landscape art paintings, her cityscapes refuse to be polished, their rough textures insisting on imperfection, on history, on the stubborn refusal to disappear.
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At its core, Way Back Home is not just an exhibition—it is an invocation. Joung’s paintings remind us that home is not a fixed place but a sensation: the glow of a streetlamp at dusk, the creak of an old wooden door, the warmth of a wall that has stood long enough to witness generations pass.
In a world that erases and rebuilds at breakneck speed, her work stands still, breathing softly, whispering: Remember this. Hold onto this. Before the light fades completely.