The Once Invisible Figures of Yu JinYoung
All images courtesy of CHOI&CHOI Gallery and the artist
Sculptor Yu Jinyoung garnered international acclaim for her striking figures, whose bodies are often partially transparent. These are individuals “who wish to become invisible,” she says: “those who exist free from external attention and interference.” These explorations of both intentional isolation and somber loneliness have always represented the indifference of broader society surrounding Yu. And it may be a surprise to some to learn that these works and themes were forged prior to a global pandemic; the current A.I. boom; and phrases like the “male loneliness epidemic” entering the zeitgeist. These worldwide events and debates only underscored the themes the South Korean artist has been conveying for years, and she says that post-pandemic, “this inclination deepened” within her.
“Gatherings disappeared naturally, and declining meetings no longer felt difficult,” she says via translation through CHOI&CHOI Gallery. “A life without going out gradually became comfortable and natural. What I found interesting was that this way of living had once belonged only to a small enclave of people. But during the pandemic, most people were forced to live that way. Whether they liked it or not, everyone had to adapt to the same conditions. Paradoxically, this expanded my own sense of freedom. The constant awareness and defensive vigilance I used to carry completely disappeared, and I felt more relaxed. With masks covering half of our faces, it became even easier to remain unseen.”
These sculpted, life-sized “invisible people” appear in both singular forms and among families or crowds. All balance both surrealist elements and scenes that feel wholly rooted in the everyday. The sculptures themselves, in their vibrancy and eerie transparency, are typically a combination of painted plaster and transparent PVC. She’ll sculpt her faces in clay, molded them in silicone and fiberglass-reinforced plastic, while bodies are also cast in clay, but then transferred into PVC. She once utilized pastels in crafting the most stirring details of visage or vivid surroundings, when the people in her work were intended to convey “tearful expressions.” But in an evolution of her work, she was drawn to render faces without overt emotions. Pastels were traded for acrylics during this process, as she opted for a “colder, smoother feeling” that carries through to her most recent works.
“The reddish tones around the eyes, nose, and especially the cheeks are meant to leave the facial condition ambiguous,” she says. “It is unclear whether the redness comes from cold weather, traces of crying, skin irritation, or simply natural complexion. I wanted this ambiguity to suggest emotional states without explicitly spelling them out. As a result, the facial features in my work have become more defined and the color range more diverse, yet emotional expression has toned down. I wanted to create faces that appear expressionless, yet still carry a sense of the conditions that the figures may be under.”
The process of crafting each has always been laborious. Beyond their careful sculpting, painting, and formation, even the formal process of molding and heating each work is intensive, and requires patience and time. She once thought that it would get simpler and more efficient over the years, but her own “standards and modes of thinking” evolved too. She tackled more complex structures and concepts in her figures, and as she’s kept pushing, her work now takes three times as long to complete as it once did. Over time, her physical act of creating the work was developing in parallel to her intellectual understanding and expectations of each person she was creating. “Elements that once satisfied me no longer do,” she adds. “If I were to recreate an earlier work now, I could probably execute it more easily. But by my current standards, I would not be satisfied with it. So it remains difficult.”
A LIFE WITHOUT GOING OUT GRADUALLY BECAME COMFORTABLE AND NATURAL …”
There are motifs that remain throughout each era of her practice—including how she conveys the creatures accompanying her characters. These include cats and dogs standing beside their owners or being held by their see-through arms. “Directing the viewer’s gaze away from the central figures” has always been part of their utility in how they’re vividly placed alongside their owners. Similar to lavish accessories and backdrops, pets have always served as a way to complement the lack of opacity in her characters. “People tend to notice and respond to animals before they do to other humans,” she says. “For this reason, I render animals, such as cats and dogs, as opaque and fully formed.
They divert attention away from the transparent figures and help conceal them. And also, animals exist outside the realm of human control. For that reason too, they are depicted as solid, complete, and opaque beings.”
But other elements of her practice are beginning to enter bold, new paths. Some of these new figures are now being revealed as fully formed figures. The sculpture “The Life #21,” which appeared in a recent CHOI&CHOI Gallery show, is a sign of things to come for the artist, she says. The work features a collection of opaque characters that exist together atop a large face that represents “the larger flow or direction of life itself—changes that continue to occur regardless of individual will or protest,” she says. It’s part of a new creative direction that Yu is focused on during our February 2026 conversation.
This major evolution in Yu’s work stems from a recent incident at the artist’s home, which she shared during our interview. A fire broke out in the unit above her apartment, and her space began to fill with smoke. She was the last person to evacuate the building, and with that came a startling realization. “As I came out, someone said, ‘Oh, there was someone living in that apartment,’” she remembers. “It seemed people did not even know I lived there. They thought I only visited occasionally, perhaps during holidays.”
THE LIFE I BELIEVED I HAD CONCEALED HAD ALWAYS BEEN IN A STATE THAT COULD BE BROKEN OPEN AT ANY TIME.”
WHETHER THEY LIKED IT OR NOT, EVERYONE HAD TO ADAPT TO THE SAME CONDITIONS. PARADOXICALLY, THIS EXPANDED MY OWN SENSE OF FREEDOM.”
The following day, neighbors followed firefighters who were entering her home for inspection. Yu found herself vulnerable to a crowd of people that she has previously eluded amid her solitary lifestyle. “It felt as though their curiosity about the person who had been quietly hiding
had suddenly rushed in all at once,” she says. “The interior of my home was exposed, covered in extinguishing water and black soot. Materials and works were scattered. Failed experiments and unfinished pieces were left bare. Closet doors were open; the bedroom was unorganized. What I felt was not shame or simple discomfort, but something closer to the fear of having my protective shield taken away. At first, I thought it was merely because my messy living space had been exposed to strangers.”
In the coming days, she realized the sensation was more about being “completely uncovered,” Yu says. And in this, there arose an even newer sense of freedom. “Perhaps because I had isolated myself in hiding, the exposure felt even more intense. The life I believed I had concealed had always been in a state that could be broken open at any time. After this experience, I feel that I may take a break from creating the transparent figures for a while. It is as if someone is saying, ‘You thought you would be safe living that way.’”*
This article appears in Hi-Fructose Issue 78, which is available here in print.
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