Walking into the East Asian Library, one is immediately enveloped by the quiet hum of contemplation. The very atmosphere lends itself to the delicate interplay of ink, space and spirit in South Korean artist Cheonggae Ilsu Cha’s literati paintings.

Cha’s exhibition, “Grasp the Essence, and the Form Fades Away,” takes its philosophical cue from the concept of Tŭgŭi Mangsang (得意忘象) — meaning to truly capture the essence of a subject, one must allow its superficial form to dissolve. This sentiment, often echoed in the traditional Chinese and Korean literati painting (Muninhwa, 文人畵), finds renewed urgency in Cha’s work. 

Literati art is a form of art that blends poetry, painting and calligraphy. Having spent 40 years in education before fully devoting himself to art and poetry, Cha follows in the footsteps of literati figures such as Su Dongpo and Kim Jeong-hui, who found in ink and brush a means of distilling both worldly and otherworldly truths.

Cha situates himself in this tradition, yet his work is far from a mere homage to the past. His paintings embody the qi: the life force that animates a work beyond technique. Here, precision yields to spirit, measured lines give way to fluidity, the silent weight of negative space becomes as crucial as the ink that stains it. His brushstrokes show minimalism as not merely aesthetic reduction, but as a practice in restraint: an art of knowing when to stop, when to let the painting breathe.

And yet, there is color. Not the reserved hues of antiquity, but red – bold, urgent, expansive. Red, a pigment once restrained in classical literati painting for fear of being gaudy or vulgar, finds in Cha’s compositions a startling presence. In Cha’s works such as “Red Pearl”, or the sweeping fields of crimson in other pieces, the pigment does not sit idly upon the surface; it commands attention, interacting with calligraphic strokes in a dance between saturation and emptiness, tradition and rupture.

This, in fact, makes me ponder, in relation to the childlike playfulness that seems to be present throughout Cha’s work, how much, then, has the literati’s fear of vulgarity, of the worldly, led to artistic restraint? For in a child’s eye, the world is as gaudy as it is wondrous, colors unfettered, as though observed for the first time. I am drawn to Cha’s use of color, in its broad, rather wide and reckless brushstrokes. Cha has captured not just the form but also the essence of qi that has been subdued by conventional literati art.

Perhaps one of the most striking elements in Cha’s work is his incorporation of English calligraphy — a visual gesture that at first seems anachronistic, yet, on closer inspection, sits seamlessly with the literati ethos of free-flowing, unrestrained expression. A particular phrase stands out: “That they, bored with childhood, rush to grow, and then long to be children again.” The writing, rendered in a manner that is playful, even childlike, presents a paradox familiar to both the human experience and the artistic pursuit. To unlearn the rigidity of form, to paint with the intuition of a child: this, too, is an ambition shared by literati artists through the ages.

In many ways, Cha is following the very path Picasso once traced when he declared that “it takes a lifetime to learn how to paint like a child.” This notion of returning to a state of unburdened perception resonates with the literati ideal of tongxin (童心) — the child’s heart — in that true artistry lies in seeing the world with clarity and honesty. To be an honest artist, then, is to face the world — nature, reality and its fleeting forms — with the utter curiosity and integrity of a child.

And in this, Cha is well on his way.