Blank Canvas (with love)

Crypt Gallery, London | November 2022

As part of Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust (group exhibition)

This work was created after my proposal was selected in an open call for a group exhibition at the Crypt Gallery under the St Pancras Church in London.

“With this exhibition we want to find a team of other artists interested in collectively exploring the concepts of comfort and discomfort as its indivisible opposite. We are interested in seeing these ideas and feelings developed through bringing on different perspectives and experiences.”

The submission asked for a small paragraph describing what comfort and discomfort mean to you and how you would like to develop your ideas in your work for the show. I sent the below:

“When I think of comfort, discomfort, and the curious (non-)distance between them, I think of the constant state of being I’ve had to exist in as a young emerging artist in London Right Now - especially after recently graduating from six years of art education. This daunting abyss we’ve all been pushed into is crashing down like a slow build of a promised wave, full of discomforts that force us to adapt, change, and evolve at every turn. A game of survival, of living with the quiet, distilled anxiety of staying afloat, of being comfortable but also uncomfortable about needing to create a masterpiece at each breath… on the surface it sounds dreadful but really, perhaps being an artist is to realise and embrace this constant push/pull of indivisible opposites; perhaps it is this inevitable tension that makes a masterpiece after all. In my practice, I value honesty through writing possibly fictitious confessions and reflect in an almost obsessive manner on how the world’s opposites work in absurd ways with each other to achieve an impossible harmony. I would love to participate in this intriguing exploration through text pieces, diagrams, or delicate drawings at such a fascinating venue of history alongside the amazing artists already participating.”

New ideas came after visiting the site. I was particularly inspired by the haunting location of the gallery, which was designed and used for coffin burials from 1882 - there were even old headstones piled in one of the small paths in front of the space I was allocated. It had a distinctly eerie energy, especially in the low lights and heavy shadows underground. Thus sparked a direct letter I devised, addressed to the crypt itself. In it, I merge my initial ideas about being The Artist (dead, influenced by the guilt I had felt in my distance from my practice) and the complex feelings I had from encountering the crypt gallery itself. I scavenged my leftover pieces of wood and items I found from the informal donation bin in my building, as well as some birthday cards and gift wrapping. All of these abandoned materials that have waited long to see the light of day - they had an emptiness and lament about them. I played around with this small installation to set up a scene where I could possibly pay homage to The Leftovers, whilst confessing to anyone who would read my letter, about the death of my identity as this supposed ‘painter’. I imagine the words being read in the mind, echoing off the underground walls.

“To Yulin, the tensions between comfort and discomfort rises most prominently in the complex state of staying afloat as a young emerging artist in London today. A distilled anxiety through which a balancing act needs to be held at a constant alert - honesty is the valued avenue when exploring the very personal through the dubious character of the Artist. Celebrating the strange and possibly heterotopic space of the crypt, a final letter is underway…”

THE CRYPT, in all its suspended glory, served the perfect place in which I write my final letter to you. I hope you find this well.

The truth is, I found myself a painter no more.

To use a cheap metaphor, I was but a squeezed out empty tube of paint - wrangled, to the ground like some curious sought-for weight, bitter, like my whole life depended on it.

I do not know when this death happened. Perhaps when you gave me this blank happy birthday card, an empty celebration. its garish canvas depressed me. Even more so when I found this wrapping paper in the trash. I had to save it.. I felt a profound empathy for it. I cannot help but keep things that have called out to me in anguish. but Now I am a painter no more. And I cannot answer you in the same way. I hope you understand.

So Here lies the Leftover, the Scrap, the Scavenged Nothings that were once full of [tomorrow]. They are evidence I once existed, dear life, I held onto them.

When I pronounced them dead they instantly ceased to exist. I forget what they whispered to me in the dead of night. it is impossible to revive them now.

So Now you read my words aloud and they become a spell. Let them echo so they can flutter to a stop. they are tired of only being pronounced at the end of it all. (rest in peace)

This is a hello, a goodbye, a happy birthday, a commemoration, a yearning, a post-card to wish you were here, and I guess it came true. what better way to say good night?

And I Am Here to [put the past behind us] in order to [grieve the potential of our future]. it’s a cliché that makes me sick on the pavement. but clichés are clichés for a reason. I took your hand in mine for that reason. same reason why people send each other cards and wrap themselves into the present, [with love].

And so IN THE VAULT UNDERNEATH ARE INTERRED THE REMAINS OF one such painter, one I greatly admired for their strength in staying afloat, and their reservations for a world where balloons do not sink.

I write to you for no particular reason. I guess I wanted to let you know of my tragic end. please keep me wrapped tight in a memory far away. this is me calling out to you in anguish.

For the rest of your stay you should walk around until you realise that you are standing in a [conceptually strange place] - this is your crypt tonight.

anyway, we both know empty paint tubes don’t really exist. there’s always something in there in the end. but for the life of me - I can never get the last say. wrangled, to the ground, and sought again.

I shall now depart to the sacred memory of you, [a grand exit].

sensational, so to speak, as the day you were born.

with love,