Seeing Touch and Being Touched by the Seen 2026

As John Berger writes at the opening of Ways of Seeing, “seeing comes before words.” Yet, in the body’s own history, touch precedes sight, as in the womb, where the tactile sense develops before vision. And when words fail us, we return to bodily expression – gesture, movement, and touch. Across the bridge of words, seeing and touching encounter one another again, complementing and completing one another in perception.

1.

Starting from the linguistic wisdom embedded in the word “seeing,” we realize that seeing has never meant vision alone. In Chinese, English, and Korean alike, the idea of “seeing” extends beyond the merely visual.

The Chinese character “看 (kàn)”, an ideogram, combines the form of a hand (手) above the radical for an eye (目). It is traditionally explained as shading one’s eyes from the sun to look into the distance. Yet the image also suggests an intriguing coupling: the act of seeing involves the hand. From this root, “看” extends to mean considering, observing, or judging. Thus, when one says, “在我看来……”(“In my view…”) or “我看可以” (“I think it will work”), the meaning is no longer literal “looking”, but the formation of a position. Likewise, “再看看吧”(“Let’s see”) does not refer to using one’s eyes again, but to reflecting, weighing possibilities, and allowing the circumstances to unfold.

English offers similar expressions that resist literal translation. “I see” means “I understand”, and “Let’s see” signals a pause for thought or anticipation. In Korean, “보다” not only means “to see”, but also functions as an auxiliary verb in expressions such as 들어 보다 (to try listening), 먹어 보다 (to try eating), and 만져 보다 (to try touching). Here, 보다 shifts from sensory perception to lived experience, implying that intellect (知) emerges most fully through embodied practice. This usage also reflects the gentle, suggestive tone characteristic of Korean expression.

Across these linguistic systems, “seeing” constantly exceeds the physical act of vision. Yet this expanded semantic field has also subtly linked “seeing” with access, status, and power. To “see” implies access and knowability. Historically, however, social structures and unequal distributions of power have ensured that certain books, forms of knowledge, and resources remain inaccessible to many. Between “seeing” and “not seeing,” an invisible cognitive gap has thus taken shape.

Seeing is therefore not merely a matter of visibility, but a relational act. What is gained through seeing may also manifest as a “gaze” directed toward others. When this dynamic unfolds between people and objects, distance and hierarchies of value emerge. In the aesthetic tradition of ancient China, a frequently quoted phrase captures this sensibility: “to be viewed from afar, but not to be touched lightly (可遠觀而不可褻玩).” In modern society, this ethics prevails in places like museums, where cultural relics enclosed in display cases are only to be contemplated from a respectful distance.

Seeing is not only a physiological process – light forming images on the retina – but also a projection into consciousness, where perception becomes intellect. In this way, seeing and knowing are inseparable. This connection underlines Jesus’ dialectical discussion of blindness and sight:

“For judgment I have come into this world, so that the blind will see and those who see will become blind… If you were blind, you would not be guilty of sin; but now that you claim you can see, your guilt remains.” (Jn 9:39–41)

The Pharisees and Sadducees prided themselves on their mastery of the law, believing themselves to be clear-sighted and enlightened. Yet Jesus rebuked their self-assured arrogance, suggesting that only by acknowledging one’s blindness — that is, one’s ignorance — can one receive new words (truth). Might our own ignorance today stem from a similar confidence in our supposed clarity?

For this reason, great wisdom seeks not merely “sight” but “insight”. The artist Oum Jeongsoon invites sighted viewers into an installation composed of 1,000 white books covering three walls. These books appear blank, yet they are inscribed in Braille -- a system accessible primarily to the visually impaired. Confronted with symbols of knowledge that cannot be read, viewers experience an uneasy helplessness, as though they are abandoned by knowledge. The “ordinary” viewer is thus placed unexpectedly in a position of vulnerability.

The sound of pages turning in the wind, shifting patterns of light and shadow, and the curiosity these unreadable books provoke lead viewers instinctively to search for familiar meaning. Yet if one lingers, setting aside the urgency to grasp knowledge through sight alone, one begins to see — or more precisely, to sense — subtle changes begin to emerge: the curl pages, the curvature of shadow, the rhythm of wind, the resonance of sound... Gradually, the deeper significance of the artwork’s title, The Moment (剎那), reveals itself. To see outward appearances is merely seeing (見), while to perceive inner qualities is contemplation (觀).

In Buddhism, kṣaṇa (the moment) refers to an extremely brief instant – less a measurable unit of time than a conceptual one, embodying the principle of impermanence (無常)— the continual arising and passing of phenomena. Within impermanence lies fluidity: joy does not endure, yet neither does suffering. Great wisdom, then, lies in attending fully to each unfolding instant.

A kṣaṇa cannot be captured by “seeing”. Even when technology appears to freeze an instant, the moment has already dissolved into becoming. It cannot be seen; it can only be sensed. In the same way, insight arises not from what is seen, but from what is experienced.

With this awareness, one raises one’s eyes again to the grid of neatly arranged white books. Suddenly, the scene recalls the scholar’s studio of the past: ancient volumes, calligraphy copybooks, brush and ink, inkstone, vessels, antiques, perhaps small ornamental plants interspersed among them. What once symbolized the literati’s spiritual world now appears transformed. The books seem blank, yet are inscribed with invisible knowledge. As the pages turn in the wind, the knowledge appears to escape the confines of books and the literati’s study. Nevertheless, those capable of insight read in this scene a deeper wisdom.

Just as there is no longer a need for a chaekgado (책가도) as a painted version of idealized knowledge and aesthetics, the study furniture itself, such as the sabanggakja (사방탁자), or four-sided open shelf, is reimagined by the artist. Returning us to the beginning, it invites us to a renewed mode of perception – one that challenges ocularcentrism and expands the dimensions of understanding.

2.

Artist Oum Jeongsoon transforms the sabangsang (사방탁자) into a newly conceived field of experience, inviting the audience to return to one of the most elementary modes of exploration in life — touch. Through mirrored reflections, one witnesses one’s own touching: cautiously, uncertainly, attempting to sense differences in volume, space, fineness, temperature, and hardness. Yet what is being touched is, in fact, also the touch of others.

An object carries layers of contact — the artist’s hands in the act of creation, the hands of exhibition staff arranging it in space, and the hands of viewers who have encountered it before. In the present moment, only the immediate gesture of touching is visible, while earlier touches remain unseen. And yet every touch leaves traces -- on different materials, sometimes clearly legible, sometimes faint and nearly imperceptible.

In contrast to the distance and subtle arrogance that may accompany “seeing”, “touch” appears approachable and humble. The impulse to touch arises from curiosity, but also from the limits of vision itself. Sight can recognize form, color, material, and texture; from these, tactile sensation may be imagined, yet imagination never fully equals the body’s direct perception. Moreover, we have often been misled by visual deception — not least through the experiences offered by contemporary art — and have learned to seek extra confirmation, another way of knowing an object more completely.

Touch, however, does not only enable encounter and formation; in touching and rubbing, we may also erase and wear away. The inscriptions on monuments fade under wind, rain, and the repeated caress of visitors’ hands; grooves are smoothed, words become harder to discern. Museums prohibit touching in the name of preservation, prolonging the clarity and visibility of artifacts and artworks. People fear the disappearance brought about by touch, and sometimes resent the disorder it creates: a child’s unsteady contact disrupting careful arrangements, sweaters pilling through friction and requiring constant care, ink on a glossy greeting card smudged by the edge of a passing hand… Yet what disappears through touch is not always loss. Massage relieves pain; a reassuring touch allows unease to slowly dissolve.

Artist Oum Jeongsoon locates a point of transformation between the erosion brought about by touch and the possibility of renewal. In her work Elephant Without Truck, presented at the 2023 Gwangju Biennale, audiences were invited to touch the surface of the installation. As the exhibition progressed, the woolen-covered structure began to pill under repeated contact. For maintenance, the artist continuously trimmed away these small, irritating fuzz — often regarded as mere residue — until, in a certain moment, a kṣaṇa, she was struck by an insight: these fragments were truly the evidence of viewers’ interaction.

Through the varying degrees of pilling, she could even discern which areas had been touched most frequently— the places that had aroused the greatest curiosity. It was as though moments already passed, once thought irretrievable, briefly became visible again. The traces of touch were speaking.

The collected pills were then gathered, woven, dyed, and incorporated into paintings, acquiring a new life — “touch” itself was painted into being. What matters here is that, beyond color, layering, and light, real entities carrying their own time and space enter the work materially. A vitality extended through touch becomes visible.

From a biological perspective, the fibers were originally part of the work’s own structure; through contact, they carried fingerprints, flakes of skin, and dust already present on viewers’ hands beforehand. At the same time, viewers’ fingertips inevitably carried away fibers from the surface, along with traces left by previous visitors. Energy is exchanged and transferred; nothing in the universe entirely disappears. From a spiritual and aesthetic perspective, the touches of 500,000 audience left behind their care, reflection, and emotion within the fuzz. Accumulated over time, layer upon layer, these traces endure — only to be re-presented in another artistic form, where they continue to receive new touch.

3.

“Seeing” and “touching” ought to work in concert, forming a multidimensional way of knowing the world. Yet in the story of the “blind men and the elephant,” they fall into tension. Originating in Buddhist scriptures, the tale critiques the limitation of drawing conclusions about the whole from partial experience.

But if we turn to examine the position of the one who offers this critique, a sobering question arises. The critic presumes access to the whole, laughing at those who have touched only a part, and positioning himself above the “blind”. Yet how can we be certain that we ourselves are not “blind” from another vantage point? In truth, we do not always behold the “elephant” in its entirety.

In the information age, we seem inadvertently to have become new “blind men,” each engaged in our own exploration, attempting to grasp some greater “elephant”. We receive fragmented information and labor to assemble from it a coherent truth about life. What appears to be passive reception is in fact shaped by each person’s intellect, which determines how far one’s horizon may extend.

In the original tale, disputes arise because the blind men attempt to extrapolate from partial tactile impressions to definitive claims about the shape of the object. But is the elephant reducible merely to the outline of its form? If their discussion had concerned the texture of its skin, its warmth, its living presence, might what emerged have been resonance rather than contradiction? To seek intersection (交集) rather than the union (並集，合集) of fragments may itself be a wise epistemological stance. Then, the essential question is this: what kind of “elephant” are we attempting to grasp?

Although Oum Jeongsoon works with the motif of the elephant, she ultimately uses it as a mirror through which men encounter themselves. Her alertness to ocularcentrism and the advocacy of tactile exploration prompt us to reconsider how we know both the world and ourselves. In her practice, touches once criticized as partial become worthy of praise. When total view eludes us, the intimate act of touching – close, provisional, embodied -- becomes a sincere, humble, and quietly powerful way of relating. The energy accumulated through touch does not vanish in the instant of contact; it is gathered, transformed, and sustained in forms through which vitality continues to unfold.

Audiences are thus invited to participate in this relay of energy, embarking on a journey to seek their own “elephant” through touch. As the Library of Babel was to Jorge Luis Borges, so the elephant is to Oum Jeongsoon: each person has a universe of their own. In principle, our universes are interconnected, yet each of us enters into relation with it differently. If representing the entirety of the universe remains beyond our grasp, perhaps we might begin instead from those places where repeated touch has given rise to “fuzz” upon the surface — not only to “see”, but to “touch”, and to encounter the kṣaṇa of being touched.

Liyin Wang